Dumb, Dumb, Dumb

This journey began just after my 29th birthday, and as I do with most challenges in life, I jumped right in - I went from doing an hour in the gym a few times a week to running 3.75 miles my first time out. In an old pair of cross training shoes. With a guy that I may have had a slight crush on at the time. For anyone reading this that has not run before, none of this is good.

I knew within the first quarter of a mile that something was wrong. With each step my toes were slamming into the front of the shoe. It hurt. Did I stop? No, because I am not a quitter. More relevant, I allowed pride to trump pain, and did not want to appear weak in front of the above referenced crush. So, I continued on and completed three laps around the lake.

When I got home, my feet hurt so bad that I thought when I removed my sub-par shoes that there would be massive amounts of blood and considered the possibility that my toes would come off with my socks. By the next day when I called my mom to whine, my toes had turned black under the nails. My Army captain mom told me that I would need to lance the toenail in order to save it. Did I listen? No, because I am 29 and still choose to learn things the hard way. More relevant, I avoid pain at all costs.

I stopped running, entered the depression stage of grief, and three months later my toenails fell off. Clearly this only served to compound my depression. To my lady readers, this sucks. Let me translate...no pedicures and no open-toe shoes for another 5 months until the toenails grow back. Then, pedicure with about a 100% tip.

At this point I realized that I was 4 months out from the marathon. I learned three crucial lessons from the missing toenail saga...

1. My initial approach was dumb, dumb, dumb.
2. I needed new shoes.
3. I needed training support.