It all started when I decided to sleep Friday night instead of unleashing Rose onto the world. I woke up Saturday around noon feeling like a lazy mofo as my girl Emma told me she had already completed a 9-miler hours prior. Since I wasn't hungover for once, I decided it was the perfect time to throw caution to the wind and get this marathon training I'm supposedly partaking in back on track despite my tragic fall a few days earlier. I even took my self deprecating humor to the Twitter machine:
Damn me and my foreshadowing.
So I continued to dawdle, dreading this beast of a journey I was about to go on -- I even put on sunscreen knowing perfectly well that 1pm is a terrible time to go for a long run. I took about 7 minutes just to put on my shoes. Thought I lost my headphones. Basically by the time I got out the door it was closer to 2pm, but I started running.
Photographic overview of the surfaces I run on.
I told myself I wanted LSD (long slow distance, ya hippies) and I employed the run 4, walk 1 minute technique and still managed to knock out the first mile in 8 minutes flat. So I was feeling good. The sun was out, not a cloud in the sky and the wind was cold and consistent, so when I got to mile 3 and felt like I was loving on life, I flashed a million-dollar smile at the first runner I came across and BOOM.
Yea, I fell again. This makes THREE times in the past month for those of you keeping track. So naturally I spent the next three minutes crying, snapping photos, texting Emma and feeling sorry for myself. I was all, "REALLY?! As if I needed more reasons to be unhealthy!!" while continuing to pull gravel out of my palm. After my three minutes was up I said, "Eff it," and kept running. Aside from the crazy stinging action that happened every time my sweat would come in contact with my open wounds, I was doing pretty well and already planning out the ridiculous things I would write about this experience (which were far too dramatic to actually use after sleeping on it for a bit). I was planning on getting to five miles and turning my bloody self right around, but somewhere along the lines Nike+ decided to stop notifying me of my mileage and I found myself at 5.5 miles and at a gorgeous lake.
I paused the run and decided to check it out. I found a cop who probably thought I had just been jumped due to my bloody wounds and bewildered facial expression (exhaustion + pain + wanting to explore but scared of strangers). There was a water fountain and a shower which I found very helpful as I scared small children with my mini bloodbath. I concluded that next time I will drive my happy ass to this park and just run around the lake (preferably on a grass surface). I then made my way back home and finished up at 11.15 miles at about a 9:30 mile pace.
After the stupid painful experience of removing my sports bra followed by a stupid painful shower, I realized I didn't own Bandaids or Neosporin (apparently I'm a frat boy), so I once again took my scary self out into public to bandage myself up and indulged in a pity party of In-n-Out Burger and Arrested Development binging, followed by homemade mojitos and out on the town for more bacon infused whiskey, which was then followed by the worst Sunday in the history of Sundays (hey there, run-on sentence!). Apparently lactic acid, road rash and severe dehydration is a recipe for hangover hell (apparently I didn't sleep on this day long enough to edit out the melodrama, sorry not sorry).
All this to say I don't know how to run like a normal human being, everything hurts and I would very much like to eat that burger out of the screen all over again right now.
Linking up with Sami.