Stop to Catch Your Breath
Has been a strange week.
I was not happy with the results of my "Magic Mile" Time Trial last weekend, and had been cursing myself for not having the brains nor the wherewithal to figure out what I was trying to accomplish with the fucking task. So in the final analysis, I totally screwed the pooch. I have never been the sharpest knife in the drawer and like a dog with a bone, I just couldn't let it go.
On Tuesday night I went out for what I was planning to be a hard 8K tempo run, at which point in time I thought I would have a far better grasp of my speed and conditioning.
Didn't happen. I had started the day, and then spent a great chunk of it, driving and then accompanying my father to his Heart Function Clinic. He has been having a rough go of it, and the visit to the doctor at the hospital ballooned into a trip to the grocery store and the pharmacy and then I knew I was going to having to do a bunch of errands and chores for him the following day and... it just went on and on.
Long story short, before embarking on my tempo run I had forgotten to take my asthma inhalor and within a mile of starting out I could barely breath. Given my recent respiratory infection I packed it in. Fuuuuucccck! I think the dry cold air - it actually stopped raining for one day in Vancouver - exasperated my propensity to wheeze like an old locomotive. Needless to say, I still felt as dumb as a sack of hammers.
The rest of the week has poured rain - steady, without end its seems, and miserable beyond description. Every run has resulted in cold, wet feet. My father's medical condition has hovered over my mood as relentlessly as the rain, leaving my disposition as moldy and damp and sour as a pair of my runners as I have fought off depression by throwing myself into work.
The only bright spot has been my father's dawning realization that he cannot continue as he has. Living on his own is no longer a realistic option. He needs to have people around him - who can actually help him - who are closer than a telephone call. Somewhere that he can get meals and attention and assistance as he requires. And he needs the company of other monkeys. It can't be an easy decision. And it is one he has to make on his own.
I haven't even bothered to wear my heart rate monitor this week. I am sick to death of charts. Sometimes you just have to run.
Tomorrow - 45 K.
And yes, the weather channel is calling for more rain. In six degrees...
Yee-ha!
I was not happy with the results of my "Magic Mile" Time Trial last weekend, and had been cursing myself for not having the brains nor the wherewithal to figure out what I was trying to accomplish with the fucking task. So in the final analysis, I totally screwed the pooch. I have never been the sharpest knife in the drawer and like a dog with a bone, I just couldn't let it go.
On Tuesday night I went out for what I was planning to be a hard 8K tempo run, at which point in time I thought I would have a far better grasp of my speed and conditioning.
Didn't happen. I had started the day, and then spent a great chunk of it, driving and then accompanying my father to his Heart Function Clinic. He has been having a rough go of it, and the visit to the doctor at the hospital ballooned into a trip to the grocery store and the pharmacy and then I knew I was going to having to do a bunch of errands and chores for him the following day and... it just went on and on.
Long story short, before embarking on my tempo run I had forgotten to take my asthma inhalor and within a mile of starting out I could barely breath. Given my recent respiratory infection I packed it in. Fuuuuucccck! I think the dry cold air - it actually stopped raining for one day in Vancouver - exasperated my propensity to wheeze like an old locomotive. Needless to say, I still felt as dumb as a sack of hammers.
The rest of the week has poured rain - steady, without end its seems, and miserable beyond description. Every run has resulted in cold, wet feet. My father's medical condition has hovered over my mood as relentlessly as the rain, leaving my disposition as moldy and damp and sour as a pair of my runners as I have fought off depression by throwing myself into work.
The only bright spot has been my father's dawning realization that he cannot continue as he has. Living on his own is no longer a realistic option. He needs to have people around him - who can actually help him - who are closer than a telephone call. Somewhere that he can get meals and attention and assistance as he requires. And he needs the company of other monkeys. It can't be an easy decision. And it is one he has to make on his own.
I haven't even bothered to wear my heart rate monitor this week. I am sick to death of charts. Sometimes you just have to run.
Tomorrow - 45 K.
And yes, the weather channel is calling for more rain. In six degrees...
Yee-ha!
posted by Vince Hemingson at 10:20 AM
1 Comments:
Hi Vince-san,
Good luck in Boston. Are you going to top last year's time? Perhaps you can pull off a Saint Ralph miracle!
After Boston are you going to have any legs left for Vancouver on May 6? I'm going in the half. Apparently, our Running Room Club (Burnaby) is going to join your Running Room Club (Denman, correct?) for a training run in a couple of weeks. Maybe I'll see you there, if you're not in Boston then.
Cheers,
Joe
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