Yesterday I went to the river trail to do 12 miles. I knew from my last run up there that I really needed to get started earlier than 7 because the heat gets unbearable at about 8. Unfortunately, a late night singing karaoke with friends prevented me from getting up any earlier than 6 and I started running at 7.
Instead of heading north toward the Big Dam Bridge, I headed south from the dog park toward downtown. The first 5 miles or so were pretty fantastic. A breeze was blowing off the water, most of the trail was in the shade, and I was feeling pretty great. I've finally learned to drink before I get thirsty, and I realized yesterday that while I may be stopping more often than I used to for water refills and such, I'm running faster. I would be happy to finish the marathon with 10 minute miles, but right now I seem to fall into about a 9:15 pace, give or take 10 seconds. I mused as I ran that maybe 9:15 is my happy pace whether I like it or not, and also did some thinking about how they say that distance running is a mind game. For example, at around mile 6, I thought, I'm tired. I could walk for just a minute. And then some other part of my brain said, hell no. You don't walk for the hell of it. Then I thought, maybe it's not just that running is a mind game, maybe it's that running nudges the part of my brain that tends toward some kind of multiple personality disorder.
I got down to about the I-30 bridge at about 5 miles and turned around. I was hoping to be able to do an out and back and end back at my car at 12 miles, but didn't want to run past the bridge. I considered crossing the Junction Bridge or the Broadway bridge and then coming back, but the lack of shade stopped me. I'd just have to pass my car for a mile and then come back. Fine.
It got hotter. I did more thinking about how, yes, this is hard. Of course this is hard. It's just like life--we go through the hard things. I thought about how, in my life, I used to never deal with hard things until I had no other choice, until all the demands and consequences were shoved up against me and I had to move or suffocate. With running, I choose hard. Even if I still might put off things that cause me anxiety, I learn through running that I can choose hard and have faith in my strength--even if sometimes I don't feel like it's there. I also thought, I can quit. Why am I doing this again? When I could be cuddled up in bed, listening to the fan, humming "The Lazy Song" and checking Facebook? The idea that I can quit is frightening, but it's there and it has to be there for this to mean anything. Running is an act of will. It's a choice, but it can't be negotiable--it must be a part of my existence, a part that I take responsibility for.
The last two miles, though, were so so...sucky. There is about a quarter mile stretch nearing the dam that is sheltered from the river but not from the sun, meaning no breeze and no shade. It's not that long but it's such a killer. I ran farther than a mile past the car just to get some time in the shade. I finally stepped off the trail for just 30 seconds or so to drink and turned around at a very small downhill because I didn't want to have to run back up. And finally, halfway back through the hot stretch, I hit 12 miles and stopped.
The best part of yesterday's run really has to be the half mile or so walk back to my car. That breeze was back and I realized that it wouldn't feel nearly so glorious if I weren't so close to heat exhaustion. I stopped, facing a sycamore tree, with its wide leaves bigger than my hand and naked striped branches. I looked through it at the striking blue of the sky and the water of the river, and the leaves waved and sang in the wind and I closed my eyes and let it all bless me and I sent that happiness out. I was so thankful.
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