The tenth week of Boston training potentially puts many marathon wannabes on the 'at risk list' for either injury or sickness and burn out. You are two weeks into the peak section of training, still have three more very hard weeks to come, and you suddenly start wondering why the heck you are even doing it. My previous week had seen me attempt my first 'easy' twenty, just two days after the Frosty 5 mile race. Needless to say, by mile 15 my dodgy right hamstring was complaining vociferously, making amputation seem like a positive mood. As the pain travelled down the sciatic nerve, down the whole leg and into my foot, it was becoming numb yet sore simultaneously. It didn't matter if I ran fast or slow, it still really hurt. The epidural effect of running, brought on by a rush of endorphins somehow failed to occurr. The miserable nature of this experience was further amplified by the fact that Q-Less kept telling me how great she felt and how she really wanted to feel as amazing as this at the end of Boston this year with a silly smile on her face. The only thing that kept me from biting her head off was the lip biting concentration it took to limp after her. Despite my urging her to go on ahead she loyally stayed 100 meters ahead, charitably turning around on occasion to see if the dim vision of my crippled self was still in view.
The morning after this runnus horribilis I naturally woke with a streaming cold; a second and more vicious reminder of the need to allow at least one day of recovery for every mile you race. Speed work a day or two later was more akin to running underwater, nostrils, mouth and eyes seemed to be spewing forth all kinds of bubbling liquid, and breathing was like having someone stand firmly on your chest with jack boots on. Ah the joys of Boston training I thought to myself.....
As the day of our first 18 mile race simulation arrived I was experiencing an unusual cocktail of anxiety blended with a rather large jig of ennui. The first 6 miles of 'easy' warm up on the trail didn't feel that easy - so we stopped to down some gu before tackling the ten miles of race pace on Kelly Drive, and set up the i-pods, and I mentally prepared for some gruelling miles.
Something rare and rather lovely happened. One mile into the pace work, the wind was gusting gently off the Schuykill River, the water was sparkling in the sunlight, and everything was right in the world. Q-less, bless her, had done some crazy plyometrics on a deflated bosson the day before, at what she had assumed would be her usual rinky dink tennis clinic and she was feeling really sore for once. With the playing field nicely levelled Q-less and I locked step down Kelly Drive in perfect unison, and suddenly I remembered why I had signed up for Boston - running felt effortless and pleasurable again. The weather was ridiculously warm for the first of March, so I was running virtually naked for that time of year, thin capris and a vest, not even gloves. Effortlessly gliding into the city - the wind in our hair, the sun glinting off our shades, we passed the steady stream of bikers and joggers enjoying all that the great city of Philadelphia had to offer.
For a few moments I was able to let go of the day job, that of swim, or XC Mom. The mantra of make pasta, drive, cheer, drive some more, wash towels, then get up at 5 am and do it all again was no longer in my head and the swim taxi was parked many miles away. For a few moments that week I could do and be something else. Like the kid who gets to play in the dress up box at nursery school; in my crazy make believe world I could be Paula Radcliffe for a short while. Q-less, or should I say, Kara, next to me despite being younger, gorgeous and a phenomenal athlete, was finally running my pace and all was right in my world. As we headed down the Drive and past the Falls Bridge, I glanced up at a rather elegant graveyard. At that precise moment it triggered a poignant memento mori. All those niggling naye sayers who you bump into at parties and take great pleasure in telling you running will either give you a heart attack, or blow out your knees, would eventually end up along side Q-less and I in that very ground. Did one want to die knowing you had experienced life and all that running had to give, or would you trade that for a few stodgy hours in front of the TV, remote control in hand, warning others of the dangers of all fun activities. I knew then which choice I would make.
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