I had a perfect high-mileage, low-effort week going, all calculated to end at 35 miles for the week. Going into today's run, I just needed 9.5 miles to reach my goal, and I actually planned to run 10 for good measure. I had a perfect day to run: sunny, low humidity, 63 degrees. I felt good, too, real good, for about 7 miles. But about 8 miles out I kind of thought I'd be satisfied with 33-plus miles, and I would have happily stopped except I was still more than a mile from the car. I had to go there anyway, so I might as well run.
When I got to the car, I was still about two-tenths of a mile short, so I fought through them, imagining I was wrapping up a 100-mile ultra in the desert. No way was I going to run 9-something and not get my 35 for the week.
At 9.5 I broke the tape, so to speak, and came to a halt, satisfied I'd reached my goal. I really didn't need that extra half mile to 10 anyway. I walked back to the car, reset my GPS to lock in the run, and drove home.
A couple hours later I plugged the mileage into my log. I could not believe; could not for a minute comprehend, the result. 34.9 miles. I hadn't double checked my totals before going out and was wrong about my exact mileage. It was as if I'd run the best marathon of my life, but stopped 100 yards short for a root beer and fries. It was a DNF. A whole week of running wasted.
Being a mature individual and a veteran runner, though, I quickly realized that .1 mile carried no real significance. I snapped - no, exploded - out of it with a bacon cheeseburger and onion rings for dinner. That may not be training table fare, but I figured I'd earned it.
After all, I'd just finished the week with 34.9 miles.
I'll get that .1 back next week. --Rob
1 comment:
OMG, Rob, how bizarre is that? That is just so typical of both of us. That's what happens when you lock on to a specific goal and decide that it's an absolute! Just be happy that you could run at all.
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