However, I have decided to be a grown up and not a high schooler and to make the best of it. It would be a bonus to meet some new running friends, but I am remaining focused on why I am there. I have noticed a huge benefit from all of the speed training. Boston here I come, right??
But back to yesterday: the coach, who I had never met before, but who I am paying to coach me, didn't care to ask my name, but called my "Saucony" for the first half of training and "Abs" for the second half (or maybe he was calling me "ass"). I guess these nicknames are better than "new girl," "slow poke," or the dreaded "shit for brains." Anyway, no speed work yesterday (unless you count sprinting up hills), so I felt compelled to go to the dreaded mother f'n track today.
My half marathon is next weekend. Smart Coach from http://www.runnersworld.com/ (who by the way doesn't call me names, but just sits quietly on my bulletin board) insisted that I run 7 miles:
1 mile warm up
3x1600 @7:34 w/800 jogs
1 mile cool down
Yeah, yeah. 7:34 sucks for me. I knew I would hate it.
I got ready to leave and managed to drop the kids at the pool, if you know what I mean, before leaving. I ran the mile to the track at my son's middle-school-to-be. For some reason CO is experiencing very cool weather. It was 54 degrees. Perfection. With the cold weather has also come rain, so the track was soaked with many puddles. Crap, I thought. These will slow me down. I did the 800 jog, then started my first mile. All was going well until the familiar feeling crept over my. Are you kidding me? But I went before leaving the house! Why does this always happen to me no matter how far I'm running?
Mind over matter, I told myself. Hold it in. Keep going. Between my first and second 1600s, the urgency was indisputable. I would have killed for a bright blue porta potty. Even one that hadn't been cleaned in months and had no toilet paper. But alas, I had no choice but to visit the trees by the track and to do some fertilizing.
Mile 1: 7:21
Mile 2: 7:30
Mile 3: 7:33
I got home, cleaned up, and didn't have the heart to tell my son what had occurred at the track of his new school. Mostly because I could just see it: the sixth grade boys out for gym class. The usual bantering goes on. Someone farts. Someone else tries to do one louder. My son says, oh you think that's a good one! My mom once took a dump behind those trees.
The sacrifices I make for speed.