Because of my husband’s work schedule, and my schedule, and the fact that we live far from both of our families, I often have to cram miles in wherever they fit.
That meant getting up at 4:40 this morning and running for a few hours with my friend Erica. We got in 13 miles, down from the 15 we had hoped for because we lost a little time staring at lightning and wondering if we should go or not. We obviously decided to go, but did a lot of tight, weird little loops in case the sky opened up.
I love a rainy run. But lightning? No thanks.
Anyway. The run was awful. I felt like my legs were made of lead the first 8 miles — I could not get into a rhythm and I just was plodding along, hating it. This is when running with a friend pays off. She happily chatted while I glowered next to her. Then the second half, Erica had a streak of self-hatred. By then, I felt better (helped by a run past my house, where I turned on the hose and just stood under it for at least a full minute). So I talked her through the end.
It makes a difference to have a cheerleader (though I did physically smack my coworker and friend Lalley yesterday for being overly cheerful on our lunch run. You’re welcome.).
I count my weeks in mileage from Monday-Sunday. But I wondered why I felt so awful today, and if I count up the past few days, Sunday-Thursday, I’m at 43 miles in 5 days (my regular week count is only 36 miles up to today). So maybe that’s why.
Or the heat.
But it’s a week where I feel like, dear god, I am in horrible shape. I have no business running. I certainly have no business doing another marathon (my third in a 12-month period — maybe that’s why I am burnt out?). I should sit on my couch and take up reality TV and cake.
I probably won’t. But it’s a reminder that some weeks are harder than others.