I ran tonight. Despite falling asleep (and probably drooling myself into embarrassment)on the train ride home, I didn't give myself a chance to talk myself out of it. I came home, babied talked the cats, changed into my running stuff, and went out.
My choice to not wear mittens was a prudent one, as the act of lumbering along warmed my extremities quite nicely.
I find that it always takes me a while to harness my cadence and understand my natural rhythm. I never feel truly "at home" in my stride until about 1/3 of my way through a run. I'm quite convinced that those unlucky enough ,to see me at the start of my runs are treated to a sight that includes both flailing and wheezing.
I ran about 3.5 kilometers today, including a hill at the beginning that I affectionately refer to as "Big Hill of Fail and Doom". This hill lulls you into a false sense of ease when it plateaus in the middle, before stretching upwards again into the stratosphere.
I hate that hill. I HATE IT. I hate it with the hate of 1,000 firey suns and I wish for it to be flattened by a mean, scary bulldozer. But it does great things for my butt, so I continue to torture myself with it.
Generally speaking, the majority of my run occurs with small, harnessed strides, as these come naturally to me. But near the end of my run, I like to kick it. I increase my speed and lengthen my stride, and I feel like I'm flying. I believe I actually muttered "whee!" to myself as I broke the sidewalk in half with my speed.
Whenever I'm feeling uninspired to run, I always remember that I love to fly.