I had trouble getting to sleep Sunday night, after a day filled with running, caffeinated GU, and later-than-usual coffee while driving home. Even so, I was up before Ruth Monday morning. When I heard the first moans coming from her as she tried to move, I knew she had learned something about the difference in post-run soreness between running a marathon and racing a marathon.
We both had reason to regret that our bedroom was up in the third floor, but I wasn’t as sympathetic as I might have been. I was hungry and even though I didn’t get to stay the extra night on the Cape, I was still going to have my breakfast omelet.
Ruthanne met us for breakfast. She had a tough race, ending with a visit to the medical tent after she crossed the line. She finished, she was only a couple minutes off her PR in spite of having a bad day, and she was fine after a few minutes of resting in the tent, but she wasn’t happy with her race. Telling her it could have been worse didn’t seem to help for some reason.
Ruthanne did a lot of work, and she was hoping for better results. When you have a bad marathon, the fact that you can’t try again right away makes the disappointment more painful. But by Tuesday, she didn’t feel like throwing her sneakers in the ocean anymore, and she was asking Ruth about the possibility of getting together for a run on Wednesday night.
Ruth and I spent the rest of Monday hunkered down in the house and recovering from the race while Sandy raged outside. Tuesday, Ruth got a measure of revenge for my Monday morning mocking. The second day after a marathon, my legs are always even worse than the first day, but for whatever reason, Ruth only has one bad day before she starts to recover. She was off to show off her medal at work while I was still backing down stairs, holding the railing with both hands.
But tomorrow I’ll start to feel better.