Six years ago today, I chased down a thief who stole my mom’s purse during a late afternoon lunch after visiting my grandmother to celebrate her 93rd birthday. I was wearing flip-flops, and was still rigid after racing an Ironman two days earlier, I think lactic acid literally shot out of my legs with every stride, but I launched automatically out of my seat like a rocket to run that punk down charged by primitive adrenaline to protect my mom. Sadly, my pride and favorite sunglasses were lost during my hobbling pursuit of the late summer mid-day-bandit who jumped into an idling get-a-way car waiting for him in the alley behind the restaurant.
Unfortunately, the thief and his sidekick sped off before my throbbing legs could catch them, but they were not the brightest bulbs in the room, because they ran a stop sign a few minutes later and were pulled over by a staked-out deputy. By that point, my mom and I had already walked to the nearby police station and gave them our story, in fact we could hear the chatter over the radio, and gave the thumbs up when the cops described the thief’s car. That late nineties’ rusted champagne Honda Accord was forever etched into my eyeballs. Next, within minutes we were shuttled off separately in the back seat of a tinted suburban in order to identity the cons that were in custody at a nearby park. We were driven and protected by two detectives, one of whom was a woman who sat in the front seat, and who’s cool demeanor calmed my nerves and made this exciting, and frightening afternoon seem like just any other Tuesday.
“Taryn, it is brave that you wanted to protect your mom, but don’t ever do that again. He could have pulled a knife on you, or worse.” The detective ordered while staring kindly, yet forcefully into my eyes.
“Yes, ma’am.” I replied like a four year old caught red-handed with a bowl full of golf-ball sized gob stoppers, wide-eyed and embarrassed.
I felt a very similar gut-punching sensation on Sunday, (minus the crime-fighting heroics), when hours after completing buckets of rigorous training over the weekend I found out I did my hard run wrong.
I can handle coming up short on a swim, or even a low-energy ride is somewhat self-forgiving on occasion, but messing up a run? If I can do something right in this ridiculous three-pronged sport, please let it be running. Nope. Sometimes even runs go sideways.
The good news is that I woke up this morning, and the sun did, too.
I need to remember during this stressful stage of training for the most significant race of my life, when most, but not all of my workouts are clicking, that not every step, stroke, or spin needs to be perfect to have a perfect race; there is no such thing as a perfect race. In fact, it is the messes mucked up along the way that glob together to form an experienced athlete ready on race day to jab, juke, and face whatever lies in her way before the finish line.
Plus, if I am feeling really rough running down Ali'i drive, or at any point along the course, I will imagine chasing after that fool that tried to steal from my mom. His finish line was jail that day.:)
The song and video choice this week is a fun one from one of the most intriguing voices in the music business today, George Ezra's Shotgun. Enjoy.