If you had asked me about marathon training last week, I would have waxed poetic: it's amazing, it's exhilarating, I love it sooooo much. When can I sign up for another marathon?
Blech. I can't even type that right now, I'm so grumpy.
We are four weeks out and I think I'm hitting my metaphorical 20 miles. (In marathons, it's usually mile 20 when people "hit a wall" and fall apart.) I only had to do 13 miles this weekend, but it felt like everything went wrong. My hair tie broke (I used my headband); I ran out of water (I called my emergency pit crew, i.e. Brian and Scotty); my pace crashed (I just stopped looking at my watch; avoidance is an excellent strategy) and the bottoms of my feet are so sore I just soaked them in an ice bath. The first of three ice baths today, in case you are curious.
Aside from the physical ailments, there's the social aspect of this too. We attended a birthday party on Saturday - a Halloween costume party for the kids - and a well-meaning but unaware parent asked if I was dressed in costume. What, you've never seen compression socks before? I tried to laugh it off but a small part of me died on the inside.
I'm becoming hyper-sensitive to the comments about my weight loss. Aside from the fact none of my jeans fit (wah, wah, I know. First world problems), I want to look at people and ask them, "Do you really think this is going to last? I'm running 50 miles a week and living on almonds and apples." Trust me, I'll puff back up in no time. Please, stop looking at me.
Finally, while the weather in Vegas continues this streak of amazing October sunshine and perfect temps, I'm yearning to sit outside and consume a tasty beverage...or two. I find myself eying people drinking cocktails under canopies with extreme envy. Ah, to just sit and have a drink on a Friday afternoon...with no fear of the long run on Saturday, the recovery on Sunday, or Hill Day on Wednesday. What a glorious feeling that must be. By the time I can do that, it will be cold and icky out. I am wasting this once-a-year weather.
Brian needs to be given special credit for his saintly actions towards me. The only times we've gone out since August have been for both of our birthdays; we will likely not go out again until after the race. Although on Saturday, after party and still smarting from the "did-you-dress-up-too?" comment, I threw a tiny rebellion and decided that I needed to enjoy a seasonal beer outside. Period. There was no discussion about this. So resplendent in my nylon shorts and recovery socks, I defiantly marched into Gordon Biersch with Scotty by my side and asked for a table. I ignored the looks I got (what's up, huh? Huh?) and the two of us quietly waited for Brian. I think the only reason Scott was quiet was because he was very, very scared of Mommy in that moment. I'll be honest; the beer I had that night tasted amazing. Almost as good as the water Brian and Scott hurled at me earlier during my miserable run. Totally worth it.
I can do this, right? Runners, is this common? Am I just hitting an emotional wall? I can see the finish line in sight (kind of...) and I know it's worth it...also, I just want my damn feet to stop hurting.
Argh. 27 more days.
Blech. I can't even type that right now, I'm so grumpy.
We are four weeks out and I think I'm hitting my metaphorical 20 miles. (In marathons, it's usually mile 20 when people "hit a wall" and fall apart.) I only had to do 13 miles this weekend, but it felt like everything went wrong. My hair tie broke (I used my headband); I ran out of water (I called my emergency pit crew, i.e. Brian and Scotty); my pace crashed (I just stopped looking at my watch; avoidance is an excellent strategy) and the bottoms of my feet are so sore I just soaked them in an ice bath. The first of three ice baths today, in case you are curious.
Aside from the physical ailments, there's the social aspect of this too. We attended a birthday party on Saturday - a Halloween costume party for the kids - and a well-meaning but unaware parent asked if I was dressed in costume. What, you've never seen compression socks before? I tried to laugh it off but a small part of me died on the inside.
I'm becoming hyper-sensitive to the comments about my weight loss. Aside from the fact none of my jeans fit (wah, wah, I know. First world problems), I want to look at people and ask them, "Do you really think this is going to last? I'm running 50 miles a week and living on almonds and apples." Trust me, I'll puff back up in no time. Please, stop looking at me.
Finally, while the weather in Vegas continues this streak of amazing October sunshine and perfect temps, I'm yearning to sit outside and consume a tasty beverage...or two. I find myself eying people drinking cocktails under canopies with extreme envy. Ah, to just sit and have a drink on a Friday afternoon...with no fear of the long run on Saturday, the recovery on Sunday, or Hill Day on Wednesday. What a glorious feeling that must be. By the time I can do that, it will be cold and icky out. I am wasting this once-a-year weather.
Brian needs to be given special credit for his saintly actions towards me. The only times we've gone out since August have been for both of our birthdays; we will likely not go out again until after the race. Although on Saturday, after party and still smarting from the "did-you-dress-up-too?" comment, I threw a tiny rebellion and decided that I needed to enjoy a seasonal beer outside. Period. There was no discussion about this. So resplendent in my nylon shorts and recovery socks, I defiantly marched into Gordon Biersch with Scotty by my side and asked for a table. I ignored the looks I got (what's up, huh? Huh?) and the two of us quietly waited for Brian. I think the only reason Scott was quiet was because he was very, very scared of Mommy in that moment. I'll be honest; the beer I had that night tasted amazing. Almost as good as the water Brian and Scott hurled at me earlier during my miserable run. Totally worth it.
I can do this, right? Runners, is this common? Am I just hitting an emotional wall? I can see the finish line in sight (kind of...) and I know it's worth it...also, I just want my damn feet to stop hurting.
Argh. 27 more days.
Grumpy feet
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