In a word; Formidable. Training all by my lonesome has been the hardest thing I've ever done. I am a social girl's social girl. My life revolves around being swept up in the enthusiasm of others to get me through. Luckily I have Lesley striving for the same goal, but it's just not the same as meeting up on Saturday morning and then grabbing a smoothie afterward. It takes me a good three miles to get my little inner voice to quiet the chatter then I feel pretty awesome until around mile eight when I realize 'Holy s*%#! I still have to run for two more hours!' That's when the self-deprecating talk kicks in and I can't remember why my plus-sized booty ever thought this sounded like a good idea.
Finally, I hit the last mile or so and I remember it's all for this. That feeling when you're hitting the home stretch and every fiber of your being reignites out of sheer relief that you're almost done. You know that for the rest of the day, you're going to have that warm buzz in your body because it took you further than you imagined it could. Your legs look sleeker as they're stretched out in front of you, your gut feels a little flatter (probably because it's empty and ready to receive food) and even your skin has the rosy glow of physical accomplishment.
I hit the door and strip off my iPod, garmin and visor then shuck my socks, shoes and tights so I can finally, finally plunge my hot and sweaty feet and legs into an ice bath and lay back in contented silence for about twenty minutes. Then it's time to shake off the cold and hope I can transfer from tub to shower without accidentally whacking my frozen feet on the bath's tiled edge. Because breaking myfoot in that manner would not lend to a glorious sports injury story.
The warm water of the shower sluices over my body and by the time I've toweled off, moisturized and slipped into my new uniform of leggings and a dress, I'm new again. Ready to start imagining how I'll feel after I cross the finish line of what is sure to be 26.2 miles of the hardest work I've made my body do, both mentally and physically. I fully believe and acknowledge that it will be harder than pushing my nine pound, three ounce cherub out of a hole that's just not that big. And, I'm getting excited. I have the words of Dimity, SBS and all my supportive friends running through my head and pushing me forward.
Last weekend, I spent some time with the fam and my mom generously offered to watch all four of our crazy chitlins so Mrs V and I could hit the dusty trail together. Literally. As my run was destined to be much longer than hers she served as water station wench for me until we tackled Ramo Flats together. If ever a road has been misnamed, it's that one. Ramo is not flat at all. It's the hill we used for our long hills workouts in high school cross country, and I think I'd blacked out just how steep it gets past a certain point. Our last full uphill mile took us 22 minutes. The next mile (a quarter of which was still uphill) was over 7 minutes faster. As we chugged back down to the car and took in the glorious view of our cozy little valley, I thought of the summit at Fueled By Fine Wine where the water station attendees asked me if I thought the view was 'worth the price of admission'. Yes, it certainly was.
And yes, my butt was very sore the next morning. And the next.
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