I was done with mile 6 and walking toward the car to fill my water bottle when I saw it. Oil. Everywhere.
As it turns out, when you add a quart of oil to your car, you’re supposed to put the cap back on. As if that was in the instructions. As a result, my car had been spewing oil merrily everywhere for a couple of days. I never approach the car from the front, so I hadn’t notice till now. What to do?
I guess I could have kept running, but that would have meant missing the auto store and being without a car tomorrow. Mostly, it would mean running another two hours with a major black cloud hanging over my head. Still, I had to do it.
Then I realized: Why? Why the hell am I doing this?
Deep down, I just don’t care anymore. I like the idea of running for long distances. My head loves it. But my body just won’t do it anymore. Why the hell am I out here slogging along at a 13:45 pace so that I can be the slowest person at any given race? What’s the point? I’m dead and I don’t know it (he’s dead, he’s dead).
I just don’t want it anymore. I don’t enjoy being out for four hours a day for months on end to run a race with laughable results. That’s the problem. I’m just pretending.
I threw my stuff in the car and went home. Mo, sensing my despair, called around and found an oil cap for an ’88 Honda at a parts store. Which turned out not to fit. But we returned and the guy found an oil cap for a 2002 model that fit. So my car is now somewhere between a 1988 and a 2002 model. I figure I can just upgrade one part at a time.
Six miles, 13:40 pace. One oil cap. (funny the 1988 cap is $5. The 2002 cap, which looks exactly the same, is $9.50)
We came home and had a glass of wine. The world goes on. And the world of ultras will go on without me. I don’t care. I really, really just don’t care.