1:46:14 by my watch. That's what I ran yesterday at Cascade Half Marathon. More than 3.5 minutes faster than I ran it last year, and more than 6 minutes better than 2008. I'd told myself I wanted to run 1:47 this year, but my unspoken goal was 1:45. Maybe if there hadn't been headwinds on parts of the flat course, I could have shaved off 15 seconds or more.
I felt strong and capable the entire way and had a good finishing kick, yet why was I not jumping for joy at the end? Once again a classic case of not meeting my "true" goal. Like last year at Eugene Marathon: All along I'd been aiming to break 4 hours, yet about halfway through training, I got it in my head that I could qualify for Boston. When I shattered 4:00, but missed BQing by 1:38 minutes, I was left with stinging disappointment.
I wasn't that bummed yesterday, but I was let down to have come so close yet miss 1:45. As I have mulled over my reaction, I've decided it must be genetic. When I was in school, my mom specialized in focusing on the negative instead of the positives on my report card. I'd bring home a card littered with As, except for a B in Algebra and Woodshop. Instead of praising the top grades, my mom would harp on the less-than-perfect ones.
Don't get me wrong: I love my mom with my whole heart and think she's the greatest mom ever. But as much as I wish I could cook as well as she does or be as warm-hearted as she is, I need to appreciate my effort even if my result isn't always A+.