My alarm went off at 7 on Saturday morning, which should be a crime. I had plans to meet a local running club for an 8-miler along the lake. It all sounds great and grand in theory, but dammit if 8 a.m. doesn't jump on you real quick.
So, I hit snooze. Over and over. And over. Suddenly it was 7:40, and I could feel my waistline expanding and the guilt I'd feel later for skipping the run. So I got up, grumpily, of course. Couldn't find matching socks, my good shorts were in the laundry, my hair does NOT fit into a proper ponytail - it was obviously a disastrous morning.
I had to drive to meet the group, which I feel is such an oxymoron. Drive somewhere to run. It just feels... wrong. But of course I did it anyway because A) I was late, and B) I didn't feel like tacking an extra five miles onto my run that morning.
I knew I'd be late. I figured there'd be about three people in the group and they'd leave without me. I also don't know if I could have been any more whiny about the situation.
But I showed up and there were not three people. There were about fifty.
True story. Runners everywhere. It was FANTASTIC. Everyone was friendly and meet-and-greet-y, and within a half-mile I partnered up with another woman about my pace. Water stations were set up along the course, and at the end, club organizers provided fruit and beverage (beer, even!) and cookies and all kinds of magical fuel.
I died and went to lonely runner heaven.
The group meets every Saturday morning for long runs, and I fully intend to take advantage of that because nothing is more awful than running 20 long miles alone. As I know. From experience.
So, needless to say, I ran again. I'm not nearly as on the ball as I'd like to be, but it'll come. I even took my bike out for a 15-miler later in the day after some beach time with a gal pal.
This is what summer is made of. And it's glorious.