I don’t really like to use the phrase ‘bad run’, mostly because I don’t really believe that such a type of run exists - it’s just that some runs go better than others. This is the story of a run that did not go so well...
I set out with the best of intentions. Fuelled by PB on toast (snack of champions), well rested (having spent the best part of the day lying in bed reading) and perky music pumping away I was ready. The plan was 10 minutes easy, 20 minutes threshold, 10 minutes easy. A set I had done more times than I care to think about. Totally achievable.
Except it wasn’t. And I can’t put my finger on why.
With no route planned I shot off down the hill at some silly pace, all sense abandoned, and all breathing skills forgotten. Bad move. Very. Bad. Move. Nothing specific protested, but nothing felt good. I had no idea how to reign it in, and I’m not really sure that I wanted to.
Pacing all over the place, out of control, unable to maintain anything consistent, face set in that grimace of a person who knows they are not winning. Pushing on I tried and tried, grateful for each crossing and traffic light, each moment I could pause. For no specific reason I wanted to stop, I didn’t want to take control, to run through this block - I wanted to give up. Trying to bargain with myself I tried to slow, but my legs only sped up confused by my schizophrenic pacing. Singing to myself - normally my sure fire trick to pull back my speed and check my breathing – failed miserably and my soul screamed at me to stop, stop, STOP.
So I did. I stopped. I gave up. I walked home. And I didn’t feel terrible about it. Don’t get me wrong, I felt bummed out that I’d not had the inspiring, uplifting, light as air happy little pixie run I would have liked, but I didn’t feel like I’d failed. I felt like I had gone out and, for whatever reason, things hadn’t worked out. No win, no foul, no need to press on.