I'm exactly three weeks out from my marathon. This Sunday is the last (thank you, God) 20-mile run and then we're in a taper.
Having gone through 13 weeks of training at this point, you would think I'd be in top form. Not at all. Instead, my body is falling apart on me, one piece at a time.
There's a constant twinge behind my left knee and in the front where the thigh joins the pelvis. My glute muscles are one massive block of tightened coils that refuse to release. My right forearm aches and Thursday morning I pulled a muscle in my lower back.
Far from being disturbing, all of this indicates that I'm ready to run my race.
This is my pattern. A few weeks out from a marathon, my poor overworked body puts its foot down and says, "Enough." Everything starts hurting. I start to question if I'm in any shape to run 26.2 miles.
Now it's just a matter of simple negotiation. I start pleading with my body--begging--to hang on just three more weeks. Just three simple little weeks. Then you can go to pot, with my blessings. In the grand scheme of life, what is three little 'ol weeks?
My body will toy with me, feeling better one day, then the pulled muscle (I expect) will come screaming back the week before the race. That's okay. I'm not freaking out. I know that for whatever reason, this is what my body does. It's a bit of revenge for 16 weeks of speed work and tempo runs.
I'm doing my part with ass peas and heating pads and I've made an appointment on Monday with my chiropractor to take a look at my back, even though it is feeling much better.
Three weeks. Hold it together, girl. Just three more weeks.
