We’re in the final countdown of a return to marathons.
This has been a rough patch to be sure. Recovery was always going to be hard but this has been a grueling few months, a slow build of distance and endurance via a meticulous training regimen.
But truth be told… I don’t think it worked.
I’m exhausted and unable to maintain any kind of pace or running tempo. I walk a lot of the distances… and that’s even at the shorter distance runs during the week. The long runs? The 18s or 20s I did in preparation for the 26 miles coming up on Sunday? Too many miles done with too many walking segments.
I honestly think I’ll do worse than the full blown stress fracture event way back in January.
And it’s breaking my heart, body, and soul.
Of late… or maybe it’s always been the case… I’m feeling like Eeyore is my spirit animal, the depressed donkey who cannot find joy even in the rambling 100 Acres Wood. I’m not sure how to break free of this. Running and its endorphins used to provide at least a moment’s respite. But those days seem as remote as childhood memories.
It’s only been six months or so of the egregious stress fracture pain and plan of action for getting back into shape. But it doesn’t seem to be getting any better… if anything it seems to be getting worse by the day. Less capable, less endurance, less mileage.
If I had a second sight, a gift, a shining, I’d say the omens are not good and point to an outlook a magic eight ball might warn me against. That’s hardly where I need or want to be five days from having to run 26.2 miles.
If you google “Eeyore catchphrases”… and I know this plummets us into the depths of middle-school speech writing citing Webster dictionary definitions… but if you google that, you come up with sadly all too fitting viewpoints for my mood of late. But let’s end with the least bad one, shall we?
“Could be worse. Not sure how, but it could be.”