Sometimes, my body is a dirty liar

For my first three-day weekend in ages, I set myself lofty goal.

Twelve miles.

Totally possible, especially since I've upped my short runs to three miles and my long runs to six. Well within my grasp, if I just keep moving.

So when I woke up this morning feeling like I'd rather do anything than hit the trail, it was a little discouraging. I dragged around until noon, putting it off, until finally forcing myself to lace up and get it done.

Last week, I breezed through my six miler, only feeling fatigue set in around mile five. It was beautiful and blissful, the perfect weather for it.

This week, it was warm and relentlessly sunny. My water bottle felt too heavy, my legs were stiff, and despite making a pit-stop within the first mile, I had the sensation of a rather urgent bathroom need every time I ran.

Yes, the entire time. (You're welcome.)

I felt every step today. The run began as a labor, my quads still aching from the hill I battled on Thursday. I took a different path than usual, and when I made it out to my old friend "The Loop", I sighed and pulled out my phone. The run felt like it was lasting forever, and I had no idea how far I'd gone.

The display read 3.26 miles in 48:45. Less than a minute off my target pace, including bathroom break.

Here I was, holding pace and potentially setting a new personal best for the trail in the face of (what felt like) reasonable adversity, and I was giving myself zero credit for it.

I wavered, weighing going back immediately (hello, bathrooms) against continuing on my course. To complete The Loop would be to add another mile or so. An extra fifteen minutes between me and relief.

I told myself to stop complaining and continued on.

Besides, I was in the woods. If I became that desperate, surely I could find a robust tree to hide behind. Right?

And then, a funny thing happened. The run got easier. My splits didn't get any faster, but I stopped complaining so much.

Your quads will be tired whether or not you run. Keep going.

Insulting yourself won't make you run faster.

Running isn't all fun. Sometimes, it's about finding out what you're capable of.

By the time I reached park land, the aforementioned bathroom need had become persistent, and all attempts at jogging were off. It's one thing to push yourself and risk everything for a marathon PR, but in the woods during a training run? I just didn't see the appeal. The last mile was slow. Very slow.

All told, when I turned off my tracker, I had finished 6.03 miles in 1:33:48. Not bad for a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad run. Pretty damned good, actually.

Six down, six to go.