I ran 36 miles this week. Thirty-six.
I think that's the most weekly mileage I've packed in all summer, so I'm impressed. It helped that I ran a half marathon Sunday and another 13 miles this morning, which doesn't happen every week, but whatever. Details.
I ran with Courtney and Mary this morning. I'd rather run with them than without, because it gives me the motivation to get out of bed and run 13 miles, but trying to keep up with those two is like catching a fly with your bare hands. It just doesn't happen.
I'm slow they're really fast.
So anyway, of course I'm about as pleasant as a rabid dog at 7:30 a.m. on a Saturday in the midst of a 13-mile run, and the fact that I can't keep up with the two people who dragged me from the warmth of my bed makes my eyes bleed. And my breath turn to flames. And hell to open up and swallow me whole.
It's really pretty.
So while they're all ahead of me, being chatty-chatty and whee! Look at us! We're running! Fast! I'm all pissed off and burning holes into the backs of their heads with the lasers that are shooting out of my eyes. From 15 feet away. Because that's where I am, a constant 15 feet behind the two of them. I have Mary's calf definition memorized.
And then I start to pout. And contemplate world peace and also the reason why I'm the worst runner ever, oh my God.
Of course such contemplation makes 13 miles feel more like 39, and by the time we're done I've conjured every single hypothetical scenario possible to amputate their legs and my head.
And then, you know, none of that actually happens, and I'm still just a slow runner in the back of the pack, essentially running 13 miles alone.
Which really just gets me back to square one. Running alone. Someone remind me again why I do this?