It only takes two bad runs in a row for me to start questioning whether I’ve lost my mojo (but only one knockout run for me to get an ego and think I’m god’s gift to running.)
Tuesday: Disgusting. Typically, I will run at least three miles before I make the decision to go all quitsies, but I ran 2.69 and said frick it. Nothing hurt per se; I just felt wretched.
Wednesday: Decided to give it another try. Of course, this coincided with a major storm moving in from the north, and although it was sunny and SEVENTY-FREAKING-FOUR DEGREES OUTSIDE, we also had 15 mph winds and 30 mph gusts that left an impressive collection of sand and grit in my hair, eyes and teeth. Felt like I was back in West Texas.
The last quarter-mile stretch back to my house was the worst. I felt like I was tilted forward at an impossible angle and running with all of my strength…at a 10:50 pace.
Thursday: Took off and ate Cajun until I hated myself.
Today: I’ll give it another go and see if I can do six miles without getting violent.
Also, I haven’t touched TEH BOOOOOZE all week. Yes, that is noteworthy if you’re me. Sorry I’m not sorry. (Hi Rachel!)
I’m wondering if one week off the sauce is enough to see any kind of improvement in my running. If not, I’m getting rip-roaring drunk tonight. Then I’ll go back to my normal Saturday three and Sunday nine.
The good news is, I’m ahead of where I need to be in terms of training.
The half isn’t until May 7, and I’m also signed up for a 15k April 9. I should be more than ready for it in spite of this week’s eff-tastic setbacks.
Having said that, I’m certain to break an ankle, get pregnant and come down with spinal meningitis, AIDS and the Ebola virus next week.