WE WERE ON A BREAK!

Now is the time for guts and guile, or else just an executive decision on running the marathon in three weeks.

I'm not ready, physically or mentally. I haven't been training for the past month--there were mitigating circumstances (new job, new schedule, new boyfriend, too much dining out and drinking wine), sure, but I'm disappointed in myself. But it reiterates how much I still live my life for others--I can get over not running RVM because I know I'll run a marathon at some point, but there's something that bothers me about having to tell other people I'm not doing it.

Or more specifically, telling people I know that I'm not doing it.

I was at the bank the other day and the teller asked me if I run at the Running Room. I didn't really recognize him, but I said I used to, but that I'd started running alone. He said he'd been training for the same marathon I am, but he'd been sidelined with an IT band injury.

I was surprised at how comfortable I felt telling him that I'd burned out on training. I mentioned that I'd probably would try training with a clinic again, although I explained I wasn't sure I could recreate the "magic" of my first clinic. He said he'd the exact same feeling and that it's true, the first clinic is something special.

It was nice to be able to talk to someone who was going through something sort of similar--even though his reasons are medical, mine are also legitimate. It reminded me that I'm a human, not a running machine, and this doesn't speak to my worth, dedication or discipline.

Still, this morning, I wasn't even an hour into my long run before I gave into my lethargy, boredom, and migraine headache. I felt like a failure, especially being on the Seawall, surrounded by super-fit runners.

I sat on a bench at English Bay and thought about why I'd lost motivation for running. When it comes down to it, it's because I'm tired of the same routines and routes. There isn't a whole lot I can do about that (the city is only so big and routines are developed for a reason), but I thought that maybe running and I need to see other people for awhile. I need to find something else to do that I'm excited about right now because it doesn't make sense to force myself to do something that doesn't excite me and then beat myself up for not being excited about it.

I know I'll go back to running at some point--because I've been in this place before and I always go back to it. I'm a runner for life, and not running this particular long run or even this particular marathon doesn't change that.

So, to be clear: RVM is still up in the air. It's probably best not to do it, but I may just go for the experience and to say I gave it a shot. There's going to be a next time, anyway.

Hot child in the city

18K LSD this morning. I set out just before 9:00 a.m., which was actually too late. It was already hot--around 20 degrees Celsius. I put on sunscreen, which ran into my eyes several times, causing (literally) BLINDING pain. However, my back got burned and the outline of my tank top is seared into my skin. Must look into sunscreen spray or find someone to rub lotion on my back. (The second option sounds more intriguing.)

I don't usually do long runs on Saturdays--I figured since I have a four-day weekend, I should get at least one run out of the way so I don't feel guilty when I see everyone else out. And really, Vancouver is a city where it seems that everybody is out running at all hours of the day. I asked a friend visiting from Toronto whether it's just Vancouver, and she said it definitely feels like people are a lot more hardcore about it here.

This got me thinking during today's run about competition. Unconsciously, I think every runner competes, even in a non-race situation. You pass someone and feel a small sense of triumph. You are passed and pick up the pace. Maybe you size up runners approaching in the opposite direction, sizing up their gear (Garmin? Fuel Belt? Tech shirt? Nice shoes?) as a measure of how devoted they are to the sport.

I try to stay focused on my own training goals, but sometimes my brain needs something more immediate, and so I start picking people off. Or if I'm passed, sometimes I'll start internally defending myself: "I'm doing a LSD run! I ran a half-marathon last weekend!" Pretty neurotic, but it's one way to pass the time.

The power of crap

I am something of a perfectionist. Or rather, a recovering perfectionist. This manifests itself in various ways, but we are gathered here today to to talk about running.

I used to get really down on myself when I had a bad run. A "bad run" usually translated as not going far enough or long enough or fast enough, having to stop and/or walk, feeling tired or hungry, being passed by the elderly, attracting unwanted comments or looks, having to run into the wind for too long--basically, every run I ever went on. The certainty of having what I deemed a "good run" felt far beyond my control.

I'd return from such a run feeling defeated and might even let it deter me from trying again for a few days. I had this concept of a perfect runner--the Platonic ideal of a runner, if you will--who was out there seven days a week, doing endless hill repeats solely on willpower and a bowl of Cheerios eaten 10 hours ago. I'm not even sure these runners actually exist. But in my mind, everyone else in the world was one of them and because I wasn't able to complete that day's run the way I'd wanted to, I'd failed in some way.

Lately, I've begun to embrace crappy runs. I have a pet theory--yes, I've graduated from running neophyte to one of those pretentious runners who cultivates philosophies--that you need the bad runs to really appreciate the good ones.

Take yesterday: I was feeling pretty good at work. My energy level was steady. I'd eaten enough and I was well hydrated. The weather was decent--warm, dry, mild wind. I practically ran home from work so I could change into my running gear and run some more.

I started my usual 10K route in reverse, along the False Creek Seawall. About 10 minutes in, I noticed I was breathing harder than I normally do for the amount of effort I was exerting. I didn't think my fitness could have declined that much over the past few weeks (I haven't been running as regularly as I should be, with a half-marathon coming up next month), and so I decided just to take it down a notch: steady instead of tempo pace.

Then, at 25 minutes, I took a one-minute walk break. Then, a few minutes later, another. Finally, a few minutes away from Granville Island, I sat down on a bench and hit stop on my Garmin. I watched a few runners I'd been pacing go by. I listened to the shouts of the dragon boat teams practising in the creek. I felt the sweat running down the back of my neck.

Newly determined, told myself I was going to continue. I went a few hundred metres and just stopped dead. I'd run out of gas. Maybe I'd misjudged and hadn't eaten enough. Maybe I was more tired than I thought . Maybe my heart just wasn't in it. Maybe I had indeed lost some of my endurance and needed to redouble my training efforts. All I knew was, I wasn't going to finish this run.

Luckily, I'd brought my bus pass for just such an event. As I mentioned in my last post, I didn't used to do this. And I felt a little guilty for bringing it this time, because it made it almost too easy to walk up and catch the #50 South False Creek a block away. But it was cooling off and I couldn't fathom walking the 5K home, into the wind, uphill. Plus, Ugly Betty was on in 40 minutes.

So I wrote yesterday's run off as a 5K that was better than nothing. It was actually sort of funny to me that I couldn't do 5K after doing five times that much on Sunday--it almost doesn't seem logical, and I guess that's the nature of the beast. You can train diligently for months but run a terrible race, and it sucks, but the latter doesn't negate the former. A bad run today means the possibility of a better run tomorrow.

And when I hear myself say things like that, I feel like a less-toothy Tony Robbins.