I sat at the kitchen table this past Sunday with a plate of
eggs, toast, and kale in front of me, a hot cup of coffee filled to the lip,
and the Washington Post spread out
before me. It’s my weekend ritual – or rather my Sunday ritual. It’s the one
day during the week that the alarm doesn't go off and I don’t have to pull
running clothes on in the dark. While that punctured egg yolk began to bleed
into my pile of kale, the clock on the oven caught my eye: 10:55 a.m. I turned
to our roommate who sat across from me.
“What?” she asked.
“This time next week,” I said, nodding. “This time next week
it will all be over. I hope.”
As if on cue, Mrs. Onthebusrunning walked into the kitchen,
phone in hand, “Just got a text from Ebo saying, ‘This time next week Brad will
be done and we’ll be close.’”
Ah, the “This time next week” game. Normally reserved for
vacations, visits from friends, or the conclusion of work presentations. But
also applicable to major races.
Yesterday, for example, I thought, “This time next week I’ll
be getting a massage.” And, “This time next week, I’ll be cracking out my
celebratory Chimay Cinq Cents.”
But I’m quick not to let my thoughts wander too far ahead,
after all, there is still the task at hand.
Because it’s the final taper week,
I can’t keep my mind focused on one thing for very long. I’m filled with
so much extra energy that I’m like a child with ADD who’s just been given pixie
sticks and a drawer full of shiny objects.
At work, it’s not much better. I settle in to work on a task
but every new Outlook e-mail that pops up quickly steals my attention. My
thoughts are a running ticker for a news station that might scroll across my
eyes something like this:
Any new Yahoo e-mails? | Need to get more brown rice for
pre-race breakfast | Lance Armstrong is a dick | Is the debate tonight? | Any
new Yahoo e-mails? | What’s the weather for Sunday? | Almost time for afternoon
Starbucks run | Any new Yahoo e-mails? | I love this song, when is Mumford
& Sons touring? | Weather for Sunday | Yahoo e-mails …
And on it goes. I yearn for my afternoon run just to get rid
of some of this energy while my fingers fly across the keyboard and I shovel
snacks down my throat. At 10:00 last night, I watched the TV fully coherent and alert as opposed to the heavy-lidded / near coma stare I usually
wear. Sigh. Five miles is so unsatisfying.
More often than not in that steady stream of information, my
thoughts wander to Sunday morning and I have to temper expectations or else
that ball of nervous excitement will fester in the pit of my stomach and I’ll
walk around in a constant state of nausea. Instead, I try to associate with one
of my better workouts and then let it go.
Still, on my run yesterday, when I tried to remind myself
that this was just an easy run, I found my thoughts drifting to the Marine
Corps course, particularly coming off the final turn that dumps you onto route
110. The “25 mile” marker flashes by and you sling shot onto the highway for a
long straightaway mile where, God willing, you can let your stride unwind and
summon whatever last ounces of energy and will to carry you to the finish line.
The chills wracked my body so hard that not only had I started running tempo
pace but my hat felt like it had lifted from my head. I enjoyed the moment for
a second more then grabbed the reigns and pulled back. There would be plenty of
time for that on Sunday.
When I returned to the house, it was only 5:50. Just what
would I do with the rest of the evening? I went to the grocery store to buy
more food and added a valuable caveat to the “never shop hungry” edict: never
shop hungry while tapering. Especially at Whole Foods. Too many pretty colors
and delicious treats. There are so many types of olives, and … I wonder if I
have any new Yahoo mail?
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