With the 4day weekend behind us, I slipped back into work with post holiday depression.
It was a Tuesday so I determinedly grabbed my training gear and headed into work super early to try fit in a run before work.
I had messaged Rhi the night before asking her if she would be keen to fit in a couple of small runs this week before the race, and she agreed.
On Tuesday morning however, it was clear that Rhi had enjoyed her time off as much as I had because she had slept in and wouldn't be running with me. That is usually my trick.
My body felt heavy and foreign as I slowly padded around the familiar torrens track.
I told myself this was the usual "10-minute-shits" you always get at the start of every run but even after I had warmed up, I felt that familiar robotic muscle memory but my body hurt in so many places which I was sure was purely due to lack of use.
I was taken back to that first night I ran. Doing 60second intervals up the road from my house. Breathing hard, and conscious of the way not only my muscles hurt, but also my joints; my knees; my ankles.
I was feeling that all over again, if only an echo of it. It was scary. Even though I hadn't run last week, it was technically 12 days since my last run.
I managed 5.5km and even though I hurt everywhere, I considered that an accomplishment. At least I was there. At least I was moving again.
And the sunrise was super pretty. Win!
I showered, changed and had begun working for about 15mins when I realised I had booked another remedial that morning. Shit.
Luckily, the therapy room is close to my office, so I quickly made my way down there for this weeks dose of torture.
And it was torture.
My muscles were obviously still tender from the mornings run, because I jumped every time I was prodded.
For the record, I have been told that you shouldn't get a massage directly after a run as you can do yourself some serious damage while your muscles are trying to repair themselves, but Rob was aware I had run that morning and was actually quite gentle with me - I was just super sensitive.
He tried to chat to me about camping areas and fishing spots but nothing could take me away from the burn that was my muscles while he tried to soften the knots that has worked into my legs and hips.
The next day I was sore.
Not that I was surprised. I have been told you are supposed to be sore after a remedial, and I had also run for the first time in nearly two weeks. Of course I was going to be sore.
The ache in my muscles was actually kind of delicious. It sparked my motivation to train again and I was energised by the thought of getting back into our usual routine after the race on Sunday.
Dear God, the race.
Because of our lack of training and the upcoming race, Rhi and I decided we would only do two short runs before Sunday, and forgo any cross-training in case we over do it and give ourselves an injury.
Work was insanity this week so it ended up working in my favour if only for the extra time I needed to get my workload under control.
Even still, I struggled to focus and found myself googling everything that popped into my brain in any moment. Should you cross-train before a race? Can you run two shorter runs in a day if you don't have time for a long run? What should you eat before race? What should you eat the week before a race? Can you drink wine before a race? How much junk food can you get away with in a week? Cat shaped donuts.
That last one is actually wedding related. I'm not even kidding.
We decided we would meet on Friday morning for another short run but it was my turn to sleep in that morning and miss our morning training time slot.
I was so annoyed, I determinedly took my gear in to work in the hopes that I would still feel motivated enough to smash out a run after work.
I didn't want this week to be another week where I just let my training slip.
I was determined to keep my body moving because I was as equally as determined to actually complete this race on the weekend and not kill myself.
Friday was over before I knew it and I even stubbornly refused the traditional Friday drinks so I would be able to run. I turned down wine for you, fitness. I hope you realise the sacrifice.
Cue dramatic music.
Rhi had bought her training gear to work as well, and even though we were both nervous in anticipation of another shitty run, we heading out the door and down to the river.
We only had about 30mins to do what we could becuase Rhi had to move her car (Adelaide car park logic) so she suggested that we try doing sprints to cover the track faster.
After our first sprint we both decide perhaps that wasn't the best thing to do.
I suggested we try strides, which is something I had read about on Runner's World a while ago when I was looking at ways to increase our running pace.
Apparently it is a great high intensity tool for warm-up, pace increase and general fitness depending on how difficult you make it.
Because, in that moment, I couldn't remember anything other than the general gist of it, we just kind of winged it until we had made it around the track.
In hindsight, considering it was supposed to be an easy run, and that I was nearly vomiting by the end of it, we probably did too much.
We tried to keep moving even in recovery, but generally you take bout 15 seconds to speed up to about 80% sprint speed, then hold that speed for 10-15 seconds, and then take 15 seconds to slow down to a jog again to recover.
We had not anticipated the heat of the day, even at 6pm and Rhi and I both had the beginning of heat exhaustion by the end of it, with goosebumps rippling over my arms and legs.
Safe to say, the next morning I was sore.
At one point on the run, we had to jump down from a stone ledge as we swapped tracks and I think I must have jarred my knee because my left kneecap was really sore as well.
I just prayed that I could rest on Saturday, go for a walk that night, foam roll and be good by morning.
The only other thing I was worried about before race day was what the hell I was going to wear.
Because this race was a SARRC race, that meant that there were going to be photographers everywhere.
And because I had committed to making a race page on my blog, I knew I was going to have to look somewhat reasonable for our post-race photo, however presumptuous that was.
I found my favourite pair of Running Bare tights and, without realising that apparently Rhi was doing the same, I narrowed down my top options to 3 different tops which I would just have to decide on in the morning.
In my early morning flurry, I decided on black, and black with black. Anyone who knows me would understand that this is generally my go-to outfit regardless of occasaion. In any case, I was thinking photos, and slimming techniques. It was a happy coincidence that not only are my runners black, but so is my cap, my sunnies, my favourite 3/4 tights and the singlet I decided on. So, goth.
Rhi came to pick me up at 6am, again far too early for a Sunday, and we were on our way up to Clare for the race.
I was quietly aware of the lack of nervousness I was feeling. Maybe I was just tired, but I felt totally blank about what we were about to do as we were driving out to the country-side. Not the pumped up, hyperactive, jumble-of-nerves I expected to be. Quiet denial?
We finally arrived at Clare and quickly found a place to park.
The Oval meeting area was already filling up with hundreds of participants and supporters, swarming around the make-shift tents filled with SARRC staff and promoters.
Every where, people of all ages, shaped and sizes could be seen in different stages of getting prepared and warming up their bodies.
Rhi and I started getting the giggles as we observed how bizarre it was that it was completely normal for me to walk through a crowd while kicking my legs up at head height in front of me, and narrowly dodging being kicked in the head by someone else doing the same.
After a quick look around the oval, we made our first stop to the bathroom, picked up our bibs, checked in our bags, took a few obligatory pre-race selfies and then made our way over the race starting point.
The excitement of the crowd started to bleed into our tired brains and we started to feel nervous and silly.
Another stop for the bathroom and we began properly warming up and stretching.
A tinny megaphone voice announced 3 minutes to race time and requested that everyone move up to the starting line.
Rhi and I allowed the crowd to move up to the line before making our way to the back of the surge.
We had already discussed that our race plan involved the following strategy:
Start at the back of the crowd
Keep an easy slow pace
Run the 5km to the half way point or nearest drink stop
Have a rest when we have a drink
Run the way back at an easy slow pace.
There were many reasons I wanted to employ this strategy.
Mostly, because I didn't think I was capable of running more than 5km at the moment without a rest. But I also wanted to stay at the back because of how disheartening it is when a crowd of people are pushing past you as you struggle to breathe.
"30 seconds to go."
I was bouncing up and down on the spot, watching the crowd as everyone tried to subtlety observe the people around them. Girls checking out shoes, guys checking out boobs.
"3... 2...1...go!" And the crowd began to surge forward.
There were a handful of walking participants that Rhi and I swerved around, and then quickly settled into our easy pace behind the pack of runners slowly disappearing ahead of us.
Somehow, in my (lack of) preparation for this race, I had completely filed and forgotten that the first half of this track was uphill.
I think it was one of those pieces of information that I had decided I would keep for later and not freak out about because it couldn't possibly be as bad as what I expected.
It was everything to be expected.
While only a 4% incline, and barely observable by eye, my muscles happily communicated with me that we were slowly climbing upwards.
Even though the pace was right, and we were not out of breath, every thump, thump, thump on the dirt was another blast of burn through my calves and thighs.
I tried not to think about the burn. I tried not to think about the fact that I was sure we were the last runners. I tried not to feel horrified when the half marathoners that had left half an hour before us, had already started passing us on their way back at the 3km mark. Fucking 'Usaine Bolts'....
Regardless of all my evil thoughts, we had made it to the second drink outpost and could see that majestic little "half-way-turn-around" orange cone in the distance.
Of course, that last 500 meters to the cone was the steepest part of the entire track and only the promise of decent kept me going until the very top.
The whole way up that track, I had been telling myself that coming down would be easy, but something happens to your brain when you start running longer distances.
Even with the hill done, and decent upon me, my brain kicked into "fuck-this-I-am-done" mode.
The entire way back down that hill was torture.
I was bored. I was sore. I was tired. I was hot and I was raging about everything because I was so done.
The majority of the half-marathoners were starting to pass us at this point, and every time someone huffed and heaved past me, I wanted to stick my foot out and leave them in the dirt.
Supporters and volunteers along the track started to yell things like "You guys are doing great!" and "Well done girls!" and every time I heard something I became more and more annoyed until we passed some unfortunate soul at the 1km-to-go-mark who yelled "You're almost there!" and I yelled back "NO, WE'RE NOT!".
Dear, God.
We finally made it back to where we had started, and then had to turn off onto the road back over towards the oval.
Rhi and I were naïve enough to have believed that the last kilometre was an easy trek straight back over the hill, the same way we had walked up to the start line this morning.
But, it was not.
Up and over the hill and a turn to the right. Down a hill and another turn to the left. Weave through some trees for about 100meteres. Another turn left. Run under the bridge. Run up the hill on the other side of the fucking bridge.
At this point, another runner (a marathoner passing us on the hill) huffed "where do these hills keep coming from?!". He wasn't wrong. It didn't appear that this race was ever going to end. We could hear the crowd but regardless of my anxious meerkat peering, I couldn't see that finish line.
Another corner, another stretch. More annoying supporters. Another fucking hill.
At this point Rhi starts to sprint which I knew meant that she was almost out of fuel and wanted it to be over with. My body responded with wanting to fucking lay down and cry my eyes out but I crawled up that hill and over it and saw that glorious finish arch in the distance.
In the distance.
Another stretch of footpath, and other corner and then the archway was ahead of both of us.
People every where were screaming and cheering and small children were holding their hands out for sweaty unhygienic high-fives.
Rhi and I ran underneath that archway like it was a life or death moment and I felt such a huge wave of emotion and elation and relief that it was finally over.
Then the most ridiculous thing happened.
We grabbed our bags from check-in, and after a quick warm down sat down for a stretch and a drink.
We looked at each other and said "So what race are we doing next?". Kill me, now.
