Today...today was horrifyingly hot. I knew it was going to be, which is why I went through the pre-run sink bath routine: wet my hair, wet the bandanna, roll it up, tie it around my neck. The first block or so wasn't so bad, but that just gave me a false sense of security. I was trying to use runkeeper to do speed intervals, but the gps was way off. At the end of the first speed interval, I stopped to gag and choke and not quite throw up on the sidewalk, sure that someone in the nearby trailer park would think I was dying. Or an idiot. Or both.
During the second speed interval I was grasping at anything in front of me to sort of metaphysically pull me along ("Please, please giant red sign, help me get past you!"). I stopped at the old rec center for a drink and a water fountain bath, not quite oblivious to the small children whispering about the crazy running lady (I didn't hear them say this, but I'm sure they were thinking it) and thought I was all better after that. But I wasn't really.
But in the final moment, much like Gregory House always figures out the case based on some minor detail that has him briefly staring pensively into his own personal dimension, I did get something out of this. No one is making me do this--except me--and that's what makes it so awesome. I can say I have to--I have to run 3 miles today or 5 miles tomorrow--but I don't. It's not the outcome or the reward or the results that make it worth it (unless we're counting the cold gatorade or beer waiting in the fridge at home, in which case I may need to reevaluate), it's loving the work. Loving the run, and always realizing that it was worth it.
Saturday's 9 mile run was tame by comparison, with countless cool morning breezes in my face and five white-tailed bunny sightings. I could have done without that snake glaring at me over his shoulder as he did his evil dance in the water, but it was the kind of run that made me feel mellow and sentimental and thankful, and always loving the run.
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