Plodding and Recovering: Is My Watch Broken?

Between cardiological scares, bitter weather, tweaked ankles, the increasingly heavy stroller, and general busyness, my march toward CB08 has been a slow one, indeed. Task one, the systematic disremembering of all running-related experiences, is coming along pretty well (though watching two middle-aged guys pushing each other around The Point at about a 6:52 pace this morning made me a little misty). And Operation Endurance is a success as well: 60 minutes feels the same as 45 minutes and as 90 minutes. So I should be able to finish the race, theoretically.

It’s the speed that is missing. And I’m not talking about running as fast as I used to– I’m very aware that such a goal is practically impossible. I’m not going to set any personal records in April, but I’d like to limit my suffering and get the thing done before I need to eat lunch. To get up on my toes and feel a little breeze on my cheek. To get ahead of the traffic jam that is ‘the middle of the pack’. To pass a few people in the last mile. To rejoin my family before they succumb to frostbite.

Sometimes when I’m plodding along in the mornings, I even consider sparing us all of the trouble and hassle and just bailing on the race. But that’s getting old, too– I did that exact thing for the past two years. Which is a shame worse than running slow, especially because getting a registration for this great race is almost impossible.

So I’ll line up in the middle of the pack, and muddle through. I’ll try to leave behind who I used to be, and my silly daydreams of who I might become, and just be true to the moment, and myself. Besides, if I’m not pushing that stroller, I’m sure I’ll be a little faster.