The goal for this day was to run to six miles. When you on this side of six miles -- the side where you haven't run all winter, where three miles is just slightly uncomfortable, where you have to convince yourself a la Barack Obama that "Yes You Can!" -- you fight the urge to not run, to give in, to find a good reason to put it off.
I struggled only mildly with those feelings most of the morning, because really I knew that I would do the run before the day was over, I just needed to feel the moment was right before I would head out the door. I also needed to feel that the rigor mortis in my legs due to my first attempt at strength training the day before might loosen up a bit. (I worked with a deceptively nice and encouraging trainer named Michele who didn't warn that I was be a cripple the morning after working with her for a mere 45 minutes.)
Back to my intuitive decision-making process about when to run: my intuition stinks. The sunny/overcast morning passed while I dawdled and delayed, and by midday the sputters of rain turned to full downpour. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. Why did I procrastinate? I waited for the torrents to ease up and then forced myself out the door. I ran three miles to the ferry dock on the opposite side of the island, took a long stretch break and examined some informative tourist brochures, then ran back.
As always, ran is no bother once you're out running, it just makes you not want to start. Similarly, when you are that side of six miles -- when you can look at the "6" on your training calendar and not feel doubt and dread -- you feel pretty darn good.
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