I decided on Sunday that I needed to get in an 11-mile run. Needed, no questions about it. In fact, I should have gone about 17 miles, but I felt like giving myself a break. As if I needed one. I was visiting my parents for the weekend, so decided I'd run the 5.5 miles to my grandma's house, then run back home after a short visit.
Grandma lives out in the country road boondocks, so it wasn't going to be an exciting run at all. Also, nevermind that it was exactly 103.53 degrees outside, with 312 percent humidity. I stepped outside and got wet. That's how humid it was. Perfect for running, obviously.
I made it three miles and decided I was going to drop dead on the spot, so I quit. And walked the rest of the way to grandma's, with every intention of dying before I got there. I was so hot. Breathing was unbearable. And I had swear pouring down every inch of my body. Actually pouring. I know, hot.
Needless to say, I got to grandma's and immediately called dad to pick me up because there was no effing way I was doing that again. So the week passed without my long run. And I'd attempt it tonight, but turns out, weird, it's still 14 million degrees outside. Is it fall yet?
So, without further ado:
Tuesday: Headed out for 11 miles in the morning. It was good. I like morning runs. Two points for me.
Wednesday: Ran a local 5K. It was so damn hot. But I placed in my age group.
Thursday: So lazy.
Friday: Do I run? Or do I lay on the couch? The latter wins.
Saturday: Nothing, in preparation for a long run tomorrow.
Sunday: Three weak miles. And two miles of walking. And lost 26 pounds of sweat.
Miles ran: 17.1
Miles biked: 0