I went out for a seven-miler after work. The weather was PERFECT. Sun was shining, it wasn't too cold. I had a good chunk of time until dark. So I was feeling pretty good about it before I headed out, aside from the fact that I had about zero motivation.
I usually get my motivation about halfway through a run when I'm already so many miles from home, and I realize the only way back is to run. That'll kick your ass into gear when you're three-and-a-half miles from home and 20 minutes from dark.
And you're a wimp.
It felt good to get off the treadmill, which is something I haven't done in a couple weeks thanks to this whore of a winter. But when I got to my trail of choice I quickly found out it'd be more of a snowshoe adventure and less of an easy seven miles.
If the bike path wasn't slick with ice or packed with snow, it was full of puddles. Big, wet, deep puddles. Lots of water. And ice, slush. General slop. I briefly considered that my pretty, pretty purple Brooks were getting trashed, but had to remind myself to buck up.
YOU'RE A RUNNER. ROAR! QUIT YOU'RE BITCHING AND TRASH THOSE SHOES!
:: whimper ::
Pretty, pretty shoes...
So, anyway. There was that. And so I pranced around like a schoolgirl splashing through puddles. For seven miles. And my calves are a little sore from all the tip-toeing and ice dodging. Thank God for catlike reflexes.
We'll just chalk this one up to cross-training.