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It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. Wait, no. Actually, it was pretty much just the worst.
Yes, it sucked. And then I died.
Every third weekend in April, we celebrate Patriot’s Day, a holiday only recognized in Massachusetts and Maine. At 5:30 a.m. in Lexington and Concord, there are reenactments of the historic start to the Revolutionary War. In Somerville, Arlington, Charlestown and many other towns, Paul Revere and William Dawes ride through town warning patriots that “the redcoats are coming.”
And out in Hopkinton, runners descend on “runner’s village,” read to run the full 26.2 back to Boston.
I cut my long run (20-miler) in half yesterday.
It is the first time I have done something like that on a long run.
The reasons are many: I am starting a new job this week that requires a night away from the kids (scary!). Plus it was Easter. Plus we were at the lake house where the rolling hills are not long run friendly. Plus it was close to 80 degrees and all my water was gone by Mile 8. Plus I was just not feeling it.
Plus I was exhausted, bone-tired, depleted and wiped because my daughter has basically stopped sleeping.
It was bound to happen sometime. And now it has. Fresh on the heels of my best long run ever (last week’s 18-miler run at an 8:20 pace), I ran a 2:55 on today’s 19-miler.
Many factors contributed to by big choke. Among them: it was the first long run I have done at the lake house since the fall, it was a new (exceedingly hilly) course, the temperature had gone from a balmy 60 degrees on Thursday to a freezing 32 by Sunday morning and (probably most importantly), I had skipped Tuesday’s 12-miler and doubled up miles later in the week to make up the time.
I am a big picture kind of lady. But those pesky, little details? Not so much.
Give me a political debate, a great idea for an essay or a philosophy class any day, but when it comes to the little things—shutting kitchen cabinets, cleaning up the bathroom or hanging a picture straight on the wall—forget it.
Ridiculously obvious observation for the week: A half marathon is much, much easier than a full.
And while that statement might seem silly because, well, duh. It is also interesting as a runner because no other two races are quite so far removed from one another. For instance, a 5k and a 10k are only marginally different. A 10-miler and a five-miler, given the right training, are only slightly different.
I cannot imagine my life without our jogging stroller.
I was reading my latest issue of Runner’s World today while my children screamed, threw cars/crayons at the barking dog and tried to slam one another’s fingers in the door. Since I am a stellar mom, I ignored the mayhem because I was engrossed in this month’s essay by Benjamin Cheever.
I have always been a little bit of a running gear snob, although probably not in the way one might think.
In one of my favorite recent pieces on running, Tara Parker-Pope explore the idea that running is the best time for R-rated conversations.
I have told running partners things I would not feel comfortable sharing with my own sister. We have talked about marital issues, sexual fantasies and everything in between. But a few days ago we had our first conversation about how our activity level affects our favorite topic of conversation—our sex lives.