I knew before I even walked out the door…I just had that feeling I shouldn’t go. I didn’t sleep well last night. My pants just weren’t fitting right. The top of my water bottle was leaking and I was getting electrolyte drink all over my hand. Todd was being a pain in the ass, feeling it necessary to stop every five steps to smell or mark his spot to let everyone know he once passed by that particular spot. I just didn’t want to run.
That all happened within the first half mile of my 7-mile run this morning. The 7-mile run that just so happened to be the WORST run I have had in a very, very long time. But here is the difference…I didn’t turn back. I did my 7-mile run.
Every once in awhile I get a glimpse at how far I have come in my thinking. I get a glimpse of the difference in me and my thinking. The old me would have never started. The old me would have turned around. The old me would have cut the miles short. The old me would have berated myself for having a bad run.
The me I am now didn’t quit and the me I am now realizes that bad runs happen. Bad runs don’t necessarily translate into being a bad runner, or what I used to tell myself, a bad person. Yeah, I can be that hard on myself and tell myself that my inability (and by inability I mean having a bad day) to run, ride or swim translates into who I am as a person. (Talk about Feeding the Monster, right Carrie?!)
Now I see bad runs like this as almost a blessing…Every runner I know has a bad run. It is almost inevitable that you will just have a day when things just don’t feel right, and that is OK. All I can say is that I would rather have a bad run today than on race day.