Tough

Saturday's training run did not go well at all. Normally this wouldn't matter much-- some days are better than others when it comes to any kind of physical activity. It could have just been an off day for me. But it went so badly that it ruined my day. Perhaps I shouldn't have reacted so drastically, but it really freaked me out. It was the first time I was supposed to run 8 miles, a pretty significant milestone.

See, my first leg of the Ragnar run is 8.1 miles. Uphill 8.1 miles. Even with all my triathlon training, I've still never actually run that far, and my long runs have always been on flat ground.

I needed to prove to myself that I can actually DO this. Since the race is less than a month away (*gulp*), I'm running out of time to build up that endurance. Terence is worried about me again, and his worry is contagious. He keeps harping on how I need to be getting mentally prepared to survive this, to power on through the pain like a soldier or something. At first I just laughed at him. After all, what is getting up to run in the dark during the winter but exercising some serious mental discipline?

Then he made a couple of observations that stopped me short. He reminded me that I get frustrated and impatient and angry with anything that makes me feel the slightest bit uncomfortable. He pointed out that I have a closet full of shoes I won't wear because they pinch my toes. Then I remembered that I was the woman who got an epidural when I was already at 8cm because I couldn't possibly stand even a few more minutes of the pain. Yeah. I'm not exactly mentally tough when it comes to physical discomfort.

Saturday I didn't go on my run until midday, and I knew I was going to be thirsty so I decided to try running with Terence's camelpak. (I have my own, a smaller more runner-friendly one, but the kids broke it.) After ten minutes of Terence trying to adjust it while I complained constantly about it being too tight, too loose, cutting into my breasts, feeling too heavy (you get the picture), he tossed in the towel and told me to deal with it. "You need to be able to run even if it's uncomfortable," he declared. "Just run though it. Part of that mental preparation you need."

So grumbling I gave in and took off for the jog. The shoulder strap immediately ended up cutting into my neck and annoying the heck out of me. I decided to prove Terence wrong, that I could do this. But only ten minutes into my run, it was starting to rub the skin off my neck. All I could think about was how every time my feet hit the ground more of my skin was being shredded. It went something like this:

Thud, thud, thud. Probably bleeding by now. Thud, thud, thud. Terence is going to be sorry he made me wear this stupid thing. Thud, thud, thud. I'll show him who's mentally tough when I come home with blood all over my shirt.

As if my husband had forced me! Still, it slowed me down. I was constantly reaching up there and trying to wrap my shirt around the strap. Periodically I stopped to walk for a short time and spent the whole of that reveling in my pain-free existence. Then I'd grit my teeth and start "running through the pain" again. After about 30 minutes of this, the cramps, both in my side and in my neck, were competing with the raw skin for my attention. Shortly after that, my ankle pain grew insistent enough to make me take notice on top of everything else.

Then I nearly got attacked by somebody's dog and had to use my pepper spray for the first time. I really don't think I had much choice-- when a large dog is barking ferociously and snapping at me and coming ever closer, my self-preservation instincts take over. At least now I know I have good aim. Got the poor thing right in the face and he immediately turned tail and fled the other direction. But then I spent the rest of that wretched run feeling guilty, for pete's sake. Guilty! At least, I felt guilty when I wasn't thinking "this is torture, I hate this" over and over. When I reached the last 20 minutes of the run, my bladder decided to chime in (courtesy of having the camelpak, I assume). It felt like if I didn't get home ASAP I was going to explode. Or at least all the thudding was going to have me leaking pee all over my pants. It was kind of like the straw that broke the camel's back, I guess. (Or rather, the final proof that I am not meant to run with a camelpak.)

When I finally dragged myself through the front door of our house, I plotted out the course I had taken and learned I had only made it 7.2 miles. Almost one mile short of what I needed. And I don't think I could have taken another step. And my pace was only a 11:00 minute mile average, and for the Ragnar I'm supposed to make a 10:30 pace to keep our van on schedule.

I guess Terence is right. I do need some more mental toughness. Or at least I need to learn how to run faster even while I'm mentally wimping out.