It's like this:
It's 8:20 p.m. It's been dark in Eugene, OR for 3 1/2 hours. You're just getting home. It would be easy to crack open a buzzsaw brown and settle into your evening, such as it is. You really don't feel like it, but you want to show people what you're made of. As everyone knows, this could be done by either A.) running more than anyone else or 2.) not running at all until race day. Decisions, decisions.
Fortunately, you've spent the last 57 minutes parked in your driveway and talking to Coach Errin. Also, you know that you will feel better when you're done. The pendulum is carving a dangerous arc and it's up to you to reverse it's trajectory. You know this, but just 12 oz. of Deschutes seasonal could render all of that preposterous. Time to suck it up.
Sweats, shoes, knit cap, gloves. A few short and painful but unfortunately necessary stretches. 1 oz. whiskey. Go. Ease into it. It's OK.
It was raining hard a while ago, but the streets are just wet now. It's somewhere near 40 degrees. The clouds and new moon make it hard to see the numerous puddles along your route. Your joints stop hurting after the first 1/2 mile. The cold air burns your lungs - in not an entirely unpleasant way - and makes you cough, if you breathe deep enough. You start to get warm and feel loose. You notice that it's actually pleasant out.
Running north on Hilyard, you're tempted to stretch it out and really make this one count. You can actually feel the muscles in your legs, chest and the small of your back; its been a while. It feels good. You decide, instead, to stick to the plan. Turn left on 18th. Keep it short. It's a long road. No need to overdo it. There will plenty of time for that later.
Anyway, it's not much, but it's 3+ miles. On the ground. Old school, yo. Check it.
It's 8:20 p.m. It's been dark in Eugene, OR for 3 1/2 hours. You're just getting home. It would be easy to crack open a buzzsaw brown and settle into your evening, such as it is. You really don't feel like it, but you want to show people what you're made of. As everyone knows, this could be done by either A.) running more than anyone else or 2.) not running at all until race day. Decisions, decisions.
Fortunately, you've spent the last 57 minutes parked in your driveway and talking to Coach Errin. Also, you know that you will feel better when you're done. The pendulum is carving a dangerous arc and it's up to you to reverse it's trajectory. You know this, but just 12 oz. of Deschutes seasonal could render all of that preposterous. Time to suck it up.
Sweats, shoes, knit cap, gloves. A few short and painful but unfortunately necessary stretches. 1 oz. whiskey. Go. Ease into it. It's OK.
It was raining hard a while ago, but the streets are just wet now. It's somewhere near 40 degrees. The clouds and new moon make it hard to see the numerous puddles along your route. Your joints stop hurting after the first 1/2 mile. The cold air burns your lungs - in not an entirely unpleasant way - and makes you cough, if you breathe deep enough. You start to get warm and feel loose. You notice that it's actually pleasant out.
Running north on Hilyard, you're tempted to stretch it out and really make this one count. You can actually feel the muscles in your legs, chest and the small of your back; its been a while. It feels good. You decide, instead, to stick to the plan. Turn left on 18th. Keep it short. It's a long road. No need to overdo it. There will plenty of time for that later.
Anyway, it's not much, but it's 3+ miles. On the ground. Old school, yo. Check it.
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