Whenever I get in from a run, Ginge will ask me how it went. More often than not, my reply is “mixed”. Today was one of those days. My plan was to run 8 miles and I felt physically sick at the prospect. I feel like my long run training has hit the buffers a bit recently and although I know that the only way to get past this is to go out and run, I was dreading this morning.
My solution was to procrastinate until the point where Ginge was ready to hustle me out of the house with a broom. Off I went, setting off at my usual-probably-going-too-fast-but-can’t-seem-to-slow-it-down pace and lolloping along without having an actual route in mind. Despite my best efforts to distract it with The Infinite Monkey Cage podcast, my negative head was muttering away to itself and going up a hill around 2 miles I just stopped. All I wanted to do was turn around, waddle home and maybe have a little cry. Nothing hurt, I wasn’t injured, I just went very very mardy.
When I get like this, the recognised treatment is that I need putting in a bag and shaking, so I gave myself a stern talking to, had a little shimmy (in the absence of a big enough bag, I have to make do with an imaginary one) and ploughed on. At 4 miles I was going to turn round to do an out and back, but decided to carry on to the petrol station around the corner to get a bottle of water (forgetting that it’s actually a massive corner and much further away than I thought). Stocked up with water and a cheap bag of jelly babies, I made a rash decision and instead of turning around and running up a long and steady incline, I decided to go around the corner and down a massive hill.
This is despite the fact that I knew that I would have to return up the massive hill at some point. It’s basic geography and yet apparently I am an idiot. I got part of the way up the massive hill, walked a bit, ate some jelly babies, plodded for a bit, walked a bit, plodded, walked…until I got to the top and on the home straight. I did manage to pull off a fair bit of running until the last incline into the village – it isn’t actually that bad, but I seem to have a mental block about running up it. I pulled up to a walk and was immediately yelled at by a passing Ironman cyclist who told me to keep going. I did, but quite slowly. You might even say I was walking (because I most certainly was).
With home in sight, I realised that my change in route meant that I would hit 9.5miles pretty much opposite our front gate. Finishing on a fraction? Oh no, no, no… Looking longingly at the house, I tacked on an extra half mile to take me to a lovely round ten. Ten miles. Double figures for the first time in over two years (the last time was when I did the Blackpool Half when I was expecting Mini-Ginge). The little negative voice tells me that I walked a bit too much for it to really count, but my overall pace was pretty much where I would like it to be so I’m telling the little voice to shut its trap. I’m really really chuffed, it feels such a milestone to pass and makes longer distances seem a little less scary.
After all this exertion, we walked to the pub for some lunch and to jangle our cowbells at the Ironman cyclists (who are amazing, I never fail to be in awe of them). This added on an extra 6.5 miles of walking to my day so I suspect that I will sleep well tonight.