Dear Marathon

I hate your stinkin' guts. This relationship isn't working for me anymore. Go to hell!

From,

Claire

Okay, I'm going to tell you guys a secret. I hate marathons. Hate 'em, hate 'em, hate 'em. And they scare the living shit out of me. I try to forget every time I sign up for one (or don't as is the case this time around), but the week before I always remember how much they hurt. And then I get scared really, really scared. You know that feeling when the doctor's coming at you with that needle and you KNOW it's going to hurt, and there's nothing you can do about it, and you have to just sit still. It's like that feeling for a week, only worse because you know you're going to have to inflict that pain on yourself. I feel like the coyote staring at the trap, trying to psych myself up to just start chewing already. Would someone please tell me what the hell I was thinking?!

And speaking of sitting still, I'm not dealing so well with the taper either. Tuesday was my last full workout. It was a wonderful bike ride out on the real street where I crammed thirty-some-odd miles in and raced the sun home. It felt great and the weather was beautiful.
Wednesday (first afternoon off): I already had too much spare energy, and mapped out an ambitious 170-mile loop from my house to Vermont and back. I was convinced I was going to do it, just as soon as I got my legs back again.
Thursday: I woke up in a HORRIBLE mood. I almost ditched yoga mid-class because I couldn't find my happy place. I was just lying there on the floor stewing in bitter anger towards the world (and namely my stupid ex girlfriend, who used to say I was ADDICTED to exercise.  If she'd said that to me right then, I would have punched her in the face). That afternoon I went for a 2-mile run and felt like SHIT. My legs felt stiff as boards and I couldn't seem to pick the pace up past a 10 minute mile for the first mile. I went to the supermarket and threw a temper tantrum at the self-check-out and would have broken the machine if I could have. I was so grouchy I went to bed without dinner because I didn't want to have to talk to my parents, and was too grumpy to cook.
Friday: At masters in the morning I made myself get in the back of the lane and just coasted. I didn't talk to anyone. I was bored and grouchy. Then we got to a kick set, and I just didn't give a flying fuck anymore. I really, really didn't feel like doing it, so I got out of the pool after only 40 minutes. "What's wrong?!" asked Alison who makes my swim sessions fun because we race every single set. I wanted to say, "I JUST DON'T FEEL LIKE SWIMMING TODAY, LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!" and then throw something heavy. I went to the locker room feeling like a a shitty quitter. Then, at work I couldn't concentrate. This time I wasted time mapping out a 500+ mile bike rout from my house to Montreal through the Adirondacks. I wondered if I could do it in 2 days or if I would need a long weekend. That night at dinner I couldn't stop myself from saying mean things to my parents all night.

And I'm getting fucking fat. I've gained something like 2 lb over the past week. Conversations with Angry have me convinced I should have done about four billion times more speed work than I did. And conversations with another runner at work have me bitter about my stupid genetics that don't make me run fast. It just isn't fair!  I do everything right: I run regularly, I do hill work, I do speed work (although clearly not enough), I do long runs, I rest.  And yet, I still run at a pace that would make some of my blogger buddies cry.   And I've been leaving mean, sarcastic comments on the blogs of people I like, just because I'm bitter and jealous that they're faster than me.

I hate this fucking marathon business.  Whose stupid idea was it to QUIT EXERCISING right before a big event anyway?  This stupid marathon is getting in the way of my training!  What the hell was I thinking?!