Michaela Lussenden, You Don’t Think You Can Until You Do

You Don’t Think You Can Until You Do

by Michaela Lussenden You don’t think you can, until you do. A healthy combination of accountability, discipline, stubbornness, heavy metal, and true crime podcasts go a long way. Accountability and discipline are core assets most of us have until we think they are threatened. Stubbornness is not a good quality until it is. Metallica and Crime Junkie podcasts are never the wrong choices as music and murder have a way of putting things into perspective. These are crucial survival tactics for training for a marathon during a Wisconsin winter. Adrenaline is pulsing through my body as I hear my heart pounding between my ears. An annoying mixture of guilt and annoyance with a side of panic set in as I transfer $65 from my savings account to my checking account. The inconvenience of my conscience kicked in once more as I realized I needed another $10 for “processing taxes” and “sign up fees.” I received my confirmation email within seconds. MILWAUKEE MARATHON – SATURDAY, APRIL 12TH, 2020. I needed something to help ‘get me through’ the winter; a crutch for my mental and physical health that always gets shoved to the bottom on my list of priorities during the months of November – February. Running was nothing new to me. I still used my training strategies, tips, techniques, and the wonderful little fact of carbo-loading I learned from my middle and high school cross country coaches in my back pocket for the last 15 years. Of course, it was time for my milestone of 26.2 long miles. Once again, I blackout another sleepless night. This seems to be the routine five out of six nights a week. My phone reads 4:15 am, and I wonder why I even bother setting an alarm anymore. It’s Saturday morning. Snow is expected. It is 12 degrees. Perfectly dreadful conditions for a long run. It didn’t take me long to realize that training for a marathon during a Wisconsin winter is kind of like swimming with sharks. It sounds cool until you realize what you are doing. I tell myself, “Maybe tomorrow,” as I am reluctantly getting dressed. I wiggle into two compressive pairs of leggings, wrangle an annoyingly complicated yet necessarily structured sports bra, and strategically layer multiple long sleeve shirts. I am personally offended at my husband’s chainsaw of a snore as I long for the cozy, safe cocoon I just left him in. The sign of an obviously abundant, high-quality slumber feels like a slap in the face. Impatience grows as notes of caramel and other familiar smells intoxicate the kitchen. I loathe waiting for coffee in the most urgent of times; my restless body is craving for sleep that’s nearly impossible to find. My highest ability to multi-task is maxed out as I shove whole wheat toast with Jiffy’s crunchy peanut butter into my dry mouth and slip into my shoes at the same time. I go against my husband’s directives and walk onto the bogus, poorly installed ‘hardwood floor’ with my spiked shoes. The first sip bit my lips and scorched my tongue. Refusing to wait for my coffee to reach a reasonable temperature, I battle choking down at least one cup. My Amazon-quality running belt is packed with 20 oz of room temp water, a stick pack of Tailwind electrolytes, peanut butter Lara Bars, keys, and my blood glucose monitor. I set my Garmin to “Run” mode, procrastinating until the very last second before I need to step outside. Twelve degrees slaps me in the face as I step out of my apartment and into a black hole. I am officially disconnected from anything providing the least bit of comfort and familiarity. Only sixteen miles to go. I trek toward Division Street. It’s the only area with streetlights on; this ensures a sense of safety in this dark world. I feel like a rabbit as I pounce to avoid inconvenient patches of ice on poorly maintained sidewalks. I decide I hate every resident living

on Division Street. I am coming up on the corner of College and Division as memories overflow my brain; I then remember that the last thing I cared about was shoveling a sidewalk. The wind treats me like a bully on a playground as it smacks my face and tries to push me down. Snow pierces the bare skin on my face, and I am still managing to mentally escape into anything but my reality. “…Burning hard, loose and clean…ooh and I burn, churning my direction” … James Hetfield blares into my ears. I will save being serenaded by podcasts about accounts of kidnapping and murder for the blue hour. I glance at my Garmin, wishing, no-willing, it would read my required distance so I can retreat home. Seven miles in, nine left to go. I discover my water has taken a solid form as I attempt to refuel. Having distance to kill, I run to the aid station that I call my home. Hugged by comforting temperatures above freezing, I hydrate before I pretend to convince myself I’ll make the rest of my miles up tomorrow. Before thinking twice, I run into outer space. 6:00 am. I decide to run toward Metro Market utilizing streets occupied by the town’s early birds and third shifters. My mind travels into familiar anxious territory. Eventually my thoughts take a grateful turn as I realize my body is immensely stronger than what my mind tries to allow. I jog past Metro Market and turn onto Jefferson Street. I allow my legs to pause. I am relieved I left outer space and was dropped into the sea. I look around. The blue hour is here. The limited light given by the rising sun as it peeks behind the dead winter sky and kisses the snow just enough to create a blue glow so thick one can almost feel it. I can see again. My schoolyard bully has left me alone. The piercing flakes have ceased, and my breath is calm. Marshmallows are stuck to themselves as they sit on the tops of trees and yards of Jefferson Street. My favorite view is the hallway created by snow covered branches as I look straight into the distance toward my home. Relieving thoughts of blissful slumber and scrambled eggs with bacon dissipate the closer I get to home. I check my Garmin for relief, but tears burn my eyes as I realize I am short on my miles. I turn left, away from home, and I can’t help but feel more disconnected, almost home sick. I paid $75 for a lousy shirt and a medal that will do nothing more than take up space on a coat hook. Better get my money’s worth. I relied on Crime Junkie to get me through my last miles. The case of Martha Moxley held my attention long enough before I realized my fingers were throbbing. The sweat in my mittens froze due to running against the harsh howls of 8 mph. Mother nature swallowed me whole and returned me to the elements as nothing but a shell of a human. I disregarded my reconfigured running math and turned around before my segment ended. I used my frozen mittens as a tissue to wipe relieving tears of exhaustion the whole way home. Finally, Stevens Point had become more recognizable; a complete metamorphosis from the unknown galaxy I was part of just a few short hours ago. The sky is a lighter shade of gray as the sun tries to escape behind the clouds. The rest of the city stirs awake. Pressing a very satisfying “Save” on my Garmin, I trudged my fatigued legs up the stairs. They feel like 1000 pounds. A congratulatory “14 Miles” and my splits had replaced my Garmin watch face. While struggling to defrost in my cozy cocoon I open my Garmin app on my iPhone to see the stats of this morning’s endeavor. An annoyingly familiar intruder interrupted the serenity running has always given me. Fourteen miles was not enough. The rare voice of reason, or exhaustion, both credited to the activity I despised just 45 minutes ago, eliminated my intruder as I checked my training calendar for the rest of January. Next weekend, 18 miles.