A few weeks ago, on a run with Kritta and the Vizslas, we (Krista and I, the dogs did not participate) got to talking about why we run.

Someone had asked her why she does it…if she even really enjoys it.  Initially, that answer was, “no” — for both of us. We complained about how you dread doing it. Sometimes it doesn’t feel all that great, no matter how far into a run you get. And how, especially when you’re training, you’re a slave to a schedule, which was what had happened a few weekends before when, slated for a 13-miler, we set out anyway even though it was pouring rain and 40 degrees.

That is, we started out complaining about that run. But the more we talked about it, the more our comments shifted from, “Wow did that ever suck” to “It wasn’t really that bad, and it was 13 miles we never would’ve gotten in otherwise, and we felt so darn good afterwards.”

And thus, the conversation turned to the benefits of running — of how that (and dogs) get you to embark on runs in weather you would never otherwise brave. Or take you past sights off the beaten path everywhere from Florence (Italy, not Wisconsin) to Dublin to New York when you’re forced to get miles in. Or how running just straight-up gives you that oh-so-addictive “I’ve endured and conquered; I’m tough” feeling after a session of hill sprints, intervals, or long runs.

And these things? They’re powerful things to have in your life. Good things. Things to cherish.

And then there was this past weekend, which made me forget all about The Joy of Running.

I had an 18-miler on the books.  And I don’t think that anyone ever looks forward to running 18 miles (or, I don’t know any of them if they exist), but I really didn’t want to do it.

I did, though. I set my alarm. I got myself up and dressed and out the door at the crack of dawn. And I ran, stopping only at the aid stations set up every two miles by the amazing people from Prevea who do this for free, for those training for Cellcom, every Saturday morning in Green Bay (they are angels).

But things never clicked. Although I didn’t feel outright terrible during the run, I never felt good, per se. At the very last aid station, two miles from the end point, two women about my age saw me stretching and asked if this was my first marathon. I told them it wasn’t, and then laughed (mostly to myself ), saying that surprisingly, it hasn’t gotten one shred easier after a few marathons. If anything, it’s gotten harder.

Later that night, driving to dinner with Chief of Stuff along the same route I had just run that morning, exhausted and sore, I surprised myself again by blurting that I wasn’t sure I had another marathon in me. “That’s okay,” he said.

It’s not, though. Not only am I paid up for two marathons (Green Bay in May and the Marine Corps Marathon in October), but I don’t know that I’m ready to throw in the towel, either.

In short, though, I’m struggling. With motivation. With weighing the costs of things like not being able to sleep on my left side after a long run because my hip is giving me serious grief, versus the benefits of knowing that I sucked it up already, quit whining, and got it done. Or the fact that I’ve come to realize that even if that week’s long run is only a few hours’ commitment, the after-effects of it stay with me almost for the rest of the weekend, and not in a good way.

So I’m back to that simple, one-word question that we first started with: Why?  And, another one added to it: How? How do I go forward from here? Should I stick this out, out of determination and sheer stubbornness, despite the nagging pain in my hip and foot that don’t seem to go away, and despite my lack of drive overall? Do I call it good enough, enjoy the next few spring weekends, and just turn in a solid run for the half-mary? Or do I try to run harder and smarter — getting more serious about my recovery and doing this more by the book (icing, rest,  rolling, yoga, massage etc) for the five weeks that remain — motivation be damned?And perhaps one other: When? When do you know that your body just complaining — doing a little venting, if you will, and that these aches and pains are nothing to worry about — versus telling you that it’s only one more 20-miler away from breaking down completely?

So many questions. So few answers…