About a day after I moved, I got a cold. I shouldn't be particularly surprised. The strain of moving, the intensity of training in the middle of race season, the 2-inches of black dust I removed from the blinds on the windows, much of which found a new home in my nasal passages and lungs. Except that this didn't turn out to just be a cold. This was a bastard of a cold, and it hung on and hung on and hung on.
On top of that, my training continued to be hampered by a consistent pain on the outside of my left thigh, close to my hip--the Iliotilial band or IT band--and particularly painful and tight during runs. Which is coincidentally where I need the most work. Months of training and I'm still a terrible runner.
And, I threw out my back moving. I was basically down and out for the count. No training. Or minimal. Before the aches and pains and blocked sinuses, I had hoped to finish the season with a half-ironman--one-mile swim, 50 mile bike and a 13-mile run. I believe this period was the beginning of the end of that dream.
I rested. The cold held on. I rested and thought about how terrible my runs were bound to be when I was back on track. I had built up to an 8-mile run, which I had done last season when I was self-trained. In some ways, I was still in way better shape than last year. In other ways, I felt like I was falling apart. The last interval run I attempted, 5 x 800m hard effort at the track crippled me after just three sets (thigh pain) and I hobbled home hoping I'd be able to walk the next day.
Week two of the cold. The back started feeling better. My IT-band appreciated the days off. My sinuses were still plugged up and my energy low. I wondered if I'd ever get back to training.
Around the third week of July, I got back to work. We eased back into training. It was time to prepare for the next race--an Olympic distance in Ithaca, New York in early August. I felt better, but set back. I'd lost prime training weeks. When I was supposed to be working on speed I had to rest.
At some point in there, perhaps towards the end of July, I did a sprint distance race in Long Branch, NJ, a beach town where my father lives. Though I was just off recovery, this still felt like a practice race. Funny to think this, given that two seasons ago I was training an entire season to go this distance. The race was a blast. A short ocean swim (1/2 mile though it might have been less), a flat bike course (13m) and then a flat run out and back (3m). For the first time, and because the race was casual ("Treat it like a training day," was the race coordinators mantra), I actually was having fun. During the run, I needed to use the bathroom, so I did. I wasn't worried that it added a minute to my time, or that I'd finish a few more spots back. I just had to use the bathroom and this was my race.
Even though it was short run, about halfway in, I started feeling overheated. And when I feel overheated, I mentally break down. I think about what a terrible runner I am. The finish line looks far and impossible, no matter if it's three miles or 50m away. About two-thirds of the way, I thought about stopping and then I saw my father. He came up behind and started running with me. He had been there on the beach when I went into the water and got out. He had been there on the first checkpoint on the bike cheering me on. And now here he was picking me up when I was about to stop running, and he kept me going. Except my father's sixty plus years old and nowhere near a runner.
I slowed him down, because at first he was going too fast for me. And a minute later, the heat was getting to him and I offered to walk. We walked side by side. Other runners passed us. One woman clapped her hands and cheered us to keep going, we were almost done. But I was much happier walking, both because I needed the break and it felt much better to stop competing and relax. And then a minute later, when I was cooled down, I couldn't stop looking at the finish line. It was about a half mile away. So close, and all of a sudden, all I wanted to do was cross it. I was done with the race in my head and I wanted to be done with it for good. I told my father I was going and took off, faster than I had run the whole race, light on my feet and cruising, and a few minutes later, done.
