Thursday, September 16, 2010

On a Tendon and a Prayer

In addition to the acquired wisdom from marathon training that I have already described in this blog, I’ve learned something else. I can’t ever climb Mt. Everest. I sort of knew that I couldn’t before, because I’m terrified of walking on ice, I prefer better food options than items from a can heated on a small burner, and I complain when the office temperature drops below 73 degrees. I also enjoy oxygen. No, the new proof that scaling Everest would be disastrous is that I now know I would be one of those schmucks who dies on the mountain because they refuse to yield the summit when conditions make that necessary. Yes, I would be one of those idiots watching the advancing storm and saying “screw it, I worked too hard to give up now.” And three hours later some poor hapless Sherpa would be stuck trying to drag my ignorant butt off the mountain.

This new self-awareness comes from a sad source. My right Achilles tendon, which has been chronicled in this blog as persistently obstructive to my running happiness, is trying again to play the role of marathon spoiler. It’s a mess. I am certain it is partially torn; there is burning pain and swelling. My marathon is in three weeks and three days. I have two more long runs, one of which is 23 miles, and at least another 30 miles of short runs before I can do a pre-race taper. If I stop running right now, the tendon will improve for the race, but I’ll lose a lot of the performance due to the missed final training weeks. If I maintain the training, there is a high likelihood the tendon will completely rupture.

My last entry was all about the intense work I put into training for this race. The theme was that what I learned from the training was the real reward. That was bull. The reward is crossing the finish line at Steamtown with a significantly faster time than I have ever achieved in a marathon. That’s why I worked so hard, and that’s what I really want. It’s impossible for most people to understand, but I just can’t give up my summit, even if it means surgery, crutches and a year of rehab. At least no Sherpas will have to risk their lives to pull me off the course.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

One Month to Go

The Steamtown Marathon is in one month, and I am trained. This does not mean I’m done my training. My hardest weeks are the next three, which include two individual runs of 22 miles or more and weekly mileage totals between 45- 50 miles. I am at the point, however, that if the race were next week, I could do it, and maybe even do it well.

Now that I’m so close to the marathon, I’ve been reflecting on why I wanted to do this and what I get out of it. Particularly for this marathon, because I don’t think I’ve ever worked as hard toward any single goal in my life as I have for this one. Even when I studied for the Bar Exam, I know there was a small bit of slack in there, an occasional study day blown off, an evening staring at the TV rather than subject outlines.

Not this time. Since I began training in February, I skipped exactly two training runs. Both of those runs were in the same week, a work week that was the most intensely busy and stressful of my professional career. It was also a week that had been planned as a recovery week, and in which my ankle was giving me particular grief.

Each time I had a scheduled run, I ran it, every single mile planned. If I was tired, I ran anyway. If my head hurt or I otherwise didn’t feel well, I ran. If it was 103 degrees outside, I ran. If I had to do every long Saturday run in intense heat, I did it. If that heat meant that, even though I was deep into sleep deficit, I had to get up at 4:30 am every Saturday morning so I would be finished running before the day got even hotter, I did that too. I trudged up and down the extremely steep Lemon Hill 10 times each every Thursday, even if the temperature was in the high 90s and humid. I skipped happy hours and good television and curling up with a book, just so I could find the time to run. I even dieted during all of this, giving me ten fewer pounds to drag over the 26.2-mile course.

The true tests really came as the long training runs started. The first 12 miler was set for the hottest day of the summer. Maybe you remember: 100 degrees with high humidity, so a heat index of 110. I was overly tired and already dehydrated from the week, so I was concerned about, well, dying. I didn’t cancel; I ran it on the treadmill instead, just like a caged rat. Twelve miles on the treadmill sucks, but I got my distance in.

Two weeks later was my 14-mile long run. That day, it cooled off to 96 humid degrees. Eleven and a half miles in, it seems as if I’m going to make it. And then, hot and tired, I tripped on uneven pavement. From this I enjoyed five large raspberries on my knees and shoulder, heavy bruising on my cheek (the face cheek, not the other one) and a deep cut in my ear. A very nice woman came over to assist me as I was lying on the ground and uttering some very unladylike exclamations. She noted that I landed on my head, and I should let her give me a ride home. The smart thing to do would be to accept, but then how would I get my miles in? So I declined, squirted water from the bottle in my pack over my wounds, and walked the remaining three miles home.

I was thrilled the morning of my 16-mile run that the temperature wasn’t supposed to exceed 90 degrees. A good day to tackle the Valley Forge Park loop! The path in Valley Forge Park is completely exposed to the sun and entirely uphill, which should be impossible as it is a 5.4 mile loop. The hills are long and steep. I figured I would do one loop, and then head to the Schuylkill River trail, which is flat, for the remaining miles. After one loop, I felt good, so I ran a second loop. I still felt ok when I finished that, so I started a third. Halfway through the third, I believe I was audibly sobbing. I didn’t stop running though (I did slow down).

The 18-mile and 20-mile training runs went as well as runs that long can be. I lucked into a great training partner, who has made being out there that long tolerable.

As of now, I’ve had eight weeks in which I’ve run in excess of 40 miles. I’m also currently training on my bicycle for the MS150 City to Shore ride in two weeks. My 41-year-old body is pissed off and hates my brain. My muscles have more knots in them than a sisal rug, and I think there is even lactic acid build up in my hair. My ankles are so shot that I’ll be lucky to ever walk on them again.

The payoff is that I am now something I never was when I was younger and always aspired to be: disciplined. I decided to do something, and I did all of the work necessary to do it, no matter how hard, painful, annoying or inconvenient. This running discipline has carried over to other parts of my life. My house is clean, my mail is organized, I follow through on the things that require it.

My twin goals for the marathon remain the same: 1) run it close to or under four hours; 2) don’t die. And while a 3:59:59 marathon would be amazing, I feel that whether or not I actually achieve it is beside the point. By getting myself to a place in which it could be possible, I’m already victorious.