Friday night’s weather report called for a 70% chance of freezing rain. I got the guilt trip from Michael about driving 5 hours in potentially life-threatening weather. I’ll admit, I’m a chicken when it comes to driving in bad weather – so I played it safe. I feel somewhat guilty – Ok, I feel a lot guilty because I don’t actually have freezing rain in my backyard. It’s out there somewhere, I just know it. I talked to a couple people at the gym this morning who made the same decision not to drive – and they were running the full marathon, that made me feel a little better. For a second.
Repentance: The Fort Worth Cowtown Half Marathon next weekend. I won’t have the downhill advantage that Austin offers, but a half is a half and I must makes amends for the half that was not a half today. It had better be warm because my body is in the general state of “I won’t run outside below 40 degress.” Last Thursday it was 85 degrees. It’s not fair – this is Texas, the place where it is supposed to be sunny and warm – ALL THE TIME.
So . . . what did I do this weekend?
Rikki and I went to watch Kate and Linda do the 4-mile Mardi Gras walk. With about ten minutes to spare, and to avoid freezing to death, I decided to walk with them. My left leg was a little sore, but not bad. Kate and Linda did an awesome job, both improving on their overall minutes per mile. Also, to everyone’s surprise – for once in her little furry marshmallow-brained life – Rikki was a good dog. She was a complete sweetheart actually – walking most of the way with no happy pee and no incessant barking.
I went to the gym and ran 3 miles and did upper, core and lower body weights. It felt great. My butt was needing the squats and my buns are delightfully sore. That’s it. Boring day. I am desperately, desperately in need of a long run.
On a side note, I spend the better part of Friday night yelling at Michael about the state of my body. “Why me?” “Why are my thighs so big? I can run a marathon. It’s not fair.” My rant wasn’t particularly pretty and I waited in silence for Michael to say something to make me feel better – but his glazed eyes moved to the olympics on television. I won’t go into details, but the residual PMS resulted in me sobbing and being mad at Michael for not caring about my thighs. Sometimes he’s a saint, but sometimes my thigh size is just more important.