Today I can see, which means I can drive to the grocery store without following the car in front of me like a lost child.
That’s a good thing, considering all I’ve been able to see out of my left eye for the last three weeks has been grey. I stopped driving except for short trips, about six miles to the grocery store, following the car in front of me at a safe distance. Fortunately, the speed limit on this island is 25 mph. I’m not worried about being passed by golf carts. It’s nothing one good eye can’t handle.
But despite my vision going grey, training is going well.
The miles are adding up. Eighteen became comfortable. Twenty-two is next. By London, I’ll have done five long runs in that range, the rhythm building week by week. In contrast, before NYC I only did one eighteen-mile run and the mileage never found its groove.
I’m lifting weights three times a week. Twice for strength, lifts meant to make me run faster and not break down in the later stages of a marathon. The third session is mainly for vanity. The good news is the strength training has prevented injuries, and I can feel the training working. For short quarter-mile efforts, I’ve hit 6:45 minute miles. Speeds I haven’t seen since my early twenties.
I’m still eating well, mostly. I’m addicted to watermelon and blue tortilla chips. But aside from that, completely sugar-free ninety-nine percent of the time, except when my seven-year-old granddaughter bakes and I must try her creations.
The grey eye is a reminder that while I feel great physically, my reality is always present. A reminder of limitations. But everyone has limitations. The trick is learning how to thrive within those constraints.
Someone once told me that constraints are like angels who remind us what’s important. I’m thankful for the boundaries.
The boundaries teach you things.
I run alone. I always have. I like the quiet.
Even when I lose sight in both eyes for minutes at a time, I make a game of focusing on the lines in the road. Or if I’m running in a busy city, I can make out the traffic lights ahead and focus on those. It’s strangely relaxing. Meditative.
But when the grey comes during a run, it is expected but not welcome.
The road where I run makes a big seven-mile circle around the island, so I’m not worried about finding my way back. All I have to do is keep running and hopefully the familiar will emerge from the grey when I find home. But the blindness comes with dizziness, and I worry sometimes that it’s not the sudden loss of vision causing it, but my heart or something else.
I’ve tripped more times than I’d like to count. Small cracks in the road become as dangerous as if someone tried to put their leg out to trip you on purpose. I can’t lie, sometimes I just let out a big cuss word. Sometimes I stop and sit down for a while. I can see well enough once I settle down and get my bearings.
There are times I cry. Just sit there on the side of the road, frustrated, feeling sorry for myself. A grown man having a moment with the pavement. But then I just deal with it the best way I can, no different than anybody else whose constraint shows up at the most inopportune time.
Because of my sight issues, I often run without headphones, listening to nothing but my environment. My breathing. The sound of my feet hitting pavement. Who wants to add another limitation to the senses?
But most of the time, the grey stays away long enough to let me think.
People ask what I think about on long runs. To be honest, running doesn’t shut my mind down, it redirects what I focus on. Whatever comes into my head is welcome.
Sometimes I start out mad and anxious. A bad work call. A personal interaction that went sideways. Anxiety about the future, maybe an unexpected bill, taxes, the state of the world because something in the news triggered me. If it’s weekend and Arsenal lost, I can spend the entire run replaying every missed opportunity, every tactical mistake.
When I run, my brain is allowed to think whatever it wants. The expectation, based on experience, is that the long run will sort it out. By “sort out,” I don’t mean solved. I mean it will find its own compartment by the time I’m done.
Because I’m in a marathon training block, I go out with specific goals. Right now, I’m focused on practicing my marathon pace. If I have a fourteen-mile run, I’ll take it easy for the first eight miles, then run marathon pace for four, before slowing down for a two-mile cool-down. I practice what I’ll do in the actual race.
London is seventy days away. I feel ready for the race if all I want is to finish comfortably. But I’m running London to qualify for Boston. That means I have seven weeks to get comfortable with my marathon pace of 8:35 per mile.
That’s all I’m focused on: following the plan, staying injury-free, getting to the start line. If I can get there injury-free and confident, I’ll take whatever April 26th gives me.
That’s the thing about marathons. Nothing is given. You can’t really see what you’ll do that day despite all the training and preparation. You accept your constraints and anything you don’t control. You prepare. You hope. Sometimes you follow the lines or focus on the person in front of you.
Finishing is not guaranteed. Boston qualifying is not guaranteed.
The best I can do is focus on the lines and move forward. Sometimes the lines are clear. Sometimes they’re grey. Sometimes they’re not there at all.
I run anyway.