Today’s run was one of the hardest runs of my life. It wasn't
the distance. It wasn't the pace. Just something about it sucked. I’m sure if I
gathered all the pieces, an easy puzzle would appear – not warming up, I didn't
have a set pace in mind, very little sleep – but there is more to it than that.
The watch is synced, phone GPS is on, and away I go. I've run this way hundreds of times. A quick left, a right, a few short strides, and a nice hill to get the blood pumping. There isn't much traffic, so I peer to my left to enjoy the melting snow glisten as the sun’s rays turn everything into a swampy mess. Breathing with relative ease, I glance at my watch as I crest the hill. A pace of 8:10/mile. Not too shabby considering I've only ran one other time since my marathon two weeks ago. Fluttering down the hill, I had a strong sense of serenity. Even the decaying plant matter had a subtle, yet surprisingly pleasant smell. Unfortunately, I’m not one to “settle.” If I can go this fast and feel this great, why am I willing to stay comfortable? Push.
And push I did. I wish this story ended here as I galloped off into the afternoon sun. But, that wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining or true. Instead, I upped the pace. Now my breathing is elevated. My heart is pumping. My port feels funny. Does it really? Or am I just making myself think that it feels weird. Just shut up and go. Focus on your stride, why are you leaning your head? Uh, hello – heel strike much? How cool would it be if a deer jumped out of those bushes?! How scared shitless would I be if a deer jumped out of those bushes?! Tune in. Namaste. Left foot, right foot, repeat.
A mile and a half done. In my best Balboa voice I wittingly say to myself, “You’re not so bad.” And this is what makes running a fickle mistress. I thought I was going to own this run. I was cruising. I felt great. I had a good pace going. Hell, I just did my first round of chemotherapy, and I’m out here basically rubbing it in cancer’s face. Well, all this elation came crashing down in an instant. I was able to pick up the pace to complete the second mile, but I started to crash. Like an airplane with a busted engine, it felt like I was forced to do damage control. My calves started to burn. I guess sitting around the house all day doesn't work them out too much. Breathing? Oh, was I supposed to do that when I run? Here, let me gasp wildly for some extra oxygen atoms. To add insult to injury, here comes a diesel truck spewing exhaust in my path. Wonderful.
All right, get it together. Two thirds done. A mile to go. The last third of this mile is all downhill. Can’t stop, won’t stop. Fight through the pain… I should stop... WHOA! And there it was. Talk about a moment. I’ve been training for years and have made some (crappy) excuses to not run. But I have never just been so willing to give up. During my 10X10 challenge I walked 4 times. At my marathon, I blissfully sauntered through 2 water stations. I do not mind walking at all, but that’s not what I was thinking to myself. I didn’t say walk or slow down. I said, “I should stop.” Yes, I understand safety is important. No, I do not want to injure myself. Yes, my calves feel like they are going to rupture. But I wanted to stop?! The thought just popped in. Usually, this isn't even a question. Sure, sometimes I think to myself I should slow down – but do actually stop? No way.
The good news is, I had argued with myself (and by arguing I mean calling my internal voice a sissy and pleading for it to shut up) long enough to make it up the hill. Three tenths of a mile, cruise control is set, bring her home. And that’s just what I did. I completed my 3.08 mile run in 23:36, albeit it felt like I had set a new PR – without the gratification and pain of setting a new personal record. Instead, I just stopped my watch, turned off my phone’s GPS, threw off my shirt, and crashed on the back bumper of my vehicle. Questions, doubt, and anger sprinkled with a few other emotions scattered through my brain. Is it going to be easier? Was today just a bad day? Will I get stronger? I tried to answer yes to all of these questions, but I didn't want to lie to myself. Instead, as I rubbed the port buried under my skin checking for God knows what, I accepted one thing. I ran three miles. Yes, it sucked, but you know what? I didn't stop. I pushed when my body said no. I persevered against my own self. And for that reason, I am proud.
Note: PLEASE, if you are ever injured while running, DO NOT force yourself to do more than what you can. I've been running for quite a while and know my limits. Make sure you know yours and seek medical advice when necessary.
The watch is synced, phone GPS is on, and away I go. I've run this way hundreds of times. A quick left, a right, a few short strides, and a nice hill to get the blood pumping. There isn't much traffic, so I peer to my left to enjoy the melting snow glisten as the sun’s rays turn everything into a swampy mess. Breathing with relative ease, I glance at my watch as I crest the hill. A pace of 8:10/mile. Not too shabby considering I've only ran one other time since my marathon two weeks ago. Fluttering down the hill, I had a strong sense of serenity. Even the decaying plant matter had a subtle, yet surprisingly pleasant smell. Unfortunately, I’m not one to “settle.” If I can go this fast and feel this great, why am I willing to stay comfortable? Push.
And push I did. I wish this story ended here as I galloped off into the afternoon sun. But, that wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining or true. Instead, I upped the pace. Now my breathing is elevated. My heart is pumping. My port feels funny. Does it really? Or am I just making myself think that it feels weird. Just shut up and go. Focus on your stride, why are you leaning your head? Uh, hello – heel strike much? How cool would it be if a deer jumped out of those bushes?! How scared shitless would I be if a deer jumped out of those bushes?! Tune in. Namaste. Left foot, right foot, repeat.
A mile and a half done. In my best Balboa voice I wittingly say to myself, “You’re not so bad.” And this is what makes running a fickle mistress. I thought I was going to own this run. I was cruising. I felt great. I had a good pace going. Hell, I just did my first round of chemotherapy, and I’m out here basically rubbing it in cancer’s face. Well, all this elation came crashing down in an instant. I was able to pick up the pace to complete the second mile, but I started to crash. Like an airplane with a busted engine, it felt like I was forced to do damage control. My calves started to burn. I guess sitting around the house all day doesn't work them out too much. Breathing? Oh, was I supposed to do that when I run? Here, let me gasp wildly for some extra oxygen atoms. To add insult to injury, here comes a diesel truck spewing exhaust in my path. Wonderful.
All right, get it together. Two thirds done. A mile to go. The last third of this mile is all downhill. Can’t stop, won’t stop. Fight through the pain… I should stop... WHOA! And there it was. Talk about a moment. I’ve been training for years and have made some (crappy) excuses to not run. But I have never just been so willing to give up. During my 10X10 challenge I walked 4 times. At my marathon, I blissfully sauntered through 2 water stations. I do not mind walking at all, but that’s not what I was thinking to myself. I didn’t say walk or slow down. I said, “I should stop.” Yes, I understand safety is important. No, I do not want to injure myself. Yes, my calves feel like they are going to rupture. But I wanted to stop?! The thought just popped in. Usually, this isn't even a question. Sure, sometimes I think to myself I should slow down – but do actually stop? No way.
The good news is, I had argued with myself (and by arguing I mean calling my internal voice a sissy and pleading for it to shut up) long enough to make it up the hill. Three tenths of a mile, cruise control is set, bring her home. And that’s just what I did. I completed my 3.08 mile run in 23:36, albeit it felt like I had set a new PR – without the gratification and pain of setting a new personal record. Instead, I just stopped my watch, turned off my phone’s GPS, threw off my shirt, and crashed on the back bumper of my vehicle. Questions, doubt, and anger sprinkled with a few other emotions scattered through my brain. Is it going to be easier? Was today just a bad day? Will I get stronger? I tried to answer yes to all of these questions, but I didn't want to lie to myself. Instead, as I rubbed the port buried under my skin checking for God knows what, I accepted one thing. I ran three miles. Yes, it sucked, but you know what? I didn't stop. I pushed when my body said no. I persevered against my own self. And for that reason, I am proud.
Note: PLEASE, if you are ever injured while running, DO NOT force yourself to do more than what you can. I've been running for quite a while and know my limits. Make sure you know yours and seek medical advice when necessary.
