You’ll be pleased to know that the pity party here at Half-Fast has come to a close. After two days of wallowing in my failure and moping around the house I finally went and ran again last night. We dragged our children (drug? - or is that a different parenting technique) to the local middle school track and forced them to sit on the hot metal bleachers and yell encouraging things as Candis and I did some 800s because we like to make it hurt so good.
In the past I’ve written some disparaging things about intervals but last night it was just what the doctor ordered, assuming the doctor is a sadistic prick who wants to hurt you. If runners were emo, intervals would be how we cut ourselves.
Surprisingly, it felt good to be out there struggling for breath. It felt good to push my legs to the point of exhaustion. It felt good to hurt myself and I couldn’t help but wonder if this is the same feeling or high that emo people get when they carve stuff into their arms. It was like I was connecting to them on their level, but without the skinny jeans.
Reaching your limits in training is what helps you to push them back, and that’s just what I needed last night. That and a good psychological evaluation but one out of two ain’t bad, right?