|My dog was angry at me for putting angry eyebrows on him.|
Yesterday I was Grumpelstiltskin. I didn't eat at the right times so my blood sugar was all wonky, and when I did eat I felt weird. Just a bad day. I was not looking forward to my 4 mile tempo run. Not at all. I was convinced it was going to be so slow and so crappy. I was already drafting an email in my head to complain about how I'm getting slower instead of faster.
I gave myself a mile to warm up instead of the usual half mile, mostly because I was putting off the run. But the first mile beeped on my Garmin and it was time to move, so I started moving. I held off looking at my pace as long as I could stand, but when I did, whoa. It wasn't that bad. It was faster than I needed to be going.
"I'll slow down soon, so I should try to hold this pace instead of forcing myself to slow down, so I can bank some time for the tail end of the mile," I rationalized. And I kept moving.
I was doing a loop I hadn't done in a while, and time kept ticking by. I tried not to keep glancing at the pace, but I couldn't help it. I was holding steady at a pace faster than I needed to be going and I didn't feel like dying yet. Whoa. it was awesome. I knew it couldn't last, but hey, what if I could at least do the first mile at this pace? I mean, at this point it's not much further, right?
So I did.
And then I did the second mile. And it still wasn't the worst thing in the world. I didn't feel like dying. Sure, it wasn't as comfortable as lopping along at a ten minute mile, but it wasn't The Worst.
And then I did the third mile. Nearing the end of the third mile my pace was creeping up. Still far faster than I needed, but I was slowing down. And I didn't feel so awful that I needed to be slowing down. So, I sped up. And kept up the speed as I entered in to mile four.
At this point I had banked a fair amount of time. I kept telling myself I could slow mile four down a great deal and it would be okay. Making deals like that helped me keep going for the first half of mile four. At that point, shit, I only had half a mile left. I could keep pushing for half a mile. The faster I ran, the sooner it would be over anyway.
7:44, 7:44, 7:43, 7:24
I'm pretty happy to have been so wrong about how that run was going to go. I've had such low expectations for my speedy runs these last few weeks, and I'm glad it's not becoming a self fulfilling prophecy. I have a hard enough time with speed as it is. No need to drag myself down further.
The best part about a good, solid run is that giddy, fun feeling afterward. Running is lovely. I am awesome. All hail these legs, bringers of distance. Etc, etc.
All of these feels will die a sad and lonely death come Saturday when I have to pull some track sprints out of my ass without actually being able to go to the track, since they're cracking down on "trespassing." LAME.