Running Through Heartbreak

Today I ran fifteen miles.

This is very significant. It’s the longest run I’ve ever done. It also really hit home that I am training for a marathon. A MARATHON. It’s interesting, when you think about it. Running is becoming increasingly popular. Thousands of people run races, and many of them run marathons. You should have seen the number of people at Disney. It was as if the population of a small city was running down the road, decked out in thermal tights, hats, jackets, and that look that I’m finding is unique to the serious runner: something in the lines of the face, in the sinew of the calves, some strange determination in the eyes – and something else. A stubbornness, a doggedness. Maybe even a degree of mild insanity.

Fifteen miles is a little more than half of a full marathon. Supposedly, I will be able to run the twenty-six-point-two miles necessary to cross the finish line in thirteen weeks. My college girlfriends have bought plane tickets to see me. I have a hotel room booked in Cincinnati. Fifteen miles, according to the plan, will be peanuts in May.

Today, fifteen miles was really, really hard.

I mapped out a there-and-back route to downtown Wellesley. I prepared the way one would prepare for a race: ate pasta the night before, laid out my clothes, drank a lot of water, slept as long as I could. I filled a small water bottle with Gatorade, set my watch to zero, put my Craft hat on my head, took a deep breath, and went out the door.

There were a couple of long, steady hills, the worst of them at the end of mile 14, but nothing backbreaking. I kept my pace slow, about 11:23 minutes per mile. I stopped only for traffic lights, and there weren’t even too many of those.

The thing that surprised me, really, was just how long I had to run. Even with the Gatorade, I realized that I was getting profoundly fatigued. It was at mile 12 that I began to long for it to just be over, which I suppose makes sense, as my body has only trained to run 13.1 miles. It wasn’t pain, it wasn’t breathing, it was just…weariness. I was tired. I was thirsty. I wanted to lie down and take a nap, drink a gallon of chocolate milk, sit on a chair. Time seemed to be slowing down each time I looked at my watch. But still my feet went on, my forefoot striking the pavement, my calf flexing, my knee lifting, circling, again, again, again.

When I reached the top of the final hill and began the descent home, I felt vaguely like crying – not because I was emotional, but because crying seemed like it would be a soothing, relaxing thing to do. I didn’t cry, though, because there was the corner of my street in front of me. And look: there’s that old Asian man who collects bottles and cans every Sunday when the recycling is put out! There he is with his shopping cart full of junk! Smiling, miming my jogging, clapping! Holy crap, I have a fan at the finish line! I hit the lap button on my watch and slow to a walk, and he shakes my hand.

I go into the house, drag myself up the stairs. Chug two glasses of chocolate milk, oh sweet chocolate milk! Turn on the shower until it’s barely warm, get undressed, step in, turn the faucet slowly until the water is cold, cold as ice. No one is home so I shriek madly, letting the frigid water run over my muscles for as long as I can stand it. I get dressed, stretch, take a ten minute nap. Get back in the shower, this time to wash my hair. I let it get hot. Revel in the steam. Dry off, get dressed again.

Next week I am scheduled for the usual: a short tempo, a long tempo, and a long run. The long run is supposed to be seventeen miles. I am worried I won’t be able to do it. This is hard. This is really hard, folks.

I do remember one thing, though. I was training for my very first big race, a half marathon in my old city. I was running with the Team. We were going nine miles on a hot July day. I had never run nine miles before, and I was struggling. One of my friends on the Team ran with me for the last three or so miles. I had to stop to walk a couple of times, and I couldn’t seem to get control of the respiratory element of the run. I was hot and I felt like throwing up. It was awful.

After that, though, everything got easier. It was like 9 miles was some sort of wall that I had to break through. Ten miles was easy, eleven miles was easy. The race was difficult, but nothing like that 9 miler. I’ll never forget that run.

I have twenty-six-point-two miles to go. I’m not giving up now.