Yesterday, my trainer and I went for a run.
I almost died.
Not actually died, but you know how dogs pant when it gets really hot? I was doing that.
I spent the week warning my trainer that I was slow. Sure, I could run for a while, but slow. SLOW.
Well, first, the outfit:
I was dancing around, waiting for the self timer to kick in.
Since my bangs get super retarded when I run, bobby pins are my best friends.
So, back to the trainer. We meet at the designated parking lot, and he casually drops the "I run seven minute miles usually, so that's the pace we'll be going" bomb.
You guys, I haven't ran hard in a long time. So, occasionally I do some speed work on the treadmill. And yeah, I run hills sometimes. But, mostly, I lollygag around. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the hell out of it.
But running hard and fast? Yeah, I'm not so good at that.
Also, it was noon. So it was a billion degrees (the internet says it peaked at 73F yesterday, but eff that).
But, whatever. Might as well try it, right?
I did my best to keep up. And, for the first three miles, I did. It was hard. The whole time. It never got easier. I never felt like I was fully catching my breath. It was definitely much harder on my lungs than it was on my legs. Clearly, this is an area that needs to be worked on. I could not get out words while we were running. Ug.
Then, at mile three, as we were crossing a foot bridge, we encountered a skunk.
He was CUTE. He was breathing about as heavy as I was, had beads of sweat visible on his fur, and wasn't moving. Not very well, at least. Ug. Poor guy. And, poor people who now couldn't cross the bridge.
So, I grew up in the woods. And I don't always make good choices. But, after about ten minutes of coaxing and being crafty, I got the guy to slowly wander off the bridge and into the shade. Without getting sprayed. I consider that a success.
But then we ran another 2.7 miles. And, this time, I wasn't keeping up. I was trailing pretty far behind. My legs were slowing down to my normal pace, and I'll be damned if it didn't feel just as hard as the earlier, faster pace. My trainer would wait for me when we'd make turns, then gallop off ahead effortlessly. Bastard.
Finally, it came to an end. THANK GOD. That was fucking HARD.
We stood by the cars while I hunched over, catching my breath. Every time I stood up I got light headed. Awesome.
We talked for a while. I gave him girl advice, and he talked about adopting a dog.
After 20 minutes or so, I got in my car and left. At this point, most of the sweat had evaporated. Sorry.
But I was feeling pretty good.
And you could still see some remnants of the pit stain of yore.
So, yes, the run was awful, but I felt god afterward. And, it was about 2 miles longer than I had thought it was. Which is a good sign.
I'm not sure my trainer will ever run with me again, but I know I need to get out there and push myself more often. It will serve me well.
When was the last time you really pushed yourself on a run?
When you estimate the distance of a run, do you tend to over estimate or under estimate?
For me, when a run is really, really hard, I tend to under estimate the distance. When I'm feeling good about it, for some reason, I think I ran a whole lot further than I actually did.