The Luxury of Detraining

It’s been a little over two weeks since my marathon, and I’ve been enjoying the recovery process, with it’s concomitant lack of 1.) commitment, 2.) drive, and 3.) hard runs.

Last Saturday, when I was still giddy with the satisfaction of having run my PR (and coming within a minute of my goal), a friend who is a course monitor for the Boston Marathon emailed me, encouraging me to run it in April. He said he’d try to me a place to stay, which is a big draw…hotel rooms near the finish line are almost impossible to find under $300 a night.

I initally pooh-poohed the idea, but Sunday morning woke up and thought, “I’ll do it!” I emailed Mike (my coach), who said I could run it without expecting a PR. I started looking at flights and reserved a less expensive hotel room in Newton (several miles from the finish but an easy “T” ride away), just in case I needed it. By Sunday evening, I was full swing into marathon mode, seduced by the idea of running another good race AND being able to see the women’s Olympic trials the day before.

It took me less than 24 hours to recognize the folly of this new plan. By 3 p.m. Monday, after teaching five consecutive classes, I was beat. I imagined what it would be like to ramp up my training in January, running up to 70 miles a week, with a steady diet of tempo runs, speedwork and long runs, and I laughed. What was I thinking?

Here’s what: I just turned 51, and I don’t have that much more time before I start the inevitable slowdown. I mean, I’ve been running marathons for about 10 years, and I’m still getting faster. How much longer can I expect that to continue? “Not long,” whispers the marathon maven seductress, “Do it while you can.”

Only, I know better than to believe her. After all, she’s the one who got me into trouble a few years ago, when I ran four marathons in a year and had an overtraining meltdown. No, the sensible voice, the voice that eschews instant gratification and appreciates running with a strong, healthy, rested body, tells me to wait. Not too long, but long enough to give these 51-year-old bones and muscles a chance to recoup their strength, flexibility and endurance.

In the meantime, I’m having fun spinning at the gym with my iPod, going for easy jaunts, and actually having a good chunk of time on weekend mornings to leisurely shop the farmers’ market, peruse the Sunday Times, make waffles for my sweet, patient husband. The whisperer can just sit there with running socks stuffed in her mouth for a while. I’ll loosen the gag after a few months, when she’ll no doubt start crooning things like “Twin Cites…three-twelve…your last chance…”