Who Put that Gorilla on My Back?

So, I did it; I actually laced up my old running shoes (not even realizing that they didn't match - right shoe = Asics 2150 / left shoe = Asics 1160) and I went for a  excruciatingly painful hurt so bad I wanted to die run.  For those of you that read my post Fifteen Pounds Heavier, Twenty Times Happier, this probably does not come as a surprise.  I figured that when the weather was nicer (gosh when did that become temperatures in the 30s?) that the itch would return, and like a mosquito bite, I'd have to scratch it. It definitely didn't hurt that I saw the person I love to run with the most (sorry all of you out there that thought it was you and it's not) at my husband's birthday party last Saturday.  I realized just how much I missed running with Jessie when I saw her.  It was like seeing her brought back all of the wonderful times dying, struggling to breath, gasping for air, trying not to puke, waking up at 5 a.m we had.  So, after a lot little pushing and prodding from Jess, I agreed that it was time to suffer start running again. Thankfully, Jessie's husband was heading out of town until Wednesday, so I was able to prevent the pain from returning for a few more days.

I wish I could say that I excitedly waited for Thursday to come.  Unfortunately, it's just not true. I actually spent the majority of Wednesday figuring out the perfect excuse I could use to get out of running the next morning.  The kids are sick (nope, if I use that one then a kid actually will get sick).  I'm sick (in the head doesn't count).  The dog ate my homework.  Darn it!  I couldn't think of a single good excuse.  I resigned myself to the fact that I would actually have to find those running shoes I hid under the bed (maybe I could pretend that I can't find them?).  Then, lo and behold, magical words out of Andy's mouth:  "You're running in the morning?!? It's going to be like -15 with the wind chill." 

Yes!  Check!  Score!  Happy dance.  I immediately called Jessie, who laughingly agreed and informed me that her husband just told her that if she wanted her running partner back she better call off tomorrow's run because that type of weather keeps even the most hard core runners indoors (and let's face it: while I used to be hard core, I'm pretty squishy soft right now).  We concluded that the best plan was to wait until Saturday when the weather was at least supposed to be above freezing.  I was totally excited: I had two more days to come up with an excuse as to why I couldn’t run. 

Too bad Saturday rolled around and no excuse was to be found (besides my sorry excuse for a running ensemble – tights under yoga pants and an Under Armor under a sweatshirt because let’s face it – no one needs to see my jello jigglin’). 

Jessie ran a few miles before meeting me, but really she could have run a marathon prior and still felt the pain that comes from running so slow.  Initially, the run went great.  We started chit-chatting right away (more like I started talking and wouldn’t shut up).  I told her that I thought I might be able to gut out three miles.  My rationale was based solely on the fact that when I stopped running, I was a little over a month away from racing a marathon, so I figured that three miles wouldn’t kill me.  Too bad that was back in April (and twenty five pounds lighter).  We started sprinting running nice and slow, and I even managed to make it up Clinton Hill (which is really an ant hill but sure as hell felt like self imposed torture).   Then, all of sudden, a stinking gorilla jumped on my back, bent me over, and made me start gasping for air.  No more talking (yes, it’s possible – I actually do stop talking when I’m forced to once in a while).  A mile and a half felt like an eternity.  I didn’t know how I would make it home.  I prayed someone I knew would drive by and pick me up.  I thought I was going to vomit.  I had to stop and walk.  And walk we did – for about two blocks.  Then we started up sprinting nice and slow again and I somehow made it home completely wiped/sore/exhausted alive.  Those three miles seemed like three years, and about a block mile into the run I was spent.  It was fantastic, invigorating, and fun.  What type of insane nutjob would enjoy something so agonizing?  (Apparently me, as I went for a run the next day by myself.  It was beautiful outside and I plodded along by myself this time, which means I truly have lost my mind to the roads again. I ran the same course as the day before, and this time I didn’t stop.)

Too bad I came home from the run with Jessie doing exactly what I didn't want to do - started obsessing about that love/hate relationship again, which meant wondering if the course we ran was a little over three miles, or maybe a little under three miles, wanting to plot it out on mapmyrun to see the exact distance, thinking about how it would have felt so much better if I wasn’t carrying around so much extra weight.  Then I slapped myself upside the head. I told Andy to take the scale in the basement (I never ever go in the basement because it scares me).  I went and attempted to hide my watch, but instead realized the battery died, and therefore decided not to replace it, sat down and played with the kids (instead of booting up the laptop). 

I decided (again) that I am running simply because I like to run.  For once, I don't have a race that I am desperately trying to get in shape for (as a matter of fact, I don’t see myself racing at all in the for-seeable future).  And, I’m not running to lose weight.  I’m simply enjoying the outdoors, the conversations with a fantastic friend, and the endorphine rush that comes with every run.