Hitting The Wall

After yesterday's caffeinated psychosis led to a middle-of-the-night run and a brain buzz so solid that at three a.m., feeling as if my brain was boiling, I alternately blogged away and e-mailed my boyfriend as I felt my cranium simmer in its own juices. Today I took it a LITTLE easier: one latte and two Mountain Dews only. And I finished them before two p.m. And I didn't finish the latte at all. Anyway, that plus an hour and a half of sleep last night plus a grueling day at work plus necessary trips to two grocery stores postwork all added up to one very busy, tired Dondi. On top of which, well, I've had cramps that could cripple a rhino all day and upon arriving home and readying myself for the eight-miler before me, I found that they weren't getting any better. Oh well, I decided. I had a little snack because I was starving, waited a little while so I wasn't running on a still-digesting stomach, and headed out.

Off and on for the first two miles I felt a little weird, but okay. I'd definitely eaten too soon before running and my stomach bouncing up and down along with the rest of me wasn't helping the digestive process. The cramps weren't as steady or relentless but when they DID hit it was like a ton of bricks set on fire in my lower abdomen...and then they'd subside in a few minutes. I was walking a lot but at a decent pace, and I still planned on finishing the run.

At two and a half miles, I hit a wall. Suddenly the term "bonking" that serious athletes use to describe what happens when everything either just freezes up or shuts down was completely and entirely defined for me. When I was running as a kid, I never bonked. This is an adults-only affliction. Even if kids do hit the wall it's rare, and they usually don't know it anyway. As a kid you've got the capability to push your body to the max and it's created to compensate for that. The human body has evolved, like everything else, to cope with the stress of age on the physical form. One result is that we shut things down more quickly when we're pushed too hard as adults. The last time I was a serious runner was when I was twelve years old...bonking, hitting the wall, whatever you want to call it didn't exist. Between my awesome recovery rate and the fact that because I'm a total pansy and don't want to risk an asthma attack I don't push myself unnecessarily, I just figured bonking was an experience I'd either gloss over entirely or not have to enjoy for awhile.

Boy, was I wrong. The combination of the heat, exercise, snakc, cramps, fatigue and stress at two-point-five miles all came together and formed one big, scary--though completely invisible to everyone but me--wall. It was nearly literal, in fact I think it probably would've described what was going on inside of me if I looked to the causal onserver as if I literally had run into a wall in the middle of the path, just...BAM!...and she's down and out.

When I hit I was running a reasonable pace, but nothing race-paced style or crazy. Suddenly my stomach turned to a clenched fist around a core of hot lead, accompanied by a mild crunching sound. Yeah, the sound at least was probably all in my head, but that was all it took. My legs froze, my hands froze (in mid-pump, no less) and my stomach...well, my stomach boiled over. I managed to lean over to the side of the path and scramble a step or two away from it before my breakfast, lunch and snack came up all at once. Once I finished there, the bile came up next. Somewhere in the middle of it all my bowels threatened to unleash, and I at once saw a flash-frozen image of me hobbling home with a massive brown sticky spot on the back of my shorts. I at least held that much together.

I think I threw up four times. It got so bad I called Peter to ask if he was nearby and could provide a quick rescue in case I needed one. Friends in this world are hard enough to come by, but friends good enough to rescue a tired, sweat-drenched, fatigued runner reeking of sweat and bile are absolutely worth their weight in gold. And platinum. Combined. Fortunately for the sake of my pride and Peter's stomach, I was able to struggle home on my own.

The worst part, though, was that after the second or third violent purge my stomach decided to force to ensure I wasn't ever going to forget, or eat before running, run tired and fatigued, stressed out and cramped, again, I almost collapsed on the path. I sat down and put my head between my knees to stop the world from spinning. I heard rhythmic footsteps approach behind me, and turned slightly to see three real runners approaching.

I feel the same way around real runners that I do around real cyclists. Awkward, large and clumsy, I try to hide my flabby legs and poorly-shaped, slowly-coming-to-form calf muscles and avoid their glances as much as possible. (With real cyclists, I put my head down and pedal my huge cruiser by as fast as I can, ignoring the looks that could be cast in my direction.) This time, though, I was clearly in trouble, and while these two men and one woman carried the form I craved and the muscle tone I would kill for, they were apparently, aside from demi-gods of running in my mind, kind enough and human enough to stop or at least, for one of the men to jog in place and ask if I was okay. I replied that I was and smiled weakly, then scraped myself up off of the pavement and wandered on, jogging, walking, running, and puking my way home.

Later I recalled what I was thinking of when it all hit: Gregory's blog and the post he wrote on the Wildflower triathlon. He bonked on the ride and described the unpleasantness of it all succinctly, and that's when I realized that, if nothing else, I was well on my way to becoming a real runner. Hitting the wall meant if nothing else that I was hard-core enough to train regardless of really lousy, should've-caused-me-to-think-again circumstances involving the condition my body was in. Now, I don't know whether to thank my wonderful boyfriend or smack him. Fortunately for him, he's a few continents and an ocean away in France with his family and I love him too much to smack him for inspiring a healthy Dondi anew. Hey, you can't date a triathlete and be a generally unhealthy individual. You don't have to compare heart rates and VO2 maxes or even train together (especially when you can't even pace him) or share the same sports, but you do have to keep an interest in being a rather healthy individual (news flash, G: one Milky Way or donut a week doesn't make you unhealthy, hate to break it to you, babe) in general. It's just one of those things that you kind of have to have in common. I'm glad I didn't meet Gregory during my partying years.

The other very important information I remember about that particular post is that it was largely centered around the idea of mind over matter. Which was also true for me. I was completely done, strung out, gone on everything that eventually brought me, quite literally--a few times--(and I digress on further descriptions; you can all breathe a sigh of relief) to my knees, but I continued on. I continued on to purge further at times, much to my chagrin, but also to walk home and not have to rely on a good friend for a ride home in the end. I even ran a bit more. But I got there on my own. Mind over matter...even when the matter is something you'd rather not be forced to deal with.

But most importantly, I was reminded of the power inherent in a good friend. Nothing gets you back on top of your game like knowing that no matter what kind of shit shape you might be in, no matter how lousy you look and feel, whether or not you smell so badly you may make your friendretch, they'll pick you up off of the trail, haul your ass home and if you're in bad enough shape, probably stick around until you drink enough Recharge or Cytomax to at least get some fluids and electrolytes moving through you and are fully conscious again. I'm glad I reached my door by myself, mostly to make sure my good friendship with Peter was preserved through the evils of athletic smellydom but also because it really did prove mind over matter, but I am more grateful that I have a friend or two in mind--and with phone numbers plugged into my cell, which gets tucked into my Camelbak and goes with me when I run--who would come to my rescue when necessary. I have only a few, Shawn, Peter, and Kelly come to mind, but they'd give me the shirt off of their backs or at least a ride home from a terrifyingly halted run, albeit with all the windows in the car down, anytime I needed one. You only need a few, but they light up your whole world and make you smile again even when you're trudging along a bike trail at the side of a state highway, sick as a dog and ready to call it quits altogether. I think the knowledge that you have a rescue makes it easier to get home in the end...knowing that you've got that "safety net" makes it okay to push a little bit harder. So thanks, Peter. I didn't get anywhere near my eight miles but you did make it possible for me to get home by myself tonight...if for no other reason than I would feel incredibly bad for inflicting myself on you at the time. But mostly, knowing I had a safety net made it possible to try to soar again, even with a metaphorical broken wing. Thanks for that. Good friends are hard to come by, and absolutely essential to hang onto.