Last night, I blogged about potentially needing to do something inspiring to inspire myself to train. Like begets like, and what have you. None of you commented on that post, despite my obvious cry for emotional support because my readership is comprised entirely of ex-boyfriends, evidently, but I'll just turn up the Kelly Clarkson while I go on here.
Anyway, after I hit publish on that post, I suited up for the mild weather and headed to Central Park. Then I turned around after 2 miles because my foot hurt. Not quite the inspiration I was looking for.
I was back at it again this morning though - I headed to the Park determined to run a loop, which I realize is not "inspiring" so much as it is "what thousands of normal, non-whiny runners do every day," but I needed to start small and build up momentum.
I circled the Park counterclockwise, listening to my breathing and the beeping of each mile and also the approaching footsteps of would-be rapists. I got home, hit the stop button, and was surprised to see my average pace was 8:02 for 8.5 miles - a solid clip for an easy run.
My suspicions were confirmed when I got to the office and synced (sunk?) Carl - of the 8+ miles I ran, two were sub-marathon pace, two were sub-half marathon pace, and one was sub-10 mile pace, based on the arbitrary assignments I gave to my speed work (8:00/mi, 7:45/mi, and 7:30/mi respectively).
A joyous cause for celebration?! A fire lit under my ass?! Not exactly. While I am delighted to have discovered that I haven't gotten obese and out of shape from thus far running 30 miles total in the month of January, accidentally succeeding at something without trying isn't exactly inspiring. It's dumb luck. Which has "dumb" right in the name, which is never a good thing.
In summation, I'm still searching for that inspiration, but am encouraged I might find it tooling around Central Park in the coming weeks. No word on when I'll find someone validate my feelings. Sing it, Kelly...