Yesterday, I was running down Lake Brandt Road, singing loudly as I plodded along without giving two shits who saw or heard me, and then it hit me...it was the third time in a row I replayed the song "Bette Davis Eyes". Oh dear lawd.
I am 42.
No, but really, it's cool. I still feel energetic and quick as a whip. Well, except something new hurts me every week, and I tend to not know what day of the week it is anymore. Like, ever.
I had a great birthday last week. It consisted of a family mountain trip over Easter, then friends that are more like family that know me well and gave me presents like: middle finger sunglasses, an oversized pair of granny panties, a coloring book of animals humping each other, 40 single serve bags of Doritos, and a massive hunk of blue (or is at bleu??) cheese with a candle stuck in it. Oh, and a massage gun, because again, something new hurts me every week.
So, running. After the shit show that was the first two months of 2022, with non-stop school closures, covid & quarantine, and some calf asshole-ness, I've now been able to string together a bunch of consistent weeks again! I ran the PTI 5K in March to see where I was, and it wasn't so bad! Well, I'll rephrase that, it hurt like a mo-fo, but an 18:54 on just a couple of fartlek runs left me pretty happy and motivated to train more specifically again.
Because here's the thing with getting older. You seriously just don't give a shit about anything. For what everyone says about physical decline as you age, I will debate that in favor of mental gain. I mean, minus the part about not knowing what day it ever is, but really, it balances. Hear me out. When I was, sayyy, 32, I would have OBSESSED about this 5K for weeks. And I never would have let myself run it without having trained harder. Now, I signed up for it three days before, decided the day before I wasn't even going to run it because of the 30-40mph forecasted winds (sounds awful, right?), drank three glasses of wine and ate a chicken cheesesteak that night instead, but then woke up at 6am and said, "Meh. Why not. You're gonna run regardless, so go race." And so I did. And it was freeing and glorious. And I had a badass attitude about it. So yeah, our oxygen capacity and ability to build muscle as we age does diminish (mind you, very gradually, so every time you use age as an excuse, check in on your training and life choices instead!! ...there's your coach PSA for the day), but I swear the lower-key mental gains weigh heavier!
So, I have a fun goal that may be attainable, or it may not be, but it's fun to think about regardless. ...and that is to PR in every distance from 5K to marathon as a master (master is age 40+). #fasta-as-a-masta-that-loves-to-eat-pasta (apparently as you get older, you become a bigger dork too). The marathon would be the most meaningful to me obviously, and if I can get my shit together enough to get in the heavier miles, I'd love to go back to Indy to finish what I did not in 2019 (<--dropped at mile five with what ended up being a calf tear). We will see. For now though, I'm genuinely enjoying some shorter stuff!
This past Saturday, I ran a solid 14-miler. ...my longest run in a very long time. It felt great, except now as I write this, I'm icing the top of my foot. I think my instep got bigger?? (I blame pregnancy, just like I blame pregnancy for everything, like this weird right-nose-nostril-cartilage collapsing thing...yep, definitely pregnancy. And now next time I see you, you're totally going to stare at my nose). Anywho, luckily today is my planned rest day anyway, so hopefully tomorrow will begin a few days of pain-free running before something else sets in. Okay, but seriously, as the weeks become more structured and consistent again, I know much of this will get better. Because consistency is EVERYTHING (<-- there's your second coach PSA for the day).
Happy old-ass and oxygen-diminishing, yet mental busting, running, y'all! And thank you to everyone for making #42 and this week so special!
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