So, here’s the thing—I had one goal at yesterday’s Columbus Marathon: to break the elusive three-hour barrier. I was on track, feeling like a well-oiled machine, cruising at a solid 6:56 per-mile pace. Then, Mile 19 hit, and my legs decided they’d had enough. They didn’t just slow down; they froze up, turning what could’ve been a glorious finish into a bit of a slog.
This morning, I woke up feeling pretty disappointed. I grabbed the Columbus Dispatch, hoping for a distraction, and found a bit of comfort in knowing that even the winners felt they missed their targets. Misery does indeed love company. My final time? 3:09:34. Not terrible, but far from the goal I had set for myself. I know, I know—complaining about a 3:09 marathon is like a supermodel whining about being “fat.” It’s annoying, but hey, we all have our benchmarks.
If I had to find a culprit for my late-race collapse, I’d blame the weather. It was cold—too cold for my taste—and anyone who knows me knows that I need the sun. Seriously, it’s like I’m solar-powered. When that big ball of fire in the sky goes MIA, so does my energy. Maybe I ran through some Kryptonian mist around Mile 19, sapping my strength like Superman on a bad day.
But here’s the silver lining: even though I didn’t hit my goal, the marathon wasn’t a total loss. Foogos—my weird and wonderful world of food art—finally got a nod from Puck Daddy. It’s not every day that a quirky project like mine gets some love from the hockey world, and that’s a victory I’ll happily take.
So, yeah, I’m a bit bummed that I didn’t get to be Kate Beckinsale out there on the course, effortlessly crushing my time goal. But settling for Cameron Diaz? Not too shabby. Every race has its lessons, and this one taught me to respect the unpredictable mix of weather, body, and mind that makes marathon running such a wild ride.
And who knows? Maybe next time, the sun will decide to show up and give me that extra boost I need to break three hours. Until then, I’ll keep creating, keep running, and keep finding joy in the little victories—even when the big ones slip through my fingers.