Unlucky 13

Yesterday I went out as planned to do my Sunday long run.  I was only scheduled to run 8 miles but I was trying to make up the mileage I missed the previous Sunday by running at least 13.  I got up early, hoping to take advantage of the morning's relative shelter against the predicted 90 degree intensity expected by mid- to late morning.  Alas, since it was Sunday, I had not set my alarm and slept through until 6:30, when the dog woke me for her morning walk.

My dog Rita wakes up with me during the week at 5.   She has completely cycled herself to my weekday schedule.  Unfortunately, she makes no allowance for weekends.  Trying to catch a few extra z's with her long face a few inches from my own, as she whines and makes periodic, increasingly higher-pitched yips, is a slow torture wake-up system.  On this occasion she did my a favor since I wanted to get up, or rather I'd though that would be a good plan the day before.  After cursing her ancestry I dutifully stumbled downstairs with her and put her out in the yard.



Procrastination easily took hold.  I made that first cup of tea and had something to eat.  Then I started to think of things to do rather than commence my 13-mile run: the Sunday paper, last night's dishes, straightening and sweeping.  Even dusting.  Runner's block and writer's block are both great motivators to cleaning the house.  Despite my early rising I didn't get ready to hit the road until 9.

Finally I reached for my "fuel belt", four equally balanced bottles of water in a blue velcro harness, and strapped it around my middle like Stallone putting on bandoliers. I stepped outside, pulled my hat down tight, clicked "play" on my iPod, and dialed my watch to "exercise."

I ran fine for the first mile.  I made my customary circuit of near-bye Grove Park, passing most of the walkers who frequent it on weekends, and had to do a run-in-place while waiting to cross the busy South Orange Avenue.  I headed down Prospect Avenue into Maplewood fully intending to complete the 13 miles by running to Millburn and back, in an estimated two-and-a-half hours.  But at mile three I noted that it had already heated up into the 80's and the humidity was rising.   Suddenly it was no longer pleasant to contemplate being on the road as the temperature went up to the predicted 90's and an unholy thought entered my brain: "this is not fun.  And I don't have to do it!"

For the first time, after such a short distance, I stopped.  I eased into a brisk walk, turned around, and headed home.  At first I experienced an exhilirating sense of defiance.  I ain't gonna do it and I can't make me!  By the time I returned to Grove Park, my defiance had given way to a creeping sense of failure.  Sunday is the only practical day for a long run and I'd lost the opportunity for the week.  Plus, how can I run a marathon if I can't run 13 miles, even in the heat?  I found a bench to stretch- then sit on and I tried to take account of what had made me fail such a simple exercise that morning.  My first DNF ("Did Not Finish").  Of course I had run a marathon back in May, in scorching heat.  Why wasn't the training easier?  Shouldn't this be a breeze even without a breeze?

On the half-full side of things I told myself don't sweat it, you will run and have run stronger with a crowd and family cheering you on.  The solo long-distance runner engages in the loneliest occupation in the world, only equalled in its temporary hermitude by the Maytag repairman.

On the half-empty side of things I wondered what a difference six months might have made to my aging body.  As I became stronger through working out and ran faster through repetition the rising arc of that improvement was only waiting for the descending line charting the march of time to intersect it.  Had that  happened in six months?

The first time I went 13 miles was the first time my IT band around my knee ever acted up.  Thinking that would end my run at my first marathon, I had worked with Carlos, my boot camp coach, on stretches and roller exercises and begun running with a brace.  I never had a recurrence and finished my marathon on my 50th birthday as planned.  But now, the mere thought of running 13 seemed to have brought me up short.

When I got home I dug out my running diary from last winter and looked at my times, distances and notes. I was surprised to realize that there was a period early on where I had also shown doubt.  "Hurts too much, can't do it," I'd written after my first 10-mile run.  Of course I did recover from that doubt and finished the rest of the training.

But re-reading my diary I've come to the realization that every runner who runs a marathon really runs two marathons.  There's the race, which is one day of your life.  But there's also the training, which is several days and months beforehand.  That's the real work, the real marathon.  By the time the day of the race comes you are really just putting the period to a long conversation you'e been having with yourself about pain and perseverance, over many hours and miles, from the time you took your first training step, to the time you crossed the finish line at 26.2.

I've had the same moment of doubt in every race I've run, at some point, and I've always overcome it and finished.  The occasional DNF is not failure but just a reminder on how much better it is too complete the  course I've set out for myself.