Got back from Poland on Tuesday. The flight was almost twelve hours and my lie-flat seat wouldn't recline but I made my best of the time by re-reading The Norwegian Method. It's a science-based approach to training distance runners. If you read my Substack yesterday, you'll know how much I cherish data-driven training. This fact surprises me more than anyone I know because I'm normally an impulsive make-it-up-as-you-go individual.
I don't read training books cover to cover like a novel. I tend to read the intro and then skip around, looking for training methodology in the midst of all the prescribed workouts. Very often I will read the entire book but inadvertently skip a chapter or two. So it was with The Norwegian Method. The flight home and the fact that I only had one book left in my backpack (so better make it last) led me to read the entire manifesto in its entirety.
One of the chapters I had previously missed was on overtraining. I didn't think it applied to me. My runners log big, though not astronomic miles. Overtraining has never really been an issue. But I read the chapter anyway, slowly and carefully. What jumped out at me — and by this I mean leapt off the page and smacked me square between the eyes — were the symptoms of overtraining for elite athletes.
Heaviness in the quads while walking up stairs, or the "sore leg syndrome"
Difficulty falling asleep, even when tired
Waking up between 3-5 a.m. as cortisol peaks
Restless sleep
Rise in resting heart rate
Low Heart Rate Variability
Loss of motivation
It's all right there on Page 223. What makes this remarkable is that these precise symptoms are what I'm experiencing right now on this first day of summer, realizing that it's been a full season since Calene passed. I've been reading my devotional and the writings of others going through this process. But this is the first time actual physical symptoms point to there being a physical change as you process the loss of a great love.
This is why I went to Poland. I needed to go someplace I'd never been to sort out what the fuck is going on. Long train rides. Lengthy rambling walks punctuated by a seat in a bistro to read a book and take notes. Stepping into a centuries-old church and sit silently with God. Give a name to this absurd range of physical sensations.
It actually wasn't my idea. A longtime friend who shares a passion for travel called me up a couple weeks ago.
"Where are you going?" he asked, as if it was evident that I would be jumping on a plane soon.
I mentioned something about Christmas in Italy.
"Too far away," he said. "Where are you going now?"
That question made perfect sense. Some people see a voyage as running away but a traveler sees each journey as the birthplace of solutions. I found a cheap flight, booked hotels and trains, then away I went.
Seven days of silence. I responded when asked in Gdansk if I was German. I spoke to a couple Australians in Krakow because one of them had the exact same gravelly voice as Roy Kent. But otherwise, I didn't talk to anyone other than waitresses and bartenders. I let the solitude among strangers do its work, not knowing what I was looking for or what I would find. It took every bit of those seven days and half a flight across the Atlantic, but I finally found my answer on Page 223. Voila.
It feels more athletic to call these symptoms "overtraining," though I promise you I have not been actually overtraining. I accept that it's also depression. But giving it a name empowers me.
So happy Father's Day to me: a new set of glassware and new spy novel purchased on Amazon, and a list of symptoms that tells me what I'm feeling is a natural physical evolution. Let's call it overtraining because calling it depression is much less fun. Life will not get magically better now that I know all this but I've got a better handle on what I'm up against. And I keep thinking of Shawshank: "Time to get busy living."