some honesty about a 13.1

Recently I ran my third half marathon.

I average one of these every two years, because it takes me about that long to forget the awfulness I feel after running 13.1 miles.

I'm not crazy-strict about a race training schedule, and goodness knows, I don't aim for speed. My goal is not unreasonable; it's usually to complete the race, preferably with no walking.

At the core, the race is usually just an extreme measure to keep my heart at a respectable level of fitness.

In other words, there is no real over-achieving happening here.

God bless you serious runners who are fast, who never deviate from however-many-miles-a-week training schedules, and who feel energized after running 13.1 or 26.2 or 100 miles. I can't relate.

I had trained well (for me), and felt reasonably confident. I thought it a good sign that the rain stopped, just as I made my way to the starting line, and that the August Georgia heat hit a record low that day. I'd hydrated like a champion all week. And I had an odd bib number.

The stars were aligning. I felt good.

My first nine miles were probably the best consecutive nine I've ever run, but Miles Ten and Eleven are historically my toughest, so mentally I hunkered down for those beasts. And beasts they were, with wicked hills that mocked me.

When my calves began to tighten around Mile Ten, I took some Gu and some Gatorade for a little extra push, and I slipped into my mouth the starlight peppermint that a running expert recommended for a sugar fix. I was sure the cramps would pass.

At Mile 11.5, my right calf tensed, and gripped me so violently that I went airborne and fell to the ground, letting out a screech that I'm certain sounded overdramatic and unnecessary. That muscle did not relax for at least seven minutes. I know it.

I cried on the ground, massaged my calf, and accepted any and all offerings from concerned runners who came to my aid: salt pills (yes, thank you); coconut water (sure, I'll try it); cold bottled water (rub this on your calf); a packet of Gu (espresso flavor sounds horrible but anything is worth trying).

I was humiliated, but in too much pain to care.

Dear, sweet runners offered to sit with me, until medics arrived, but I begged them to keep going, fearing they would sacrifice their own personal bests.

Medics offered to take me off the course and drive me back to the finish, but I couldn't agree to it. I would feel like a much bigger failure than I already did, if I didn't try to keep going.

And I did. But it felt like a walk of shame.

For the last mile and a half, I walked -- no, limped, because I was that pitiful -- and could not contain these thoughts:

I'm so embarrassed to tell my running friends back home about how the race went.

I was literally wailing on the ground. That was mortifying.

I am WALKING the last mile and a half.

This will be my worst time ever.

I didn't meet my goal.

For obvious reasons, the race was a disappointment. And fortunately, I have great encouragers in my corner who make me feel better:

I've never even run a 5k! You should feel great about even training for one of those!

Sometimes it's a bigger accomplishment to finish the race peppered with adversity than it is to just run the smoothest race of your life.

It's all true. But the disappointment still lingers.

Disappointment that I couldn't understand what went wrong. Disappointment that all the preparation seemed like a waste. Disappointment in falling short.

But more than all of that, I was disappointed that even after years of working to accept defeat, and to extend some grace to myself when I fall short -- and I do, God knows I do -- that old demon of perfectionism still creeps into my heart now and again, and fights for a foothold there.

I wish it weren't so; but it is.

As I've reflected over the past couple of weeks, I still feel the residual pangs of disappointment. But it's also been a good reminder that our biggest battles aren't won quickly or easily, and that sometimes, they have to be fought over and over and over again.

We have to keep asking for the ugly parts of us to decrease, so that Jesus and his fullness will increase.

Fortunately, I'm able to laugh at myself while recounting the story to my friends back home. Overdramatic crying; outrageous pain; downing every food, beverage or pill in sight, no matter that they all came from complete strangers. It makes for a good story.

And stories always make for good lessons, when we're willing to learn them.