I have a little more than a week left until my race, and training lately has been...less than ideal. Remember when I ran 10 miles and I was all, "I'm going the distance?" Yeah, well, I went the distance, it almost killed me, and I couldn't bend my knees for three days. So last week's training was practically nonexistent. I went from running 23 miles the previous week to running a grand total of FIVE last week.
So after giving my knees several days off, I was more than a little concerned about my long run and conquering 10 miles again on Sunday. *Spoiler alert!* I didn't make it. Why? Because I didn't listen to Charlie. I realize the man's crazy, but as I was struggling to put one foot in front of the other, I could only think of one thing:
PLAN. BETTER. He warned me, and truer words have never been spoken. It applies to everything, especially my doomed run on Sunday. You see, I know every single week that the weekend will bring a long, hard run. New miles that I've never attempted. It's never a surprise. It's on a snazzy chart on my refrigerator. Yet, somehow, I often fail to plan for it. Instead of staying off my feet, taking it easy and drinking gallons of water the day before, I got up at 6:30 a.m., went to work for a couple of hours, cleaned my entire house (and I mean really cleaned, like getting the gunk out of the coffee pot and vacuuming the baseboards kind of clean), did a ridiculous amount of laundry, organized the whole house, and followed that up by a solid hour of strength training and staying up until after midnight. Smart, huh? Oh, and while I was doing all that, I drank practically no water.
Then, I still had the audacity to set my alarm for 7 a.m., like I was really going to get up and run early. Ya know, practice running during actual race time and beat the heat. See, Sunday was the hottest day we've had so far this year. It reached 80 degrees and there were zero clouds in the sky. After I rolled my sore body out of bed a few hours after my alarm went off, I took my sweet time having breakfast, drinking coffee - ya know, the beverage that dehydrates you - and headed out for a run around 1:30 p.m. The sun was beating down, and I still somehow thought everything would be fine. I had just run 10 miles the weekend before. What's the big deal?
HEAT. Heat is the big deal. Heat, humidity, already tired legs and dehydration before I even left the house. There was once a time when I longed for 80 degrees and sunshine. I sure got my wish! I ran, walked and whined a total of 5.7 miles before I gave up and went back home. I left defeated, freaking out about whether I can handle 13.1 miles, and sporting some ridiculous tan lines, thankyouverymuch compression calf sleeves.
I definitely should've listened to Charlie. Plan better.