I feel lazy this weekend, but not as guilty as I thought I would. The guilt level isn’t exactly zero, but considering I’ve not grocery-shopped, gone for a run, or eaten a single vegetable in two days, it’s a lot lower than it has any right to be.
My enthusiasm for the upcoming half-marathon continues to wane in the wake of an 11-mile run a week ago that nearly killed us. Correction; I nearly killed us. I misjudged the finish and charged a hill about a mile too soon. The last tenth of a mile was the purest torture I’ve known since being forced to stay awake for a sermon after a 30-hour bus ride in high school. My partner and I were supposed to go for 12 this weekend, but she's on vacation and I have
I keep telling myself I’ll get it together this week, but Monday I have to teach a spin class and although I know I am more than capable of doing both, I can see myself using it as an excuse to stay off the treadmill. Wednesday it’s supposed to rain, and although I usually do 5 miles on Fridays, our long run will move to Saturday this week so I won’t risk it. I predict a week much like this past one, in which I barely managed six and a half total. Sad.
I hate that I am feeling burned out already. Normally I love the challenge of stretching my weekly mileage and my long runs to distances that would have made me aspirate a lung two months ago. I would revel in the fact that as my distance increases, so does my speed. I would marvel at the way my body cooperates in a spirit much like my own – stubborn resistance at first, then capitulation and eventually enjoyment. I would savor each long run as my time, when no one can reach me and no one can stop me. I would get a secret, juvenile glee out of hearing friends and coworkers admit they could never…, are you crazy? And the high afterwards – that feeling of being totally empty, completely spent, soaked in sweat and utterly on top of the world – it’s incomparable.
I could blame it on the knee pain. Some days my knees are so swollen by the end of the day that I can barely bend them. I spend evening with my legs propped on cushions, wrapped in ice packs. I consume the max dosage of Mobic every day, popping a 7.5mg pill every 12 hours like clockwork. I cannot squat down, kneel, or get up off the floor without assistance, and stairs are hell, even without the twenty pounds of crap I carry out the door every day. I could blame my lack of enthusiasm on all of that, but I know better. I’ve been running through that pain for weeks and I know full well my knees shut up and stop hurting as early as two or three miles in, and they’re no worse afterward than they’d be if I hadn’t gone at all. So…more lame excuses.
I guess I can only hope these last two weeks will be productive enough that I will feel confident at the starting line. I know I can finish, I’d just like to do it in less than two and a half hours. I’d be embarrassed to admit to anything more than that, and if I have to be honest, bragging rights make up about a quarter of the reason I’m doing this in the first place. If I can’t claim a decent time, I won’t claim it at all, for the same reason I don’t tell people I graduated first in my class…of 18 people (see? Sad!).
My pride may be the last best motivator I’ve got left.