It might not have shown up here, but I was in a pretty crummy mood last week. I like to lay the blame on things that are not me, such as the small and annoying (but adorable) cat who lacks an internal clock, weather that looked warm but was actually cold (North wind, there’s a gesture just for you…and I’m making it!), and running itself, which was far from pleasant…but really…it’s me. And “me” has something to say —
I’M SO SICK OF MARATHON TRAINING.
That’s ok, right? It’s been 22 weeks now. 22 weeks of running and running and running. And what do I have to show for it? Some pretty well-defined calf muscles, sure. That incredible feeling of fitness where five, eight, even twelve miles is “easy.” I’ve got that too, and I’m not trying to discount either one. I’m in the best shape since college, and I’m certainly grateful.
But oh, would I like to finally meet this goal. To get that freakin’ finisher’s medal that seems like everyone else (slight exaggeration) can get with no trouble at all (complete exaggeration), but I am denied (self-pitying drivel). To be able to say that I’ve run 26.2 miles. To let this year’s marathon training count for something besides an excuse to go shopping for pants in a smaller size. To have an excuse to spend a weekend on the couch recuperating with a couple of books, the cats, and the take-out that my lovely husband will go get for me.
To be done. With training. For this go-around. Oh, that would be glorious.
Last week, all of that seemed an eternity away. Training was never-ending. My knee hurt. I was sleep-deprived. Blah blah blah, whine whine whine. I kept running, because there’s no choice. It doesn’t matter what kind of mood I’m in. It’s close now…so close. It’s time to get back to the countdown. Thirteen days until race day. Thirteen days until I get to find out what 24 weeks has made of me. Thirteen days before I finally meet this goal.