The Hard Shit
Joseph Vinciquerra | February 10th, 2010

“Let’s plunge ourselves into the roar of time, the whirl of accident; may pain and pleasure, success and failure, shift as they will – it’s only action that can make a man.”
(Goethe, Faust)
While I generally try to stay away from profanities in my writings, there is simply no other way to portray the mounting challenges encountered during this stage of training other than describing it as “The Hard Shit.” Certainly, there is a certain majestic aspect to qualifying for the Boston Marathon, and by extension, the training that takes place through the winter in preparation for the big event in April. For five years, in fact, this promised majesty is what kept me focused on running a fast enough qualifying marathon so that I too could be permitted into the Boston club. And while I’ve had my fair share of setbacks over the past twelve months, training has so far been going very, very well.
But sooner or later, even the strongest begin to show weakness. As I’ve begun to ramp up the running volume over the past six weeks – 12, then 14, then 16, and most recently, 18-mile long runs buried within proportionately growing weekly totals – the weight of training for a solid marathon performance during the typical northeast off-season has become increasingly noticeable. I’ve done the work in sub-zero temperatures, and I’ve done the work in blowing snow and pouring rain mixed into the same forecast. There has been no such thing as a “straight” run – no workouts where I simply “do” a certain number of miles. Every one of my long runs, for example, has either finished with 5k at race pace, or has been comprised of multiple segments at faster-than-marathon pace. The routes I’ve chosen to run have substantial hills by design, and like Boston, the downhills hurt just as much as the uphills. Through all of this, it’s been cold, dark, and hard.
This past weekend I came the closest to crying “uncle” that I have in a long, long time. On schedule was an 18-mile long run that had substantial “ups and downs” to mimic the Boston course. High temperatures for the day would barely see twenty degrees, and the wind would be omnipresent. I planned a route that would put me back at my house at the halfway point, so that I could stash a water bottle and bit of fuel in the front seat of my car (I didn’t dare put it inside the house – knowing full well that a stop inside would result in an all-too-easy bail-out). My usual bunch of training partners, on this particular weekend, had gone missing. The sun that promised by all other indications to come out in the early afternoon never did. Instead, as I opened the front door to start this training session, only the blustery wind, grey landscape, and barren roads greeted me.
“This,” I said, as I took those first couple of strides, “…is the hard shit.”
Miles one through eight went fairly well. I didn’t have my usual snap, but it had been a tough week of workouts and the start of a head cold had already begun to make its presence known the night before. With ten weeks to go, however, skipping the long run was not something I saw as an acceptable option. At mile 9, I made my way back to my house and my car to pick up fluid and fuel. A Clif bar and a quick half-bottle of chilled water was all that I took in before tossing both back in my car and heading out toward mile 10. With every step away from my house, the run only got harder.
The local traffic was picking up. Most people were driving to and from the grocery store to pick up food for the Superbowl parties they no doubt were preparing for. I thought about big comfy chairs, delicious snacks, and luscious drinks all in front of a big screen television in a cozy, warm, room. None of that was now. Now, was all about fighting the wind that was only increasing in magnitude and decreasing in temperature. And the worst of the hills were coming. Every mile began to wear on me – and while I was holding my target pace, it was getting harder and harder to do so. My otherwise nimble frame felt like a ton of bricks, and my legs were not unlike giant, rigid cranes. Half-mile segments were feeling more like two-mile pieces. If you’ve ever run a marathon, you know full well what those last couple of miles can feel like. This run was no different. I had 18 on the schedule, and on this particular day, after going out and putting in the effort to do the hard shit, I didn’t have the capacity for one step more than 18 miles in my legs. For the first time in a long time, I ended the run at my driveway, without a single ounce of “push” left in me.
Days later now, and I’m just coming back around. The tickle of a head cold turned into full-blown one (pardon the pun) as I expected it would, but the extra rest afforded by this planned recovery week has gone a long way toward resetting my system. This week’s runs are easy and relatively short. My “long run” this week, for example, is only 12 miles, which is a welcome break. But the hardest workouts still lay ahead.
This is the reality of Boston. Qualifying is hard. Training for it is hard. Damn hard. But honestly, if it were entirely in my power to change things, I wouldn’t have it any other way. These challenges grow people; these challenges galvanize. When I hear people nonchalantly chatter about “doing Boston someday” I smile knowingly, thinking about doing the hard shit. And what it takes. Some will find it within them, but most won’t.
Thanks for reading.
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