I haven't complained about running as much as I thought I
would during my "training" for the HelMarathon (my pet name for the
Helsinki Marathon). One of the reasons is that you actually have to
consistently blog to be able to complain often. But the bigger part is that I really am like a broken
record--I interact with running the same way over and over and over again: this
sucks, this sucks, this sucks, this sucks.
Which doesn't really make interesting or varied reading.
I've learned--but have yet to put into practice--that when you are thinking the
same thing again and again, it is best to just say nothing (except when
complaining about how freaking cold it is in Monterey: that never gets old).
As the HelMarathon looms ever closer, I have noticed a
new-ish frustration with my training in the past few weeks: I feel like a
constant running failure. And leave almost every run with a sense that I
accomplished nothing except wussing out of what I really was supposed to do.
Which was run. Which I did. But somehow no run is good enough to make me feel
as if I actually succeeded.
Case in point: the other day, I was doing "speed"
work (very laughable considering my "speed" pace is most people's jog
pace). The goal was four miles, alternating a mile at a moderate pace with a
mile at my speed pace.
The first mile went fine; the right music, my feet pounding
the treadmill at an awkward and heavy thunk thunk thunk. The second mile (the
first "speed" mile) was okay; again, perfect music, treadmill
satisfyingly shimmying at my increased pace of thunkthunk thunkthunk
thunkthunk. The third mile was fine; back to moderate, music tempo slowed,
quick suck of water and wipe of towel.
Then that final mile. The final mile that was supposed to be
my last speed mile. The thing was, after only three miles, I was tired. My feet
dangerously shuffling on the treadmill. Towel shifting precariously close to
falling off and being whooshed under my feet.
I just couldn't do it. I managed 0.7 miles at my
"speed" pace before having to slow down to moderate and finish that
final 0.3 miles. Was I stoked that I pushed myself until I was legitimately
tired (the whole point of speed training)? No, instead all I felt was how lame
I was that I couldn't do that final 0.3 miles at a fast pace.
I have a few people in my life who are legitimate runners.
And they point out that it is important for a runner to set realistic
goals--that failing to hit a goal on a run can be super damaging to the
runner's training psyche. And I get that. But when you are me, what is a
realistic goal? Frankly, it should be to not run at all and then everyday that
I do is like a Christmas miracle.
However, that realistic goal of not running is not practical
when you want to run a marathon. As I am told over and over again, I have to
put feet to pavement and do it often.
Further, while my body agrees that not running is a
realistic goal, my mind cannot accept that fact. I know that I am slow. I know
that I experience a level of pain from "high" mileage that many
runners don't. I know that I do not enjoy this activity. But my mind keeps
insisting that since I've been doing it more or less consistently since 2009,
all of the things I know should have changed.
My body should have caught up to my perception: it's ONLY
four miles. It seems so short to my mind, yet to my body, those four miles can
seem like a marathon in themselves.
The first marathon I trained for was rough but I gave my
mind various excuses that it seemed to accept. Excuses like, "you haven't
run before. Ever." Or "you've just had major surgery where they
removed massive amounts of metal from your foot." Or "you regularly
experience intense pain from said foot and don't sleep." All valid reasons
for sucking at running.
All reasons my mind reminds me that I no longer have.
Well, yes, there is still the pain but it is so much less
that I don't even think it is worth mentioning (except that I just did). But I
am no longer new to running. My body is relatively used to it. I can knock out
four miles (at snail pace) without too much fanfare. My foot is strong. I know
my body's limits and likes. But I still suck at running.
So I feel like a failure.
I can't run fast enough or far enough or with enough
enjoyment to feel as if I were a true runner. In every run, my body reaches a
point where it says to my mind, "Enough you sadist. We are going home to
drink beer." And my little sadomasochist mind can't make my body change.
If it isn't fudging on distance (such as in the speed training mentioned
above), it is fudging on pace where my body gets slower and sloower and
sloooower while my mind rails at it.
Really, my mind has it easy. It isn't the one who has to
actual put feet to pavement. It gets to listen to NPR podcasts while it rests,
nestled in its cerebral fluid. So it really shouldn't get much of a say in how
my body acts.
But my mind has the biggest mouth, ever. So when it screams
at my body and tells it what a failure I am, my body can't hear anything else.
My body isn't asking much. It really doesn't even care all
that much about running. It is just as happy being fit some other way that is
less fraught with angst. I'm hoping that after the HelMarathon, my body will
finally stand up to my mind and tell that ungrateful and lazy bitch where she
can take running and stuff it.
