This week was one of those weeks. I know you know those weeks.
By the time I got to Wednesday, I just kind of wanted to curl up someplace dark and quiet and not come out. Ever.
Wednesday also happens to be one of my three precious run days. But I did not feel like running. Not. At. All. I felt like curling up someplace dark and quiet and not coming out. Ever.
But instead, I came home from work, changed, and headed out the door. The automatic pilot part of me headed for the hills. Literally - the out and back loop that takes me over some crazywicked hills.
As I started my slow shuffle down the street, I felt as though my legs were made of equal parts lead and iron. The thought of just looking at hills tired me. The thought of running up them made me want to cry. Everything in me wanted to turn around and just go back inside.
But I didn't.
I keep at my slow shuffle until my legs started to loosen up a little. And then something happened that I hadn't expected. I started to push the pace.
I can't even say what made me do it. I can't remember the last time I'd done such a thing. I can't even say it was a conscious decision.
But there it was.
Maybe I was delirious from lack of sleep.
Maybe I was fed up with the things-out-of-my-control.
Maybe I was trying to remember what it felt like to race.
Maybe my legs remembered something the rest of me had forgotten.
Maybe it doesn't matter.
Because I went with it. Mind you, there was nothing particularly fast about the pace I was pushing. But it was faster than I'd managed in quite awhile. And don't even think those monster hills didn't slow me down to something akin to a crawl. But holy wow if I didn't pick up again when I got to the top.
And when I got home? I didn't feel so leaden. I didn't feel so ready for a dark hole.
I felt good.
Good enough to push on through the rest of the week, with something like a smile on my face.