5K on St. Pat’s

My first race since the half marathon in February. A 5K definitely did not seem as difficult as the half; however, it was much harder (and slower) than my usual undoubtedly.

The one cold day in the forecast, the wind had a cutting chill. Otherwise, the race had the making of perfect conditions. Moderate temperatures, flat terrain. Everything that should have comprised a cake walk.

Not so much. I woke up sick and cranky for no real reason (yay pregnancy!), and I just could not shake it. I just did not feel like myself, which is pretty standard lately.

When the race started, I was feeling pretty good. I set myself at a comfortable, relatively slow but above wogging pace. I watched the bodies in green steadily pass me and listened to the crowd awaiting the following parade hollering from the sidewalk. I focused on forgetting the nausea and the fact that I had to piss and just went with it, even forgetting the wind as my body heat climbed.

Then in the second mile, my body faltered. The nausea coiled into a ball in my throat, drying out my mouth. My legs felt packed with lead. When the cold wind wasn’t in my face, I could feel my body heat radiating. It just hurt to run.

It came in patches. I felt like utter hell; then I felt a burst of ok. I knew my pace was plummeting, but I tried to concentrate on just my form, just running/jogging/wogging the whole distance.

That nagging annoyance returned. I told myself that I would not worry about pace and distance during my pregnancy, yet I cannot stop myself from turning on myself when both fall short of what I was capable of merely a month ago. I was trained up for a half marathon less than two months ago, yet here I was, struggling and puffing through a flat and cold 5K. It irked me my core.

There should not have been able to be enough puking in the world to derail me so quickly.

I tried to just tell myself to shut the fuck up and keep going. I tried to breathe through the nausea and ignore the fatigue. It shouldn’t have been this hard, so I wasn’t going to stop.

I finished slower than I usually do but at least within my goal. I dry heaved my way through the finishing chute until my body temperature dropped and I could circle back to finish with Trisha, mere moments behind me.

I know I am so frustrated because running became such an exquisite outlet for me, and now, in a definite time of need, it is not serving the same purpose. I don’t get the high; I don’t get the release; I don’t get balancing endorphins. I’m not sure why, but I miss it so much that I just keep trying.

And I plan to just keep trying as long as I can.

Back at it…

I ran twice last week. For a whopping total of 9 miles. If you can even call what I do now “running.”

I used to do more than that in a single run. Regularly.

But it’s a start.

Tonight, I went to the gym at work and engaged in mild weight training. I have woefully neglected my resistance training, in the interest of prioritizing running. I am going to be vividly sore tomorrow. And probably all week.

I was going to run over the weekend, but instead of wave of nausea tricked me into a two hour nap so deep I woke up drooling on myself with my arm having fallen asleep. I’m trying not to be too hard on myself and just make progress where I can.

I vomited regularly for 2.5 months. In that time, I still ran my first half marathon. It is ok to compromise with the baby. As long as I don’t stop. As long as I don’t give up.

Adaptation.

It’s watching all my work and training dissolve that upsets me at my core. I want to tell myself that it will all come back after the baby, that I can get back to it. But I don’t know that it will. I started running after I was pregnant last time. And I don’t want to do all the hard work again. I was ready for it to become easier.

Not that it ever did.

This will probably just light the same fire under my ass that started all this.

And like it or not, this baby will be a runner. My next race is Saturday. I’m going to try to ignore my time, but I’m going to run it. And many others before we hit the due date. My daughter was my dancing baby, performing in the womb until I was 9 months pregnant; this baby will be my running baby. Whether s/he wants it or not.

I just want to get to 10-15 miles a week. Do prenatal yoga and light weights each week. Nothing crazy, a definite drop from my normal but still very active. If the puking has in fact subsided (I will not be going off the medication to find out; I learned from that fucking mistake), I should be able to step it back up to moderate. I lived on the elliptical my second trimester last time.

Baby steps. Small victories. And shutting that judgmental bitch inside my head up just a little bit.