In preparation for the frozen-buns torture (race), my college roomy took me shopping and helped me find some amazing cold weather training gear. She also introduced me to running with tunes in my ears. You young folk may laugh at this, but seriously I remember carrying a DISC MAN as I ran. These newfangled technologies make running a breeze. The Army told me what to wear and that the only music I’d “hear” was cadences, that I had to yell back as I ran; neither were comfortable nor fun. So with my new found clothes and this thing called a “playlist” I eagerly attacked my training plan - for a month. And then I got worn out balancing work/mom duties/all this running and I cut a couple days off of the plan. This is what I ended up with: intervals on Mondays, medium runs on Wednesdays, and long runs on Saturdays. I’m just being real with you. The real world gets in the way of “mom-time.”
Two Saturdays before the race I hosted an insane slumber party for my oldest daughter's 12th birthday and then Sunday one week before the actual race I only had to run 9 miles. No big deal I told myself, after all the week prior I’d made the 12 miles in record time. It didn’t go exactly as planned. I had a complete and utter melt down. I was wearing my newer shoes and my feet hurt. The BEST advice I received in training for this race was from Leslie Stein. She said, “the first two miles of every run suck.” I embraced that quote. At the beginning of every run I’d hear her saying those words to me and I’d ignore my body... For some reason I couldn’t shake the pain that day. It was so bad I called my husband at the 1.5 mile mark (don’t even get me started on how awesome it is to have one device that sings to you, records where you’re running, allows you to take photos, and send SOS signals when needed).
Me: I need you to bring me my white running shoes.
Me: I NEED you to get my white shoes and bring them to me at the park NOW.
Hubby: Are you kidding me?
Me: I’m CRYING AND HATING LIFE AND NEED YOU TO FIX IT RIGHT THIS SECOND OR I WILL HAVE A FREAKOUT FIT IN THE MIDDLE OF TOWN.
Hubby: OK. I’ll be there in 5 minutes.
I sat on the ground and stretched (in my socks). Hero arrived 10 minutes later, handed me my shoes, took one look at the sobbing mess I’d become and told me to get in the car, I could run tomorrow.
As we drove home, the old demons began to haunt me:
“You’re a failure”
“You’ll never be able to do the race next week”
“It’s all because you ate crap at the birthday party, why aren’t you more disciplined”
(and on and on….)
Then I YELLED: “STOP THE CAR!!! My husband was wondering if I’d gone all the way to Crazyville, and I explained to him "I can’t quit". I know I won’t run tomorrow and if I don’t do this now, I will have no confidence come race day. So I finished my run. It took almost twice as long as I’d allowed. I walked more than I planned to. But. I. Didn’t. Quit.
The week before my race, my mind finally accepted what I was attempting to do = run like a pig with wings. And that my friends, makes me only HALF crazy.
(to be continued next week)