Well, today was the day I've been dreading. An obligatory ten mile run, do or die, stood before me with its hands on hips, shaking its miserable head.
I did NOT want to do it.
This time last year, I had a twenty miler under my belt. WTF?
Whatever. The Rock n Roll half mary is nearly two weeks away, and I had to get the mileage done. So I saddled up my kicks, threw on my badass Bondi band, strapped on the Ipod and tried to be happy.
Did I feel happy? Hell no.
I tried to be a good sport through the first couple of miles, but by the time I turned onto Schley, I was grumbling pretty bad. But my favorite "Hall of Fame" song came on, and I gave myself a pep talk. It went something like this:
Who gives a shit if you hate this road. Shut the fuck up and just fucking do it. You whine that you miss it when youre not running, you love it when youre done, and you cry when you hear about other people doing it. You know what you want. You kow you love it. So shut the fuck up and rejoice. Rejoice. REJOICE!! You move those legs without regret until the JOB IS DONE. Love it. Live it. ReFUCKINGjoice!
Oh. Well when you put it that way. Let's get to steppin'!
And sure enough, as soon as I gave myself a little come to Jesus, things started to feel better. It almost always works this way. And by the time I was into mile three I had a much better attitude. I was groovin' to Chaka Kahn (sp?), the sky was Kentucky blue, my legs had finally stretched enough to not feel like rubber bands, and I was groovin'. GROOVIN'!
And so it went for the next couple of miles. My Mom called, Big Dave called, I chatted and walked, then ran, then walked some more.
By the time mile six rolled around, I was resigned to my fate. My mind was blank, with the exception of a looping inner dialogue trying to figure out how many miles I had left, calculating different routes to make the process seem less horrific. Should I go around the Honeybee loop twice? Or just go down Pedaphile Row and then circle through the Plantation a second time? Which way has LESS HILLS for God's sake????
I took a bath in Big Dave's former boss' garden hose. Guzzled some suspect water, and moved on. Then all of a sudden I was in the 8th mile. Hell yeah. This is when you must accept the fact that no matter what, the only way home is to pound the pavement for another two miles, because you were smart enough to continually move AWAY from home or else you might be tempted to take a shortcut back to the DHU.
Ugh. My favorite motto kept popping out of my mouth... JUST FUCKING DO IT. Simple. Effective. And oh so eloquent and tasteful.
And hello mile 9! Jamie's Crying is streaming through my earbuds as I start to plan my victory lap. In about a mile, I'll see the marsh pirates, which mean there's only a half mile left. Hell yes. Giddy up.
There they are. Run. FUCKING RUN.
I forced myself to give it everything I had and cruised into my driveway at 10.2 miles after 2 hours and 19 minutes. Good God. That was a gut check. I haven't trained enough. I know it. My 41 year old body is PISSED.
But I did it. Ten miles, in the books baby! Next stop, 13.1 on November 9th when I slowly (Oh SOOO slowly) but surely earn my medal. I hate this. I love this. I sadly think I need this.
What kind of masochistic freak am I? (Don't answer that.)
;)
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