Undecided.

As I write, the front door is open, and a sweet, fall breeze is blowing into my home. The weather is cooling, the leaves are beginning to fall, and the scent of my favorite season is whispering its arrival. While the presence of Halloween decor on the store shelves and the anticipation of pumpkin patch visits usually sends me into a flutter of excitement, I suddenly feel like it is a cruel, miniature bully on the playground, throwing sand in my face and telling me I can't have a turn at four square.

Last week I did something I haven't done in a long, long time-- I logged zero running miles. The resting was meant to encourage my IT band to heal, but as I sit, I still feel the twinges of pain and the buildup of serotonin blockers as a result of my antidepressant being removed from my life. Fitness was not completely removed-- I still logged 80 miles on the bike, and was able to claim a couple Queen of the Mountains on Strava. But even with the exercise component still a part of my life, the absence of running felt like part of me was missing.

I thought about a survey I read in one of my running books. They asked how running made the person feel. "Running makes me feel _____." I thought about the opposite: "NOT running makes me feel _____."

Like a fraud.

This seems a bit like a hyperbole gone horribly awry. What's the big deal, really? I'm still exercising. I'm still maintaining my health. And once my IT band is healed, I can head out to the road and run my little heart out (only smarter this time to avoid injury).

But here's the thing. Today, September 10th, is the last day to register for the Kansas City Marathon before there's a fee increase. And we aren't in a position where we can afford for me to race at the increased price, but we also aren't in a place to register for a race that I won't end up being able to do.

So I'm stuck. I've got until midnight tonight to decide if I believe my IT band will heal enough in time for me to get enough training in to accomplish my goal of a sub 4 hour marathon. Add to that a week of not running and feeling really down on myself, I feel like I'm being absorbed into a giant vacuum of gloom and doom.

I wish it were just a marathon. It's just another race, and I can always sign up to do a different one later. But here's the thing-- Not to get all personal on the blogosphere, but I've been going through a (lot) bit in the past year-- a lot of personal stuff that I won't spew out into the internet world of pseudo-anonymity-- that I felt like was going to be the end of me. Super dramatic, right? But emotionally, I was in that place. And the thought of doing the marathon-- the Kansas City Marathon, where my long distance running really started a few years ago when I did my first half-- was my trophy. My reward, my reminder, that I can do hard things. That I can make it through the suck. That not only can I finish a marathon, survive a marathon, but I can thrive and do it in a time I can be really proud of.

Instead, I'm wondering if I'll even be able to run at all while the leaves are changing, while the air is cooling, and it's turning into those days where you can run at any time without fear of dying of heat stroke. Those perfect weeks in Kansas when you forget how twisted Mother Nature's sense of humor is.

So do I register? Do I have faith that I can heal, and I'll still be able to make a time that seems worth the race fee? Or do I suck up my pride, let it go, and spend a little while rocking myself in the fetal position while consuming copious amounts of chocolate?

I promise I'll be bouncier when I can run again. That should be incentive enough for anyone reading this to send happy healing vibes in the direction of my IT band.