Apologies to the one or two people who read this; on account of that whole Sandy mess, I’m just returning to full functionality on the ol’ inter tubes, after ten days offline; I enjoy writing SFoT, but not nearly enough to bother thumbing out entries on my so-called smartphone. Factor in the work mess from which I still need to extricate myself in the wake of the unplanned, unpaid “vacation” that followed Sandy’s wrath, and you can see why I’ve been AWOL for a few weeks.
You may recall that my 18-mile training run was a bit of a disaster: the wall, leg cramps, almost died, yada yada yada. My “virtual coaches” assured me that I would bounce back in time for the 20; “take it slow” was the consensus. Also, in an effort to ward off cramping, I had two bananas before setting off, and filled two of the bottles on my belt with Gatorade, rather than water.
I was treated to an Autumn morning, the likes of which I couldn’t have done a better job creating, even with my own personal weather machine. Heeding the advice of those who have gone before me, I took it slow. Really slow. Just-fucking-finish slow. As a result, I realized the heretofore laughable achievement of running twenty miles. On the same day. In a row. Without stopping.
When I just-fucking-finished, I didn’t think “Oh well. My goose is cooked. There is no WAY I will ever be able to run another hour (plus…very much plus) after doing THAT.” I felt eerily calm. I just went into the kitchen, brewed a cup of coffee, ate something, hosed down, and was out the door with the family in under an hour.
Being on my feet for several hours after was a blessing and a curse. I probably felt better Sunday morning than I would have, had I parked my ass in front of the TV for several hours with a pizza and a six-pack. Which was for the best, because shit was about to get REAL in New Jersey, in less than 24 hours.