My six-year-old Brittany Spaniel has more stamina after 8 miles than I will ever comprehend. According to my husband, I need Tucker on my early morning runs. Randall is afraid a bad man might snatch me at dawn. Or, because we live amongst endless miles of open space, a coyote might find my calves a tasty snack. Whether I agree with these theories doesn't matter. I bring Tucker because every day he guilts me into it.
Before our kids were born, we ran Tucker over twenty miles a week and walked him every night for at least 2-3 miles. He was ripped. Our veterinarian questioned how it was possible for a city dog to be so muscular and we always responded cautiously, "Um, exercise." Now that our two boys ruined his comfortable workout plan, Tucker has filled out, as a middle-aged man often does. He spies on us suspiciously whenever we get dressed or approach the door wearing any form of running attire.
Tucker always gets to go, because on the few occasions that he's been left behind, I return to a helpless animal that refuses to look in my eyes. He lays right by the front door, waiting for my return, and when I finally burst through once more, he won't budge from that spot for hours. I crushed his soul.
I love my dog, but I hate running with him. No matter the weather or trail conditions, Tucker forces me tackle personal records. There is no excuse for slow speeds, so-called taper or recovery runs, or a hill too large. My Brittany prefers speeds faster than eight minutes per mile and grunts back at me when I request a comfortable nine minute pace. He helps push my limits, but sometimes I do not want my limits tested. While I love the extra help going up hills, I hate being pulled down again, face first, arms reeling for balance. He doesn't get tired. While I am ready for my ten mile run to come to an end, he displays only thirst. It isn't fair.
This morning, I ate way too much breakfast. I knew better but the waffles were far too tempting. I planned on finishing 8 miles, but by mile 4, I regretted my breakfast and couldn't escape the thoughts of vomiting half-digested Belgian goo all over the trail. I felt debilitated with cramps so deep in my stomach I questioned how I would make it home. I thought about calling Randall to drive me the rest of the way, but Tucker wanted to finish. After a few rest breaks, aiming to keep my cramps at bay, I allowed Tucker to pull me up and down the hills, taking some of the effort from my stride for 2.5 additional miles. It didn't ease the pain entirely, but I made it home.
Tucker will remain my running companion. Not because I am afraid of a rabid coyote or stray psychopath, but because he brought me home again. He knew I didn't feel good. Even after years of my tirades begging him to slow down and stop pulling, he didn't hold it against me. Instead, he allowed the burden of my weight, and pulled me cautiously homeward. My dog is the most obnoxious running coach, but I couldn't keep stride without him.
Before our kids were born, we ran Tucker over twenty miles a week and walked him every night for at least 2-3 miles. He was ripped. Our veterinarian questioned how it was possible for a city dog to be so muscular and we always responded cautiously, "Um, exercise." Now that our two boys ruined his comfortable workout plan, Tucker has filled out, as a middle-aged man often does. He spies on us suspiciously whenever we get dressed or approach the door wearing any form of running attire.
Tucker always gets to go, because on the few occasions that he's been left behind, I return to a helpless animal that refuses to look in my eyes. He lays right by the front door, waiting for my return, and when I finally burst through once more, he won't budge from that spot for hours. I crushed his soul.
I love my dog, but I hate running with him. No matter the weather or trail conditions, Tucker forces me tackle personal records. There is no excuse for slow speeds, so-called taper or recovery runs, or a hill too large. My Brittany prefers speeds faster than eight minutes per mile and grunts back at me when I request a comfortable nine minute pace. He helps push my limits, but sometimes I do not want my limits tested. While I love the extra help going up hills, I hate being pulled down again, face first, arms reeling for balance. He doesn't get tired. While I am ready for my ten mile run to come to an end, he displays only thirst. It isn't fair.
This morning, I ate way too much breakfast. I knew better but the waffles were far too tempting. I planned on finishing 8 miles, but by mile 4, I regretted my breakfast and couldn't escape the thoughts of vomiting half-digested Belgian goo all over the trail. I felt debilitated with cramps so deep in my stomach I questioned how I would make it home. I thought about calling Randall to drive me the rest of the way, but Tucker wanted to finish. After a few rest breaks, aiming to keep my cramps at bay, I allowed Tucker to pull me up and down the hills, taking some of the effort from my stride for 2.5 additional miles. It didn't ease the pain entirely, but I made it home.
Tucker will remain my running companion. Not because I am afraid of a rabid coyote or stray psychopath, but because he brought me home again. He knew I didn't feel good. Even after years of my tirades begging him to slow down and stop pulling, he didn't hold it against me. Instead, he allowed the burden of my weight, and pulled me cautiously homeward. My dog is the most obnoxious running coach, but I couldn't keep stride without him.
No comments:
Post a Comment