My head is freakishly small and my shoulders are football player wide. My arms and thighs are thick; my eyelashes are thin. My legs are short; my ass is large. I’m all out of proportion.
But if you take me in at a glance you won’t notice the shortcomings. I’ll smile, you’ll find me pleasant. Occasionally, you might see the goofy. Something will seem a little bit hall-of-mirrors, but you won’t quite be able to put your finger on it. It’s nothing to worry about or waste time on. These little flaws are forgettable. Predictable beauty, perfect proportions--it’s just too obvious for me. Boring. Kind of a trap, really. What happens when time, or babies, or accidental dismemberment steals it away? I’d rather be a little odd, and able to hold on to my appearance in an open palm. Why blow it’s importance out of proportion?
Like my looks, my running is all out of proportion. I’m unpredictably slow in shorter distances, then able to pull off (given slow training times) surprisingly respectable marathon finishes. My fastest mile ever is only a minute faster than my mile pace for a marathon. No pace wheel can predict my finish. I’m surprisingly fast for someone so painfully slow. Thankfully, this allows me to relax about my running accomplishments.
So I’m gearing up for marathon #3. In two weeks, it will all be over. I’m hoping for a personal best; most runners are at most every race. But it could be hot. It could be cold and rainy. I could twist my ankle, or get a sick stomach, or go out too fast, or go out too slow to get the time back. The Portland Hills fault zone could unleash its fury on us all in a massive earthquake. A lot could happen that I can’t control, but I’m trying to not allow my worries to get blown all out of proportion.
I’ve trained and tapered, I’ve fueled and focused. Now, I just have to take this oddly proportioned, strangely paced, worry-wart self to the start line and let ‘er rip. Portland Marathon, October 9, 2011. Keep me in your thoughts, and I’ll let you know how it goes.