For me, running a 100 mile week is like living (and aging)
through four seasons. The beginning of each week brings, as George Costanza would say, “rejuvenation,
rebirth…all that crap.” But two easy Monday runs (because yeah, you have to
do two-a-days to fit all that juicy mileage in) does not a week make. Each subsequent
run edges me closer to the next season, deeper into exhaustion, ultimately
plunging me into the depths of winter. At this stage I long for the thaw to
come, balancing on the knife’s edge of fatigue, hunger, and madness until the
sweet spring of a rest day arrives. In this kinder, gentler season I resemble a
human being again, and wonder just what was I complaining about in winter? My
coach calls this good tired. By Wednesday night, I call it madness. Here’s a
glimpse:
Tuesday Morning
(Workout Day, e.g. 14mi total; 4mi warmup + 7x1mile w/ 60s rest + 3mi cool):
Awake. Not in the “lazily coming to” kind of way. This is
alert, as though I haven’t been asleep for god knows how long. Which gets me
thinking, “Just how long have I been asleep?” My eyes search the darkness. Darkness.
That’s a good sign. It means that the dawn hasn’t begun to break yet. Which
means that I have at least another hour left. In addition to “awake,” I am also
“drenched,” i.e. in my own sweat. Apparently I’ve interrupted my body
rigorously repairing itself from the 16 miles the day before and preparing
itself for the 19 mile day coming entirely too soon – either that or I’ve peed.
And speaking of…
I take the opportunity to let the cool air in the bedroom
dry my perspiration. I totter gingerly to the bathroom and empty out the tea I drank
prior to bed. I favor the tightness in my right heel from an angry plantar
fascia, and a taut-like-a-bow-string IT band that hasn’t released as much as I
would have liked. But, hey, it isn’t morning yet.
When I slip back into the damp sheets, it is time for truth.
I peek at our clock and see 3:10 staring back. A little less than two hours. I’d
like to say that I fall back into a deep, restorative sleep, but instead I lay
uneasily thinking about the workout to come. I eventually nod off, but it brings
anxious, vivid dreams. The kind where I’ve overslept and scramble to get the
very run in that I’m preparing for in t-minus however many minutes. Or I’m in
the middle of a hockey game and can’t pull on my goalie gloves in time for the
faceoff. Normal stuff.
If the alarm does finally go off – the alternative being
preemptively turning it off and just “getting on with it” – I leap from bed,
pull on the shorts waiting for me on the dresser, attend to some basic hygiene,
lace up, and am out the door before the sweat can even dry on the sheets.
Tuesday Evening (5mi
easy + core): The morning is most like the beginning of summer, with the
proverbial dog days languishing into evening. Fatigue lingers in my muscles
from the morning, but once I’m actually running, I’m pleasantly surprised how my
stride unspools. This brief optimism is a combination of summer hanging on, and
the crisp fall air. I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep that night, feeling
that as I close my eyes, that crispness has a frigid edge to it. As the Starks
would say, “Winter is
coming.”
Wednesday Morning
(11mi easy): Exhaustion creeps in and settles like a heavy fog. Instead of
“awake!” I sleep nearly to the alarm, i.e. 5-7 minutes before it’s due to go
off. When I look at the clock, I am shaken at how tired I still am and how
little I have left to sleep. I push the enormity of the run out of my head,
“being rather than becoming,” I tell myself. My form eventually takes over, the
run comes to me, and somehow I’m back in front of my house again. While I sit
at the top of the stairs and unlace my shoes, it hits me: I have to run six
more tonight.
I don’t eat during the day, I consume. My lunchbox is bulging
with Tupperware and I wrestle with whether or not to go to the PotBelly across
the street for an “emergency salad,” at 10:00 a.m. so no one gets hurt. Mentally
this is post-holidays, bleak, nothing to look forward to winter.
Wednesday Night (6mi
easy + core): Last double of the week. I trudge up the stairs to my car in
the parking garage and wonder how – and if – I will rally. The first few
strides are awkward and the word that passes through my head over and over is
“galunking.” As in, I’m galunking along the street with barely any semblance of
form. I’m trapped in a heatless cabin, “Trapped!” dripping down the panes.
Thursday Morning
(12mi easy): The alarm buzzes. Who am I? I feel I have just closed my eyes.
Suddenly I’m two miles into my run, drifting. Large segments of the route
disappear from my conscious. It’s peaceful and startling all at once. When I
come to, I try to force a return to this zen-like state, but of course forcing
it is not zen-like at all. I think about work (boo), about the upcoming weekend
with Mrs. OTBR (yay), about some childhood memory (aww).
Thursday Night (0mi):
I am worthless. A zombie. My dog and I hit the far reaches of our afternoon walk loop (a
half mile out) and pause at the crosswalk and, nearly in tears, I wonder how
we’re going to get back to the house because I could curl up right here and
fall asleep. “Save yourself, Mattie. Or better yet, go bring me food.” At
night, I prepare to get into bed, but before I do, I pause, look lovingly at
it, and say aloud, “I missed you.”
Friday & Saturday
morning (11 and 20mi, respectively): I’m not dead yet! I think
I’ll go for a run. With 24 hours of rest, my body has been busy stitching
itself back together. It’s like I woke up and the birds started singing, the
bees buzzed, and yes, those are buds on the trees. I’m hitting 6:30 pace and
not giving it a second thought.
Sunday Morning (6mi
easy): Ten hours of sleep. I swing my legs from the bed and pull on shorts
and shoes. I start at an easy trot and wonder, “What was the deal with
Tuesday-Thursday Brad? What a complainer.”