Only One More Month of Marathon Training

April 15^th is getting so close I can taste it.  It tastes like a combination of sweat and tears that have been running down my face during my last few training sessions.  The day of the Go! St. Louis marathon will mean a few different things for me.  For one, it will signify the end of my training.  It is a beautiful thought except when I wonder if that ending will be due to some sort of cardiac arrest that I find myself in on the side of the road.  I am already telling myself that this will be the last time.  There is no way I will put my body or mind through this ridiculously tedious and painful torture of marathon training again.  Yeah, yeah, I know… I have made this same promise before.  In fact, I made this same promise last year.

This past Sunday, I made it to my goal of running 20 miles at a time.  Look at this past sentence for a second…  Yes, I know I am a complete idiot.  Who the hell would do something like this to himself?  The nearly 3 hours I spent running were among the most boring 3 hours I have ever experienced in my life, and that is before the physical torment that comes with my legs being pushed as far as they physically would be willing to take me.  I feel like an old car when I get up to these insane distances. 

My first car was a 12 year old Mazda that leaked more oil than I would have ever realized was possible.  Although the car was not much to look at, it drove pretty well.  It seemed to get me from point A to point B alright, and the false sense of security this gave me was dangerous to say the least.  I can still remember the first time I tried to see how fast the car would go, as any self-respecting 16 year old male is required by his pubescent testosterone levels to do.  This car that ran so well and easily when driving 30-40 miles per hour in town became a rattling pile of all too loose screws and bolts as the speedometer reached the insane heights of 85 miles per hour.  It took all of a few minutes before the smoke coming out of the exhaust left the carcasses of birds in my wake.  Even my malformed 16 year old brain was equipped with the logic to see that this was a terrible idea.  Some things just were not meant to go fast.

Unfortunately, my body is the same way.  I remember last year at this time when I ran 16 miles at a time and told myself that after running such a long distance, what is another 10 miles.  I had taken more runs over 10 miles than I would care to count, and this distance was little more than a boring but comfortable distance for my long legs.  At least this is what I told myself.  The thing I never took into account was that like my old car, my body would never understand what it was to function after running 20 miles until I was forced to do it.

The pains in my legs that were only faint annoyances at mile 13 became cramps that threatened to bring me to the ground.  That feeling in the bottom of my foot which felt like the stretching of my plantar fascia turned into a fire beneath my arch, ready to engulf the rest of my body, and then there is the mental torment.  I do not even want to think about the thoughts that went through my head as the marathon went on.  I went from smiling at a funny sign or counting down the miles to cursing anyone who had the strength in their legs still to accelerate up a hill, and didn’t I already pass the 18 mile marker? 

I have no doubts that as I begin to taper my runs in order to let my legs heal from the pounding they have taken over the last few months of training, I will develop that same irrational confidence that led me to making the mistake of signing up for the marathon in the first place.  I have no doubt that the euphoria of going to the marathon expo will cause me to think about the time I will put up on April 15^th with pride, and wonder if I should make a habit out of this.  I could run a marathon a year couldn’t I?  Maybe even two if I start to feel really ambitious.  The great philosopher although extremely unintelligent human being once said, “Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face.”  It is going to be rough when I am 16 miles into my second attempt at the longest run of my life and realize that the boxer who has made a career being made fun of in retirement understood what I would not allow myself to accept.  When that marathon punches me in the face, it will not be wearing gloves.  It will hit me like a pissed of Mike Tyson whose Tiger has been stolen, only a few short hours after I stood at the starting line, smiling and telling myself that I have a plan.

The 250 Pound Marathon Runner

One year ago at this time of year, I was not proud of what I saw when looking in a mirror and even less proud of what I saw on the scale when I looked down.  I could say that I have suffered controlling my weight, but to be honest, that is true in the way that would not make anyone feel sorry for me.  See I had that opposite problem with weight that does not get as much play on late night infomercials.  I needed to gain it.  I was a baseball and basketball player all throughout high school and for a guy standing at 6'8, the 180 pounds I was carrying around of skin and bone was far from effective.  Luckily for me I was able to gain some weight, but when I finished playing baseball in college I was a semi-athletic 220 pounds (let's face it, I can only give myself semi status after choosing to be a pitcher instead of playing basketball some more).

Then came the end of my athletic career, and I needed a break.  My elbow was killing me from a partially torn UCL with no Tommy John to bail out my failing fastball, my back was sore from bending over so many times to finish pitches as a 6'8 ogre, and my fingers were blistered from the constant diet of sliders I was asked to throw.  It is safe to say that I needed a break from not only baseball, but exercise in general.  I was burned out, or so I thought.  Little did I know that the weight I could not put on while lifting weights, eating lots of healthy foods, and mixing creatine and protein shakes that tasted like I was trying to make ground up chalk not taste terrible, was more than happy appear if I stopped.  In fact, 30 pounds was amazingly easy to gain with a perfectly rationed diet of pizza, beer, and the McDonald's dollar menu.

To look at the scale after a thanksgiving feast for the ages, I not only had to pull my stomach out of the way to read the numbers on that poor over-matched piece of plastic under my feet, but I marveled in the sight of the 250 number staring back at me.  My once thin, still only semi-athletic frame was on a one way street to the unhappy destination of obesity.  Although my tall body hid the weight pretty well, a 30 pound weight gain in only 5 months is definitely not healthy, so I decided to do something about it.

While I was able to successfully quit throwing a baseball for almost an entire year, stifling the competitive juices that had once flown when it was time to throw was an entirely different story.  I spent the majority of my life trying to push myself as hard and as far as my semi-athletic body would take me.  After taking a very enjoyable although extremely unhealthy 6 months of gluttony, I found the way that I would lose the weight and feed the inner competitor that would not be buried in the layers of fast food I tried to stifle it with.  I had the perfect plan to both lose the weight I had gained and push myself to new heights: I was going to run a marathon.

How hard could it be right?  I have run before.  There is no particular skill necessary to keep my feet moving forward.  I had thrown over 100 pitches before with an elbow whose throbbing was only dulled by the near dangerous doses of ibuprofen I had flowing through my body.  Running a marathon could not be any worse right?  It is amazing how stupid I can be.

Last year was my debut, the 250 pound marathon runner put on his Asics running shoes and took to the streets of St. Louis ready to take on the world.  I had run for months in preparation for that day, consistently putting my grades in danger of failure as I spent hours that should have been devoted to studying on 20 mile runs through Forest Park.  I could almost close my eyes and see every inch of the track that makes its way around the park.  I told myself I was ready.  Once again it was a game day, and I was ready.  I cruised at the beginning, feeling the exhilaration of running with thousands of others.  My iPod was turned up high with pump-up music and I cruised around the Budweiser Brewery.  I even laughed with those around me as I secretly thought I was going to do better than I thought.

And then I hit the first hill, and it was brutal.  Before long, I was cursing at women twice my age and half my height as they cruised by me.  My legs were reduced to useless balls of cramping muscles.  I finished that first marathon, although it was not a source of pride.  I walked more than half of it, experienced my first exercise induced vomit, and crossed the finish line a full hour later than I had once believed possible based on my pace for a 20 mile run.  I was humiliated and beaten.  Nothing would get me to ever run again, I told myself.

That is, I would never run again until this year.  I am back at it this year, although this time I want to avoid wilting half way through.  My semi-athletic body is still far from small, but the idea that a 250 pound man who runs like a deer if you cut off one and a half of its legs is not an impossible one I hope.  I have no doubt that there are going to be some fun and some miserable moments ahead of me as I try to squeeze as many miles out of my clown shoe sized feet as I can.  It should be an interesting experience this time around.  My goal is to literally shave an hour off my time.  Yes, I do know how ridiculous this sounds, but then again, so is the thought of a 250 pound marathon runner.