I almost posted a handy multiple-choice self-test titled “Do you have any fucks left to give?” But then I decided it wasn’t that funny and nobody really needs to know that I haven’t put on real clothes (as opposed to running clothes) in like two weeks and recently put on a bathrobe to keep warm and almost left the house in it. Yeah, it’s been a chilly summer. Anyway, Herr Cheeks and I have been sick, so it’s been a stressful yet completely uneventful couple of weeks. It was his first real cold, poor little guy. He felt really bad for about five days, then had a lingering cough for another week, and is now officially healthy.
Remember how I said I wasn’t setting any running goals? I’m working on not setting any running goals. I’m trying really, really hard not to set any goals and just be one with running for a while. Zen. Om. What have you. But. A couple of weeks ago as I slogged up the Teufelsberg, Berlin’s only real hill (a heap of WWII rubble, actually) an insidious sequence of words weaseled its way into my conscious mind. Words akin to conveying oneself over 6.2 miles on foot in an expeditious manner. Words rhyming with, I don’t know, last men weigh, or past wen fey.
Words, words, words. I tried to distract myself by recalling the plot of Hamlet, but it didn’t work. Yeah, something’s whatever in the state of Denmark and then everyone dies. Now! Vast Ben-Gay, anchors aweigh (wait, what?), c’mon run another two kilometers it’ll help your mast hen lay!
A ridiculous rhyming mantra now accompanies every run, even pops up when I think about what to do today. Should I go to spin class? Well, will it help us with the vast fen day? y/n?
Lesson: if you have to work really hard at being zen, it might not be for you.
It just seems so seductively simple. Barely a plan, really. Not even worthy of the word goal. You just up your mileage, get your long run up to 10 miles or so, about six weeks before the heretofore unnamed event you add speedwork, and there you have it: a cast den way in under 45 minutes.