I’m running a half marathon on Sunday. I really shouldn’t be; I haven’t trained for it, and the weather forecast is horrible (hot, humid, windy, rainy). And yet, I am stupidly excited about the whole idea of getting up at 4:00 am to run 13.1 miles, including a long painful uphill stretch that will most likely be straight into a driving headwind.
Also? There’s a chance of thunderstorms. And yet, I’m still excited. Which probably says something about how things have been going around here.
This has been a hard school year, for a lot of reasons, and the worst part fell just as I was starting to train for this race. A stretch of terrible polar vortex-induced weather kept me off the roads and on the treadmill, which is frustrating because I’m not someone who can run long miles on the treadmill. But at least I was running. That is, until I wasn’t.
See, the treadmill is at my gym. On the days when everyone went to school, I would stop on the way home and run. But we had a lot of days this winter where Henry didn’t make it to school, and leaving him home alone to go work out just wasn’t an option.
(When I say that Henry “didn’t make it to school” I mean exactly that: He was completely unable to get himself together to go to school. If you don’t have a child like Henry, you are probably shaking your head in bafflement at this point — and also maybe judging me a little — because why can’t the boy go to school? Just make him go to school! I can’t explain it; some days, he just cannot find it in him to get dressed and show up for class. Of course, if you are raising your own Henry, you read that and started nodding your head and looking for my email address so you could reach out and say GOD YES! US TOO! SOLIDARITY, SISTER!)
So between the weather (stressful) and the boy (more stressful), I essentially stopped running. Instead of logging my usual 30ish miles a week, I was down to 10. Or 5. Or, in one particularly bad week, 0. It was awful.
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