After a week of insomnia and allergies driving firey spikes through my eyelids*, I had yet another 14-miler on Saturday. May have been a bit cranky and unmotivated with motivation not helped by rain, tightness in my IT Band, and a pesky piriformis on the left side.
Still, I am used to the 14-milers now. I think I've done about four or five of them so far in this training cycle. I am even used to running the last few miles under half-marathon pace. Just like the marathon training, when I was fixated on the numbers 3:40 (goal time) and 8:20 (pace), I see my target numbers everywhere. Houses, license plates, clocks:
The 14-mile training runs are rote, and the times might as well be tattooed on me.
And then on Saturday I walked it in.
Walking. I like walking on a beautiful spring day in Harvard Square. I did it yesterday. It was lovely. I like going for a little walk to prevent the emergence of my alter-ego, Mommy Who Yells. I endorse walking. But not when I should be running.
I do not like walking mile 14 of a training run.
I knew the run would be ugly, but not that ugly. I was in such a foul mood that when I saw a young deer playing in some tall grasses, all I could think was "bastard tick vehicle."
The ITB and piriformis pain really set in about mile 9, so I stopped to stretch in the drizzle. But the mosquitoes were ravenous for some blood seasoned with sweat and frustration, so I had to keep moving or I'd be eaten alive. When my Garmin let me know it was time to pick up the pace for the last two miles, I tried. I really did. But by then, my entire body wanted me dead.
At mile 13, it was over. Walking a mile takes a lot longer than I would have thought, giving me plenty of time to cultivate some solid self-chastisement and providing the mosquitoes an opportunity to dig in with wild abandon.
This put me in really magical mood for Mother's Day. I got up Sunday and basically ditched my loving family for a 15-mile bike ride to gain some perspective and a lot of pollen in my eyeballs from the wind.
An obviously much-needed massage appointment to work out the knots fell through in the afternoon, leading me to lose the perspective I'd gained when I whined, "Even my massage guy is avoiding me!" I can't believe that is a sentence I've spoken. Woe is me.
Still, a day on which I consume a breakfast of bacon, champagne, and city life is a good day. And maybe those three are just the tonic for my IT Band and pain in the butt. Because that, a foam roller, and an abundance of self-pity are all I've got to ease my pain.
*Generic-brand Claritin, you are a cruel box of non-drowsy empty promises.