
Photo by Kristian Olsen on Unsplash
Four years ago I lined up at the starting line of what I was sure would be my best half-marathon to date. I had carbo-loaded the night before, had water with me and the experience of completing two of these before, one of them on the same course. Armed with a goal and my Garmin, I set out to crush that run.
About 10km in my stomach started to turn. Nothing to be concerned about, I’d drink some water, hit a gel if I kept feeling weak and handle it – running is mostly mental anyways and my split times were on track. Paul was pacing me, as he ran his first marathon so I when I started to feel really off around 15km he pep-talked the heck out of me. As we waved goodbye at 19km I told him I would be there at the finish line to celebrate his first marathon and he told me to just keep pushing through, I was almost at the end.
But I didn’t make it.
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