My feelings about running in the rain are a lot like my feelings about running in the cold: I don't mind doing it once I'm out there, but I hate getting ready to go out. That first quarter mile is miserable, even though it improves rapidly after that.
Well, I better get over it. And soon. It's bad out, and it's supposed to be like this for the next two days. I was a coward yesterday and had my sister rewrite my hill workout for the treadmill - in my defense, it was raining, cold, and windy, a combination I find to be sheer torture. I ran right before spin class, so I froze a Muscle Milk to drink in between the treadmill and the bike. Verdict: weird. But no weirder than non-frozen muscle milk. And seriously, Cytosport, could you pick a grosser name for the stuff?
The one nice thing about having had my half time be on the slower end of my predicted range is that my marathon pace is now even slower. I did my hill intervals on the treadmill at PMP, which was an almost leisurely pace that I had no trouble maintaining up to 6% incline. Well, no trouble maintaining for 90 second intervals before dropping back down to 1% for the rest intervals. Still, I wish I'd been out on the hills instead of inside.
I'm not sure why I feel I have to defend myself for choosing to run on the treadmill, as though running outdoors is somehow more bad-ass than running inside.
But, a small update of good news: I was doing some online banking when I noticed that $90 had been debited from my checking account. That's exactly enough to cover my Mt. Washington registration fee, my new Mt. Washington hat, and my long sleeve 50th anniversary commemorative shirt. Lo: the lottery list is published, and yours truly is confirmed!
On I went, out of the wood, passing the man leading without knowing I was going to do so. Flip-flap, flip-flap, jog-trot, jog-trot, curnchslap-crunchslap, across the middle of a broad field again, rhythmically running in my greyhound effortless fashion, knowing I had won the race though it wasn't half over, won it if I wanted it, could go on for ten or fifteen or twenty miles if I had to and drop dead at the finish of it, which would be the same, in the end, as living an honest life like the governor wanted me to. -Alan Sillitoe, "Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner"