Past the point of insanity...and liking it.

Yesterday, I ran 18m.

Yeah, I know. I'm training for a marathon. Running 18m is long, far, and hard, but it's nothing that far out of the ordinary.

But, here's the thing.

I ran it on a treadmill. Yep, 3 grueling hours on the machine, staring into space, doing nothing. Cause I didn't have a hookup to the TV, and I can't read and run (it's kind of like drinking and driving for me with the nausea, swerving, and eventual crash).

Why did I do it, you ask? I had no choice. It was so cold here the penguins were hibernating. I know, because I didn't see any.

I broke it up into 3 sets of 6m, downing water and Gatorade during the breaks.

I did the first 6m at a 9:05 pace. The next set I did at an 8:49 pace. By the last set I was feeling exhaustion both mentally and physically, so I started out with the same 8:49 pace. By the end of the first mile though, I got my head together and upped the pace to 8:27, which I kept for 2 miles. Then, for the last 3m I increased the speed to 8:20, 8:13, and then ended with an 8:06 mile.

Not including rest, I did the whole workout in 2:38, which is an 8:46 pace. I'm feeling good about breaking 4 hours in the marathon next month (that requires a 9:09 pace). Even at a 10:00 pace, I would have finished under that yesterday, although that's assuming I don't crash and die in the last 8.2. And of course, it's easier for me on a treadmill without the mental Olympics and set pace, and I didn't add in the time it took for me to refill the water bottle or reapply Body Glide.

But, I still ran those 18m, treadmill or not, eh?

I felt good running the whole time. I was definitely ready to be done, and will admit to counting down the hundredths of a mile for the last 2 miles, but I didn't feel like I was going to pass out.

Immediately thereafter though (right after grabbing hold of the 'stop' button like it was a life vest on the Titanic), I cramped up like a mother fucker (sorry, no other way to put it), and sat down on my treadmill and didn't move for what seemed like hours. Eventually I got up, hobbled to the locker room, where I once again sat on the floor before managing to crawl to the shower, both times ignoring all the weirded out looks I was getting. And so, I've been cramped ever since. It's not as bad now; it's just a general soreness, which I suppose should be expected after any long run.

But let me tell you, getting down into the pit for the Opera performance last night? Not so fun. Oh well. It was worth it. I felt tougher than I have in a long time (my mantra was 'long runs are supposed to be hard; long runs are supposed to be hard'), and you know what? It was actually fun.