One of many favorite scenes from "Once a Runner" is Parker's description of the whippet-thin runners storming into an all-you-can-eat fried chicken buffet and simply piling the picked over carcasses in the middle of the table and downing pitchers of beer without a thought. Cassidy declares, "The furnace is hot."
Indeed. I remember back to my 50 and 60 mile weeks, when I had to eat every hour or so just to keep from getting hangry. Oh, how I would get to work on Monday mornings and crave the sausage and egg sandwiches from the deli across the street and not care a bit because I knew it would just slide off without a chance of sticking to my bones.
Well, I'm hoping to channel those days. I cranked out a killer 12-mile run that included 20-minutes of intervals in the middle (30 sec sprint followed by a 90 sec jog) that left me ravenous. This came on the heels of my first-place age group the day before in a local 5K that included a 2-mile warmup and cool down. The furnace was a-burning.
Now, I'm on a five day business trip and the diet has not fared so well. The sodium! My God the sodium! Thus far my two dinners have consisted of a 16oz Kansas City strip and what can only be described as a meat platter (three different kinds of ribs, deep fried mushrooms, and a LOADED baked potato. Seriously, if they had pulled some pork and used it to top a sundae, I would have eaten it. Now, I feel pretty awful. This of course doesn't include the abnormal amount of alcohol imbibed. Blaaaah.
So, I here I am, at the mercy of local restaurants, far away from my Kashi, yogurt, and otherwise butter/sugar free diet. I'm contemplating a 5:50 a.m. detox run on the treadmill (I'd rather die in a fire) tomorrow morning, but the kahlua and cream to round out tonight is arguing otherwise. We shall see. I think my mood when the wake up call comes will determine whether that happens or not. I'm staring down a minimum 12-hour day, in a booth, on my feet, the whole time. Perhaps that's the only detox I'll need. The furnace might need some more fuel.