Cherry Creek Sneak

Despite all the…challenges I’ve been having with running lately, I survived a 5 mile race this morning.

Michelle and I drove up to Denver for the Cherry Creek Sneak. Michelle ran the 5K early; then I ran the 5 mile after. The weather was pretty shitty, mostly due to the wind. The temperatures were cool, and the rain was intermediate. The wind was just cruel. Thankfully, with city running, I think the buildings blocked a couple directions on the route.

I started the race without nausea, which was a good enough start. I told myself I would not get all twirled up about pace or fatigue; I told myself I would just gently wog it out. It took some (a lot) of talking myself down, but I think I managed to pull it off.

The first half mile felt almost normal. I jogged along, feeling at home on the road among the runners. Then once the initial excitement wore off, the first two miles were hell. As they are now. My hips ached; my lower back twinged; I felt like I had to pee. That unnerving pain painted a line down from my belly button even with the support belt.

Simply put, my body did not want to do it. I kept thinking, I do not want to do this; I do not want to run; I want to walk. And I felt that in every cell of my body.

But I didn’t. I just kept slowly wogging along, holding myself back and slowing my pace when the heat started to bloom in my belly or the wind seemed lost in my lungs.

I knew if I could just make it panting and slobbering through the first two, it would get better. It almost does.

And somewhere in that third mile, I grasped some semblance of a float. My first in who knows how long. The strife dropped out of it, and it became just mindless wogging. Most of my body’s nagging aches faded away, reduced down just to a mild coil of pain in the sciatic area on my left side.

The course was flat and easy, snaking around the Cherry Creek Mall. When we turned off into a neighborhood, it reminded me of my half marathon. Flat, wet, cloudy, through a neighborhood with trees. Definitely not New Orleans but just a snippet that made me think of that experience.

With the finish line out in the distance, I felt myself running out of steam, but I could see it. I could not muster a sprint, but I did manage to speed up over the line.

I usually finish 5 miles in an hour, my best time being around 55 minutes. Today, I managed to swing 1:05, which I consider a fucking miracle considering how slow I have been and how little I have accomplished lately. As much as I initially hurt (and after), that time felt vindicating. It renewed my inspiration a bit in that I have not fallen as far as I have been fearing.

Yes, I went much slower. Yes, it was a fast, flat, cold course. But I will take it. I have another 5 mile that will not be so kind on Saturday…

Breakdown

I’m just going to say it…

I just want to give up.

I am tired of working around the puking and pushing through the nausea and the fatigue and the breathlessness just to have an endless string of shitty runs. The only thing that is keeping me running is the memory of how much I used to love it, how much it used to balance me. Echoes of the high that I rarely glimpse anymore.

I am sick of beating myself and feeling defeated for how slow I have become, how hard the distance is, how I have to walk. I told myself I would let go of striving on these things, but without the euphoria, they irk me. They make the runs seem all the less successful.

The runs are not all as horrible as tonight’s, but the vast majority are just shitty runs. They make me feel worse physically or mentally than I began.

Yet my addiction keeps me coming back.

I keep going so I can return to it post-partum. I keep going in case I can catch those elusive “good” runs. I had one yesterday, yet tonight was enough for me to just think clearly: I want to give up.

Tonight, we went for the 5K instead of the 10K I wanted, and I still couldn’t manage that. I forgot my belly belt, so the initial downhill had pain blooming in my belly. It was sharp, unnerving, drawing a line down below my belly button, getting stronger with each stride.

I foolishly and selfishly tried to ignore it.

By the time we turned up the steep hill, I came to my senses and walked, cradling my aching belly. I was walking awkwardly, almost limping against it.

Then I fell, slipped in gravel and was unable to recover. I plopped down on my side. I didn’t cause any real damage, but the flinching did not improve my pain. And as much as I fall pregnant, it is always scary.

After that, I just wanted to be home. I just wanted to curl up in a ball of failure.

I’m not going to give up. I want to, but I’ll keep going, just like I have for the last three rough months. I have a 5 mile race Sunday, another the following Saturday, then a family 5K walk a couple weeks after that. Run club every week.

No stopping, just limping through.

Waaaaaaah

I don’t want this blog to be a pregnant bitchfest…

…which is why I haven’t posted here for a bit.

That and because I haven’t been running much either.

Running has been at a steady decline this pregnancy. Nothing has been going well this pregnancy. I’ve 5 months in, and I’m still crazy nauseous and puking; I’m still taking my narcoleptic meds.

In short, I’m still just a miserable mess.

I have resolved to just embrace the suck. I am no longer waiting for the sickness to pass; I am no longer heartbroken when the sickness flares up again. This is just my pregnancy. However, letting go of being able to run and the sanity and the enjoyment running brought me is harder.

I’m trying to just push through. Instead of trying to run 8 miles, I’m trying to run 3 miles. Yet even that is still killing me. I was running 30 miles a week and did a fucking half marathon in FEBRUARY, yet now, less than 3 months later, I’m lethargically puffing my way through a 5K.

It does not make sense to me. It is, bluntly, fucking infuriating. I’m in withdrawals for my outlet, for that high. Apparently, I do not create endorphins when I’m pregnant; all my work only spawns more nausea. They better be stockpiling in there for labor.

But I keep trying. I do 3 miles instead of zero. I run when I’m nauseous; I keep wogging when I get more nauseous. I walk when I have to, but I do something. I still register for races.

The only reason I am doing any of this–the ONE reason–is to not have a lapse, to not have to train back up from zero after the baby is born. I am relying on the fact that I can return to it and love it again post-partum.

I loved it enough to struggle through the misery to return to it. I hope I can love it that much again.

Now I just do not know what to do for my outlet, what I can do to balance my brain chemistry, what can be my physical sanity. I’m just over feeling like shit.

Crawling

I feel like myself for the first time in maybe two months. Maybe since NOLA? Maybe longer?

After last week of being so demolished by a cold and morning sickness that walking was a chore, I felt lost. I felt weak and foreign. Then my cold broke enough.

This week, sick or not, I stopped fucking around. I hit the weights at the gym at work. I made it prenatal yoga. I went running–twice so far. And it didn’t feel like abject torture the whole time.

I worked harder this week to abandon my inner coach. After years of training myself to ignore my body and its whining, I turned to start heading it, adjusting for it. I worked harder to abandon pace expectations and self critique.

I let the run be the run.

Or jog. Or near walk at this point. Whatever. I let it be.

I discovered that when I did not try to push my pace to it’s more “normal,” I did not want to die the whole time. I need to let myself be slow(er). It doesn’t matter right now. I just want to run with my baby; I just want to keep my progress for when I return to training post partum.

I pushed myself at run club tonight but in moderation, which is something I am not familiar with. We did not do the full 10K, instead a modified 5 mile route. I strived to wog up both the killer hills, letting myself do it lethargically, but I managed to make it without stopping. That challenge, that minor accomplishment made it felt like running again. That push brought back the high and the endorphins.

I feel like I’m actually getting back on track. I am hoping the sickness and the nausea are moving behind me, but I’m not overly optimistic yet. When I see a week without puking, then I’ll hope. Right now, I’m on day two.

My blisters are back. My muscles are tired and whining. My hips ache. I feel like myself again.