Holy crapola

Okay, so maybe the fourteen-miler kicked my ass. Maybe.

The truth is that the fourteen-miler kicked my ass, rubbed my face in the dirt, and made me say "My name is Kenny and I like to eat poo poo" until I finally burst into tears and started begging for my mommy.

I don't know for sure what it was, though I have theories. For one, I'm pretty sure that I was dehydrated. I did an okay job of hydrating the day before, but I think that throughout the week before I was having too much caffeine (a diuretic, though there is evidence that it might not have as large of an impact on hydration as previously thought) and not enough water. Another thing was that the heat and sun were just brutal. The third possibility (and the current front-runner in the race for Kenner-ass-kicking causation) is that I am fat and still not in good enough shape.

Whatever the reason, I was really struggling. We ran from Foster down to Oak Street and back, and by the time we were turning around to head back I already knew that I was in trouble. My group was good to walk a full interval with me to let me try to get back in my groove, then we ran again. But in the last mile, after a bird defecated on my shoulder, I decided to walk again. The ignominy! Agnes walked with me and then we ran in the last quarter mile or so.

It bears mentioning that Agnes was in strict contrast to me; she seemed like she could have gone on for miles. She only walked because I was walking.

Yes, I like to think that I function as the anchor in this relationship. Get to know me and I can drag you down, too...

Anyway, I plan to bounce back. I am hydrating better this week and this morning's 40-minute run felt pretty good. This weekend we are scaling back again to just do seven miles, and I am glaaaaaad. The next week is sixteen miles, and I'm hoping to handle that a little bit better.