So, Thursday... yeah...
Completely unmemorable. I remember that it was a five miler, and the time wasn't particularly outstanding, but I was saving myself for the weekend ahead.
At one point, I was chasing a baby possum. Yes, they're gross when they're old, but when they're little, they're actually quite cute. He heard me coming and ran away, but for some reason, he refused to leave the path, so he actually just ran ahead of me for about 30 feet or so. I, it turns out, am actually a bit faster than a baby possum, so I started to catch up, when he finally decided to head into the grass. It was nice to have company for a moment or so.
Mostly, though, I remember being tired. I was straight up exhausted, trying to keep up with all my other commitments, and still getting time to run.
This was a run that went well with certain things that I've been reading about. There was a surprisingly timely article in this month's Runner's World about forcing yourself to get out of bed and run in the morning. There were several ideas in there that could probably work for me, assuming that I actually manage to remember any of them at 6:00 in the morning.
But one of the things that always seems to come up in these stories is that people talk about how they use running as a way to escape from everything else in their day. It's the one time of day that belongs entirely to them, and yet it almost feels like another chore that I have to do.
So now, how do I make the running an escape? By deciding that it will be.
And getting up on time.
I dunno. 70-somethings?
37 Minutes, 55 Seconds