"Daddy," he said. "Why are you just laying there?"
"Well," I answered, "because I don't want to get up."
That's always true. I hate getting up in the morning, even if I almost always rise before 7 a.m. Sunday it was even more true. Sunday, more and more, is becoming The Day After.
In this case, it means the day after my increasingly long runs in training for my marathon. And though the training has gone well, almost too well (making me wonder if I'm doing enough), the miles are adding up. Sunday was the first time I really felt them.
Not only did I run a half marathon Saturday - not a race, just the distance - I ran a hard six Friday evening at marathon race pace. I'm just following the plan, but sometimes the plan hurts, especially when I didn't give myself even 12 hours between those workouts.
When I got up Sunday, I felt as if someone had given the bolts on my joints an extra turn. I'm not a young man anymore. I'm 38. Most athletes not named Favre have long since passed their glory days at my age.
Now understand that I loved those 13 miles Saturday, even if they did wear me out. I have always loved that feeling of sheer exhaustion. It means you've pushed yourself beyond mere discomfort. I was smiling at the end.
But a marathon plan will humble you at times. Usually those times are the Day After.
Still, I started putting on my running gear Sunday. The plan also calls for a short run the day after you abuse yourself.
The plan seems to understand that the best way to feel better after something destroys you is to get right back to it.
By mile 3, as I walked in the house, loose, sweaty and with less pain than before, the plan, once again, was right.