For the past month whenever I run, in simple layman’s terms, I crap out. I hit the 3k mark and mentally I just stop which means physically I just stop. Except for that day last week when I was attacked by a bird. Then I kept running because I didn’t want to turn into a Hitchcock horror movie ending. Basically my running mojo has turned into a running mojito. And people, mojitos are good. Much better than mojo which I would imagine tastes slightly like tootsie rolls.
There’s no real reason for it although both my ‘very-smart-physically-fit-husband-who-has-no-problem-running-15k-before-he-even-eats-breakfast’ and I believe it’s mostly due to the heat because I am not good with heat. The physically fit husband above dubbed me seal skin when we first met 17 years ago after watching me turn bright red while working out and yet only managed to get a slight glowy, sheen on my face.
I don’t sweat a lot which means I overheat a lot. I won’t even get into the whole pre-menopause hot flash thing.
So last night I forced myself on the treadmill and made myself a promise not to stop until I had done at least 5k and I wasn’t going to slow things down. This time it was all about mind over matter, and apparently my body didn’t mind because dudes, I did it.
I think I may have found my running mojo again but it will never replace my love affair with the mojito.