Where is my mind?

My mind is engaged with the Pixies. Or maybe with deep connections to Fight Club. The very fact that it hinges on anything at this point is impressive. It's coming on 3:30, on a Saturday, I'm sing-asking, "Where is my mind?"

This realization comes as the Zook/Petty machine chugs along on marathon-prep fuel again, striding through the dark mornings and extended evenings of March. The bodies are starting to creak a bit. The sleep grows heavier and deep. The runs become an immeasurable delirium where distances and days blend into one another like watercolors in the rain.

The picture, to extend the simile, still sits in plain view; it gets harder for those of us up close to make it out sometimes, though. I'm logging runs--and have been since mid-December--every day of the week. When I'm not preparing for a road race, the distance of these daily runs rarely gets below eight miles. There are a few six-milers thrown in from time to time, but they're rare.

It's odd what perspective does to the mind, and what that altered mind does to its body. As recently as last October, in training for the Marine Corps Marathon, I certainly valued resting a day or two each week. I applauded my increase weekly mileage totals, which then crested in the low 60s. Less than six months later, I find myself compulsively trotting out the door every single day, keeping the pace at an increasingly faster clip, and logging upwards of 70 miles a week. Ironically, I now find value in this. It's a weird place to be.

After dabbling in some semi-regular afternoon runs during the week, my schedule and its needs have forced a return to the dark streets of the morning runs. Nowadays, the alarm rarely shows a "5" in the hour slot. I'm out the door in the cool, black morning, making my miles with the friendly sounds of a podcast or a sports commentator.

Sometimes I get a buddy or two for these runs, but usually only on the weekends. Today, a Saturday designated for long distance, I put in 20 with a close friend who's nearly done training for the upcoming Boston Marathon.

I experience a daily fallout from my weekday runs. The teaching starts with a bang. It ends with a bang, even. But when the bell sounds at 3:09, I'm submerged in mental mush, having nothing to offer the world but the reflexes of a somber commuter. Today, on a Saturday, I find myself realizing the problem with my current state--my current replaying of The Pixies. The endorphins have worn off, the proverbial bell has sounded, and my body is mindlessly slogging into the late afternoon.

So "Where is my mind?" I know the answer. It's saving its energies for tomorrow, when it will have to grab an easy 8 to start the day.