The Hard Days

“When a person trains once, nothing happens. When a person forces himself to do a thing a hundred or a thousand times, then he certainly has developed in more ways than physical.” Emil Zapotek

I felt cold air blowing past my raw cheeks and trudged up the hill as fast as I could. My stomach hurt, and my entire body was damp with sweat, which was chilling in the 25-degree wind. I moved my arms in circles and tried pick up my pace. This just felt terrible.

I was at mile 4 of what was supposed to be a 10-mile run. The morning was gorgeous; the sun was beginning to rise and shine brightly through the trees. But I felt tired, and weak. I struggled to catch my breath, and settle my stomach. I thought about where I could turn to get home early, trying not to wallow in my misery. I told myself how strong I was and that I was through the hard part. I tried listening to the words of the music in my headphones, and looking at the beauty around me. Nothing worked. I was feeling residual sadness and unrest that I couldn’t shake, and my body was not cooperating today.

I finally decided to call the run…at mile 9. I wasn’t making the extra loop to make it 10. I was going home for a total of 9.5 miles instead. I clicked off the Nike+ I use to measure my runs. The stats were recited. Through this entire horrible run, I managed to clock a pace that would still put me under 5 hours for the marathon—my ultimate goal. I was beating up on myself for quitting early and running slowly. Though I had been averaging much faster paces than this lately, this was still in the right range for a long run.

In the shower, trying to warm up my frigid body, I realized how ridiculous I was being. I felt awful and I and I still ran a great pace and for ninety-five percent of the time I was supposed to run. I had 4 great runs in a row before this and I know every run can’t be awesome. I was dwelling on one run that didn’t feel good.

I thought about training. This lasts 5 months. It’s not about any one run. In some ways, this was better preparation than those great, fast runs. I know I can still hit my pace even if I feel like garbage. I know I can keep going. I still got out there and did it.

In running, and in life, the things we do each day don’t always feel great. Some days are work and we don’t see the results we crave. We don’t feel a reward or sense of accomplishment. We expend an excess of energy trying to meet a minimum standard. And that’s the best we can do—all we can do at that time.

Some days are just hard days. The question is: what do we do with those days? Phone it in? Or give it our best anyway, even knowing it won’t yield the outcome we seek? Do we go out and do what we have to do, what we love to do, because it makes a difference over time, or because it’s only rewarding that day?

There’s a reason our best isn’t quantifiable. It changes every day. Some days our best is our best ever and some days it only seems mediocre. But it’s still our best. We aren’t all held up against some uniform standard, we are called to give what we can, each day. Every day. Our best. That’s all. And in the long run, that makes all the difference.