The last (and only) time I ran the Indy Mini, most of my students hadn't yet been born. Their parents were likely still in high school (maybe junior high). I had done two marathons a few years earlier, so I was confident I could cover the 13.1 miles with a minimum of training. So, I put in a grand total of 75 training miles. Yes, 75. Total.
On race day, I was provided with multiple excuses for my poor performance--some physiological (it was the exact wrong girl day), some meteorological (it was really, really hot), and some stupidological (see "75 total training miles," and I have now invented my favorite oxymoron). I had not counted on the effect of the bank of the Indy Motor Speedway track (it was like running 2.5 miles with one leg three inches shorter than the other), nor on the effect of taking very little water up to that point (with so many thousands of people, it was difficult to get close to the water stations without slowing WAY down), nor on the effect of trying to run at a pace I had not trained for but my running partner had (pride is that thing that goes before a fall). At the nine-mile mark, I begged my running partner to leave me; at one point, I grumbled loudly, "Where is an ambulance when you need one"? My rubbery legs and useless arms could not propel me at anything near a respectable pace. I refused to walk (there's that pride again), mostly because I had grumbled repeatedly at the start of the race about all of the walkers who lined up in spots well ahead of their actual pace time and who blocked actual runners from making any progress.
I did not expire that day. I was humbled ("humiliated" is probably more accurate) in the extreme. I was destined to learn a very simple lesson: preparation is the key to success. I mostly learned it.
When I began planning for this 100-mile walk, I wanted to get through it as quickly as possible, sort of like ripping off a bandage. At 60, I have a good idea how much it will hurt. But the truth is, it would hurt at 25 or 36 or 42 or 51 because the body isn't really designed for the prolonged exertion such events require and because gravity-plus-pavement is not always our friend. The original plan was to do four (count 'em) days of 25 miles each. Nearly a marathon a day.
But a recent visit to Cornwall, one of my favorite parts of England, humbled me again. In Cornwall, it's uphill to everywhere at a 12% incline. I thought my training for this walk was going well--I could hustle through five miles in 1:10. I carried 30 pounds of luggage up and down Underground stairs repeatedly. But in Cornwall, I found myself wondering if they actually had oxygen in their air because I certainly wasn't getting enough of it. My lower back and right hip complained loudly and often. In a dim corner of my brain, I could hear my feet whining, "Where is an ambulance when you need one?"
The goal is to finish the 100 miles and in doing so honor Julian ... without breaking anything I need, without dehydrating my solo kidney, without getting eaten by a dog/coyote, without getting robbed (I won't be personally accepting donations, and I'll be carrying no more than $5. for snacks and water, so please don't bother), and without getting hit by a vehicle. I wanted to be tough enough to do 25 miles a day and be done in four. Wouldn't that make a great story? (Remember pride, that thing that goes before a fall?) But taking some time to enjoy the adventure seems to be a much better, much wiser, much less stupidological approach. This is the benefit of being humbled in advance--learning how to appreciate the journey. To paraphrase Aladdin, "She can be taught."
