A week ago, I pushed myself right to the edge. Out to that spot where the ice thins out and begins to crack, sending spider-webs shooting in all directions. I stood there and watched the ripple effect, wondering what to do next. Wondering which direction to head in. Eventually, I found my way, but it took more strength than I thought I had.

In short, my running was just plain awful.

Since my new work-school-running schedule started in mid-January, I’ve been waiting, cautiously watching…curious to see when it would all begin to unravel. What would mark the beginning of the first meltdown? I found my answer last weekend.

Going in to last Saturday’s long run, I had managed to run 3 times during the week, but only one of those runs felt like a ‘success’ to me. I was hoping for some redemption on the long run, setting my sites on getting 17 solid miles under my belt, with the last two miles at marathon pace (or better).

I met up with two runner-friends and we headed out onto the snowy trails, which came as a bit of a shock to my road-tested legs. The uphills felt much harder than usual. I wondered who had stolen all the oxygen molecules from the air, since I couldn’t feel them in my lungs. I noticed the frost forming on the outside of my jacket, and silently cursed the cold weather.

The highlight of those first 6.5 miles was having friends to run with, and getting to run across a frozen pond. I was terrified at first – what if the ice breaks and we fall in! But I was reassured by my friends, and I knew I just had to trust them. It was an invigorating experience, to say the least. The ice didn’t make a single sound as we trot across it – a quarter mile across rock solid water. We were back on the roads in no time.

After bidding them adieu, I set out for my remaining 10.5 miles, still feeling pretty good, aside from feeling a little cold despite the two layers of heavy running tights.

Somehow, with about 4 miles to go, things started to deteriorate. My legs felt sluggish. The hills felt harder than usual. The downhills weren’t as fast. I was getting frustrated. My legs didn’t feel tired per se...nothing hurt…I just felt like I was underwater. No matter how hard I pushed, it didn’t feel like I was gaining any ground.

I decided to cut the run to 16 miles, and during that very last mile, the figurative ice beneath me cracked. As I pushed up a small hill, I just stopped dead in my tracks. Tears sprung to my eyes. (The real kind. Not the kind from cold wind.) Here it comes, I thought. The Meltdown has arrived.

Stop it. There’s no crying in running. Just freakin’ run and be done with it, already. I took a few more steps and stopped again, unable to breath. Hyperventilating.

Oh. Good. Lord. Get. A. Grip. Woman.

A few minutes, some deep breaths. The emotions abated. I finished the run and called it a day. The next day’s run was much shorter, but felt just as hard. Grumbling ensued.

I analyzed everything, and then it dawned on me: 1) we all have tough weeks – this was mine. 2) my stress level was at an all time high, thinking about the upcoming 3 exams, 5 quizzes, 1 presentation, 1 practical-competency exam and a bunch of other little assignments scheduled for the next 20 days. 3) I hadn’t been eating, sleeping or hydrating properly.

In other words, life happens. Learning to accept that, and roll with it, is the key to success. After venting a bit about my crappy week, I accepted that it “was what it was” and the following week was a clean slate for me to write on. Look forward, not back.

As it turns out, the clean slate was just waiting for me, and I was rewarded with a great week of running, including an all time personal best time for a 20-miler with fellow Boston-bound friend Charlie. The weather is 'warming' up, and the sunrise is coming earlier. We're turning the corner.

The adventure continues!

I was ready.

Ready to stomp my feet, bitch, whine and moan.

About how cold it has been.

About how much I hate running alone in the dark at some ridiculously early hour.

About how much I miss sleep.

About how I am sick of being terrified of getting hit by a car; sick of spending fifteen minutes just putting on my twelve layers of running clothes; sick of making sure I have a pocket full of tissues to mop up the tears, snots and sweat that drip down my face before they freeze.

Oh yes. I was going to go on and on about frozen water bottles, frozen gels and arctic ass. I was even going to broach the topic of wind chill factors and 'weiner bite/crotch bite.'

And this morning was the last straw, with a brain-splitting headache setting in at Mile One, followed quickly by nausea. How will I ever make it through the next ten weeks? I wondered.

But after ranting and raving to my coach about the less-than-stellar 6-mile run, I realized that there was one big lesson that I was learning from marathon training in the winter: flexibility.

In the last few weeks, I have had to make adjustments to my schedule and my attitude. Slippery roads have affected my speed workout; dread of another cold, dark morning has sent me inside to run in circles and on the dreadmill; and I'm starting to relax about not meeting my weekly goals the way they are written.

The important message here is that I'm getting it done. Mostly. Sure, I've missed a mile or two, here or there. But in the grand scheme of things, I'm getting out there when most people are still snug in bed. Plus, even though it has been cold, I haven't had to contend with much snow (and it only *just* got cold - we were having the warmest winter on record until like three weeks ago).

Plus, I get to run Boston with Jeff, which makes me a damn lucky runner. That's what keeps getting me out the stupid, cold, dark door each morning muttering "Whose brilliant idea was *this*?" to myself.

But I know Punxsutawney Phil is on my side, which means I can expect an early spring. Seriously, he said so. Go visit his website.

Now, I just need to figure out what to do when snow is covering the outdoor track and I don't have the time to get to the indoor track.