On this fourth week of Boston marathon prep, I took my foot off of the exhilarator that has been steadily pressing down, because after a stack of heavy intensity and high volume of daily minutes logged the week prior (week three of twelve) I had a familiar internal signal pop up on Monday morning that I refused to ignore.

When I dropped into the tepid water of my neighborhood YMCA after being drenched from the deluge of rain that was washing over the Los Angeles basin, my eyelids were heavy, breath was short, and heartrate was high, all keen signs of a familiar twinge of fatigue I hadn’t experienced for close to two years, a satisfying message that the workouts I had done were making an impact, but also a careful reminder that adding more work without a reprieve to soak up the stress could backfire, rather than reap their desired benefits.

So, I swam a few laps, enough to feel a release of tightness flush out of my legs, but with minimal effort to spare my lungs any needless excitement. Next, I climbed out of the pool, treaded water from the door of the Y to the door of my Jeep, carefully drove home in the stormy conditions. Once I made it back to covered shelter, I promptly prepared and consumed some almond butter slathered across sourdough toast and laid down for a healthy amount of time where slumber arrived easily, invited by the quiet stillness of my body while watching and listening to the rain fall outside achieving the most rejuvenating training session I accomplished all week.

June 9th, 2019, laying down at the Urgent Care in Boulder with pneumonia instead of racing the Ironman triathlon.

I have felt that “shortness of breath” sensation dozens of times over the years and never paid attention to it until the Spring of 2019 when I dug a hole so deep that I developed pneumonia and couldn’t race in the most significant race of my season, Ironman Boulder, dashing a decade old dream by missing a chance to prove my worth on the race course.

In the years since that daunting chapter of my life, I’ve acknowledged, yet still weaved around those signs of fatigue, (shortness of breath, high heart rate) believing I could still gain some sort of fitness with the minimal movement I could manage while fighting fatigue, even though my muscles and subconscious were pleading for what I wouldn’t admit was the optimal answer to turning it all around, rest. Not switching a run for a bike ride, or a high intensity swim for an aerobic swim, but full-on stopping movement and laying down.

Sleep is the best recovery method there is according to science. Please read Christie Aschwanden’s book pictured below if you’d like more clarification. Stillness is a close runner-up, and neither cost a dime, just time; the most important currency of all.

This is an excellent book on recovery that dives deep into the value of sleep.

I used to believe that using as much time to train per week was the most economical method to achieve the fitness I needed to become the high-level athlete I wanted to be, but I have learned the law of diminishing returns, in brutal ways, too many times. Finally, in deep middle-age, when my body whispers, I listen; not when it talks, yells, or gives up the fight, now with a simple nudge I give it my full attention.

I love and appreciate my body, and I want to be able to use it however I want, to do whatever I want, for how many years that I want, but I need to take care of her, and that means in order to lift her up, I need to lay her down sometimes.

The book I read last week, “Theo of Golden” was an exceptional novel loaned to me by my good friend, training partner, and fellow avid reader, Lynne Fiedler. The story was lively, endearing, and fun, the characters felt authentic, glorious and flawed, and the writing was clean, cleaver, and just as soothing as watching and listening to the dribbling rain fall outside my window after the beginning and end to a politely nudged nap on a Monday afternoon.