Rockets and running

Today marked the last “long” run before the marathon next week. Given that I'm into taper, this meant only nine easy miles were required. Of course, as anyone who has ever trained for a marathon knows all too well, for some reason, cutting back on the mileage tends not to feel as good as it should. Even the short, relatively easy runs that make up this week and the next seem too difficult and too long. My legs feel heavy, my breathing labored. Nagging aches and pains have started to crop up in all sorts of funny places. Experienced athletes will give you lots of pseudo-scientific, physiological reasons for this. They’ll claim that your body is so accustomed to working out hard that it crashes with even a 10-20% reduction in overall intensity. I find this hard to believe. While I know that exercise increases energy levels (apparently, though I beg to differ following a 20 mile run or an intense bout of intervals) and that the less you do, the less you feel like doing, tapering represents only a very modest reduction in training and, if anything, should provide some much needed rest.

I tend to subscribe to the theory that more psychological factors are at work. After 16+ weeks of dedicated training in which I checked off most of my miles but not necessarily all of my target paces or heart rates, the last week before the big day leaves me wondering if I’m really that well prepared to run this thing, and especially to run it at my target pace. This self-doubt is compounded by the realization that, with only one week left to go, there’s nothing more to be done between now and race day. If I haven’t squeezed it into the last 16 weeks of marathon training -- whatever “it” might be – I won’t be doing it at all. There are no more opportunities to improve my speed, strength, or endurance. In seven days, I need to show my hand. But my tendency to distress over missed opportunities and lament what I'll never have the chance to do extends beyond my running. It also extends to space exploration.

Last summer I tried to be an Astronaut. The Canadian Space Agency (yes, we have one) decided that it was time to hire a couple of Canucks to train as astronauts, and they announced that they would be choosing two lucky winners to join Canada’s “next generation of space explorers.” When I say that I have always wanted to be an astronaut, this is mostly true. Certainly I wanted to be one when I was seven years old, and, though I never actually did anything that would increase my chances of becoming one, it remains the coolest job I can think of. Seriously, I challenge you to think of a response to the usually boring "so-what-do-you-do-for-a-living" dinner party conversation that could elicit as many oooohs and aaaaahs as, "I FLY ROCKET SHIPS INTO SPACE!!!"

It was therefore with much enthusiasm that I submitted my Round 1 application last summer, proudly noting that I met the basic height, blood pressure, and educational requirements. When I was subsequently “selected” for Round 2 (never mind whether the selection was automated or not), I immediately began to compose and deliver my essay, “Why I should become Canada’s next astronaut.” My friends were proud. My coworkers were amused. My husband was fearful. I was doubtful, but secretly hopeful.

As you probably guessed, I didn’t make it past Round 2. Those that did have skills that I most definitely do not, such as in flying fighter planes or designing rocket ships. And while I wasn’t really expecting to make it to Round 3 or beyond, it was still a bit of a bummer when I received my automated response. The email ended by saying, “We would like to thank you for your interest in the astronaut recruitment campaign and the Canadian Space Program, and wish you good luck in your future endeavours.”

One thing that is painfully obvious to me is that my “future endeavours” will not include going into space, unless I someday buy a tourist-class ticket. I will never be an astronaut. That ship has sailed, the train has left the station, the rocket has left the launch pad (and I’m not in it). This makes me a little sad, because I have a nagging worry about lost opportunities in my life, and the lack of time to make new ones. I’m only 31 years old, but already I feel like I’ve missed a lot of chances along the way that I’ll never get back. Not only will I never join the esteemed Canadian Space Agency and therefore never have access to the secret files revealing that the moon landing was, indeed, an elaborate hoax, neither will I ever be a doctor or a lawyer, which are also professions that I aspired to at some point in my youth. I’ll never cure cancer or sit on the Supreme Court. Heck, I’ll probably never even live in Paris and perfect my French.

Similarly, I realize that I may never be a 3:10 marathoner (assuming I have the innate ability) because I didn’t start running early enough, and soon I’ll have to start readjusting my PR goals upwards by five minutes with every five years of age, anyway. And while there may have been more I could have done during this round of training to prepare for next week's race, the training is in the bag. There are always things I could have done, but sometimes, I need to remind myself that it may be better to keep my head out of the clouds, feet firmly planted on the ground.