Celeste's RuPaul video posted a couple of days ago is about looking good and feeling gorgeous (aren't all RuPaul videos about these things? At least conceptually). At the start of a new year, I was really hoping to tell you all about a week filled with doing both. I failed on all fronts. I was a hot mess. In the words of Beyonce, I was a beautiful nightmare. After that amazing twelve-miler last weekend through the streets of Boston (look at Odysseus back from war, that hometown hero returning glorious!), I took a day off to get my shit together (read: go drinking that night and avoid the painful next-day hungover run) and recover from the long distance. Upon returning to New York, I went for what I hoped would be a nice night run down the southern tip of Manhattan. Enjoying the spectacular weather and my body's abnormally limber state, I pushed it pretty hard for about seven miles, feeling a slight heel pain around the fifth mile that worsened until the completion of the run. See the photo to the left for further details.
I thought maybe I had tied my shoe too tightly. When I got home, I called Dr. Mom, and explained where I was hurting. The tone in her voice was enough to let me know that we had a little problem in the state of Denmark. Apparently I pulled my Achilles (hence the Homeric nod in that previous paragraph) and needed to stay off it for at least a couple of days. Well, that sucked. I was at a point in my training where I was confident and looking forward to upping not just mileage but speed and effort and all that other good shit.
As Dr. Mom knows all, I took her advice and stayed off the road for a few days, skipping what looked like an awesome TNT pacing workout up and down Central Park. On Wednesday night, feeling better, I put on my snazzy cold weather gear (see left) and was ready to hit the road once more to see if I could figure this heel thing out. Running past my local drugstore on my way to that evening's planned course, I saw that the pharmacy was closing in five minutes in advance of New Year's and if I wanted my prescription, I had to get it then and there. Another fucking run thwarted. When I finally got home and dropped the prescription (and dishwasher detergent) off, I was too lazy to get back out in the cold. I promised myself I'd make it out there sometime on New Year's Eve Day before the night's debauchery.
Long story short: obviously I didn't go running. Instead, coming home from a (fabulous) party, I excited a cab and slipped and fell on a patch of black ice and PULLED MY BACK. Another couple days off the road; another TNT workout (this time, the long run - 11-13 miles) missed. I woke up at 7:00 a.m. on Saturday morning to see how my back was doing and could make a few steps before it started to cramp up. Instead of swiping one of my roommate's Gatorades and heading uptown, I went back to bed like a lame duck.
TODAY HAD TO BE THE DAY. I woke up having celebrated my friend Pat's birthday with a few too many rounds of margaritas a little too late into the evening and told myself I'd need to boot and rally and get 'er done. An hour after chowing down on a banana and a PB&J on a bagel and properly hydrating, I put on about 1000 layers of cold weather gear ready for to bang out another 12-er. As soon as I left my building, I felt like Helen Hunt in Twister. Calling today breezy is like calling Beyonce talented. Today was tornadotastic (and Beyonce is prodigious). I was slammed with gusts of awful city wind and nonstop snow for the bulk of the first six miles. People on the street looked at me like I was an insane person. I cannot tell you how many times I debated turning around (or when I hit the West Side Highway, getting into a cab). At one point I actually screamed out to the sky, "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!?" By the time I got uptown to 72nd Street, I was so defeated and exhausted that I took a two minute walking break and used the 120 seconds to reflect on whether or not to keep going.
When I hit Riverside Drive (the halfway point), the wind subsided and the snowfall calmed down. TIME TO MAN UP, CHALOFF. I picked up the pace, ran over to Central Park, and knocked out the remaining six miles. Definitely not my finest run but a vast improvement over the first six; after feeling like the island of Manhattan was trying to kill me, I was relieved to see that I could still pound the pavement and keep it together for the most part. I mean, concrete jungle where dreams are made of, right? Something like that.
So, yeah, I'm back and ready for action. Countdown to the Manhattan half marathon: THREE WEEKS.
Glad to hear you are feeling better Scott. Very smart, listen to Mom and listen to your body. We're still early in the season and there is no need to rush things.
ReplyDeleteYou are a better man than I (I am technically not a man, but still), I too missed practice this week, but I, ugh, just biked on Saturday and Sunday because that wind was "like woah." That is some wonderful tenacity you have. Hope to see you at practice tomorrow. So proud that you and Celeste are not only kicking serious butt in training, but in blogging too!