In life, as in running, progress is not linear. Neither is bereavement, love, friendships, health or a whole list of natural and normal experiences for us all. In the career I have chosen- mental health- I regularly remind my patients that, even if they are putting in consistent effort for self-improvement, this won't always equate to a consistent outcome. Overall their improvement will be positive and one must always have the end goal in sight but one must also be fully aware that the route to autonomy will entail setbacks as well as triumphs and that periods of illness, injury or just normal life getting in the way happens to everyone and that any desired results- contentedness, joy, wellness, etc- are connected indirectly to their input. In other words, work input does not always correlate to product output.
In 2015, when I ran my one and (probably) only marathon I was underprepared because of life getting in the way. My four month training programme taking me from a half-marathon weekender to full marathon finisher over 16 weeks of shake-down runs, hill repeats and long runs stuttered along at half pace due to a lung infection that put me 6 weeks behind by the halfway point of training. And then my mum died, unexpectedly. And then the race was only a few weeks later, only one day before the anniversary of Ruby's death. I was undertrained, exhausted and deep in grief plus I had not planned for the shocking reality of running in the centre of a crowd of thousands of people when I had never run with anyone else in my life. Never again.
But those were obvious setbacks that clearly changed the desired outcome. As of today, early September 2022, I have decided to complete the 50km ultramarathon I am training for within the next few weeks. My training progress- that is, the outcome of my training input- has been only vaguely connected to the effort I have put in. I have completed all the work necessary- heavy weight training sessions twice per week and three runs including shake-downs, long runs of increasing distance and "training runs" (hill repeats, intervals, HIIT, fartleks)- and I have tracked my progress throughout to help motivate me and keep me accountable. I can feel the improvements, my increased flexibility, a stronger back and hips, an improved posture, a lower heart rate for the same speed of movement, and, most importantly, feeling less tired after the first 10km on a long run (this appears to be the main benefit of a tough training run like hill repeats, an increase in lactate processing so my muscles don't get tired so quickly and a quicker recovery after the run). These improvements started from my first week training for the ultramarathon some months ago and were directly proportional to the work I put in. Also in direct proportion to my effort was the rest and recovery I had to undergo when I tripped up on a fast 10km run and fractured a rib a few weeks ago which stopped all weight training and slowed all runs for a while- at least it only hurt when I breathed in.
But then I experienced a sudden thrust forward after a few months in the training programme- the 35-40km long runs weren't so exhausting any more, the fast 500 metre hill runs had to be repeated ten times instead of the usual five or six, I was recovering much quicker and I was able to walk comfortably the same day after a marathon-length long-run. My fitness had appeared to move forward a notch into the realm of 50km possibility although my progress had not been linear.
There is non-linear progress too through the lifelong process of beareavement. I have written before about there being bad days and bad weeks, feelings that even people who do not experience grief can understand, but there are also bad months and bad years within the arc of our individual histories. It is nearly ten years since Ruby died and I can clearly identify specific years that were tougher than the preceeding year, specific months (and not those troublesome anniversary months) that were darker than preceedings months or more difficult than months from previous years. But all moments in between these periods are lighter and more easily navigable and, overall, it is a cliche - and therefore true- to say time dimishes pain. To paraphrase, the arc of time bends towards entropy, away from chaos.
Time stops for nothing, including grief. The skill of grieving well- as the skill of living well, of loving well, of dying well- is that of navigation. For us to enable ourselves in spite of our grief we have to go through it and not attempt to circumvent it. It is natural to expect a clear path along a straight timeline for our bereavement, including pain and longing of course, but the reality is often very different. The reality is a bit like this: crawling, then running, then an anniversary setback, then smooth coasting, a bit more coasting, a minor bump but our resilience is good so we're OK, then a bigger dip- maybe illness or more grief, then we are picked up, then rushing ahead smoothly, then racing a bit too fast- we're feeling good for weeks or months, then an intense crash when we feel like giving up but this is short lived, then a slow but strong recovery, then undulations of grief for afew months, then...and so on.
A non-linear run such as intervals or fartleks or hill repeats enables our bodies to cope with unexpected terrain. We would do well to extrapolate.
