Any runner will tell you that the first mile is always the hardest. Those first eight or ten minutes are the perfect breeding ground for swirling thoughts of negativity, and not even ke$ha's whiny voice and dance club beats can drown out the thousands of reasons you should turn around, put on your comfy pants, and watch Mad Men on DVD. Usually, once you're finally a mile away, your shoes stop "feeling weird", your stomach no longer hurts, and your body has finally adjusted to the brisk winter air. You simply get your groove back.
Now a slump is a totally different beast, but not at all unrelated, especially because... I'm in one.
I guess the first step is admitting it, right?
Since December 27, running has turned into this terrible chore. I woke up with my bi-annual cold that sets in after a really stressful time (exams, traveling, etc.), but I knew I needed to get my long run in for my half-marathon training. I finally resigned to run it the following day, hoping that a good night of sleep would help me feel less terrible. It didn't. But I sucked it up and ran, pushing myself to run faster just so that it would be over sooner.
As the week went on nothing changed. Every time I laced up my shoes and hit the pavement, I hoped and prayed that I would just have to get through that first terrible mile. But that terrible mile turned into a terrible 5 miles, a terrible 9 miles. I knew then that I had to come to terms with my slump.
So now I'm sitting in the airport waiting to get on my flight to San Francisco, lamenting the measly terrible 3 miles I ran this morning. My only hope is that a cross-country trip will be the perfect remedy for my slump. If not, at least I can commiserate with a lovely Napa Valley Cabernet.