Long Run, Sunday January 24th

6:15am: I am standing outside my front door, waiting for my watch to finish sync with the gps constellation. It is cold and dark; the moon has set; only a few stars peek out from behind the invisible banks of cloud. I am starting just early enough to fulfill my own rule: that any run measured in hours rather than minutes ought to be started in darkness.

Last night I worked out this route (endpoints somewhat obfuscated):


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Allowing for the extra distance to my house, it is tolerably close to a marathon. I stand up on tip-toe and feel the uncomfortable flair run up along the outer edge of my foot between my pinky-toe and ankle bone. But it is not sharp. I don't think I'm going to face another melt-down like last week.

I am kitted out; a bladder of gatorade rests between my shoulder-blades inside my vest. Two energy bars ride in my right pocket. I'm as ready as I'll be.

6:24: I check my watch; a slow start, but I have a way to go. This will be the last time I check my progress for the duration of the run.

6:30?: I am settling in, now, moving along in a tranquil rocking motion, smooth as I can make it. My foot feels OK and I am relieved.

6:40?: On Hartford St I look to the left and see the mackeral-striped clouds suddenly illumined in purple hues, hovering magically over the tenebrous snow-fields. Though these early runs have made this sight almost a common-place, it nonetheless never fails to move me.

7:00?: Early dawn has broken over me. I am on 109 now, and the cars are still driving with headlights, but they can see me and I can see them. Soon I pass through Medway. It is too early for pedestrians; Lords' red neon sign is lit, but the sidewalk outside is deserted. Minutes later I am past it, and onto the mostly deserted stretch of road that will take me to Millis.

7:20?: A few more miles. The sun is fully risen now, but it has yet to warm the chilly air. I am in Millis, just passing by 115. I will run a little further than turn around and double back on Spring Street, running by Tangerinis farm where in warmer days we go to buy our produce. Almost at my end-point on 109, I pass another runner, the first other pedestrian I've seen.

7:26?: Spring Street. I have caught up to a runner, and it turns out to be the same one I passed minutes ago. This time we exchange pleasantries. "You doubled back", she says. "Yeah," I answer, and then add inanely: "I'm going to Norfolk." "I thought you looked familiar..." she replies, and that seems so strange to me that I realize that the run has started to pull me into a weird mental space. I'm not sure how far I've gone, but I'm sure it's not all that far.

7:??: 115 South. Hitherto I have been in familiar territory, but this road is unknown to me. Telephone pole after pole after pole glide by me, webbed together with ribbons of sunlight. Everything feels a little strange. I know somewhere ahead there is a traffic circle, and I am supposed to turn left. Everything else is uncertain.

I remember thinking earlier how my foot hurt, only now that thought seems hilariously strange. Why say "my foot hurts", the way you'd say "my dog is acting up on me". What does it mean? I am all of a piece.

I pass a dead squirrel.

I clench my hands inside my gloves. They are cold, and that's the realest thing about this run right now.

7:55?: Norfolk. There is a traffic circle, and I know just what to do, which is to turn left. By this circle there is a Citgo station, and the Citgo station Has Diesel. This idea resounds in my mind like a bell.

8:20?: I am on Main St now, heading toward Walpole. Minutes ago I ate an energy bar, and the run's surreality is starting to fade (a moment of chagrin when I realized that I had forgotten to rip open the fail wrappers ahead of time, but fortunately my teeth did the trick). I am passing under and over and beside one of the commuter rail tracks, running straight as a ruler in the same general direction I am going.

8:40?: Walpole center, and 1A. I have started to think about finishing. When I get home it will be bacon and eggs for breakfast, I think. This road is not beautiful, but it has a good sidewalk. I think back regretfully on the quiet stretch of 115, eery otherworld though it seemed to me at the time. I am feeling a little spent, but basically all right.

9:00: More 1A. I run up a hill, and feel my muscles working, the first mild hint of complaint. I run down the other side, and everything loosens up again. Here is the next hill. I start up it, just a mild incline really, legs pulling me along and...wait...what? I am gasping. I feel like I've been teleported to 15,000 feet above sea level. My legs are suddenly leaden. My running form breaks apart like a tea cup dropped from a third story window. I fix on a red sign. Make it there, and I'll check my watch.

9:05: Only 20.15 miles?? Shit! Another 5-6 miles, at least! I battle momentarily with despair and then the despair wins. I am in Walpole, and it's going to be a bit of a hike home. But the thought of running suddenly seems unappetizing (Later, I will desultorily mix in some jogging, mainly to get home the quicker, but it does little to salvage the run). This is not the ending I anticipated.

That concluded my second attempt to run an approximate marathon distance, and while it went better than last week (3 miles, whee!), it left some things to be desired. It also left me with these thoughts:

* I like the single-loop format. It has disadvantages (in particular, it almost certainly means I need to do it solo), but it means there's a real cost of failure, and it also means I got to range farther afield than I usually do.

* My strategy of ignoring my watch was deliberate. Two weeks ago, when I ran 23, the miles were downright easy until the watch-check at 18. Then all of a sudden they started to get gradually harder, culminating in the last mile, which was really hard. I theorized that it was my brain that was making this so difficult--that if I didn't know where in the run I was, I wouldn't "know" to feel tired. Apparently my body is smarter than that. There appears to be a real physiological reaction around 20 miles. Not checking my watch had the disadvantage that I was completely unprepared for it, and it hit me that much harder.

It is trite to think of this as a "wall", but I do think of it as kind of resistance. There is something between me and mile 24 and it is pretty formidable. What I have yet to learn is: if I hit this thing head-on, grind against it for 1, 2 miles (and that is my optimistic estimate for how long I can fight against it), is there anything past it? Will it get better?

* In continuation of the previous thought: when I got to within a mile of my house, I decided hell with it and started running again. It was pretty jerky, but it surprised me by how not-horrorshow it was. What am I to make of that? Why did my body react so strongly earlier if it wasn't really played out? Maybe I gave up too quick? (answer, yes).

* I am feeling anticipation at the prospect of trying this same run again next week.