If I were to try to associate this post with a ‘theme’, that theme would be general something along the lines of ‘I am le tired in an epically le tired sort of way’. It’s not even tired in a not enough sleep way (which is easily correctable, but also not, because I’m not sure I could physically sleep for many more hours), but far more of a tired in deeply penetrative aching-to-the-bones sort of way. My muscles hurt. My limbs are heavy. I feel like a sloth.
I know (and I’ve said this many times before) I have a tendency to default to this state of keeping moving constantly, and while that typically serves an excellent purpose of keeping me moving, when I do finally stop and sit down, I crash. Hard. In an epically le tired way.
…Which is probably what’s happened over the past few weeks. Despite Boston being a mere two weeks away, I’ve still be running (and running and running) – last week, my schedule was set at something like six of seven days, where every day was at least 10 miles. I survived most of it and was feeling somewhat ‘okay’, and then Friday hit, and I attempted to do a tempo workout that got pushed super late in the day on what was meant to be a long, flat out-and-back (but instead turned out to be a gradual hill, into the wind, with a snow bank dead end 2.5 miles in), and I had a tiny (silent) temper tantrum and abruptly aborted, 7.5 miles in the planned 13, way over pace. And then I felt bad about it, and then I immediately laughed at the ridiculousness of feeling bad about it (because #perspective, get a grip girl).
It’s funny how your mind so quickly adjusts its expectations to what’s normal.
And then on Saturday, I just didn’t run. I did the mental flip-flop of going back-and-forth about it, but sitting on the couch at 9am, after spending about an hour deep in a Google rabbit hole reading started by ‘why do I feel like such shite running at altitude?’, I made the executive decision that having a do-nothing-and-be-okay-with-that sort of day was 100% necessary and acceptable, and feeling guilty or upset about that was not an option. And you know what? It was lovely. I still got outside, I did things I do not normally get to do (…like color for two hours), and I did not turn into a gelatinous blob. My legs still remember how to run.
I think I’m at that point in winter and training where I’m really looking forward to a few weeks of easy recovery. I think I’m also at the point where, sad as I am to admit it, I’m ready for ski season to end, purely so I can go back to having two consecutive days off. There were truly multiple periods this winter where I worked for 30 days straight, and lest there be any doubt, let me be living proof (or walking dead proof) that sustaining that sort of pace completely unfeasible. April is jammed, mostly with travel (that is mostly enjoyable), so I’m holding out hope that I will be sat in a kayak at sunset on the lake in May, in a blissful haze of shoulder season peace and non-moving quiet, plotting some next crazy adventure.
Until then, I’m giving myself a kick in the butt reminder to listen to my body, respect its le tired-ness, and embrace the moments of silent stillness that are necessary to get moving again.