Seriously. I should have worn waders. Or at least carried a shovel.
You see, Friday is “supposed” to be my rest day. But, I wanted to have my whole weekend with Mr. B instead of taking almost two hours of it to go running. So, I decided Thursday night to do my long run Friday night. Little did I know that Friday would find me digging through a lot of sh*tty excuses and a lot of horse pucky.*
The schedule called for 9 miles. But I wanted to do 10. I don’t know why. Just did. Would have been my first double-digit run since October’s marathon. It was my choice to run Friday, and it was my choice to run 10. So why I had an excuse for everything, I do not know.
My List of Sh*tty Excuses and Why They’re Lies
- It was dark and rainy all day Friday. It would be a much better read-on-the-couch-in-my-jammies day than it would be a running day. Complete crap. The rain cleared, and it was a really nice evening for a run.
- Friday is “rest” day. But it doesn’t have to be — and Saturday mornings are better snuggled in with Mr. B than running while he’s snuggled in bed.
- It was cold. Why’s this utter nonsense? I love running in the cold. LOVE it. It’s far better than running when it’s warm.
- No one wanted to run with me. So what?! I need my alone-time runs. They refresh and renew me. And they give me an escape.
- I was tired. Nothing wakes me up more than a nice, long run.
- It was night; I’m a morning runner. Bullsh*t. I’m a runner. Enough said.
After getting over myself and my huge pile o’ horse-pucky excuses, I laced up my shoes and headed out for my run. From the first step, I knew it was going to be a good run. After all, I had an extremely productive and successful week at work, and I earned this run. I deserved to be outside enjoying the fresh air and thanking my body for being so strong and healthy.
I felt fast. I was fast. As I headed north and ticked away the miles, I couldn’t believe my pace. I know I’ve been getting faster — I’ve been watching it happen on DailyMile. My mid-week runs getting closer to the 9-minute pace each time. But I’d yet to have a fast (relatively speaking) long run.
But here I was, stacking up the miles at just under a 10-minute pace.
As I turned around and headed back south, something happened. There was a stirring in my belly. And the bathroom was three miles away. I suppose that could have contributed to the speedy Friday evening run.
Or maybe it was the evil, evil Canada geese who thought I might look like I needed some, um, friendly encouragement. In the form of hissing. And chasing.
Whatever it was, something kicked me into gear on this long run. Ten miles, 1:39 — a 9:54 pace. I was — and continue to be — extremely pleased with this run.
And it was one of the best I’ve had since … well, maybe ever. Next time you want to skip a run, realize that you could be skipping your best run ever.
*Horse pucky, my friends, is a lovely term my Grandpa Keith used to use — quite a bit, actually. And I’m guessing that’s probably why he was on my mind a lot during Friday’s run. I was feeling extremely sentimental and couldn’t stop thinking about him. Golly, I miss this guy. Mr. B would have loved him; and he, Mr. B.