My last five runs:
| W6D3 | 1.75 | 24:58 | 14:17 mm | kicked that failed W6D2’s ass, yes I did |
| W7D1 | 2.34 | 33:18 | 14:15 mm | |
| W7D2 | 2.17 | 31:29 | 14:30 mm | I ran UP A HILL! A long slope-y one! |
| W7D3 | 1.71 | 24:01 | 14:04 mm | and a few intervals after, but a rough run overall |
| W8D1 | 2.4 | ~33:36 | 14:00 mm | prior to a 2-minute walk break, then 5 more minutes |
For once, my worst run was on a Day 3, rather than a Day 2. As usual, though, it was a run I did in the afternoon because I didn’t go out in the morning as I’d planned. Smart enough to see the pattern; not smart enough to get out of bed and get it done.
I’d picked a long route, but it didn’t seem overly ambitious. I’d leave the neighborhood toward a side road, then take that to the main road, which was a long-flat stretch, with a nice downhill section leading back home.
Seemed like a good idea. At the time.
I remembered the one hill. Somehow had conveniently blocked out all the others. By the time I reached the stoplight to the main road I was worn out, and the short break waiting on the light just killed all my momentum. I’d run 19+ minutes to that point and did another 4 after, but then the walking began. It was back to the intervals, as my mind kept saying to run while my body kept digging in its heels.
Be it walking or running, the only real descriptor of that last mile would be “shuffling”. At one point I looked up and saw a sign with “Come join us” in black plastic letters. Forgetting where I was, hoping, no doubt, I was farther along, all I could think was, That’s not a good message for a funeral home. Oh wait.
I was almost to the downhill. When you almost stop running on the downhill you know it’s bad. But as soon as I crossed back to the neighborhood it would be time for the cool-down, and my son had promised to make me a protein shake when I got home.
Despite being dark, it was still hot and humid, so the idea of a cold fruit smoothie made that last third of a mile tolerable.
“It’s in the fridge,” he said as soon as I stumbled through the door.
I did my laps through the den/kitchen/dining room, gulping down water, then stopped in front of the fridge, strawberry delight calling my name.
“I made you apple-cinnamon.”
Well bless his heart.
I tried to drink it, really I did. The protein powder hadn’t mixed well, giving it the look, texture and, no doubt, taste of cinnamon-flavored wallpaper paste. I choked down what I could, surreptitiously dumped out the rest, thanked him profusely and suggested that he not make that particular blend again.
A crappy ending to a crappy run.
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