I found a way out of it yesterday. After all, I'd slept fitfully through the night. I don't think I'd had more than a couple of hours of sleep, tops. And that's all put together. I certainly didn't get that much all at one time.And the stomach pain. How could I run with stomach pain? I mean, it's not completely my fault that I ate two pieces of birthday cake. And ice cream. I hadn't had birthday cake with its Crisco-based icing for ages. Sure, I had to force myself to eat it, to choke it down. But I finally convinced myself it was good, and the cake part actually was. Well, so was the ice cream part. But that's always good. I didn't say I hadn't had ice cream in ages. Just Crisco-icing cake.
So how could I really have been expected to run yesterday?
And it all turned out fine, anyway. Kim needed a break, too. I decided to try harder the next day. Which was today.
When the alarm went off, I pretty much wanted to die. When I awake on running days, that's basically my first conscious thought. "I want to die. I can't run today. I'll fail. I want to die."
My stomach turns all knotty. I worry about my bladder. What if I have to pee while we're running? Then what? I worry about my bowels. I've seen those photos of marathon runners with the brown stains on their behinds. What in the world is worth that?
I slammed my hand on the "snooze" button. Okay, I really just pushed it with my finger. But I felt like slamming it. Rolling over, I tried to get a few more minutes of sleep. But I couldn't. My brain said, "You can't do it. You're such a wimpy burger. You really, really are a failure, aren't you?" And I, crying like a little girl, said, "Yes. Yes, I am. And I'm not getting out of this bed."
But eventually, my body urged me out of bed, and I slid from the warm, cozy cocoon into the world of good morning.
"Good morning," my husband Bo mumbled.
"Ergh," I answered.
"What's wrong?" he asked, concerned.
"Arachk," I spat.
"What's the matter?" he persisted.
"I have to run. I have to...run. I hate running. I don't want to go. Why do I have to go?"
"Baby. Don't go, then," the demon temptation that is my husband spoke.
"What's the MATTER with you? Of COURSE I have to go! I'm not giving up all this work I've done! I'm not quitting for nothing! How dare you?"
I checked the weather. Fourteen degrees. I hear insanity slips away from you around fourteen degrees.
I pulled on my black long underwear and my tan Columbia Omni-Tech® Nubby Faille HP™ with 100% polyester Ultra-Wick™ brushed mesh lining cargo pants, a built-in-bra camisole and three layers of shirts, topped with a hooded sweatshirt. And one pair of socks. My feet usually don't get cold when I run.
We were the only ones on the trail, Kim and I.
"Are we gonna run?" She asked.
"I don't know," I confessed.
I told her all about my morning battle, how I psyche myself out, convinced that if I come running, I'll surely miss my goal. I'll surely fail. And then what?
"Let's just try," she said.
And we did.
There had been others on the trail before us, evidenced by their footprints in the snow, but they turned around during our first interval.
"This is now uncharted territory," I told Kim as we puffed along. "We're officially insane."
But I'm not so sure about that, even now as I sit in the warm house with my sheepskin slippers keeping my toes toasty. If I could but describe the beauty of the winter trail, the snow-capped trees, the silent snow, the peace, I would rival Wordsworth, Dickinson, Teasdale and Longfellow combined. This snow, this scene, was too beautiful for words. Ocassionally, the wind would catch a branch and, like a domino effect, a few completely soundless clumps of snow would crash, unheard, into a pine bough, which would move in seeming slow-motion, bouncing noiseless and flinging more silent snow to the ground, like giant hushed snowflakes begging for a laconic description. There is none. "Silent," is the banal, overused word that just keeps lunging into my mind. But it's not enough.
We trudged on, and I pushed myself. "If I let my brain win," I told Kim, "I'll give up. I'll be a failure." And so we ran more, longer, endured. And when we thought we were done, we ran one more interval, just in case.
90/90, 2 min/2 min, 2 min/2 min...repeat. We did three repetitions in all, 36 minutes of nine running/walking intervals, and then we walked the remainder back, noticing the difference of our lone back-trail, mine tattling how my feet kick outward as I run, Kim's as straight and steady as a pair of railroad tracks.
We high-fived when we finished. Kim did a little victory dance. My body had won. My brain had been defeated. We'd passed another milestone. We'd lived to run another day. I'd tried to give up, but I hadn't let me.
Next time, I'll likely try to find a way out again. But remembering this day will help. As will the encouragement of my friends (Hi, John! Hit the road!) and even my dear husband, who isn't a demon at all, but the very one who assures me that "it's going away" and he pats my posterior.
It's going away.
