2019 in Running: February

If there is a lesson to be learned from Februaries it is that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

February turned things around. Not in a good way. Perhaps it was something in the overconfidence of a new year and an epic push through a hard core January, or who the hell knows. I bungled my toe, burned myself out, and pissed off a few important people in my life. Cocky as shit. Downhill. Miserable training. Slump. And…

Alright, backup.

To be honest I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes trying to remember what I actually did to my toe and [dammit!] I can’t remember. I bruised it, a big toe hobbled by a a dumbass accident, and I recall quite vividly that it hurt to run for about six weeks. Really hurt for two weeks. Cautious pain for another four. I skipped out on a winter half marathon, the Hypothermic Half, because… toe reasons. Bailed. Phoned in a non-participate, which was fine because it turned out to be a colder-than-average year for an already freaky cold run. I was sad but not really.

Getting sidelined makes you defensive, too. When the thing you feel like you can control is suddenly out of control… good intentions… road to hell… blah, blah…

Keeping me in check: The kid, who has not been mentioned yet on this bloggyblog (I think) is not a runner so much as a kid who is told to particpate in sports. The last indoor track season of her elementary school career saw her running relay races and showing up her side-lined old man. She got fast. Kids don’t care. They sprint hard until they hurt so much it comes out as tears. Grown ups stub our toes and watch netflix on the couch.

I nursed myself back to health runjogging my own indoor track. The local facility beaconed me as a refuge. Escaping the hell of commitment to an outdoor course. Exscaping the hell of the cold and ice. Escaping the socializing that comes from distance running with people out in the wilderness but who can instead pace you for ten klicks on a track and never actually see you. Plodding klicks on a circle of green rubber followed by sad-face coffee commiserations.

I was keeping up with the swimming, tho. Cross training. Attempting to mantain a real fitness schedule because (as alluded to in January) I’d jumped into the triathlon mindset with another race registration (summer!) and things were looking rosy for a swim-bike-run later in the year.

Future optimism mixed with winter blues and a minor (oh, so minor) injury were a potent recipe of self-pity-inducing failcake. Something had to give.