When the alarm went off this morning, I groaned. It was the first morning I had really not wanted to run. I had stayed up late throwing myself a bit of a pity party for gaining five pounds. I rolled over onto my back and started arguing with myself.
“Just go back to sleep. You can run later in the morning.”
“Come on. You’ve worked out hard everyday this week. Today won’t matter.”
I pushed the covers back, planted my feet on the floor and got up. After a cup of coffee and a banana, I went to gear up.
My heart wasn’t in it.
I plodded down to the end of the driveway, started my Garmin and tried to get in the zone.
“Just run one mile. One mile is something, right?”
“You’re tired. It’s humid out. You hate humidity. And look, you’re running slower than you’ve been running lately. It’s a sign. Stop.”
As I finished mile one and headed into mile two, the
argument conversation in my head continued.
“Ok. You’ve made it a mile. Awesome job. Now, just finish this next mile for an even two and call it a day.”
Just as I hit the halfway point, I saw my man leave for work.
“Perfect. He’s gone. He’ll never know you didn’t finish. Let’s go back inside for more coffee.”
I pressed on. I focused on my breathing. I focused on my stride. I thought about the upcoming day.
My Garmin beeped to tell me mile two was complete.
“Ok. Fine. You’re actually going to run the whole three miles then? I guess you might as well. If we’re going to do this thing, then let’s do it. Pump it out, Ruthanne.”
Despite the lack of desire, I pushed through and ran my fastest three miles to date.
I didn’t want to. Ooooh, man. I so didn’t want to this morning, but I made myself and I’m so glad I did.