A Pyrrhic Victory: 18 Miles

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My weekday runs were displays of continued progress and dropping mile times.  The lowlight was a 9-miler in Bethesda, MD, on Wednesday.  The running itself was great, but oh my goodness, what a bunch of flaming ass-hats I encountered.  I normally like to wave to, grunt a “hey” at, or otherwise acknowledge anyone I pass on my travels.  It’s just being nice, y’know?  Would you care to guess how many times my gestures were returned, from the 40 or so walkers, runners, and cyclists I passed?!  Suffice it to say, it was a big, round number.  Also, I was cut off not once, but twice.  By motorists PULLING INTO THEIR DRIVEWAYS.  Th’ fuck?!?  And this wasn’t even Fancy Bethesda; this was Just-Inside-the-Beltway-Maybe-It’s-Not-Even-Bethesda-Proper-Bethesda.  It made Boston seem downright chummy, by comparison.

Thursday’s five-mile mission was scrubbed by life getting in the way.  I should be pleased that this was only the second time in this training program that I had to bag a run.  I toyed with making it up on Friday, but figured I should save myself for Saturday; a notion confirmed by consensus of my “virtual coaches.”  All things considered, confidence was high, heading into Saturday’s 18; the longest run I have ever attempted.

Things started well enough.  I had a proper dinner on Friday, a great night’s sleep, a sensible breakfast, and the luxury of not hitting the road until 9:00, on account of the rest of my family’s schedule.  It was just another run, with daylight (oh, blessed daylight; how I love thee!) and a bunch of new Autumn scenery, until about the 11-mile mark.  I came out of a short but steep-ish hill feeling not quite right.  However, I knew that the last seven miles held no surprises, terrain-wise, so I figured “shit, I got this!”

Oh, I got something, all right: nearly killed.  Nearing the 17-mile mark, I started to unravel.  About 2.5 miles from the finish, I reached for a higher gear to help me make a green light.  At this point, I learned something about myself that really should have been obvious: After running nearly 17 miles, I don’t HAVE a higher gear.  All I came up with was a very intimate brush with the type of leg cramps that would have dropped me like a sack of bricks in the middle of a four-lane street, had I not been able to make some last minute adjustments right before the calf knots tightened.  I spent the rest of the run trying desperately not to flex my knees too much, or point my toes downward any more than was absolutely necessary.

Dragging my slime trail across the finish line in front of my house, I literally wanted to die.  My lungs were freeze-dried from processing 3:20 worth of air that had been chilled to anywhere from 35 to 50 degrees Fahrenheit.  Every last muscle below my waist was fried, and the back and shoulders were joining in, as well.  I was useless until sometime Sunday night.

I should have been thrilled at somehow managing to run 18 miles, but all was nullified by my near-complete breakdown.  The swagger I brought into this week is history.  My confidence is shot.  I am mentally and emotionally crushed.  How am I going to add two miles to this in two weeks…let alone 8.2 in five?

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