Running's bitch
So on Friday I wrote the words my "training has become a mental thing" and it's no longer about the "physical activity of running." Back on track Sunday (skipped Saturday to attend an out of town wedding) for the first time since my disastrous run Thursday, my body responded to those comments with a resounding call of "BULL SHIT." BULL. SHIT.
It's my own fault really. I had regrouped and was approaching the daunting task of running 18k with a new mental attitude. I was excited about the prospect of running a long distance in cool 16 degree weather with a breeze. I got too confident and started my pre-run routine by downing a massive amount of Indian food at a late afternoon buffet. In case you didn't know, this is a bad (BAAAAAD) thing to do less than three hours before a two hour run. So I was punished with a cramp in my side for the first four kilometres, but I didn't let that get me down. Despite my intense desire to vomit partially digested butter chicken through the bulk of my run, I made a mental commitment that if that did happen I wouldn't let it slow me down. Nope. Buyoed by the fantastic weather conditions I made a decision half way in to try for the two hour mark, which would be a personal best run pace for my long run. The cramp returned to accompany me on the last four kilometres, but again I didn't let it slow me down. I raced the last 500 metres, reached my imaginary finish line, stopped my watch and then looked down. Hopeful. 1 hour, 59 minutes and 16 seconds. I'd done it. I almost cried with joy.
And then I woke up Monday, got up and walked out of my bedroom and wanted to cry again. I was wrong. Very wrong. It's still a physical test. And I over did it. Now my knees hurt when I go up and down stairs. Heck, they hurt to shuffle to the kitchen to fetch a cookie. The pain in my right hip is now concerning me and my thighs are burning like they did the day after my first boot camp class. I learned a very valuable lesson with less than four weeks to go: save the 110% effort for race day or else I might not get there.
Message received, Body. Loud and clear. And painfully.
It's my own fault really. I had regrouped and was approaching the daunting task of running 18k with a new mental attitude. I was excited about the prospect of running a long distance in cool 16 degree weather with a breeze. I got too confident and started my pre-run routine by downing a massive amount of Indian food at a late afternoon buffet. In case you didn't know, this is a bad (BAAAAAD) thing to do less than three hours before a two hour run. So I was punished with a cramp in my side for the first four kilometres, but I didn't let that get me down. Despite my intense desire to vomit partially digested butter chicken through the bulk of my run, I made a mental commitment that if that did happen I wouldn't let it slow me down. Nope. Buyoed by the fantastic weather conditions I made a decision half way in to try for the two hour mark, which would be a personal best run pace for my long run. The cramp returned to accompany me on the last four kilometres, but again I didn't let it slow me down. I raced the last 500 metres, reached my imaginary finish line, stopped my watch and then looked down. Hopeful. 1 hour, 59 minutes and 16 seconds. I'd done it. I almost cried with joy.
And then I woke up Monday, got up and walked out of my bedroom and wanted to cry again. I was wrong. Very wrong. It's still a physical test. And I over did it. Now my knees hurt when I go up and down stairs. Heck, they hurt to shuffle to the kitchen to fetch a cookie. The pain in my right hip is now concerning me and my thighs are burning like they did the day after my first boot camp class. I learned a very valuable lesson with less than four weeks to go: save the 110% effort for race day or else I might not get there.
Message received, Body. Loud and clear. And painfully.
posted by Danielle @ 9:03 PM
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