The one where I will never/always listen to my husband.

Twenty miles.

There was a time in my life when someone suggested that I may, someday, run twenty miles.

I laughed at him.

But there it was, staring at me. The big Two-Oh on my training plan.

The number had become less daunting with my completion of the 18 mile run just a few weeks prior. Something in me must have felt unsettled, though, because my dollar tacos consumed with the in-laws ended up in the grass next to our driveway the night before the long run.

Shaking and dazed, I would not be deterred. I gathered my belongings necessary for the run in the morning. The plan was to go out the door in time to run 5.5 miles to a coffee shop to meet up with a women's running group at six, do eight miles with them, and then run the rest of the way back and around my house.

Perhaps it was the sudden loss of electrolytes/dinner, but my head was not computing anything.

Me: "If I leave at five, I should be okay, right?"

Husband: "FIVE?! You could leave at 5:15 easy!"

Me: "It's all uphill, though. You think 45 minutes is enough time to get there?"

Husband: "Oh, yeah. If it takes you longer than that, you've got problems."

Super supportive, that one.

Without another thought, I set my alarm accordingly. I was up and ready to go, and actually had a few minutes to spare when I realized I couldn't find my pepper spray. With no light in sight for another hour, I was not about to go without some means of protection.

When it was finally located (in the double jogger from a run earlier that week), I went out the door at 5:16.

I was cruising. Living in a less savory side of town quickened my pace a bit, all the while telling myself that as soon as I got to the downtown area (read: street lights), I could slow down a bit and actually warm up.

Then I realized what my situation was.

Forty-four minutes. Five and a half miles.

That's an eight minute pace.

With no warm up.

I am by no means a fast runner, but I feel like I can pick it up when necessary (my 5k PR is 22:39). So an eight minute pace is not absurd.

But there was no warm up. And it was all uphill.

Curses, husband!

The temperature was on my side. Traffic was minimal at that time of the morning. And though I was fuming the entire time, I actually made it to the running group on time. And then, with such a stellar warm-up (starting my longest run ever with a 5.5 mile tempo run), I managed to run the entire 20 miles at almost goal pace.

And until 18.5 miles, I felt awesome.

So, husband. Thank you for your misguidance. I'll save that Garmin read-out forever.

Or, until, you know... I'm so freakishly fast that an 8:38 pace for 20 miles is embarrassing. 

Okay. Or forever.