Aches and Pains: not much more than soreness
Binge Eats: just a little bit of one on Saturday (a half a pizza is okay when you’ve burned over 3,000 calories in one run), now if we're counting binge drinks that may be a bit different
Did Monday’s run down at the park, my wife joined me. We took turns watching the kids and running. This little test of the knee was a great boost to my confidence, it really assuaged any concerns I’ve had about it being a legitimate injury.
Then on Wednesday I went out with the Tri-State Running (TSR) Group. They had 7 miles scheduled and my plan was to run those at an easy pace (9:45-10:00 per mile, about 45-60 seconds above goal race pace), but after the first mile I couldn’t help myself. It felt so good to go fast; in all honesty I felt less twinge in my knee the faster I went. So I let myself push it a little and ended up doing all 7 at an avg pace of 8:54, and I felt I could even do more.
I ended up missing Thursday’s run because I had too much to do for school and I really didn’t have the heart to make it work. I got the 'bad news' call from my Mom that my Grandfather was dying and that it was imminent, so I spent the evening with family.
Friday I worked a double; my day started at 5am and went (more or less) non-stop until 3am Friday overnight/Saturday morning. On top of that, while I was traveling (through a tornado warning) from one job to the next I got the 'even more bad news' call that my Grandfather had finally passed.
Even without this news I wasn’t sure if I was going to run my long run (that starts at 7:30 AM) with TSR since I missed their last two, so doing the 17 they had on the docket was a bit of a jump from the last 9 miler I did with them. I started running with TSR’s half marathon training group who was only doing 9 (along the same course, just a sooner turnaround), and maybe going a little past it and turning around, or whatever. None the less I spent the first 3 miles stumbling near the back of the pack using the girl (whose name I’ll later find out is Ashley) a few feet ahead of me as a pacer, fueled nothing but a half a peanut butter sandwich, a cup of coffee, and 3 hours of sleep. For a while I worried that I was creeping her out by running behind her, but that dissipated the second she initiated conversation. And by conversation I mean she simply asked if was running the half or full training run, to which I began to say, “I want to run the full...” and she cut me off by saying, “great, let’s do it.” I think she liked the idea of having a someone at the same pace as her (little did she know that I was only doing it so I could run with as little will power/ thought process as possible), so much so that when we reached the 5mi water stop she offered me some of her SportBeans. It’s funny how just a few words coupled with the knowledge that someone wants you “there” is enough to get you to do something you normally wouldn’t, like run 17 miles. A little later I ended up separated from Ashley and caught up to my DM friend Rachelle, whom I chatted with, rescued from a rabid dog, and got a picture with a giant inflatable pig. Again, it felt nice to have that sense of belonging I sometimes get when I run with the group, it doesn’t hurt that Rachelle is very friendly and talkative (I mean that in a good way if you’re reading this). Little later I caught back up with Ashley. We fought our way up a 500ft incline (at about mile 11) taking turns leading as we went (I didn’t realize how helpful that is), after we crested I thanked her for being the external manifestation of my internal running desires, and we chatted a bit more. Afterwards I felt so incredibly glad that I went ahead with it. I “survived” two opportunities to cave in. I could have cut it short to 9 miles, not to mention I very well could have not gotten out of bed after only 3.5hrs of sleep. But the real benefit was the opportunity to “run through” my thoughts and emotions about my Grandfather.
Assuming anyone is actually still reading at this point, I feel it warrants saying that I’m done talking about running now, and this next paragraph is about my Grandfather. Anthony was a stubborn, tough old man; which is probably why he lived into his 90s. He fractured his back 35 years ago, but that didn’t stop him from anything. He fought WWII (for the Italian army); which made for an interesting situation when I introduced him to my wife. He asked if she was Italian, which she (wrongly) responded with, “no, my family line traces mostly to Germany” (he didn’t take it well). You see, he was very, very much an old world Italian, Sicilian to be specific. He and my Grandmother (who passed back at the end of the 90s) were both immigrants who came this country to raise a family in the American dream. He spent the last few decades speaking a strange mix of Italian and English that no one could understand except those close to him. He, like all good Sicilians, was able to make beautiful gardens grow out of piles of dust. I’ll never forget spending summers with him in his garden, this little pocket of Eden 20x40ft amid the hustle and bustle of Boston. And, like all good Sicilians, he had no patience. I had a strict upbringing (compared to most Americans), my father had a harshly strict upbringing, but it all pales to the childhood my grandfather had. His older brother was crucified (mean that literally, not as a metaphor, literally tied to an x-shaped cross) in the front lawn of their home by their father for being disobedient. Anthony was a pack rat, kept everything; he was a tinkerer, he built so many parts of his own home. My Grandfather was a strong willed and fascinating man, I only wish I could have known him better.
I was able to give him one gift, my son was the first of the next generation in our family tree, and I introduced Achilles to Anthony when we visited my hometown of Boston in 2009.
Post Scriptum: Please excuse any weakly phrased sentences, I rushed this post out, simply because I wanted to type it out while it was still fresh.
