Well, then. I somehow just ran more than a 5K for my first training run of the summer without stopping—even all the stoplights synched with me, which won’t happen again in this or any other lifetime—in a not-too-shabby-but-still-not-bragworthy 12:01 pace. (My fastest marathon was a 9:14 pace—I never did manage to hit the 9:00 pace I needed to reach the holy grail of a sub-4:00 marathon—so I seem to be a wee bit off my game for a dinky little 5K.)
I’m sure I will be hobbling beyond the point of therapy for the next few days, but the distance—and the endurance—I somehow pulled out of my magic butt just now holds the promise of a fun, productive Summer Of Running Away From Being 50. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to crawl to the shower.