On Saturday evening I had a Very Bad Run. This is something that happens to all runners from time to time, and to be frank, my running has been going so well lately that I’ve been overdue for a bad one. But still, when it happens it leaves me feeling negative and slightly anxious about the prospect of lacing up my shoes and going out for my next run.
The fact that I went running at all on Saturday is somewhat unusual. Apart from a loosening-up jaunt on the treadmill right before my morning coffee, Saturdays are designated rest days. I go for my long runs on Sundays, when the pace of the day is leisurely and the husband does not have to go rushing off to work. In my household, Sunday mornings have been established as my time to run.
On this particular week, however, I decided that a Saturday evening long run would be a better idea, for several reasons. There were thunderstorms in the forecast for Sunday morning. I’m completely fine with running in the rain, but thunder and lightning do not make good running partners. On Saturday evening it was clear, and I was itching to go for run, having kept myself off the road for a few days due to an injured foot. In any case, the Olympic women’s marathon was being broadcast live on Sunday morning, and I really wanted to watch it.
Although it was evening, I knew it would still be quite hot, but I was not quite prepared for the hazy wall of heat that hit me when I walked out of the house. Having been glued to the Olympics for the better part of the day, I hadn’t really taken notice of the weather. I second-guessed this grand running plan for a moment, and then reasoned that if anything, conditions would get cooler as I went along. I was not planning on breaking any ground speed records, and I was well stocked up with water, so dehydration should not be a problem.
For the first eight or nine kilometres, I was fine. I was pacing myself well for a long run and keeping myself hydrated. It was brutally hot and I was melting all over the sidewalk, but I thought I was managing the conditions reasonably well. And then, with about nine kilometres still to go, I abruptly started to fade.
Fading during a long run is par for the course. Usually I start to feel dips in my energy during the second half of a run, and when that happens I simply adjust my pace, and then pick it up again when I feel recovered. This time it was completely different. My energy took a nosedive and I just couldn’t recover. I didn’t give up on the run, of course. I knew that if I saw it through to the end I would at least feel good about having completed the distance. But I felt like hell. I kept having to slow to a walk, and far from enjoying the running as much as I usually do, all I wanted to do was get home. I was drenched with sweat and getting a headache, my legs were screaming at me, and my sore foot was – well, sore.
I like to think that I have mastered the art of “running through the pain”, and usually I can do just that. Not this time. The pain just ran right along with me, preventing me from finding my rhythm. The only thing that kept me going through this run – the only thing – was my music. I kept stopping to pick out different songs that had a beat I could run to.
Finally, I found myself within shouting distance of my house, with about four minutes of running left. I wasn’t entirely sure that I had four minutes of running left in me, but I had a choice between running home and simply lying down and spending the night on the sidewalk, so I soldiered on. I stopped for one final time to select a different song and somehow managed to sprint home with the sound of Queen’s We Are The Champions in my ears.
In the end, I completed the distance I set out to do, and I’m sure the run benefited me somehow. But I did not feel good doing it.
All I can do now is put that run behind me and look ahead to the next one.
(Photo credit: Ryder Photography)
