It’s been a crazy start to 2019. Between pinkeye, polar vortexes, jury duty, record snowfall, and strep throat, there just hasn’t been much time to think. Which is why, in the midst of some post jury duty anxiety and the onset of strep, it dawned on me that I never heard back about the local trail race I signed up for. Or thought I had signed up for. In the midwest, the ultra trail races are few and far between. I’m not entirely sure why – we seem to have a plethora of both trails and trail runners. To any extent, the local ultra I was hoping to run this fall is on a lottery system due to high demand. A lottery that apparently I didn’t win this year.

As an academic and scientist, rejection is something I deal with on an almost daily basis. Papers rejected, grants rejected, job rejections. At this point I usually can take the rejection in stride. But getting rejected from running hit me harder than I would have expected. Yes, I realize that running didn’t reject me. And, as someone with a degree in natural resources, I fully understand (and am supportive of) the use of a lottery to minimize trail impacts. But still, panickly scanning the list of particpants and not finding my name felt like a particularly low blow, even for the start of a shaky year. I ended up on my knees with diappointment, inhaling deep, lamaze-style breaths in attempt to offset my oncoming panic attack. In. You are being dramatic. Out. This is not a big deal. In. This is fine. Out. You are fine. In.

A week past the initial letdown and everything is fine. Disapointment, like loss, eases over time. And, in the light of day, I realized what a minor setback this is. Sure, I had meticulously planned out almost every weekend from now until race day (hey-we have a busy spring and summer ahead!). And yes, running a local race is logistically easier at this point in my life when I’m also juggling young kids. But if there’s one thing I enjoy, it’s making a plan. So, back to the drawing board (otherwise known as UltraSignup) and to the calendar. And now that the plauges that keep descending on our household seem to have lifted (at least momentarily), I can finally strap on my shoes and do what I always do – put one foot in front of the other.