Distance: 18 miles
Pace: 9:58
Vomiting Incidents: 0
After quitting a 17 miler at 15 miles and becoming violently
ill from pushing myself too hard through 13 miles, I really needed a good run. Before Saturday’s pity party/pukefest, I was
pretty confident. After running hills at
altitude in the bitter cold, I thought my upcoming 18 miler in flat, temperate,
practically sea level Phoenix would be a walk in the park. Then, after discovering that altitude training
did not, in fact, give me supernatural running powers, my confidence was
shaken. But more than that, I was not
looking forward to the run. At. All. I’ve
reached a comfortable place with my long runs.
I know they will be long and tedious, but I look forward to the solitude
and repetition and, most of all, the accomplishment. I had none of that going into today’s
run. I was filled with trepidation. I was afraid it would be miserable. I was afraid I would get sick. I was afraid I’d just want to give up. Oh yeah, and I had to get up at 4:00 am so I
could get ready, make the family’s smoothies, and my coffee would have time to
settle before I started running at 5:00 am.
I spent the last half of Wednesday actively dreading my run.
The dread was far worse than the run. When my alarm went off
at 4:00 am, I almost went back to sleep.
I drank coffee, then set my alarm for a 15 minute snooze on the couch
while my coffee kicked in. My dog
decided this was an invitation to lick my face every time I closed my
eyes. No snooze for me!
Okay, okay, I can't resist you. Even when it is 4:10 am.
I left the house right on time at 5:00 and made myself start
running without thinking about it. I told myself to shoot for a 10:30 pace and
just take it easy. Not surprisingly, I
ran my first mile in exactly 10:00. But
I felt fine, so I tried to back off a bit and just sank into the rhythm of the
run. The moon was very bright and still
high in the sky (though intermittently hidden by scattered clouds). The weather was cold, but not biting. I was generally comfortable. I planned to stop at my boxing gym 11 miles
into my run, so well over halfway. About
mile 5, I started feeling kind of tired.
I realized I was hunching my shoulders, which was affecting my breathing
and making my upper back sore. Plus my
audiobook was not engaging. I branched
off from crime thrillers to listen to “The Husband’s Secret,” which I found on
this article recommending books for long runs.
It is narrated in a delightful Australian accent, but I found the story
moved a little slowly at first. And I
was growing increasingly concerned this book was going to be generic chick
lit. I almost put on my music, but
really wanted to save it for the last portion of my run. I’m glad I stuck with the book. By the time I got to the gym, I was actually
a little sad to switch to music.
My average pace was 10:07 when I stopped at the gym. I
refilled my water, peed, said hi to my coach and to Yogi (from my Ragnar team),
switched over to music, and set right back off.
“Only seven miles,” I thought.
And I was not being sarcastic. I
was over the hump and loving the run.
With music playing, my average pace dropped to 10:04 then 10:03. It was just me and the music and the sun coming up. The remaining miles ticked away. I call this experience "Zen running." I wish all runs were this way.
I hit 16.85 miles when “Fight the Power” came
on and I decided I felt so good, I’d run fast for the remaining 1.15
miles. I flew through the last mile (considering
it was mile effing 18!) in 8:52, which dropped my average to 9:58 – a hair
under three hours total. And I felt
good! My hamstrings and hips were tight,
but I could have run farther. I peeled
of my clothes and barely remembered to weigh myself before jumping in the
shower. Other than the scary dehydrated number
I saw on Saturday, this was the lowest number I’ve seen on the scale in my adult life. But I felt much better today. Score! Once in the shower, the first streams of hot water hit me and I
screamed “OW! AYEEEEEE! SON OF A . . . MOTHER
FUCKER!!!!” I can only conclude that a half pound of my weight loss was skin that chafed off along my sports bra. Then I giggled because I realized that,
technically, all men are sons of people who . . . um . . . had relations with
their mothers. It wasn't a very inventive or obscene curse. Then I put on pajamas and
worked for a bit from home before dragging myself to the mall to reward myself
with new (and smaller!) pants.
And now, several hours later, other than the fact that my
bra clasp is rubbing right where my sports bra stole my skin so I keep awkwardly
and inappropriately adjusting myself, I feel good. A little tired, sure. But I’m wearing smaller pants and I’ve kept
down all my food (a delicious grilled cheese – god bless a 2,097 calorie
burn). I’ve even wearing heels! Kitten heels, but they are still heels! I’m happy because I got my groove back.
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