5K on St. Pat’s

My first race since the half marathon in February. A 5K definitely did not seem as difficult as the half; however, it was much harder (and slower) than my usual undoubtedly.

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The one cold day in the forecast, the wind had a cutting chill. Otherwise, the race had the making of perfect conditions. Moderate temperatures, flat terrain. Everything that should have comprised a cake walk.

Not so much. I woke up sick and cranky for no real reason (yay pregnancy!), and I just could not shake it. I just did not feel like myself, which is pretty standard lately.

When the race started, I was feeling pretty good. I set myself at a comfortable, relatively slow but above wogging pace. I watched the bodies in green steadily pass me and listened to the crowd awaiting the following parade hollering from the sidewalk. I focused on forgetting the nausea and the fact that I had to piss and just went with it, even forgetting the wind as my body heat climbed.

Then in the second mile, my body faltered. The nausea coiled into a ball in my throat, drying out my mouth. My legs felt packed with lead. When the cold wind wasn’t in my face, I could feel my body heat radiating. It just hurt to run.

It came in patches. I felt like utter hell; then I felt a burst of ok. I knew my pace was plummeting, but I tried to concentrate on just my form, just running/jogging/wogging the whole distance.

That nagging annoyance returned. I told myself that I would not worry about pace and distance during my pregnancy, yet I cannot stop myself from turning on myself when both fall short of what I was capable of merely a month ago. I was trained up for a half marathon less than two months ago, yet here I was, struggling and puffing through a flat and cold 5K. It irked me my core.

There should not have been able to be enough puking in the world to derail me so quickly.

I tried to just tell myself to shut the fuck up and keep going. I tried to breathe through the nausea and ignore the fatigue. It shouldn’t have been this hard, so I wasn’t going to stop.

I finished slower than I usually do but at least within my goal. I dry heaved my way through the finishing chute until my body temperature dropped and I could circle back to finish with Trisha, mere moments behind me.

I know I am so frustrated because running became such an exquisite outlet for me, and now, in a definite time of need, it is not serving the same purpose. I don’t get the high; I don’t get the release; I don’t get balancing endorphins. I’m not sure why, but I miss it so much that I just keep trying.

And I plan to just keep trying as long as I can.

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About ChrstnaBergling

Colorado-bred writer, Christina Bergling knew she wanted to be an author in fourth grade. In college, she pursued a professional writing degree and started publishing small scale. With the realities of paying bills, she started working as a technical writer and document manager, traveling to Iraq as a contractor and eventually becoming a trainer and software developer. She avidly hosted multiple blogs on Iraq, bipolar, pregnancy, running. In 2015, she published two novellas. She is also featured in the horror collection Collected Christmas. Bergling is a mother of two young children and lives with her family in Colorado Springs. She spends her non-writing time running, doing yoga and barre, belly dancing, taking pictures, traveling, and sucking all the marrow out of life. View all posts by ChrstnaBergling

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