Saturday, August 04, 2007
Bridge on the Way to Washington National Airport
Me, this a.m., on the Mt. Vernon trail: "You'll go on without me and that's an order!"
Coach: "You're crazy with courage, and for what?! You've got the stench of death about you!"
Me: "Sorry, it's hot out here."
I can particularly relate to the guy who is marching in place with only one boot. Marching in place ... not getting anywhere ... yes, that sounds familiar!
I love these runs. Even when they suck because no matter what, it never fails that I get a story out of them. It's all blog fodder, people!
Last week I ran 16 miles, 10 during the week, 6 on Saturday. This week, I upped my weekly mileage to 13, and my Saturday run to 7. What's that you say, Laurie?? Blah blah blah careful don't add too much blah blah too soon la la la?? A.J.? Did you say something?
My group was running 5 miles Saturday morning, so this fellow suggested I get there early, run 2 and then go out with my group for 5. Seven in the can without even noticing! Brilliant!
I got there at 7 a.m. and ran one mile out and back. I was slow, but often am on those first few miles: 11:34 and 11:00. I got back, met with the group and went back out for 5 miles. By 7:30 a.m., I swear it was 110. In the shade. Inside. With air conditioning. I started out fine on this—let the record reflect—my second run of the morning. I ran with a new kid, dishing out portions of my vast wide and deep running knowledge for her to drink in. And then? I fizzled out like a damp match.
Oh who knows why it happened. Heat, too many miles added too quickly, no water (did I mention I had cleverly brought no water?), I'm lazy (my personal favorite), but what happened was around mile 3 (really mile 5), it was all over. I watched every single member of my pace group pass me while I told them all oh no, I was fine. I'm walking because, I dunno, it's so nice in the broiling sun, I thought I'd prolong this death march. I pretty much walked the last two miles, which sort of defeated the point of getting there early but oh well. I even resorted to talking "nice" to myself, as in how I would talk to a friend who was struggling, but I wasn't buying it.
If I'd had the strength, I would have whistled the "Colonel Bogey March."
In the end? Colonel Nicholson goes beserk, everyone dies and they blow up the bridge. Now that's what I call a good movie!