The marathon is four weeks away. On Saturday we ran our second 20 miler in ideal conditions—sunny skies and 55 degrees. Everyone in my group was in a great mood, running strong, while I trudged along like a bag of bricks in blue Nikes. I’d wrangled maybe four hours of sleep the night before, thanks to two little boys climbing in and out of our bed, and an epic nightmare involving my deceased grandmother, four African American house maids, and a dead baby rolled in Saran Wrap. Strange things happen when you switch to whole wheat pizza crust. Be warned.
Throughout the run, when I wasn’t engaged in dazed attempts at Jungian dream analysis, I was dwelling on a toxic encounter at work, my muscles were tight, my hips were aching, my stomach was off, my attitude sucked, and I couldn’t wait for the run to be over.
I have never felt that way about running before. The long runs are usually a highlight of my week. Just last weekend we ran a technically more taxing 16 miles of hill after hill after (seriously ANOTHER? WhoMADE this forest?) hill, and I still felt like that chipper little guy on the box of Lucky Charms when it was over.
I AM A HAPPY RUNNER, DAMN IT. WHAT HAPPENED TO MY GREEN CLOVERS AND PURPLE HORSESHOES?
When I saw the end of mile 20 on Saturday, I did what I refer to as the FTS Dash* to the finish.
*The Fuck-This-Shit Dash (n.): A “feels-like-a-sprint” but is actually just a slightly speeded up version of the pathetic grannylope you’d been doing the 19.9 miles before, all for the sake of getting a run over and done with before your skeleton turns to ash.
When I got home, I released 20 lbs of ice into a cold bathtub and climbed in with a stop watch in one hand and The Gifts of Imperfectionin the other, yes I did. And if you’ve ever questioned whether ice baths really work or are just some bullshit hazing ritual or runner’s right of passage, question no more. An ice bath is nothing short of a miracle. A very cold miracle. Was blind but now I can’t feel my pelvis.
I went into that ice bath feeling like this:
Throughout the run, when I wasn’t engaged in dazed attempts at Jungian dream analysis, I was dwelling on a toxic encounter at work, my muscles were tight, my hips were aching, my stomach was off, my attitude sucked, and I couldn’t wait for the run to be over.
I have never felt that way about running before. The long runs are usually a highlight of my week. Just last weekend we ran a technically more taxing 16 miles of hill after hill after (seriously ANOTHER? WhoMADE this forest?) hill, and I still felt like that chipper little guy on the box of Lucky Charms when it was over.
I AM A HAPPY RUNNER, DAMN IT. WHAT HAPPENED TO MY GREEN CLOVERS AND PURPLE HORSESHOES?
When I saw the end of mile 20 on Saturday, I did what I refer to as the FTS Dash* to the finish.
*The Fuck-This-Shit Dash (n.): A “feels-like-a-sprint” but is actually just a slightly speeded up version of the pathetic grannylope you’d been doing the 19.9 miles before, all for the sake of getting a run over and done with before your skeleton turns to ash.
When I got home, I released 20 lbs of ice into a cold bathtub and climbed in with a stop watch in one hand and The Gifts of Imperfectionin the other, yes I did. And if you’ve ever questioned whether ice baths really work or are just some bullshit hazing ritual or runner’s right of passage, question no more. An ice bath is nothing short of a miracle. A very cold miracle. Was blind but now I can’t feel my pelvis.
I went into that ice bath feeling like this:
And came out feeling like this:
I don’t even know what that means, but I’m willing to bet Homer Simpson doesn’t suffer from the nagging discomfort of weak hip flexors.
I am trying not to let one crappy run pin an Eeyore tail on the remainder of my training, but I am also the kind of person who feels like a complete and utter failure if I can’t carry all of the groceries in from the car in one trip. Regardless of how many dozens of bags I have, I know that if I can just cast aside my need for blood circulation … for one ... more … minute … I can get this … last bag … wrapped around my … left … wrist … LARRY OPEN THE DOOR AND BEHOLD THE CHAMPION PACK MULE YOU MARRIED. BOO YAH!
So, the fact that I am capable of feeling like a loser after running 20 miles is … unsurprising. But also scary. There should be laws against that sort of thing.
This Saturday we run as far as we’ll go before the race. Twenty-two (magically delicious!) miles.
If, between now and then, you have any advice about how to shake off the dark clouds of doubt that follow a poor performance ... or how to meditate like a monk while maintaining a 9 minute mile ... I’ll gladly take it.
Same goes for your leftover Percocet.
I am trying not to let one crappy run pin an Eeyore tail on the remainder of my training, but I am also the kind of person who feels like a complete and utter failure if I can’t carry all of the groceries in from the car in one trip. Regardless of how many dozens of bags I have, I know that if I can just cast aside my need for blood circulation … for one ... more … minute … I can get this … last bag … wrapped around my … left … wrist … LARRY OPEN THE DOOR AND BEHOLD THE CHAMPION PACK MULE YOU MARRIED. BOO YAH!
So, the fact that I am capable of feeling like a loser after running 20 miles is … unsurprising. But also scary. There should be laws against that sort of thing.
This Saturday we run as far as we’ll go before the race. Twenty-two (magically delicious!) miles.
If, between now and then, you have any advice about how to shake off the dark clouds of doubt that follow a poor performance ... or how to meditate like a monk while maintaining a 9 minute mile ... I’ll gladly take it.
Same goes for your leftover Percocet.
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