Worst Run in Memory

Just after mile 10, I cried.

A short, choking sobbing, it stopped quickly.

Then I started churning my legs again.

Not running because running implies a rhythm, something the whole excursion lacked.

Not enough food, bad sneakers, and a cold that had gotten into my sinuses overdetermined that I was going to have a bad run.

Sleeping well and hydrating is clearly not enough.

I don't want to talk much about this run, in fact. Every injury hurt, but not enough to stop. Every five minutes felt like fifteen.

I'm a whiner: when on a run with someone else, I'll often say "oh, I hurt" or "can't we stop?"

But I rarely mean it. Yesterday, I started seriously questioning why I put myself through these kind of runs.

"Why a marathon? Why not a half? Why have your back seizing, your nose spewing mucus, your foot aching and your quad growling menacingly?"

And then it got cold.


Isn't it supposed to be fun, at least in some sense?

Forcing myself not to turn off where I could have shortened the route, bullying myself into not calling a cab-seriously-I managed to finish off 20 or so horrible miles.

To wake up this morning to a requirement for antibiotics and a doctor mother doing the closest thing she gets to yelling. "I've told you, when you've been sick, that these long endurance runs will comprimise your immune system! What, you want to take MORE days off than you would have had to if you had just skipped yesterday?"

Right now, with the run fresh in my memory, that doesn't seem like the worst idea. Maybe I should rethink the marathon in February. A half sounds nice, doesn't it?