I had a heinous track coach in high school. Well, I suppose it's not fair to call her heinous, because she was good. That woman whipped us group of girls into shape. And I'd hate to be her, because we were whiny. And we cried when it hurt.
But without her, I never would've ran a 5:44 mile. Our 4x8 relay wouldn't have set a school record.
I wouldn't have personal bests.
Personal bests (PB) or personal records (PR) were always the goal. She taught us to try. To push. To hate speed workouts. (Still do). She also taught us to refer to personal bests as "peanut butter," because, why not?
Personal best = PB = peanut butter? Sure.
Competitors probably thought we were morons, discussing peanut butter, but we did it anyway.
"Way to go! You got your peanut butter!" we'd yell at our teammates.
Wow, does sound stupid when read aloud. But it worked.
And today, this morning, I got my half marathon peanut butter. My watch told me 1:48, my chip timer told me 1:49. Either way, I ran my best time this morning, despite the weather and despite all other adversities.
I am damn proud.
My ultimate half marathon goal is a 1:45, so to be just a few minutes from that makes me extremely excited. Despite the blisters. And, man, did I get blisters.
Maintaining my pace wasn't easy, that's for sure. By mile 10 I wanted to drop dead, but I was relentless. I was going to beat 1:53 if it killed me. And so I did. Fortunately, I did not die, but that's just details.
I ended up 8th overall in my age group of 80 people. Being in the 26-29 group has its benefits, apparently. I don't completely suck in comparison.
So, hooray for peanut butter.