Slow coloraturas and the sound of silence

I ran six miles yesterday. I use the term "running" to generally describe the jogging/ walking/ running that occupies a significant portion of my day in preparation for the Boston Half Marathon. Yesterday was my first six-mile run. Just like two weeks ago was my first five-mile run. I decided that it would be a smart move to have my husband drop me off at the track, which is approximately three miles from our home, so I could do three easy miles on the track and then do some road running for the last three. We live near the Blue Hills so it's pretty hilly, but it's still quasi-residential so there are sidewalks. The weather channel predicted rain by about 7pm so I figured that would be great - rain coming down about halfway through my run would keep me cool and probably lower the temperature outside, a singular bonus of the New England summer rains.

It didn't rain. There were dark clouds and wind but not a DROP of rain.

The first three miles were okay. I stopped, I stretched, I wondered why exactly my shins were giving me trouble when they have NEVER ever given me trouble before, and then I found the perfect trotting pace song. Who knew that Pete Townshend's "Let My Love Open The Door" would be the perfect song to jog to? (sidebar: one of my favorite performances of this song is from "Dan in Real Life," with Steve Carell - a rare moment where he's so earnest I want to kiss his cheek) It got me through the third mile with flying colors and I felt ready to hit the road.

I learned a lot yesterday. I learned why runners have those little belts with plastic water bottles around their waists instead of carrying an enormous aluminum bottle. I learned why Hal Higdon tells people it's about finishing the distance and not a thing about speed. And I learned why they cover the Boston Marathoners with blankets when they cross the finish line. I was sweaty, achy, HUNGRY, and I felt like I'd been battered with a blunt object the whole way home. But I finished, and with stretching and walking breaks (as well as the telling myself I was insane for doing this), I still made it home in 1:20, averaging a 13-minute mile.

So for that 1:20, I didn't talk to anybody. Which also means I didn't seem to notice what was taking place in my throat. I sang two services yesterday and felt fine. I mean just fine. Somewhere in the afternoon, I got a little husky. This morning, I tried to call the dog and nothing came out. That's right kids, my voice (speaking, singing and otherwise) has gone on vacation. I was waiting for some kind of illness to take over - once my classes were done and my summer program was done I just knew my body was holding out on me. But I didn't expect this. I guess this is some weird way of the universe telling me it's time to hold my tongue.

I'll take the hint for today, but as of tomorrow, I'm calling the doctor.