I’ll cut to the chase: I woke up around 7am, shoved my wobbly 34-year-old body into my now ill-fitting running apparel, then hit the pavement around 8:30am (my cat, Big Bertha, was asleep, yet still demanding of my attention, you understand).
Today’s stats: 1.51 miles // 14:53 time // 9:52 pace.
I know it’s a very, very modest improvement in distance from yesterday’s hilarious maiden voyage, but there’s a key difference: I wasn’t on the brink of spontaneous combustion. Felt okay, actually. Breathing and cadence also improved, so I’ll take it. I still needed to stop at a mile and a half, but that’s actually for the best, which is to say, keep the mileage low for now and accumulate the miles at a consistent clip.
This past summer, I was training for what would’ve been my third marathon slated for fall, but wound up busting my right quadricep after doing too much, too soon. My impatience is my fatal flaw. That said, I’m humbled by my body and its need to just… ease in on leaning in.
Oh! And! I haven’t smoked in two days. AND! I didn’t buy cigarettes yesterday or today, even though I was at the market and very well could have and very much wanted to. My lungs are probably like, “bitch, wtf? Make up your goddamn mind!”