The wall

Runners talk about hitting "The Wall". Most of the race is behind you, but you're still too far to sprint to the finish line. Your body's done for, and it's up to your mind to talk you through to the end. That's the theory behind training for longer distances than you actually race.

Usually I'm not competitive or under-trained enough for it to happen, but I've hit the wall a couple of times in road races. The first was just a 5K, a distance I ran almost daily at the gym. But gyms are air-conditioned, and after running the first kilometer at my normal pace on a hot, humid day outside, I nearly collapsed. Even walking the rest of the distance, drinking cold water, and sitting in front of a fan afterward didn't prevent a mild case of heat stroke.

The second time was a bit more memorable. Having successfully completed a leisurely marathon six months earlier - and feeling great at the finish line - I decided a half-marathon at a faster pace was well within my reach. I trained carefully, indoors and out, for several weeks.

Then, Katrina hit.

For a week, I worked 18-hour days, was woken from fitful sleep every couple hours each night, had no time to exercise, subsisted only on a large daily bottle of orange juice (trying desperately not to get sick), and was under tremendous stress. Sunday, the day of the half-marathon, was my first day off.

The first 10 or so miles went great. It was wonderful to be outside, running, free of stress and job pressures, able to think through some of the issues I'd faced, nothing but me and the pavement and the sky and a rock band at every mile marker. I was way ahead of my pace and feeling fantastic.

Then I hit the wall. My body just stopped. No problem, I told myself, I'm ahead of schedule, I can walk. So I fast-walked one mile, two miles...I kept nervously checking my watch, but every time I tried to step up even to a jog, my body rebelled instantly. At last I knew that if I wanted to make my goal time, I'd have to run the last bit. I was on the boardwalk. The finish line was in sight. I started to run. My body screamed at me. I kept going. I felt terrible. Never has a mile seemed so long. Even a few steps from the finish line, I wasn't sure I'd make it.

There's a great picture of me clutching my stomach and my face (to keep from puking on the volunteers) as I cross the finish line. Just under my goal time, by the way. (The clock in the background is misleading - we had staggered "corral" start times.)

This week, in a much different context, my body hit the wall. Tuesday in particular, on the way home from work, I felt so sick I sat down a couple times right where I was - a city street, a BART station - and clutched my knees and clenched my teeth until the waves of nausea at last passed and I could stand up without hurling. I wasn't sure I'd make it home. All week I've done little more than sleep, work, and go to the hospital. My last shreds of appetite have long since faded away.

I'm still going, and I'm getting close...one week left, then the radiation starting soon afterward...but I can't guarantee I'm going to look pretty crossing the finish line.