One thing I love about the Midwest is the thrill of the seasons changing. One thing I don't love is how that thrill overrides rationality sometimes.
I woke up Monday feeling just peachy, even though I'd run a fast 5K and biked 24 miles the previous day. With the 70-degree forecast — and midweek cold-and-rainy front — there was no way I was taking a rest day.
Another bike ride was on the schedule; a flat tire five miles into what I'd hoped would be as close to 30 miles as my condition would allow, however, was not on the schedule. The Shrimp (my bike) and I trudged home defeatedly.
I hadn't felt fatigued before getting the flat, but the walk of shame did wear me down some. Still, the weather was so nice, and I had the whole day off work, so there didn't seem to be any reason not to pick one of the week's running workouts in its place. Right?
Wrong, as I realized within the first tenths of a mile. My legs felt weird. At first, I thought it was just post-bike adaptation; when I stopped "to retie my shoe" before a mile was done, I knew that wasn't the case.
And yet I pushed on, thinking that if I simply willed myself through the first half of my out-and-back, I'd be able to float home without trouble.
On a different run, that might've been the case. But I was running on tired legs; I was running on a relatively empty stomach; I was running in temperatures I hadn't seen since September on a sunny, windy day. It just wasn't my day, period.
The cherry on this sundae of crappiness was the jerk driver who honked at me as I crossed — while I had the crosswalk sign! — because I was impeding his ability to turn right. You know, if I were moving that slowly to ruin your day, why didn't you turn while I was still crossing the three lanes before yours?
I ended up getting in 4.75 of the five scheduled ones, and I'm 100 percent OK with that. I should've listened to my body earlier, but better late than never.