You might have noticed that today is not Friday. Or, if I'm the first to break the news to you, then I'm sorry to let you know that it isn't Friday. Soon, though.
For a variety of reasons, Martini Fridays will now be on Thursdays, which means we needed a new name. Martini Fridays on Thursdays felt cumbersome. Right now, we're going with "Dry Martini." We'll see if it sticks.
My post-Wineglass return to running was going really, really well until last Wednesday. Yes, the first few runs back were rougher than I’d expected and there were moments when what "an easy three" felt like the physical equivalent of my high school stats class, where I was so far out of my league that I couldn’t even keep up with where my league should have been.
It was a disheartening slog, is what I’m saying. A few runs in, though, and I was back where I’d left off. I could pull off a few miles at my race pace in the middle of a longer run. My long runs were comfortable and, in one case, through typical New England-y October weather, which is to say, hot, bright sunshine followed by freezing snow squalls. A reminder that winter, as various Games of Thrones characters like to intone, is coming.
Still, it felt like all of the fitness I’d gained during my training for my super-fantastic race was in there. Now, I thought, it's time to cue the training montage and so that I can get even faster!
Right now, you should hear the sound of a sad trombone.
Last week, shortly after a tornado-fast trip down to New York City for my actual job, during which I shook a lot of hands and failed to get good sleep, I was toppled by some dread illness. I spent the rest of the week either on the couch or asleep in bed, snuffling and hacking and wheezing while hoping that it would all pass sooner rather than later. Which it hasn’t. Stupid germs.
To add to the fun, 24 hours after I was felled, my ten-year old son toppled, too. His version has been more spectacular, though. Long story short, while I was dragging my sorry self around a grocery store where I’d gone to pick up more decongestants and boxes of Jello, the boy almost made it to the bathroom before he started barfing.
Being ten, he’s bounced back a whole lot quicker than I have. He’s back at school; I’m back at work -- but one of us collapses on the couch after our days and begs for others in the house to refill her water glass. With extra ice. And, maybe a grape NUUN, if you really want to show me how much you love me.
My phlegm-y haze last weekend didn’t keep me from watching the NYC marathon. Not only do I consider it my local 26.2 (even though I live four hours away), I knew quite a few folks running it this year. Yes, Mary Keitany is my BFF from high school … I kid.
By all reports, each and every BAMR who ran NYC, rocked it like a mighty thing that rocks. Seriously. Even if she might think she didn’t, from my vantage point on the couch, she totally, absolutely, unequivocally did.
While I watched, I started to have … thoughts, the sort of thoughts that one has when one is glassy-eyed from fever. If I were going to run a marathon, it would have to be this one, I thought. I dared let this idea fall out of my head and into the universe, which seemed to say: challenge accepted. A Facebook friend suggested registering for the 2016 lottery and leaving it to the fates. Which seems like an easy enough thing to do, especially when you haven’t run a step for the better part of a week.
Tomorrow — I’m writing this on Tuesday — my plan is to lace up for a super easy three miles. My hope is that it won’t be nearly as creaky and enervating as my post-Wineglass easy three — but I suspect it will be. My other hope is that getting sweaty will be just what I need to drive the last of this evil from my body. We shall see.
Of course, since deep, deep down I’m convinced that this running thing could disappear if I take my eyes off it for just a few seconds, I’m worried that all of the gains I’ve made are gone with the wind, since I've been sitting on my arse for a week. I know that’s my inner crazy lady talking, the one who always jumps to the most fatalistic conclusions despite having zero evidence to support them. But the running is what keeps my inner crazy lady quiet so she’s had some time to cook up a nice batch of new anxieties for me to ponder. Just one of the side benefits to getting sick.
How many of you have spent a week (or more) down with a bug, rather than an injury? How did your first few runs feel afterwards? And what do you think of the new column name?