Revolution Number Nine

...or twenty, as the case may be. Either way, the (currently) mystical nine-mile mark has eluded me on my last two attempts.

In case it isn't patently obvious, I'm a Type A, probably with a good old-fashioned case of OCD. When I want something to happen, I generally make it happen. This can have either good or disastrous results, as those who hung out with me on Australia tour may recall.

I've been seriously trying to run for the last month. The 10K was over a week ago, my feet have healed significantly, and my arches no longer require five layers of padding in my new shoes. These are good things. The bad thing is that I saw how quickly the 10K training went, then looked ahead to the half-marathon in February and thought, "Hmm...I can add a mile a week."

Ha.

Eight was tough, but possible; I did it the day after Vulcan and limped my merry way home. Nine, as mentioned above, has presented something of a challenge.

My usual routine is to run the mile (mostly downhill) to the lake, then run laps as needed while dodging seniors, dogs, cars, angry geese, and the aforementioned geese's poo. The lake being 0.4 miles around, it's 2.5 laps to the mile, or twenty laps to eight miles, the bit I needed to tack on to make the weekly goal.

My first attempt on Sunday afternoon failed miserably. I managed about two miles before my sides began cramping, a bad experience but one that taught me a valuable lesson: never eat a bowl of chili and cornbread, no matter how good it is, and try to go for a long run. Determined not to let a little thing like chili stop me, I set my alarm for 5:30 AM and forced myself out of my nice, warm bed this morning for the second attempt.

The temperature was pleasantly crisp and the sun not yet up when I left the house, but sunrise over the lake dawned with lots of pink, fluffy clouds, and I started to settle in on my standard ten-minute pace as the geese waddled off for breakfast on the golf course. I pushed through six miles with no problem, trying to psych myself up for another 7.5 laps, and started ticking them off backwards: "7 to go...6.5...6 at the stop sign..."

After lap sixteen, with only four to go, the end in sight...well, there's no other way to put it: I crapped out. Exhausted and thirsty, sweatshirt around my waist, t-shirt soaked, I walked the remainder of the lap, hoping for a sudden burst of energy. As the seventeenth ended, I felt better, so I geared up and took off again.

I doubt it's a good thing when one feels weightless while running. Lap eighteen was the final straw, and I called it a morning before I did something silly, like collapse and be pecked to death by disgruntled European geese. I trudged the mile home wearing the wet sweatshirt for warmth, and briefly considered trying again Tuesday morning.

Then I thought better of it. The thing I have to remind myself sometimes is that I don't have to stick unbendingly to the plan if it means I'll kill myself in the process. This is the sort of thinking that leads to eating a pack of sugar-free gum a day and counting the calories, and believe me, that's not a happy place in which to find oneself.

I'm hoping to hit nine after I return from Yale this weekend - not ten, as I had planned, but perhaps nine. After a three-leg plane trip, I'll probably want the run. Then again, I'll actually bring water with me, for once...