12.5 Miles

Wow. This weekend was a bummer. Grief, disappointment, anger, resentment... everything was bowling over. I'm not lying when I say that I spent much of Saturday curled up on a futon with a 12 inch cheese pizza by my side (er, in my stomach).

I'm lonely. It's easy as that. Even with my working out, taking classes, trying to better myself bullshit... I have a big gaping hole where friendships should be. I cant remember the last meaningful conversation I've had with anyone that wasn't family or SOB. Even worse, I have no rememberance of just getting a drink with a friend in the last four or five months.

I've been trying hard to change this. Working out, changing my outward appearance, and forcing happiness has given me some social courage to try new things and break some restrictive limbs. Even with my trying, I still find myself without a solid friend of my own in the city (or burbs). 

Yeah, I know. Enough of that.

Either way, my weekend was a lot of self-pity, woe-is-me style mourning.

On Sunday, the morning after my pizza escapades that put me at a staggering 2200 calories, I laced up my Mizuno Waves and wandered quite mindlessly out the door. Just like the night before, nothing felt good. My legs ached, my hips were tight, shoulders tense.

I had 12.5 miles to run before I could go back inside, in my cocoon of blankets and food.

First three or four miles, all I could do was whine. I've decided to practice running without music during my long runs, so all I had to listen to was the sound of me mentally analyzing each and every relationship in between the sounds of traffic and seagulls. Zen running? Yeah right.

At mile 4.75, I see my first glimmer of hope that I'm almost at my turning point:

Even though I use that as a reference that I'm almost there... it also means I have the hardest part of my run left. The next 2 1/2 miles are on horrible concrete, no shade or trees, uneven paths, and crowded with tourists and other runners/bikers. My focus turned from "my life is horrible" to "this run sucks ass. i just want a cheeseburger or those pizza leftovers."

It's funny how occupying your mind with how much a run sucks will take you away from thinking about how everything else in your life seemingly blows. Ah depression, you are a silly little bitch.

Anyways, I hit 6.25 miles around the Ohio Street Beach and I begin my turn around, back down the path of concrete and Chinese tourist Hell. At this point, I'm in a zone. It's an angry zone full of profanities addressed at dog owners, small children on big wheels, and unafraid city birds... but hey, a zone is a zone. Miles 8 and 9 pass unnoticed by anybody but my legs and the poor people running or biking next to an increasingly sweaty me.

And my ship in the fog appears. Ah yes, I forgot to mention that at some point, God, in his infinite wisdom, turned on his cheap ass fog machine to obstruct any beautiful scenery I may have been able to entertain myself with. Even the lake, although a mere 20 feet from me, was only visible by the floating garbage popping out of the white haze.

Anyways, the ship. It's there and it's telling me to rest my legs, call a cab, and give it up. This ain't going well. I take it up on the rest of legs portion but head back once I realize how expensive it would be to take a cab from North Beach to my apartment and how much walking I'd have to do for the nearest cab accessible location. Plus, I wouldn't wish my lingering BO on any cabbie in America.

I'm moving again. This time, much slower. "Fuck" goes my left shoe. "You" goes my right shoe. It's a chorus of anger. Even my usually submissive back and shoulders are starting to scream at me. I put on my music. But on shuffle, all I get is Mozart and some Amy Grant. Mental note: remove anything that used to belong to my aunt off of my itunes asap.

At one point, somewhere between mile 10 and the end, I sat down on the damp grass and collapsed. What the hell am I doing at 7 in the morning? Oh, I know. I'm trying to push myself too hard, too fast... just so I can run some race. Just so I can pretend that I am accomplishing something. I'm punishing myself. I'm not loving this. I'm hating every step.

But it's only a mile and a half back. And I've got a bed, a boyfriend, and 6 inches of left over pizza waiting for me.

I get up, finish it. Under 3 hours, even with my breaks. Runner's high hits me about twenty minutes into my ice bath. Even with doubt, impatience, aches and pains, and an emotional void sucking me... I still did it. I ran 12.5 miles. I did it with tourists and small children blocking my uneven, foggy path home. It's enough to numb the rest of it.