I sit here in my empty apartment, sunlight pouring in through the windows and skylights. The clock has just shown 12:00. I intended to get up for a run this morning, but have since managed to daudle, to do shit I never thought I'd get around to doing- filling out my day planner for the next coulple weeks, laundry, check for my new running shoes to arrive at the door repeatedly. Anything but get out and run to the trails.
This is what I came here for, isn't it? I've already rested a day this week, and physically I feel fine. No matter how many days in a row, or how many feet I climb, I wake up feeling rested. As usual, the culprit is my mind.
I ascend from town into the canyons, and am quickly reduced to a hike. The endless stairs and rocks remind me that I'm not a "natural" anything. I'm reminded that a long torso and short legs aren't meant for springing my way up to the summit of a mountain. My tingling legs and light headedness confirmed what lab data from school told me already, that after years of training myself for endurance sports my VO2 max worked it's way up to "slightly above average."
Even as I write this, my mind is changing. I thought of my frequent stops to catch my breath. I had my hands on my knees, breathing like I'd been shot. What I didn't do, I've just realized, is turn around and head home. There has to be something to that. I've just got to put my pride away and keep going. When working toward an individual goal, the workload rests on the individual. Others will do what they can to help, but ultimately, nobody really cares how many miles I run this Summer or what kind of person I am. Keeping this blog helps immensely, but I have to keep questioning my own motivations.
The only thing that will determine whether this is the chronicling of a fizzled out failure or a genuine accomplishment is the author.
That's why I clicked "publish" and put my shoes on.