...12 miles seemed like a long distance to run. With less than a month to go to M day, I am starting to take drastic measures in my preparation. I've studied the course map and the required paces to have me cross the finish at 4 hours, 4:20, and 4:29. I'm happy that the last 10 miles or so is pretty flat. I've practiced speeding up my "survivor shuffle" when I feel like I have very little energy left to give.
I think my greatest obstacle will be the mystery fat weight I've gained while undertaking this marathon preparation. I feel it dragging me down, and last night, as I was pushing myself to run a few miles at a sub-9 pace, I decided to view it as a training weight belt.
I'm now meticulously recording every calorie that enters my body in an attempt to discover what the hell is happening to my metabolism. For some reason, thrift with cash comes easily for me, yet thrift with calories is a challenge.
I don't know what I'll do when the race is over. I've grown attached to the regular club runs and to seeing my regular running friends. Reclaiming my Saturday mornings will be a much-needed luxury, but I think I will really miss the mental and physical challenge of pushing myself for hour upon hour. It's my time to coach others while pushing myself, to get to know new people who come surprisingly long distances to train with a group, to get to know myself through introspection, to test my limits, and to recapture a tranquility I no longer feel with my life outside of those blissfully punishing 4 hours.
I'm back to siding with hanging up the spreadsheets come February, trading in excel for word, city for country, salary for hourly, Calfornia for Oregon / Denver / Tahoe / a PO box?, pictures for the real thing, close-toed sensible work shoes for flip flops and running shoes, noise for quiet...
I was recently asked how much a life is worth. If inflicted with a horrible form of cancer that disintegrates your bones while it kills you, how much is it worth to buy a drug that will extend your life and comfort, though you will still die from the illness? Your life span without the drug is likely months, though you can extend your life for up to two years with the drug. While the question started out as one about insurance coverage, I quickly gave my answer to that more public-policy oriented query and changed it to ponder what I would do if confronted with that situation. I would, unfortunately, need to buy a few months of the drug just to get my will and papers in order. At a cost of $60k per year, my gut reaction was to buy the drug and take it until consumed by the disease. Yet, as I considered the question further, I realized that my current life is really not worth $60k per year. The constant tiredness and stress, all for a number that someone who doesn't even work directly with you decides in January that gets included in your February 15 paycheck. That number is what drives this industry. That number was disappointing last year, and I think it's only bound to get worse. Comparing those numbers is what drives most of my business school classmates. Because of my non-traditional approach to my career, that's a battle even more challenging than the blitzkrieg of the bulge. Working towards that number is not worth $60k a year. I would rather compare finishing times.
I remember when my life was worth $60k a year.
Last Saturday, I finished my longest run ever, completing 21 miles of varied terrain, including far too many hills and stairs, in just under 230 minutes. I rested on Saturday and could walk on Sunday, making me think I hadn't quite pushed myself hard enough. Yet, on Monday when I had hoped to do 5 miles at a 9-minute pace, my knees sent my brain a little message that I was probably better off walking than running.
I had thought Oprah completed her marathon in 4:39. My heart felt heavier when I learned that the time to beat is actually 4:29:20. Damn. Just over a month to go to shave some time off my pace while adding yet more miles. Let me tell you, that whole thing about - if you can run 21 miles, you can run a marathon - it is just not feeling like that's sound logic. Every damn step near the end of my 21-mile stint was painful. How can anyone think that increasing the distance by 25% from there is a piece of cake?
When I told my sister, from the comfort of my bed, that I had run that distance in the morning, she wondered why a person would do such a thing. "That's just too far to run." She was always the wise one.
I'm already suffering from Tyler withdraws, after spending two weekends with my favorite little boy.
He cried when he had to go to school, because he wanted to stay home and play. My sister reports that when he arrived, he announced to the whole class, seated in a circle, that he had seen his Aunty Christina.
During our first dinner in town, Tyler sat with me. Or rather, he occupied the space next to me, usually standing, sometimes sitting, and often poking around on the dirty floor underneath the table. At one point, I adressed him as "Baby." Old habits are hard to break, and in my eyes, he'll probably always be a baby.
He quickly responded, "I'm not a baby anymore. I'm just Tyler."
He is already reminscing, as an older person might. "Aunty, remember when I was a baby and you would drop me?" To clarify, I used to carry him and pretend to stumble, sometimes (gently) dropping him onto a bed or a stack of pillows. It was a guaranteed laugh. He still loves being dropped, and he likes it when I stand him on his head, though that trick makes his mother nervous, so we don't do it very often.
When asked who bought him one of his blankets, he knew (lucky guess or a miraculous store of knowledge) that I had made the purchase. Then he commented, "Aunty, you buy me a lot of things." Indeed, he has me wrapped around his (too often) grubby little fingers.
During the week while I was in Maui, he reportedly continued to ask where I was. It's nice to be missed.
I chased after him last weekend, wiping up his snot nose, feeding the birds, watching him "smoke" the bad guys and dominate in Mario Brothers, and seeing far too many versions of the Clifford learning game.
When it came time for us to finally part ways (a separate entry to follow on how horrible ATA is), he wanted me to stay. Missing my originally scheduled flight on ATA and having to buy a completely new ticket on United (my sister urges me not to think about it), Tyler was confused and thought I was staying.
"You missed your flight so you stay with me at my house?" he inquired. I told him I had missed my first flight, but I was still planning on leaving later that evening.
He has always hated saying good bye, so I tell him that I love him, I hope he's a good boy for his parents, and I'm looking forward to playing with him next time. This time, he said, "You play with me now at my house."
I told him that we were at the airport, and I would not be going back to his house with him. He grabbed my shirt and urged me not to leave. When he realized that the door was opening and I was definitely leaving, he said, "I'm not talking to you now," and he shot me a dirty look.
Due to our travel fiascos, it looks like I will be visiting my favorite little boy a number of times to come this year, as I have all sorts of extra tickets to use and penalties to pay. Attempting to see this from the bright-side, I get to be sneezed on many more times in months to come, and I'll possibly break a record for watching the most sessions of that Clifford learning game in a year.