Speed Kills - sometimes

Before you read this latest post, refer to yesterday's post and my braggadocio about running fast. Today, it caught up with me...

Yesterday was to be an 8 mile day. I rolled out of bed with that feeling of having run the day before - sore but not overly so, I knew I had run the day before but didn't have that awful ache that I used to have after running 6 or 8 sprints in a day (or 10 during a weekend - the HEPS or IC4As, for example). I started out innocently enough, at a pace that I figured was good (but not great), enough (but not too much), and fast (but not too fast). After all, if slow is good, fast is better and faster is best, right? Well, by the 5 mile mark, my backside was dragging and I found myself shuffling along, like some poor guy in a nursing home might shuffle along toward dinner. Once I recognized my faltering pace and nursing home gate, I was able to suck it up, pick up my legs, and run more powerfully. That is, until THE HILL.

Let me explain. Orr neighborhood sits on the crown of a slight hill, about 200 feet of elevation. My general direction of running takes me down the hill on the way out and up the hill, toward home, on the way back, so that the end of every run is up this damned 3/4 mile hill. Usually, I take pride in being powerful up the hill, imagining myself passing my fellow runners on the stretch to the finish.

Today was an extreme exception to that "powerful" finish. Truth be told, my keister dragged up the entire hill. And my leg hurt. Not the best run of this series.

On a positive note, I finished the run, allowing my mind to conquer my body. And if I'm not mistaken, that's what this whole adventure is all about. Right?