Friday, December 20, 2013

Eighteen

Eighteen runs. That's all that stands between me and the individual marathon weekend. Eighteen.

As I push closer and closer to 30+ miles a week, it's been one of those weeks (or two) where it seems like the world is telling me to say "Fuck it" and sit on the couch. Waking up to temps in the single digits. Snow followed by ice followed by more snow. Holiday frenzy of gift buying, parties and an exponentially growing to-do list.

With four weeks before the race, this is pretty typical. I'm tired of running. I'm tired of getting dressed for running. I'm tried of being tired. This training cycle has been different, since I'm running double sessions once a week. I ran 5 miles at noon yesterday, and then suited up and ran 4 miles right after While I know that mimicking the race structure (particularly the run-rest-run component) is super important...UGH I HAVE TO RUN AGAIN was the only thing on my mind while I rolled out my quads at my desk between runs.

This is where training is its darkest for me. Little voices coax me with "you've done enough". These are the same voices that taunt me in a race with "you didn't train like you were supposed to", while I suffer with undercooked legs. It starts with me missing a run, with "it's no big deal - I'll still run XX miles this week" to missing 3 runs in a row, to me staring down at an abysmal training log with big 0 or 5 or 3s looking back at me. Those 0s and 5s and 3s should be 25s and 27s and 31s.

I am trying to rage against the exhaustion, both mental and physical, by reminding myself how much better this race series will be for me because I ran outside through the snow and the slush and because I forced myself onto the treadmill rather than backing out of my workout. But like all long-term goals, sometimes the payoff seems so far out of reach, the groundwork to it seems bleak, and I start gearing up for a nice existential downward spiral (also see: college 2004-2005).

But 18 runs. That's not that much. That's less than all my fingers and toes! I can cross those bitches off in a nice countdown. But next week is Christmas, and I'll be in Albany. Running any distance over 2 miles is really hard in Albany, since it's all busy suburban road and no sidewalks anywhere. The last time I ran in the winter in Upstate New York, the sweat in my hair froze to my head. Really.

My total mileage this week is already 15 miles - which is usually pretty high for me (but I need to end this week at 27), and how I end up lulling myself into a false sense of preparedness. And then I think about how sore I am this morning after my doubles (but I did run my fastest doubles ever yesterday - pulling a min/mile off my pace for each set), and then I think about how despite this soreness, I'll have to run a half marathon on these screaming-bebe legs. Then the fear I originally had for this race comes back, and lacing up my shoes is suddenly effortless.

This feeling, of fatigue and monotony, is normal for any runner. Just like sometimes you own the workout, and sometimes the workout owns you. Sometimes you're stoked to get out for a run, and other days or weeks, you'd rather shave a cat than get out there. The trick is to learn when it's just the inner demons, versus your body begging for additional time to heal and recoup. Most of running is this type of detailed self-study and self-awareness of when you can drop the hammer and crank it, and when you should take it easy. With only 18 runs to go, it makes it a lot easier to ignore the self-sabotaging impulses, and log these miles, baby!