This past week, I hit the wall. Hard. How hard? Hard enough to leave a Ryan-shaped, splayed out impression cracked into the mortar. I could say "you should see the other guy," but frankly the wall, despite my mass and near-terminal velocity, steadfastly withstood my assault. I didn't take it very well, either, and while I've picked myself up and begun the process of cleaning away the rubble, I have to say sorry to Veva, who got stuck at the aid station with me on Saturday. It was a bad morning.
That covers irritability, on to inactivity and insanity.
As you know, I've been hurt. Still am, actually. Starting with the bruised ribs that I keep trying to train through and graduating into a case of plantar fasciitis. For the last couple of weeks all I've really been able to do is modified duty, holding back on swims and not running. It makes me crazy, having to watch the team training while I stand still. Add to that a severely sub-stellar week at the office and off the reservation I go, down into a deep dark hole. It doesn't take much brain power to see that this is an untenable situation.
So I stopped, took a good long look at my season and realized that I am in serious danger of wasting my trip to Kona. This simply will not do. I'm still hurt, only time and rest can fix that, but with only about 6 weeks to race day, time is in short supply. If I can't follow the program, I have to make my own. So tonight I started my own rehab program. Two hours of spinning, balance, and body work, to be followed by Aleve and sleep. On top of that, I'm going to try and cut booze and soda until race day, which is going to hurt, probably more than my ribs and foot together, but I've got to hit a race weight and be in the best shape possible, given the deadlines and physical constraints.
I need to get my head in the game, and the only thing I can do is to attack the problem straight on and push through it, maybe around it, but definitely, unequivocally, past it.