ironmantra by Shannon Thompson

This is the big weekend, long bike Saturday followed by long run Sunday. I have a rigorous week to come, but then my taper starts. All the hay is in the barn, as they say. Oh shit, I say. This is as good as I’m going to get. I will have to sign up for next year. Shit shit shit.

I woke up feeling great after yesterday’s royal ass-kicking on the bike. These bodies of ours are amazingly resilient, and I am grateful for my good health every moment these days.

I was scheduled to run 2.5 hours, and I wanted to go at least 15 miles. Last year on this weekend, I ran 18 miles. I’m still feeling like I’m way behind, but also feeling like my run is better, somehow. Maybe not any faster. But it’s not crippling me the way it did last year. And don’t tell anyone, but I’m actually kind of enjoying it.

Got a late start and texted Coach Scott that I wasn’t going to be able to swim afterwards as planned. “Bring your goggles and swim in the middle of the run!” he replied.

I can’t get away with anything.

So I stuffed a cap and goggles, a headlamp and a tail light into my shirt pockets, loaded up my fuel belt with sports drink and snacks, put the iPod on shuffle, and hit the road. I had mapped out a route to Scott and Kate’s lake house that would take me 8.5 miles to get there. The sun was low in the sky and the deer flies were biting fiercely when I paused on Rockport’s strangely named, extremely rural Main Street.

I got to the house just at the red sun melted into the horizon, and I broke into a temper tantrum, tired and frustrated that I couldn’t just sit on the porch like a normal person, watch the sunset and enjoy the company of these lovely people.

But the instant I got in the water, my bad attitude floated away. Breathing to the right every sixth stroke, the sun sinking into the lake; to the left, lakefront cottages bathed in its orange glow. My body felt strong and sleek, supported by the cool, clean water. Eight minutes out across the cove, ten returning along the shore. Out of the water quickly, lights on, music going, water bottle recharged, I stuffed a Clif bar in my mouth and struck out toward home.

I never run at night–I’m usually in bed before 8:00–and here I was at 8:45, still looking at 6.5 miles to go. I was beyond tired, and several times I very nearly took the straight 3.5 miles home to call it quits by  9:15. But I knew the mental boost of going the full 15 miles would serve me well, so I wound through side streets, seeking a flat and downhill route the whole way. Venus and Jupiter rose ahead of me in the western sky. I had the streets to myself, my only company the music in my ears and the fireflies floating with me across the dark yards and fields to my side.

I turned onto John Street. James Brown’s inimitable howl shot through me and I hollered I FEEL GOOD (ba na na na na na) along with him–all the words, and many of the instruments–the full length of the road, then turned onto route one and cruised downhill to home. I made just over 15 miles, proud and grateful and aching. And completely terrified at the prospect of running another 11.2 miles. After a day of cycling. Honestly, if I hadn’t done this last year. How did I even do this last year? I can’t believe it’s even possible. This truly is insane.

Not hungry but knowing I would regret heading straight to bed without some fuel, I drank four full glasses of water, then made a fast grilled cheese and asparagus sandwich, doused it with sriracha, and shoved it down while soaking my feet and watching half an episode of Orange Is The New Black. I let the Garmin sync up and then gave myself a foot massage before crawling off to bed.