Losing Steam

As I've mentioned before, it's been a spotty running year for me.  I had lofty goals for 2022 - 1,000 miles and running long weekly for the first time in years - but those fell by the wayside pretty quickly after I got Covid-19 in mid-January, followed by a lingering sinus infection, right knee problems, and low back pain.  Just one of those years, I guess.

All has not been lost, though, as I've had some good runs - especially with JP - and I've run fairly regularly, just not as often or as long as I had hoped for in 2022.  I think my disappointment at quickly falling short of my running goals for the year caused my motivation to wane, at times.  I know there have been nights when I finished a long day of work and relaxed with a bourbon rather than finding a way to run late in the neighborhood, after dinner or when the boys went to bed.  

The danger to me, it seems, is that running - and running well - feeds my soul.  It's what keeps my inner flame burning brightly.  Yes, it feeds my ego to an extent, but it really keeps me going from day-to-day in a busy, at times stressful life.  It's also how I release energy, so I can slow my mind and body down and, well, just be . . . be more present and in the moment, I guess, and worry less, personally and professionally.

My overriding concern as it relates to running, though, has been what I perceive to be a lack of stamina the last month or two.  For the first time since I can remember, I'm having trouble constantly finishing runs.  Normally, I may cut a run short two or three times a year, at most.  If I go out the door with a plan to run five miles, I run five miles, almost without fail.  

Lately, though, I've found myself stopping at three or three and a half miles when I've planned to run four miles, or stopping at four miles when I planned to run five miles.  Then, I walk the rest of the way home.  For me, it's the walk of shame.  Failure.  I feel like a quitter and that's something I rarely experience in my running life. 

I've been concerned enough that I reached out to my friend, Josh Beckman, a cardiologist.  He ordered a stress test at Vanderbilt, which I completed early Monday morning.  True to form, I knocked off at 16:30 when my goal was to get to 18:00.  I was pissed although in fairness to myself, the technician told me the average time before stopping was 9:00.  Still, I didn't hit my target.

The good news is that as Josh predicted, my stress test was normal and there were no signs of ischemia.  The results also showed a high capacity for exercise for my age and sex.  After reading the results, Josh added it was "the best exercise performance he had seen in years."  I'm pretty sure he was blowing smoke up my skirt, as my mom used to say.

Still, I ran last night, before Jude got home from a trip to Washington, D.C.  My plan was four miles and I ran out of gas, again, and stopped at three miles.  Shit.

Maybe it's he oppressive, unbearable heat this summer, in which the dog days of August arrived in early July.  I've tried running on the treadmill at they YMCA and have hit my target distance, running faster than normal, without too much difficulty.  That's what I'm hoping it is, anyway.

What I'm hoping it's not, of course, is age.  Maybe I need to reevaluate my goals as I get older.  Although I've got to slow down sometime, it would surprise me if my capacity to run long and fast diminished so suddenly, rather than over time.  

Recently, on my birthday, I changed my diet again, returning more militantly to the Spartan intake of food and drink I originally adopted almost four years ago.  No breads.  No sweets.  No soft drinks.  No potatoes and, certainly, no chips.  No fried food.  No alcohol.  Thus far, it hasn't made a difference in my stamina, at least not that I can see.  

I'll keep grinding.  Or, as I say in adopted motto - Keep going.  That's what I'll do.

Keep.  Going.