The thing I hate about training is that you can't really pull one over on yourself. You're lungs aren't going to forget you took a week off. Rather than run (poorly) the same path I usually do, I decided to just run. Somewhere I've never been so I didn't have to feel terrible for running it less well than I had sometime back in June.
It didn't go spectacularly, but I did manage to triple my distance even if a half mile was walking up a 45 degree incline. I crested and managed to slog my way home. There were a few downsides to a new route. I almost got hit my a car, and I took a pizza box in the face running along store fronts, but I can feel in my legs today that they got a workout.
Maybe I've found a new way to lie to myself, in the end. Maybe I can't pretend I didn't just eat a steak 15 mins ago, or that my 2 week vacation of booze binging and sitting on a couch were a resting period, but I can at least unhinge my mind from expectations by running in some unknown direction until I feel like I've gone far enough. Then I can head back to civilization on the west side of Somerville.
With the cold creeping in, the options are becoming less apparent. Soon I'll be strapped to a treadmill for my long runs, when black ice and uprooted sidewalks make outdooring running more deadly than smoking. Still for the time being, I'm going to chart new courses, let go of my own frantic paranoia, and pretend I'm going somewhere I cna't return from.
