Week 28
Into the second week of the final plan, and I was over it.
Honestly, I woke up Monday morning and was not having any of it: Work, Running, Life.
I stayed in bed.
Later in the evening I finally felt human enough to get off the couch and actually change out of my pyjamas, and decided that I could manage a measly 3km.
And I did. I also managed a few strength reps even though my body hated me.
I was still sore from the run I did the day before, but I also felt like my ovaries were trying to remove themselves from my body while being in a death struggle with my sinuses. In summary: Not a happy camper.
I managed to pull myself out of bed on Tuesday morning and even managed a semi-productive day of work.
I did however, boy-cot all cross-training exercises for the week, and other than a 3km run by myself on Thursday morning that rewarded me with a beautiful #runfie, I didn't accomplish all that much else.
It was just not my week.
Friday, however, greeted me with two airplane rides and a 6hr transit to the Gold Coast, which significantly improved my mood, regardless of the fact that I hated airports: I was meeting my family for the weekend, and I was super excited about it.
I hadn't seen my sister in nearly two years, and my Dad and Stepmum (the "Parentals") in about a year.
Friday, Saturday and Sunday was jam packed with shopping, restaurants, shopping, visiting family friends, shopping and more shopping.
I was also fortunate enough to be able to organise a meet up with my foster brother, Kiah who I had not seen in over 12 years. TWELVE. YEARS. The Parentals were absolutely rapt to see him too. The entire airport ordeal was worth it, if only for that moment. Especially since Kiah is also around 12 years younger than I am, and so I have not only missed him as a sibling but also in some bizarre maternal way that only comes from taking part in the care of the first 6 years of someone's life*.
I would like to say that I managed to keep up with my workout routine while I was away, but I would be lying.
I even crammed my gym gear and sneakers into my one and only carry-on bag, but every day was so jam-packed with activities that I, quite frankly, could not be bothered.
Week 29
This week started off pretty good.
That might have been because I was still sun-baking in the lovely Gold Coast.
Monday was our last full day in the coast so we made the most of the absent Queensland school-children by visiting Movie World.
I was only game enough for the low-intensity coasters and rides but my stepmum made sure to go on pretty much everything. Barf.
Tuesday was airport day, and it was a horrible (normal) ordeal. Nothing went right, everything was horrible, I felt sick and my phone died. Rage.
I woke up Wednesday morning still recovering from the airport food I had consumed the day before and so I decided it was probably safer (and more pleasant for the office) if I stayed at home in a bathroom I could trust.
I went to work Thursday morning resolute and told Rhi that I was going to swap around some of the workouts to fit in a couple of runs before the week is out.
Both Rhi and I have been under the weather for the last couple of weeks and we felt guilty that we havnt been all that active as a result.
Friday morning, I was up bright and early, and made my way into the city to go for a morning run.
I was supposed to run 5km earlier in the week, so I thought I should be right if I do two 2.5km increments with a half km walk/rest in between.
I must have still been recovering because it was so hard. My legs felt like lead and my lungs hurt. But I did it.
It wasn't until I was walking back to the office that I got a frantic text from Rhi saying she had only just woken up and was kicking herself. That is usually my line!
Saturday was already booked out with wedding stuff (yay!) so I took Saturday as a Rest day with the intent to meet up with Rhi sometime on Sunday to run our allocated 6km, or two 3km increments with a walking rest in between.
Poor Rhi was up to all hours on Saturday night tending to sibling havoc, and therefore did not even get out of bed until after 2pm on Sunday.
I was happy to just run around the local burbs, so at about 4pm, I set out to run up the country road.
I decided to sit at my usual slow 8min/pace for the first 3km. And it was hard again. My legs hurt so much and my calves burned. Because of my new orthodics, maybe?
I hit the 3km mark and the sun was just setting. I looked up just as a young girl run past me on the opposite side of the road and I was overcome with such intense jealousy because of how fast she was running.
I know all my training has always been about pacing, not racing. I know it doesn't matter how fast you can run. And I know I should never compare myself to anyone else because you don't know what their fitness level is, what they are training for, or what they are capable of. But I was still jealous.
So I stubbornly turned around and started my run back to the house at a much faster pace. My best pace was around 6.30min/pace but I managed a mostly steady 7min/pace the whole way back.
But it felt AMAZING. I was a GAZELLE.
Aaaand the last 10mins was absolute hell.
The sun was set, there was no road lighting and I was blinded by car headlights and couldn't gauge how much further I had to go; I had no run goals to run to.
My calves were burning. My abdominals and hip flexors were hurting. My lungs were burning. I was breathing so heavily I could not have held a conversation and I was overheating.
But I made it.
I almost stopped about a dozen times in that last kilometre, but I didn't.
It may sound superficial or silly, but this is mentally one of the hardest things I have ever had to do in my life.
In that moment you have to push yourself to really want something while the entire time your body is telling you that if you don't stop, you'll literally die. Fun times.
In those last moments I am torn between really wanting to just finish, and screaming "why the hell am I doing this" to myself.
This must be what insanity feels like.
*Kiah - Long story short: My stepmum's cousins(?) child, who we took care of until he was about 6 years of age when his mother claimed custody of him again. (This happened just before I moved to Australia).