Thanksgiving morning started off clear but very cold with temps around ten degrees and just enough of a breeze to make a cold headwind for the start of the Ayer 5K. Four of us started near the back of the pack, each with our own particular excuse to stay in bed on such a cold morning which we chose to ignore. We were two cancer patients, an Achilles tendon injury, and an arthritic knee.
Fast forward to Sunday, as this post will jump around the timeline like a trendy science fiction movie. I'm having a symptom flare which means pain that won't respond to ibuprofen or acetaminophen, laying on the sofa all afternoon watching football, and generally feeling very down. To answer my own question from my previous post, I'm not the least bit thankful for cancer as I find parts of the experience to be very sucky.
The race starts and we're off. I didn't do a warm up run so am very slow and stiff at the start. It's uphill into a cold breeze. At about the half mile mark I start losing feeling in my fingers and adjust my gloves so that my hands are balled up into a fist in the palm area of the gloves. It helps warm my fingers just a tad. It may not sound pleasant, but so far the race is going exactly as expected.
As my body loosens up the pace gradually increases until I'm approaching 10 minutes per mile. That's slow by my usual 5K standards but fast compared to the practice runs I had done in the previous week. By now it's just me and my running buddy Kelly from our original group of four. We're quite talkative and conversation turns to details of bodily functions and our personal issues with them, sprinkled with bits of inappropriate humor. It's quite typical of a running conversation, as there's something about endorphins that makes any topic fair game.
The weather in Vermont on Saturday would have been ideal in late December or January. It was perhaps a bit cool for November and there was almost of foot of snow in the woods, but it was above freezing and without any notable wind. I had visions of getting the chainsaw out again and cleaning up some other, smaller fallen trees, particularly the one leaning against one of the wood sheds, but my body advises against it. So instead we went for a brief snow shoe around the property, and then later for a walk down a road with a good view of the distant mountains. When not moving about outside, I spent way too much time staring at the screen of my cell phone.
By the end of mile 2 we had only taken one brief walk break and I was no longer feeling cold. I've run this race every year for the last decade and it follows the same pattern every year. Cold for the first mile, comfortable for the second, and starting to overheat a bit in the final mile. Just past mile 2 there's a modest bit of an uphill stretch leading to a bridge over the railroad tracks. Kelly asks if I want to walk, and I say we should wait until we get to the climb up to the bridge. Halfway up the climb she notes that we aren't walking. I had simply forgotten about it.
The further I run, the better my body feels. Endorphins have banished all pain, I'm breathing hard and feeling near my limit, but still have some reserve to use to pass other runners. Kelly is still keeping up with me, though I'm not actually trying to outrun her. Halfway through the last mile my body decides to stop feeling better and the slightest bit of nausea hits me. I decide now is a good time to walk, as the final uphill section is almost here. At the top of the hill we start running again, it's all downhill to the finish.
As I write this on Monday morning, it's a dreary weather day outside. While I'm not as down in the dumps as I was yesterday, I'm still feeling neither enthusiastic nor pain free. I'll get more accomplished today, though that will be mostly through sheer will and determination rather than any natural feelings of euphoria. It's very frustrating when I can't predict how I will feel from day to day, as it makes planning difficult. Bad days also feed my worst fears about my condition and the chances for a meaningful recovery. Suffice to say I'm more optimistic when running without pain than when watching TV in pain.
We pick up speed down the hill, now running at well under a 10 minute pace. I see the finish line and instinctively try to sprint for the finish, but again my body feels a bit off so the sprint is muted. Kelly matches my acceleration and we cross the finish line dead even. 5K completed in just a tad over 35 minutes.
This was my second slowest 5K ever, but by far the most enjoyable. To get the best 5K time involves some masochism and willingness to push your body well into the zone of discomfort. While I did push myself to the edge of discomfort, I didn't really feel like torturing myself. Doing so would have only netted a couple minutes faster time at most. As it was, all four of us that started the race together finished faster than we had expected.
Between hanging around talking to friends before the race, the race itself, and then eating apple crisp and more socializing after the race, I was on my feet for about two hours. As the endorphins wore off the familiar back pain started returning with a vengeance. I went home and spent most of the afternoon on the couch, until it was time to travel to a friend's house for Thanksgiving dinner.
My condition generally seems to be improving, but it's a few good days alternating with a number of bad days. The current string of bad days seems to have started just before the 5K, but I was able to ignore it for a while due to enthusiasm for the race and the holiday. When the enthusiasm is used up and the symptoms remain or get worse, it's emotionally devastating.
I think it's about time to force myself outside for a gentle run on this dreary Monday morning. Then there are errands to run and the general business of life to attend to. There are no epic adventures on the immediate horizon. It's time to focus on the here and now, and simply put one foot in front of the other.
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