― Kristin Armstrong
No. After running a certain distance, your body cramps and contorts. "Fuck you!" scream your quads. "I'm going to turn into little rigor mortis ouch-balls!" say your calves. And then your hamstrings snap and you fall over and it hurts REAL bad.
Then a bit further, your mind wanders and the more you try to corral it, the harder it becomes to focus. A little voice whispers "You don't need to keep going. Just stop. Your legs hurt. Your feet hurt. That cramp in your side isn't going to go away. You don't need to impress anyone, no one is watching. You don't need to impress yourself, you love yourself. Quit...Just. Quit. You suck and the Tough Mudder is going to murder you no matter how much harder you train. Quit."
And a bit further yet, what you have laid bare before you, is not in fact, your soul, but dinner with remnants of the day's lunch, and a hint of bile.
“Every day is a good day when you run.”
― Kevin Nelson
Nope, see above. But nothing compares to the day after a run, that's for damn sure. Crippling soreness, nausea, and shortness of breath is your day-after reward
“I don't run to add days to my life, I run to add life to my days.”
― Ronald Rook
When I run, I feel like death. I add death to my days.
"There is an itch in runners."
― Arnold Hano
Jock itch.
This is more of what it's like:
My quads are burning, my calves quiver with every step, and my lungs feel like someone threw a molotov cocktail down my throat. Sweat pours down my forehead and drips off my nose. I wheeze with every inhale. My shirt is sticking to my chest, wet and sloppy. I can feel my ears and head throb every time my heart beats, which is often and quick. A pain constantly stabs me in the ribs. An Amish woman is using my gut as a butter churn. The seventh circle of hell is well within view.
I haven't finished a marathon, but I what I have done is finally made my way down the stairs to my sidewalk, and one of these days I'll make it all the way around the block.
So I exaggerated a little bit. But the first couple runs were something pretty similar to what I described. Naturally, it became easier as I ran more often, and I actually managed to get up to running a consistent 7 miles for my long runs each week. I was a regular success story. An average Joe turned Prefontaine.
(Seduction.)
Naturally, running has its hazards. When I first started, there was a lot of heavy breathing. Panting, if you will. It was an overcast, chilly morning, but I wanted to get in a quick jog before work. As I jogged and dragged my way toward home, my mouth was agape while I sucked wind. I happened to inhale while crossing paths with an ill-fated fly. It found itself plastered to the back of my throat, and as a woman pushed her stroller along the sidewalk next to me, I dry heaved harder than I ever have before. Nothing came out. I don't know what happened to that little guy, but he definitely didn't make it out of my head that morning.
Then, of course, running at night in Santa Monica is a death trap in itself. For some reason, the city has deemed it unnecessary to see at night, and therefore has sparingly installed streetlights. I spend more time tripping than I do running.
And what is a blog post without a fart joke? Seriously, running with one in the chamber is excruciating at best, especially when the matter of the beast is unknown. It's one thing to know when it's solely a gas pocket. Expulsion merely requires a quick look behind to be clear of innocent bystanders, and a bit of a longer stride. On the other hand, when the substance is unknown, or just plain liquid or solid, it ruins the entire endeavor. Running while clenching might work more muscles, but it adds an element of fear...fear of shitting your pants, making "the runs" quite a real thing.
These instances are generally few and far between, except for the farting. I'm a gassy man. But despite all of these obstacles, whether brought on by rogue insects or terrible eating habits, I managed to push through and turn myself into quite the running machine. It felt good, refreshing. Everything was looking up, and I probably wasn't going to die during the race.
However, due to an abundance of freelance work, a buttload of holiday parties, and an ill-timed New Years illness, I haven't been able to run as often as I'd like. This, I assume, will decrease my runnable distance by about 95 percent, thus rendering me a useless blob, and I now have two weeks to get myself back into enough shape to where the Tough Mudder doesn't turn into the Death Mudder.
(A note from the author regarding his absence: I'm a terrible blogger. I'm not so bad at training. But I'm definitely not good at either one. At more than six weeks since my last post and only running a few times the last couple of weeks, it's time I jump back on both bandwagons. I will hopefully blog more than once a week now that the holidays have settled down and I'm not as drunk as often and there's so much to tell and because you all love the shit out of me.)
