Steal My Miles

So this post is definitely going to inspire some grimaces, and some eye rolling, and some of that thing people do where they shake your finger and make a clucking sound.

And I know that. Let’s just get that out there from the start. But it’s not like I’ve done anything else stupid this week, so it’s all good.

Or not.

So there’s this group of DC runners who frequently get together to head out on Saturday morning long runs. I’ve never joined them on an extremely regular basis because things like Ironman training and weekend jaunts to California got in the way, but I absolutely love running with these peeps and tried to make it happen whenever possible. While I was out with my broken foot, I was never removed from the email distribution list for this group and I may or may not have had some not so kind words for one or two of my friends when I got the invitation to run 20 miles and chase it with a bottomless brunch while my crutches were perched beside me. I find it extraordinarily inconsiderate when people flaunt their ability to spend a Saturday morning running for 3 hours while I’m stuck playing with the velcro on my boot and blaring my “I Hate the World” playlist on full volume.

But after running 10 miles last week, and planning on nailing 12-13 this weekend, I finally had a high enough mileage to hit the road with this crew for at least a bulk of their run. So, bright and early Saturday morning, my friend Jeff picked me up from my house and we headed to the meeting spot for the run. The plan was for me to stick with the guys for 12-13 miles of their 15 mile run, drop off and then metro to a TBD place either near the meeting spot or back in the direction of my house.

I probably don’t even need to finish this story right? I have a feeling you guys know exactly where this is all going.

But in case you haven’t picked up on my stubborn personality and addiction to running, I’ll proceed.

So Jeff mapped out this route that basically spanned the perimeter of the city and then cut back through the middle. The boys I was running with are all exceedingly impressive athletes: one clocked a 2:50 FIRST marathon, another demolishes triple digit mileage on a weekly basis, and a third sees 5s on his garmin on the reg and doesn’t chalk it up to an issue with the location of satellites. Lucky for me, none of them were looking to set any speed records on Saturday, they just wanted to log some good mileage into their training for the week, so I was actually able to keep up without a problem. We started the run off at 8 minute miles or just above, trying to keep the full group together as none of us actually knew where we were going. But once the directions were internalized, we slowly started to pick it up. And then, as is characteristic of running with boys with egos, the pace started to quickly drop.

And once said boys-with-egos become aware that the pace is dropping, you can just sit back and watch them start to push each other to drop it even faster. And by “sit back and watch”, I mean pick it up because there is no way in hell you’re getting schooled by a pack of boys.

And as the pace fell, I continued to feel great. We hit the 10 mile mark and I was a little aware that I was running the farthest distance since coming back from my broken foot, but I felt so good I didn’t really want to acknowledge the numbers on my garmin. And wouldn’t have, had one of my friends not been a huge pest constantly checking on my mileage and giving me the “shouldn’t you drop out soon, Emily” evil stare.

But do you know just how difficult it is to stop running when you’re having the best long run you’ve had in months? Believe me, I tried to be smart. I tried to think about what it would be like to be sidelined again. I tried to think about the possibility of not running Eugene. I tried to make visions of boots dance through my head and I just couldn’t stop. I watched Mile 13 tick by, the mile I really, really should have and intended to stop at and watched as my feet kept landing, one in front of the other, unwilling to slow down or stop.

And this mental battle continued for another 2.5 miles. I heard my garmin beep 14 and then 15. I watched the boys drop from a 7:30 pace, to a 7:20 pace, to a decidedly sub 7 pace. And that’s about when I finally forced myself to end the run. I knew I should not hit 16 miles (not that I should have hit 14, 14.5, 15 or 15.5 either…) and I really knew I should not be sprinting the last half mile on top of pushing my distance limits.

So I walked it in for the final half mile with no real remorse for the running sin I had just committed. I felt kind of like that 8 year old who gets yelled at for stealing 6 fresh chocolate chip cookies before dinner. Sure I got scolded and ruined my dinner, but I also got warm, doughy, chocolatey cookies. I think the cookie-filled 8 year old rebel will back me up when I say: totally worth it.

So I ran 15.5 miles.

I KNOW it was too much. And I KNOW I should have stopped at 12 and at the very most 13. But can we all just get over what an idiot I am and move on to the fact that I can’t get over how much I miss long runs and how perfect it felt to run long again?

Because that’s all I can think about.

Thanks lulu, for the very fitting window display.

And one of the best parts of running long again, second only to the party in my legs and the hours (going on days) of a soaring runners; high?

Refueling. With bagels. And any and all other delicious carbs in the DC area covered with cheese.

Luckily I had a few very willing partners in crime and a certified nacho expert to help me in my quest to fill the calorie deficit left by my longest run in months.

Judging by the finger streaks across the plate, I’d say we succeeded.

Feels (and tastes) great to be back in the long run club.

And then today I participated in the coldest 5k of my life (and please remember I’m from the tundra of Vermont…that is not a statement to be taken lightly )as a recovery from all of the long run fun.

More on that later, I’m moments away from being in an Empire State of Mind with one of my favorite girls on the run. Word on the twitter is that she’s made me dinner from a scratch. If you don’t actually hear more on my 5k later…you’ll know why. I’m pretty sure Ali’s culinary skills rival my own fire-setting, microwave-exploding prowess in the kitchen.