Tired But Happy
So I've been doing a lot of postings about marathons, including my constant pain in the butt, my slow-but-steady triumph at the Disneyland Half Marathon, my hopes for running the L.A. Marathon, and my failures to get in a single long training run.
But today… SUCCESS!!!!
The L.A. Marathon is March 20th. My last full marathon was the 2010 Walt Disney World Marathon, and I haven't run more than ten miles since the Disneyland Half in September. If I didn't get in a really long run this long weekend, at least fifteen miles, I knew there was no way I'd make it.
My running partner Michelle and I decided Monday was the day. We'd meet at 7am in our usual spot, and we'd go.
The morning started out perfectly. It was freezing here ("freezing" by L.A. standards), but I bundled up like crazy so I wouldn't start weeping the minute I opened the door (I'm a wimp when it comes to cold). I ate my Balance Bar on the drive from the San Fernando Valley to Marina del Ray, stopped at Ralph's for the Official Pre-Run Potty Break, and pulled into the parking lot where Michelle and I always meet… when we manage to get our crap together and actually meet… which, as I've said, has been almost never lately.
The run started out beautifully. We went the Galloway route. Jeff Galloway is a former Olympic marathoner who teaches runners to do the 26.2 with a run/walk ratio. The idea behind it is that you use slightly different muscles for running and walking, and by switching it up you keep your running muscles fresher. Your run portions are therefore faster, and you finish faster and in less pain than if you'd run the whole way. I've found this to be true — while my fastest marathon was without walk breaks, my second fastest incorporated them… and was only two minutes slower.
What's spectacular about Michelle and I is that we both love running not because we're natural gazelles (all things considered, we'd be happier kicking back with sushi, wine, and chocolate), but because we love the way we feel after we run, and we love the opportunity to spend hours chatting while pounding the pavement. For two hours we ran and dished about every little thing in our lives, then she turned around to head back to the cars and I continued onward.
I ran all the way up the Santa Monica bike path, just beyond Will Rogers Beach (for those who know L.A.). The day was glorious: sunny and clear, with the ocean at my side, the mountains in the distance, and lots of dogs zipping around to keep me happy and preoccupied. At the northernmost end of my route, the path was very close to the water, and I actually saw dolphins leaping out of the waves.
This is one of the many reasons I love living in Los Angeles.
From there, I turned around and started home, taking a detour up the insanely steep California Incline so I could dart into Panera for a proper pit stop, and a water bottle refill. In theory, the stop was a great idea. In practice, every muscle in my legs seized horribly once I stopped moving. But the beauty of being by myself was I had no choice — if I wanted to get back to my car, I had to keep going; if I wanted to get back to my car any time soon, I had to run.
So I kept running.
My legs were screaming, but luckily there were endless things to distract me. By this time, Venice Beach was its usual fantastic freak scene: drum circles, pipe shops, tattoo artists, sand sculptors, a psychic cat… plus there was some kind of pro-medical marijuana rally. I saw a wide-eyed backpacker who had clearly just emerged from his hostel, and it struck me all over again that people travel here from all over the world just to check it out, and I get to toddle down every week and run. I felt euphoric… though that might have been the endorphins… or the medical marijuana in the air.
I made it through Venice and back into Marina del Rey, where I suddenly realized my legs were no longer listening to my brain. They had started to stage a coup, and threatened to spill me flat on my face unless I stopped running that instant. I checked my wrist-Garmin and saw I'd gone 17.25 miles. I negotiated a deal with my legs: if they'd let me make it to 18 miles, I'd stop running and make the rest of the route an extended cool-down walk.
My legs agreed, and at exactly eighteen miles I slowed to a walk. The pain in my legs was almost unbearable… but the euphoria didn't go away.
A mile and a half later I made it to my car. The pain by now was so intense that I wondered if I could really handle 26.2 miles in just a month's time. But after I stretched, I felt great. A month? That's a world of time! That's enough time for a recovery week, an even longer run, then a taper before the actual race.
Done deal.
For the rest of the day, I felt exhausted but unstoppable.
I've talked about this before, but there's something beautifully tangible and satisfying about a long run or marathon. It's a concrete accomplishment you can point to and say I ACHIEVED THIS! That's harder in other parts of life, especially writing. Writing for a TV show is great… but is it your own show? Selling your own show is great… but does it actually get on the air? Getting on the air is great… but does it do well in the ratings? In the book world, hitting the NYT Bestseller List is HUGE… but where is your book on the list? And how many weeks will it stay there?
Those questions are normal, and they help push us forward to achieve more and more. But when I wake up in the morning and run eighteen miles, that's something I know is an accomplishment. Whatever else comes at me, I did that. I pushed myself beyond what I thought I could handle, and I made it. That's concrete, and I can own it without question.
Speaking of questions, here's one for you: what do you do to give you that concrete sense of satisfaction? Do you get it from your work? Your artistic passions (which could also be your work)? Or from something like running — a thing you do outside your "real life" activities, and is therefore free of expectations?
