Category: Marathon Training

First – sometimes I like the comments on my posts better than the post itself! Tuesday’s post was one of those.

Second – before you read this new post, be prepared that it may be a bit unnecessarily cheesy. But what can I say? I’m feeling more cheesy than ever these days.

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There are some runs that make you feel like you are floating on air. Where you fall more in love with running with every effortless step. When you feel fit, and fast, and incredibly strong.

And then there are runs where you struggle with each stride, fighting for any ounce a speed you can get.

Last night was one of those runs.

Last night, I didn’t feel weightless and free. I felt tired, bogged down, and didn’t even want to run at all.

Last night, even after giving myself a pep talk, I still had to drag my butt out the door with the promise that I would just run a couple miles and see how I felt.

But last night, I somehow gritted it out – and in the end I ran further and faster than I would have guessed I was able to.

I don’t often blog about my training runs because most of the time, they’re sort of uneventful. Sure, some days I feel awesome – I hit my paces perfectly and feel like I could run forever. But other days I’m just out there trying to get the miles in. I’ve come to accept that this up-and-down roller coaster of a relationship is all just part of being a runner.

However, last night’s workout was the hardest I’ve had in a long time. Not necessarily because of what I was doing, but because of how I felt doing it. My original goal was to do a tempo run, but since my legs have been hurting me all week (I finally did the full Core on Monday and have been in pain ever since!), I really didn’t know how much they could handle. To top that off, I was an awful mood. I was mad at the cold and bone-chillingly damp weather (what happened to spring weather!?) and the only thing I wanted to do was go home and curl up with a warm drink on the couch. Not go out and run hard for an hour.

But as I so often do, I convinced myself to just go out there and see how things went – if I could only run hard for one mile, at least I’d have done something.

The run was tough right from the start. I climbed up a long hill in the first mile, trying to keep the pace relaxed so I could pick up the speed in Mile 2. I spent every step of that mile wishing the run was over already. When it came time to pick up the pace, I sucked it up and surged. Without looking at my watch I ran at what I felt like was a good pace for a little while.

And then I looked down at the Garmin. And a “7:47″ was staring back at me. You know, the pace I used to be able to hold easily for most of my runs. A pace that shouldn’t feel so dang hard. I questioned how I was able to effortlessly float through a 7:00 minute mile after a hard lifting workout one day, and then struggle like crazy to get my pace under 8:00 the next.

But I kept pushing, determined to drop that pace down as far as I could. I figured that even if the times were slow, I might as well make the effort hard. I told myself I only had to run 2 hard miles, and then I could be done.

The third mile started out just as tough as the second. I was fighting for any semblance of a fast pace. Then I turned a corner, and was rewarded by a nice downhill. A hill that gave me the kick that I needed. I saw the pace drop below 7:00/mile and I vowed that I would keep that up for the entire mile. Just one hard mile. I could do that.

Well that mile finished and I started looking ahead to the next one. If I could do one sub-7:00 minute mile, I could do two. All I had to do was hang in there a little bit longer. My legs were heavy, I was feeling sick, but I just kept pushing…one step at a time. That mile ended and I was faced with that awful hill – the hill that pushed me to go fast in mile 2 and would certainly ruin my splits in mile 4. I told myself to push as hard as I could anyway. At the top of the hill, I stopped at a light and as I was waiting to cross, I thought “That’s it. I’m spent. That’s all I have in me.”

For some reason that I can’t explain, yesterday my body was stronger than my mind. While my mind complained about being tired and nauseous and zapped of all energy, my body had other plans. Even though I thought I had nothing left, my legs kept pushing forward. Despite the hills in the 4th mile, I finished in under 7 minutes again.

And again I told myself, “That’s it. I’m spent. That’s all I have in me.”

But then I found myself running down a nice long downhill. The same one that I struggled to get up in mile one. For the first time all night, the pace was finally feeling effortless. I floated down that hill and thought: “This hill is a gift. Don’t waste that gift.”

So once again, I picked up the pace. I got to the bottom of that wonderful hill and kept on pushing. This was going to be my fastest mile yet.

Finally, the 6th mile ended. 6:33. I couldn’t believe I had done it – 5 miles hard, with 4 being under 7:00. As I ran around the downtown of this tiny city that I’m in a love-hate relationship with…and ran along the river that is actually sort of polluted but looks so peaceful at night…and ran up to the State House – stunningly lit up at the top of the hill….I thought about how crazy it is to be a runner. To willingly put yourself through so much torture on a regular basis. To invest so much time, and energy, and money into a hobby that basically involves just as much (if not more) pain and heartbreak than it does joy. And I thought about the fact that I’m so committed to this crazy sport that I’m willing to put myself through all of this, just to rise to the next challenge.

During that cool down, everything hurt. My legs, my cramped and nauseous stomach – even my arms were exhausted and hard to hold up. But I suddenly didn’t care about that anymore. The workout had transported me to a zen-like place and all I could think about was how thankful I am for running. For this sport that pushes me harder than anything else in my life.

…And then I got home and realized that my average pace (7:17) was actually slower than what I’d need to maintain to run a 3:10 marathon*. Which, I’ll admit, took the wind out of my sails a little bit.

Even though I still felt nauseous from that workout hours later and was so wiped out that I accomplished nothing else for the rest of the night, and even though I know I still have a lot of hard work ahead of me to reach that 3:10 goal, I went to bed feeling satisfied. Welcome back to marathon training, LB. I’m finally glad to be here.

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*Obviously I would race a marathon a little differently than I ran that workout. But it’s still intimidating to think that there isn’t any room for slow miles if I want to finish in 3:10.