LOVE/hate

Have you seen this commercial?

I love the New Balance LOVE/hate commericals. I like the cleverness of describing running as a relationship, and it is an extremely apt description.

In November of 2007, I started training for the Gary Bjorklund half marathon. It seemed like an impossibly distant goal, I doubted that I would even win the lottery and be able to run, but I set the goal anyway. The following eight months were some of the most intense of my life. I found myself dragging my exhausted body out of bed at unimaginable hours in order to don four layers and venture out into sub-zero temperatures. I remember certain markers. Two miles in November was a huge one. The same goes for five in February, and at the end of my eight miles in April, I felt like I had finished a bottle of champagne.

I also remember (vividly) a lot of bad runs. I could finish eight miles on a Sunday without blinking, and when Tuesday rolled around I'd find myself limping home after two miles.

Not to mention all of the skipped runs. I dismissed speed workouts (dumb), skipped long training runs (idiotic), and didn't take care of myself (suicidal). I spent a good portion of the spring laid up alternately with shin splints, the flu, and shin splints again.

Despite all of this, I found myself packing my car early Friday morning to head to Duluth. I spent Friday afternoon with my cousin and his family, chasing his four year old around the backyard and playing matchbox cars. Friday night found me in the fetal position on a cot in the basement, four alarms set so that I wouldn't oversleep.

Speaking of ungodly hours, Gary begins at 6:30 am. I understand the reasoning behind it, but standing in a dark kitchen eating peanut butter toast at 4:00 am, I began to doubt my own sanity. It took most of my strength to force down the toast and slam some Gatorade before barrelling out the door to catch my ride.

I rode the bus out to the starting point with an eight-time Gary finisher. One of the things that struck me most about the entire weekend was the incredible amount of camaraderie among most of the runners there. That and the crazies along the course. There was one bag-piper, several squeeze-box players, tons of frat boys trying to encourage us to do a beer bong, and a guy dressed up as Shrek along the course. Anyway, my bus friend pep-talked me for the entire half hour bus ride, and found me after the race to inquire about how it had gone.

I'll spare you the blow by blow analysis of the entire race. Suffice it to say that I ran too hard on my first seven miles, crashed on mile nine, and hobbled across the finish line. My only goal was that finish line, and I made it. Barely. I'm not sure what shock feels like, but I think I may have had a mild case of it. I limped around looking for water, my sweat bag, and my father. I eventually found all three, and my pep-talker from the morning. We swapped notes on the race and then went to watch the marathon-ers come through. I spent the next nine hours comparing race notes, stretching my aching muscles, and trying to re-balance my electrolyte levels.

For the past two days I've been laying low, dealing with some sore muscles, and recouping. My roommates have practically had to lock me into my house. The weather is perfect, and from my position on the couch I can see people running past. I'm desperate to go out again, but my muscles, better judgement, and roommates are holding me back. For the time being I'll have to content myself with planning my next races.