This morning I ran 16 of the most miserable miles in Central Park. I was exhausted, my knees hurt, and I struggled through every mile. Sheer force of will got me around those loops – force of will and the promise of eating my body weight in food afterwards.
The day before I had a pleasant enough 3-mile run, so I hope this was a one-off, and/or my last “bad” run before the Twin Cities Marathon in three short weeks. But I do want to acknowledge that today I really hated running. Yes, I’m still thankful that I’m not (terribly) injured right now, and yes, I’m grateful for being healthy in general, yadda yadda #blessed, but today I really hated every able-bodied step I took. And for my long run, that’s a lot of hated steps. Last week during my long run I fell so hard on a trail I rolled and bruised my shoulder, my legs, and scraped my hand and shin (healing but still scraped a week later – will post about it later this week). And yet today I hated running more than the day I fell.
And that (occasional?) hate of running? It’s ok – it’s part of running, I guess. And life. But I’m not going to get all philosophical right now because there is still food on this earth I haven’t eaten, and Netflix that needs watching.
Happy beginning of fall, runners. May you not hate running this weekend as much as I did today (not possible).
How often do you hate running? Do you ever actually like running? When you stepped into the shower today, did you discover your hateful run had mercilessly chafed you? Have you finished any bags of “Halloween” candy yet? Share in the comments!