How (in the HELL) am I going to run 14 miles tomorrow?
It is what is on my training agenda for the half marathon in February, but I am slightly terrified. Even at the slowest wog, 10 miles still just sucks the life out of me, puts an ache throbbing through my muscles and joints.
How am I going to add 4 miles to that? How am I going to jog on for nearly 3 hours?
Simply put, it’s intimidating. It is the goal; it is what I have been working toward these past couple years. It’s what gets me to running with Carmen in New Orleans on Super Bowl Sunday. Slow as shit or not, it will be a fucking half marathon.
I know what I’m going to do tomorrow. I’m going to wog pathetically slow mile after mile. I’m going to keep pushing when my muscles burn and my breath tries to betray me. I’m going to tell myself I can keep going even when I just want to fall over and die.
Like Cripple Creek, I’m just nervous. Like Cripple Creek, it’s another big step and a new challenge. Feeling the idea begin to breach the present just has a little pressure sitting on my chest. I need to do it, put it behind me, and shift it from goal to accomplishment.