For I have miles to go before I sleep....

If you asked me to pick one of the hardest days of my life, yesterday would be it. 

It began a Saturday like any other – our entire AID ASHA team had gathered together at 6:45 am for our long distance training run. It was to be 17 miles this weekend and we had an exciting and scenic route - the entire Charles river basin to run. The weather was perfect and a generous, well-planned water support system had been ensured to keep us adequately hydrated every three miles of our way.  In addition, the previous week had been a cut-back week where we accrued fewer than usual weekly training miles to give our legs the much needed time to rest and recuperate from our previous runs. It seemed perfect and when 7 o’clock rolled around I began with an enthusiasm dampened only by the drowsiness of being up so early on a weekend morning.

I sensed that something was wrong from the very start. My legs seemed tired and weary, too fatigued to remember the strength and memory they had developed over the previous months. My breathing was ragged and the air I managed to gulp in did little to oxygenate my lungs. I kept going, knowing that the first mile was always the most trying and if I pushed through this one, my body would soon relax into its smooth running rhythm and my breathing and heart rate would slowly stabilize.

Three miles in, I was still gasping for air. I had tried alternating between sprinting and almost jogging to stimulate my legs into finding that perfect pace to settle into, one that would decouple the mechanical action of running from the mental control I was still exerting over my strides. I yearned for that moment when my body would be on autopilot and my mind would be free to peregrinate, to explore and to look around.

 It did not happen.

By mile 7 I lost sight of all my fellow runners. I was now alone, running out in the open having left the cooling canopy of trees far behind.  I was aching to quit, to leave the 17 miles for another day, another run. I willed myself to not think about the time, the pace or the distance and to break it down into simpler goals that I could achieve. I made rules – the decision to quit or continue could only be made at one of the water stops, and whatever I chose at that point would overrule any thoughts I had en route to the next one. If I committed to run, I had to keep going for the next three miles; if I opted to quit I could not guilt myself into getting back into the run. I had to choose judiciously at each break and I soon found myself deferring the decision to surrender until the next water stop.

On the 12^th mile, my ITB gave in.  A common syndrome amongst runners, the ITB causes pain and inflammation on the outside of the knee, where the iliotibial band (a muscle on the outside of the thigh) becomes tendinous and creates friction by rubbing against the thigh bone as it runs alongside the knee joint.  My left knee screamed in resistance but I continued to run, walk and limp the rest of the way. My team mates who had made an unscheduled stop had caught up by now and it was their camaraderie that kept my spirits up.

With 3 more miles to go, I was in for a pleasant surprise. S, my moral support on all the long runs had developed severe shin splints at mile 4 and had been forced to abandon the run. He had made his way back to the start line, rented a kayak and rowed his way down the river till he located us running along its banks!  I felt so touched and fortunate to have someone, who despite being in excruciating pain himself, had found a way to support and accompany me across the finish line.  

By noon it was over.  I had run 17.5 miles.

It was 6:30 pm when the tears finally came. They crept up unannounced and flowed unabashedly in warm, salty streams. They cried in exhaustion and trepidation, for how far I had come and how much more I still had to achieve. They wept for not having the tenacity to go on and for knowing that for the first time, I was truly ready to give up. I had done my best and given it my all. “Please”, they pleaded,” no more”.  I cried in memory of Saturdays that were simple, when I could sleep in and read a book or go for a walk. I wept for the knees that now buckled under me each time I stood up and for the stiffness that only permitted me to descend a stairway sideways. I let them flow.  

It was only in the quiet sniffles that followed that I saw the conviction, standing silently but surely behind the defeat. And I knew that no matter how much I cried then, when the first rays of the sun came up the next morning, I would grab my keys, put on my sneakers and go through the agony once again.