At least there's time to think

I usually do my long runs on Sunday mornings. Up until last year or so, a long run might mean anywhere from ten miles up to sixteenish.  I’d vary the distances in order to minimize injuries. One Sunday I might do fifteen miles, the next Sunday I’d cut back to ten. The next week I might do sixteen, then cut back to eleven the week after that. The cutback week is an important part of the training process. You want to challenge yourself, but stay healthy too.  Every runner has her own way of doing this. My way is a very long run one week, and a not so long run the next week. 

I did two marathons in 2010, the Vermont City Marathon in June and the Manchester, NH marathon in November.  Since then I’ve felt a little burnt out. I’ve done several half marathons, but nothing longer. And even those half marathons didn’t appeal to me all that much. I trained sporadically. I ran grudgingly. My times have fallen off and I’m okay with that.  I wonder if I’m just going through some sort of personal growth phase. 

Or maybe it’s because my book is about running. Maybe because I spend so much time writing about running, the running itself is no longer all that special to me.

Running used to make me happy. My long run anchored me and gave me a sense of accomplishment. Within days of finishing each long run, I found myself looking forward to the next. 

Now, my long runs are about eight miles. During marathon training, that distance used to be a short run. You’d think this new, shorter distance would be easy for me. It isn’t.  I find myself making excuses to keep from going out on the run. I find other things to do. I leave the house later and later each Sunday. Perhaps this has to do with this summer’s intense heat. I hate running in the heat. It wears me out. It’s not fun at all. And I refuse to run inside at the gym. I need the feel of the sun on my shoulders. I need to hear leaves rustle and birds chirp. 

Today I decided to do a six-miler at the rail trail. I’ve been doing most of my runs here this summer.  The rail trail is a shady and cool stretch of packed dirt and pine needles. It starts in the town of Sterling and heads west through many towns. There are parking lots and entry points every couple of miles. My favorite section starts near the sparkling waters of the Wachusett Reservoir and ends in a quiet grove in Holden. I run alone but there is always someone nearby. It’s popular with joggers and cyclists and walkers.  It’s pretty and serene. 

I of course left the house late this morning. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately, but I always seem to find something that keeps me from getting out of the house when I need to. By the time I got to West Boylston the sun was high and the temperature was about 90. The air was heavy. We were due for a storm. 

I started slowly like I always do and knew within seconds that a run was not happening today. The heaviness of the weekend had settled over me like a winter coat. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. In years past, I’d probably have forced my body to continue running.  Maybe I should have done that today. But I didn’t. 

Instead of running six miles, I walked six. It took a little longer, but I didn’t care.  I had a lot to think through, and my concerns weren’t going to get cleaned up by running.

  

Yesterday in the hospital room, while we were waiting for the discharge papers to bring my dad home, I said, “Only ten more years and then I can retire.” The context was simple.  We’d run out of things to talk about and I blurted that out just to fill the empty spaces. 

My father gave me his scary principal look. “Don’t go wishing your life away,” he said. “It’s too short.” 

I really want to run Boston again. I’ve run it seven times. Six times I raised money for a charity that helped me to get to my first finish line back in 2001.  I feel great loyalty to the American Liver Foundation. They are good people. They do great work. Last year, I started the paperwork to sign up to run again for the ALF. Then I sprained my ankle and couldn’t run for three months, so I had to put my plans on the back burner.  I wasn’t too upset about it. I figured I’d just run for the ALF in 2013 instead.

But 2013 is looking to be a tough year. I’m not wishing that, just acknowledging the truth of it. 

“Palliative care” is a term I have gotten to know quite a bit about, these last few months. I could say more, but that's enough for now about that. 

 

The other day, my mother and I were talking about the upcoming school year. We were talking about  the fact that I will again be teaching sixth grade. It will be my 18th year at that grade level. I’d really hoped to be teaching seventh or eighth grade, but the job I bid on was given to someone with more experience.

We were talking about how teaching sixth had gotten pretty routine for me.

 “Ah, it’s just as well,” my mother said. “You’re going to have a tough year here at home. You might as well have an easy time at school.”  She makes these little pronouncements so casually, and yet  my knees quake. 

As I walked the quiet pathway today, I visualized crossing the finish line in April. I wrote my donation letter. I started listing potential donors. I thought about the little boy I run for who has been waiting for a new liver his whole twelve years and I imagined the words I would combine to make people understand how devastating it is to live your whole life waiting for a phone call saying you have a donor match.  

I have to think things through though. What kinds of emotional reserves do I have? How deep do I want to dig? How much am I capable of giving?  While I am out training, while I am home writing letters, what will I miss?  Life IS too short. At least for now, I have time to think.