Tuesday night I run with my Team In Training group for a mid-week run before our long hauls on Saturday mornings. I clock in a few other days during the week with shorter runs to keep my fat ass moving. Over the last 6 weeks I’ve been more than fine with these Tuesday evening meet-ups, but for whatever reason last night I couldn’t push myself through our required 6 miles.
I’m not a quitter.
Well, actually I am.
I quit a lot of bad habits.
Nail biting, hair twirling, binge drinking.
But that was in my 20s.
I’m in my 30s now, and I don’t quit.
Except I did last night.
My thigh was in pain.
Not some phantom, “oh my legs are just tired of running just to freaking run” kind of pain.
Like Satan was traveling through my thigh and pinching every single never between my hip and knee cap.
So I quit.
After 4 miles.
4 lowly miles.
Never thought I would get to the point in my training where 4 miles was considered some short pansy distance.
So yeah, I’m a quitter.
No runners high last night.
No feeling of accomplishment.
Instead, I bowed my head and stopped off to grab a salad on my way home.
When what I really wanted was to dive into a greasy cheeseburger and fries.
That’s how my Tuesday night rolls.
What I wanted to do mid-run. Curl up and cry for my mommy.