When I went out the door for my run last evening I told myself, I’ll start to enjoy it halfway through, a reminder of what had transpired during an earlier run when I was feeling like sh*t and yet went out anyway.
During that run I started awful. Just moments before I’d had doubts swarming in my mind about whether or not it was too late/warm/physically draining and just stupid to go out. But within the first kilometer everything just became easy, and I ended the run feeling stronger than ever.
So last evening I thought a similar miracle might occur. Trust the process I thought. So I did.
Two kilometers in and I knew I was in for a betrayal. I’d not felt so poorly on a run for a very long time. This felt like some of the runs I had in 2018 where I had been training hard for a marathon, running in godforsaken hours, sometimes after grueling days in the office.
Half an hour in and I was still feeling awful, though physically my watch told me I was doing just fine — a slow pace, yes, but one that was just right for the heart rate range I’d been maintaining.
By the end of the hour’s run, my watch told me I had a good run: I had a VO2 Max rating that equaled my best this year (measured roughly by heart rate X pace).
Mentally, though, I was drained.
It was a subjectively awful, objectively good, run.
I hated it.
Yes, I love to run.
But there are days where enough is enough; no more.