Last Friday morning, I tweeted some whiny crap about how I had failed to complete my long run.
Yeah. That didn’t happen.
To be honest, I’d been in a running funk all week. It all started with this workout I did last Wednesday night, which included barefoot strides around a grass field. They were supposed to be strides, not sprints. But my little group was having so much fun racing each other around the goal posts…it was like being a kid again!
Unfortunately, my legs aren’t kids anymore. Come Thursday morning, I totally felt that shit. That day’s planned 10-miler became 6 and change. I figured I’d rest up for Friday morning’s long run.
But Friday morning, I still felt like a slug. I set out with a Gu shoved in my pocket and 18 miles on the docket. I shuffled miserably for a little over two before turning around and heading home.
So I tossed the Gu into my suitcase, along with my swimsuit and platform heels, thinking I’d carve out some time to make up the miles during Meg’s South Beach Bachelorette Extravaganza. And, of course, I tweeted that dumb tweet…as if that would make it more likely to actually happen.
AHAHAHAHAHA. Do you want to know how far I ran Saturday morning? THREE MILES. Not eighteen. THREE. Sunday morning, I felt a little better and managed seven. And looking back, those combined ten miles were really quite a feat.
A “splash of cranberry and soda” in vodka is not an appropriate way to hydrate for a long run. WHO KNEW?
(Also: guess how much a Heineken Light costs in a South Beach club? FOURTEEN DOLLARS. I did not drink much beer last weekend. I am sure that contributed to my crankiness.)
Anyway. Moving along, Monday was a travel day and a running rest day. Tuesday? I have no excuse. I just didn’t really feel like running. I managed five, but that’s a drop in the bucket during these weeks of peak marathon training and mileage. Meh.
That brings us to today. Wednesday: track workout day.
The worst thing about running funks is that they tend to self-perpetuate. The longer you’re in a funk, the harder it becomes to pull yourself out of it. As I set out on my warm up this morning, I was pretty sure that this run was going to go down in a funk as well; that I’d end up bailing.
But when I got to the track, I actually felt okay. On the agenda? Classic 12 X 400M. I’d planned to hit them around 1:35. When I ran the first one in 90 seconds and it felt like a jog in the park, I knew the funk was gone.
I’m running a local 5K on Saturday, so I hung back a little from that 90-second mark. This workout was definitely in the discomfort zone, but totally manageable. (Of course, that’s not really my 5K pace. I’ll be happy to crack 21 on Saturday, which would be 6:40 pace.)
Anyway. That’s the story of how a solo track workout made me love running again after a week of hating it. Scintillating, I know. Someone should make a movie.
Last week’s mileage. Roughly 18 miles short.
Oh well. Does it really matter? Of course not. I’m not an elite athlete and cutting a few workouts short isn’t going to change the course of my life. And sometimes, it’s nice to kick marathon training to the curb and live it up for a weekend. That’s what bachelorette parties in Miami are for.
Or so says my alter ego. His name is Peter. (Or Pierre, depending on my mood.)