On Tuesday, my alarm went off at 6:30am. The first thought in my head was "Dear sweet baby Jesus, this is not happening." I forgot. I forgot what it was like to wake up that early, to tell my legs that we were going for a run, to try to shake and stretch some energy into my limbs, and to groggily push out the door and get moving. But I remembered about halfway down the block why I love this. Running into the nearby state park sports complex, doing an interval workout around the track, I remembered how good it felt to have a purpose. This was a God-awful early run over cement and brick, and yet I loved it.
Wednesday was a different story. Again, the 6:30am alarm. Again, I couldn't believe this was happening. And then I couldn't believe how difficult it was to run that morning. My legs were defiant and refused to propel me. I ended up pushing through most of the workout, mumbling to myself that it was almost over and no, I was NOT going to quit training for a marathon I had just signed up for only four days prior. What had happened? I had felt so wonderful just yesterday. I chalked it up to two factors: a) being a very close subsequent workout to the last one and b) too much energy after a long work shift on my feet the night before.
And then Friday arrived. After working a double shift on Thursday (16 hours trotting about on the feetsies), I hit the track mid-afternoon on Friday. If Wednesday was hard, Friday was surreal. I warmed up for about 5 minutes, and then stared at my watch every 30 seconds thereafter to check how much longer I had to be running. No, time did not move faster. No, the workout did not get easier. In fact, it was so difficult to maintain a consistent pace that I found myself walking after a mile and a half. Seriously now, I thought, what is going on?! As I walked around the track, my mind conjured up a thousand tiny voices explaining why I should just quit and call it a day: I had worked so hard this week! I had been on my feet for an extreme amount of time the day before! I was working hard and shouldn't risk an injury!
And then I realized that this was a mental workout day. Every moment of training counts for some reason, and Friday was the reminder of the "tiny voices" syndrome. Those tiny little voices that give you the best excuses to give up - you have to be in tip-top mental shape to do battle with them in conversation. Talking aloud helps, for some reason and while you may seem crazy for a brief moment to any nearby listeners, it's the only way to win the war. So I told myself: "This is the part of the marathon where you want to give up. But you can do one more lap. You have that in you. One more lap and then you can go home."
So I did.
I had to work Friday evening, and heading into bed after the late-night shift, I was fearful for Saturday's run. I knew I had to get up and get it over with, but I wasn't sure how my muscles were going to feel. All week, I had been reminded of the soreness, the mental fortitude, the battle with the tiny voices that comes with training for the marathon.... My resolve was frayed. Saturday's long run seemed impossible.
But Saturday brought about an unexpected motivation: a brief visit with my friend who is currently battling Hodgkin's.
A dear colleague of mine was recently diagnosed and has been undergoing chemo. Said friend also signed up for a fundraising walk-a-thon (Relay for Life), and I went to Brooklyn on Saturday morning to say hello. A short visit was all I needed to put the whole damn week into perspective. Here I was, a completely physically competent body whinging over the difficulty of the first week of training. While standing in front of me was a scarred, bald, gorgeous soul who had to return to work despite the continuation of outpatient chemo every two weeks for the next couple of months, who had put together a team of friends to walk together on the weekend to honor cancer victims, who was going to spend the next few hours ambling around the piers because ambling is a high-energy term. I had truly forgot. I forgot that the last marathon was a complete perspective shift; running in honor of all those cancer patients, victims and survivors who had friends and family who loved them. I hadn't thought of running this marathon for anyone but myself.
All that said, my Saturday run was perfect. I could move, I took the pace slower than usual, and the weather was inviting. I had my health and my breath and that's really all that mattered.
So, looking back, I think, yes, the first week of training was tough. It was tough to welcome back all the small aches and pains that come with having a purpose. It was tough to feel the limits of my resolve again. But it was exceptionally tough to be reminded that I'm far more capable everyday than I imagine.
No comments:
Post a Comment