Last week I was overflowing with energy. I was ripping through the full-session workouts, scoffing at their ease, sniffing for more. I began to believe I could roll straight to June like this, no detours, no construction zones, no problems. I was reassessing my goal, wondering if merely breaking 12 hours did not befit the indomitable triathlon god I was becoming.
As we know, it's in giddy moments exactly like this that life reminds you it is the boss, man. And so it did. Now, for sure, nothing even remotely tragic unfolded. Nobody died and no houses burned to the ground; no cancers were diagnosed, nor cars wrecked. These challenges were of the mundane domestic variety—but they were enough to require a good draw from my perhaps shallow reservoirs of composure and emotional strength. In the process, the triathlon mojo flew far, far away. I haven't swum since Sunday. Since Monday I've done a workout each day, but just one, and they've all been half-assed and unfocussed. (Today's 45-minute jog around the park was classically of that genre.)
Still, I'm not bumming about all this. I kept a tether to my training, lame though it might have been. I know I'll be back, perhaps in a day, maybe two or three, certainly not much more than that. But right now? I want to crawl under the covers, read for five minutes until the magazine or book falls on my face, and then sleep for a very long time.
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