Today I received the following texts from my daughter:
“I can’t wait to race.”
“It’ll be so fun.”
That pretty much sums up what we are facing in (eek) three weeks.
My body is more or less back to normal. That means I went on the longest run of my life yesterday: 30km. Let’s be real about what I mean when I say run. I ran more than I walked, yes, but I did not run the whole thing. That is a goal for another year.
It was fun, at first. Really, it was fun for about 23km. And then it was horrible.
I am one of the happiest runners on the planet. I love running, and I appreciate it because I pay such a high price to be able to do it. I can’t just lace up my shoes and step out the door. I have to do core and glute work first, and a series of ankle and foot-strengthening exercises to make sure my body doesn’t fall apart. Afterwards I stretch, and I roll everything out. It is time consuming, but it allows me to do what I love.
So when I say I’m not having a good time running, you know it must be bad.
Maybe bad is the wrong word. Hard. Running long distances is hard. And I love my run playlist, but even that got old after a while.
I think the problem is that I’ve been in denial about the marathon ever since I signed up for this race. After yesterday, I can’t deny it anymore: I am going to have to run 42km, on very very tired legs, and it’s going to suck. Any dreams I had of surprising myself with my run time have gone down the toilet. I’m not in favour of reality, but when it stands right in front of you and stares you down, you really can’t ignore it.
What cracks me up is that I sat there yesterday before the run deliberating: should I run in my Hokas or my Asics? As if it would have made a single bit of difference. For the record, I ran in my Asics. Next weekend I’ll try my Hokas. I’m quite sure it will be just as bad.
Here is the one consolation.
After 30km, you can pretty much eat what you want.