3.5 miles. Fat and fat. But it’s okay! I’m looking on the bright side.
I set out to do a longish/longer/whateverthefuckyouwannacallit run yesterday morning, and I expected it to be fairly easy. It was one of those days when you have this running idyll in your head and you feel all giddy about it: the sun is shining but its not too hot, the grass is swaying serenely to a gentle breeze, but it’s not too windy, the fat on your legs has firmed up over night and you’re not all jiggly, and you’re all like, I’m gonna run and it’s gonna be AWESOME. Yeah, not so much. I got the job done without stopping or walking or shitting myself, so I’m chalking it up as a win. But it wasn’t pretty.
Something I have never been able to master: the negative split. And, much like your AIDS test, when your splits are positive, that’s actually a negative.
Now before you guys go all “just work on running and don’t worry about your splits!” on me, I want to reassure you that I’m really not all that worried about my splits. Because, as a bunch of well-meaning assholes keep reminding me, it’s not like I’m going to break any records no matter how much I improve. And yeah, what’s the big rush? I wasn’t so stupid I started signing up for races as soon as I got that baby person extracted from me. And I still have a winning smiling and charming personality. But I want to be faster. Like, now.
I suppose it could be worse. I could have AIDS. I could be nailed to a cross. I could be running Boston on Monday.