Firsts.

Last Saturday, I did something I don't usually do.

I ignored my training plan.

Running was starting to feel icky. I didn't look forward to it. The runs were something that I just had to check off the to-do list, rather than act as the stress release they usually are. My body was angry with me for putting in so many miles without taking an adequate break.

So rather than doing my 12-14 mile run, I slept in.

And it was fantastic.

I got to Monday with a renewed vigor for running. My pace was awesome. My attitude improved. My calves felt like they were made of some crazy silk/iron combination that made me invincible and uncatchable. Wednesday rolled around, and we found out we were accepted onto the local running store's team. I was on running cloud nine.

Saturday morning, I chatted with a running friend to get out at 5 a.m. for a 17 miler.

Four a.m. Saturday morning, the seven month old woke up for a nursing fest. He did not want to go down, so I snuggled with him, then wide awake. Well, delightful, I thought-- I'll be able to go running in an hour easy-peasy.

Then something happened. My stomach tightened into knots. My chest felt like it was closing up. I got the very distinct feeling-- "Don't go."

A prayer later, it was very definite-- I wasn't supposed to go running that morning.

I called my friend at 4:25 and told her that I was bailing. She was very gracious in not making me feel like a total boob.

I was still wide awake, but laid back down and eventually went back to sleep. The husband left for a bike ride at 8 a.m., and returned at 10. It was still beautiful outside, so I told him I'd do my long run then. It was 70 degrees, sunny, and delightful. I was excited to be running in the daylight with a lessened fear of skunk attacks.

The workout was to be the following-- 5-7 miles warmup, 5 miles at goal pace, and then 4-5 miles cool down. My plan was to do the longest run, and the route was beautiful. I tried to pace my water so I was hydrated without running out. Seven miles in, I kicked it up to my goal pace, and discovered that seven miles into this particular route was the start of a four mile stretch of rolling hills. Good training for the hilly marathon, I thought.

A mile into goal pace, I was out of the water in the bottle that was supposed to last me to mile ten. The sun was blasting, and I was very, very warm. The scenic route lacked something very important: Shade.

The next mile in, I kept checking my garmin, cursing myself, and picking up the pace. A few moments, I'd look back down, curse myself again, and try to pick up the pace again. The rolling hills were killing me in the heat.

At the ninth mile, I threw the training plan out the window and decided just to get the miles in. Goal pace be darned-- it wouldn't be this hot in October.

After a quarter mile of that attitude, I realized I was out of water. The nearest establishment where I could refill was six miles away.

So I did something I never thought I'd do.

I called the husband.

"I'm pooping out. Please come pick me up."

I felt extremely defeated. I didn't do my long run the week before, and this long run was cut down to a lousy short training run.

Then I called my sister and told her how I felt like a failure.

Her response?

"Well, you should feel like a failure. I ran twenty miles this morning. In an hour. I should be in the Olympics, but I would do so well in every single event that it would just make everyone else feel bad. So I won't bother."

Love her.

Sometimes it's hard to focus on the things I'm doing-- I ran nine and a half miles in the blasted heat! -- because I'm too focused on what I'm not doing-- completing my training as outlined on a silly pdf file.

What else did I do? I avoided destroying my body and making this week of running miserable. So points for that, eh?