I look at my calendar, and almost want to cry. Here it is again. It’s that time of year, where I have the
annual event that I dread most in my life.
No, it’s not back to school time (I mean, it is back to school time, but
name one parent who is sad about that?).
It’s not my annual mammogram (all the women over 40 reading this just
cringed at the thought of their next appointment. Women under 40 pretended they didn’t read it,
and the men don’t understand. OK, guys, here’s
what it’s like: have a complete stranger grab your breast, lay it on a table
and try to flatten it with an encyclopedia, and have them hold it like that for
a minute or so. Oh, but first make sure
they put the encyclopedia in the freezer for about an hour first so that it’s
really cold. Now repeat on the other
side. Yeah, now you’re cringing, too). Nope, this is worse. It’s time for my 17 mile training run.
I know; you’re confused.
This is my 5th marathon I’m training for. Haven’t I run 17 miles before? Yes, of course I have. I’ve run 17, 18, 20, and 26.2 (for some
reason, no training plan I’ve previously used had a 19 mile run, and almost all
training plans stop at 20 miles, with the logic being that 20 miles is roughly
when your body hits “the wall” and starts to rebel against you, so the training
plans don’t want you to know how incredibly crappy you’re going to feel until
you’re in the actual race and there’s no going back). But for some reason, 17 miles is my Achilles
Heel. It’s always my hardest run and the
moment in my training when I want to quit.
My 17 mile training runs are always the ones where my brain starts to
beat up my heart and convince me that I can’t do this, and that it’s just too
hard and too much work for something so insignificant.
Obviously, I don’t want to do this run, but I’ve been doing
most of my long runs with a friend, Rita.
We’re using the same training plan so we have the same torturous long
runs every week. Running with Rita makes
things MUCH better. Rita works in
roughly the same field I do, so she enjoys a good conversation about math as
much as I do. Last week we spent about ½
of our 13.1 mile long run calculating the effect of unit cost increase versus
utilization increase in a large spike in trend she had found in a medical
claims analysis she was working on for a client. Mixing running with data analysis was my idea
of utopia, and that run flew by in an instant (though we couldn’t get to the
actual numerical answer since neither of us thought to run with a calculator).
I had warned Rita in advance that the 17 mile run was my
arch nemesis, so that she’d be prepared for me to be grumpy and basically
suck. She drove to my house Saturday
morning, and as I stepped outside, I knew this run was going to be even worse
than I had expected. We hadn’t even
started yet, and it was already over 70 degrees and 90% humidity. I don’t think she was looking forward to the
torture either, but we knew we had to do it, so we might as well get going.
The first few miles weren’t so bad. We had to add on to our usual route, so Rita
had an idea that we actually run in the opposite direction from where we
normally go, so by the time we looped around to what is usually right at the
beginning, we had already completed over 4 miles. The conversation was great as always, but I
was already really sweaty and hot. I had
4 bottles with 8 ounces of water attached to my fuel belt, and I was already
wondering if it was enough. It was
REALLY hot.
At mile 5 we ate some gels and water, and I had to keep
wiping my face off so that sweat wouldn’t drip into my eyes. By mile 7 I had finished up 2 of my water
bottles and was thinking I was in trouble.
Later in the run we were going to run around a park that has a water
fountain, so Rita and I tried to figure out at what mile we’d hit the fountain
and then divide that by the ounces of water that I had left. Again with no calculator, the answer in my head came out to “I am not
going to have enough water to get to that fountain and I think I’ll collapse
and Rita is going to have to drag me home.”
Rita is a pretty positive person, and kept saying things
like “the glass is half full, so we’ve already run a 10K!” or “the glass is
half full, if we were running the marathon we’d be half way through Brooklyn!”,
so I didn’t tell her that I was expecting to die and I’d do anything to drink
that proverbial half full glass.
My nickname is “Wrong Way Bob”, so Rita usually determines
the course and I happily follow and am just thrilled that I don’t have to try
to figure out where to go and how not to get lost. At right about mile 9, we turned a corner and
I realized were about 2 houses away from my sister-in-law’s house. So, early on a Saturday morning, my poor
sister Tracy had her day interrupted with two VERY sweaty people ringing her
doorbell and begging for water.
Tracy filled up two of my bottles and one of Rita’s and told
us whenever we run by we can fill up with her hose if we need it. This prompted us to thank her, say goodbye,
and immediately down one container of water each and walk around to her hose to
refill them.
By mile 10 or 11 (I was too hot to remember), we decided to
walk one minute every mile, mostly to make sure that we could finish the run
without external forces, like an ambulance or at least a cab. We ate our second course of gels , and I drank
enough to pretend I was washing them down.
I only had about 1 and ½ bottles of water left, but was dreaming about
the oasis of the water fountain in the park.
Or maybe I was just hallucinating at that point. I’m not really sure.
Somewhere around mile 13 we entered the park and started the
lap we take around its perimeter. The
park abuts the Long Island Sound, so some kids on a crew team were carrying
their boats and paddles to the water’s edge.
One kid had a handful of oars over his shoulder and turned right when I
passed him so that I almost introduced my face to 5 or 6 paddles. I ducked just in time, but the semi squat I
was in caused both quads to scream almost to the point that I think the kid
heard them (or maybe that was me screaming; again, it was too hot to remember).
A mile or so later, we saw it: the water fountain!!!! I think there was a small glow around it,
like it was wearing a halo. As we got
near it, though, it looked dry and dirty, kind of like a water fountain that
has gotten dusty from lack of use, like the way a water fountain looks in a
park – after Labor Day when they’ve shut the water off. So yesterday – 5 days after Labor Day – I pressed
the button on the water fountain knowing before I even touched it that it wasn’t
going to work. And it didn’t. And all I could think was, “I am totally
screwed.”
And that’s the moment that my brain took the opportunity to
beat up my heart. It started saying
things like “you can’t do this” and “just quit.
Tell Rita you’re done, and just stop.”
But, I didn’t. Rita saw that the
fountain was off and asked if I was OK.
My mouth opened to tell her I couldn’t run anymore and ask to borrow her
phone to call my husband and ask for him to come pick me up. But that didn’t happen. Instead, I said something like, “Oh, I have
one bottle left, I’ll be fine.”
In truth, though, I wasn’t fine. I had 8 ounces of water left. I had been sweating so much that I could
literally wring out my shorts. I was
beginning to feel a little nauseous, and my legs felt like they were stapled to
the ground. But I couldn’t quit. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. If I quit that run, I was done with marathon
training, and probably done with being healthy and fit. Ending the run would have led to an all-out
pity party where ice cream, pizza and Chips Ahoy cookies would be served in
abundance, but being the only guest there, I'd eat it all myself.
Rita and I plugged along.
Our minute walks turned plural as we’d walk for over 2 minutes at a
time. We also took turns asking the
other if we could stop running and walk for a bit. It slowed us down to the point that we really
couldn’t use the word “morning” to describe the time of day. The sun was right above us and there was
suddenly no shade. During one walk
break, I could literally feel heat coming off my head and neck. At one point while running, we had to go
single file and I was in front. Rita
started to laugh when she saw that my shorts were dripping and so the back of
my legs were soaked. I promised her that
it was only just sweat and that I still had full bladder control, but at that
point I’m not sure that it was any less gross that it was just sweat.
 |
| Run From A Hot Day |
Finally we hit 16.5 miles, and I started counting down by
every 10th of a mile. After
what seemed forever we heard our favorite sound of the day which was my
watching beeping the end of the 17th mile. We did it!
We finished our 17 mile run in what was now close to 80 degrees, still
with 90% humidity. Including the refills
I got at my sister’s, I had drunk 56 ounces of water, most of which was now
dripping off my shirt and shorts as I walked.
This 17 mile run was just as bad if not worse than all the other
horrible 17 mile runs I’ve done. But in
a way, that makes it better. They get
more challenging, but I don’t back down, as much as I want to. In the end, my heart and my legs conquered my brain.
Next week my long run is 18 miles, but that’s OK. 18 miles is one of my favorite
distances. Go figure.
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