Training. Ugh.

Some days are great like before work last week when I ran four miles at a pace that rivaled my best 5K without feeling like death. Some days are not so great. Two days after that fantastic four mile jaunt, I did three miles at a snail's pace, feeling pretty crappy. Some days are brutal.

Saturday morning, P.I.C. and I were up for six miles. This is the farthest I have ever run. Rather than trace a path through our 'hood, we elected to drive a bit east and run on the lakefront. Unfortunately, the weather was not cooperating. It was about 45 degrees. It was spitting out rain. It was just plain nasty. BUT NO WORRIES. We were going to run it.

We started out fine, but then got caught up in a ten mile race. We ran three, then turned around and ran back to where we had parked the car. We were IN the race, running with people at a pace that would have caused me pain for half my distance. (My strategy is to try to improve my speed on my shorter runs and basically not DIE on the longer distances.) We got out of the race and were on our final 1.25 miles. The wind was blowing directly into our bodies. I felt like I was putting one foot in front of the other and getting nowhere. I felt like I was going to puke. I nearly was hyperventilating. I started gasping for air, nearly crying out in frustration. WHY OH WHY did I think I could train for and run ten miles? I AM A TERRIBLE RUNNER. THIS IS THE WORST IDEA I EVER HAD.

P.I.C. calmly told me that we were almost done, that I could do it. So I sucked it up. It was hard. I felt terrible. It was slow. I am now terrified that I will never get past this point. But I logged the damn miles. That's what it's all about, right? Thank goodness this week is a shorter week. If I had to go out and do seven on Saturday, I don't know what I would do. Well, I'd run it. I would probably cry. I would probably hate it, but I'd do it.

Besides, we really know I'm in this for the fatty brunch afterwards, right? RIGHT?