Today I laced up the running shoes (for the third time in five days! *shock and awe*) and decided to do the Magic Mile (a la running guru Jeff Galloway and his magnificent race time prediction formula).
Basically, one runs a mile as fast and evenly paced as they can without puking, inputs the time into the groovy website, and it tells you how fast your 5k, 10k, half marathon, and full marathon times "should" be.
The last time I remember running one mile as fast as I could was in high school and it wasn't fast. I actually remember it being 12:20. 12:20! That's pretty terrible, y'all. (Especially if you're 17 and an athlete.)
I tried guessing what my current mile time was last night in an impatient bid to see what my race times would be. I very optimistically estimated a 8:30 mile, based on what I was running last year while I was in shape for running.
The scene this morning broke with actual sunshine and a one mile jog up to the nearest track.
I took a deep breath on my starting line and took off. It felt too fast, but I wasn't going to check my pace until I had completed the first lap.
7:46.
What the what?
I was preeeeeeetty sure I couldn't keep that pace up, but gave myself leave to slack off to avoid puking, because, gross.
2nd lap complete, 7:19.
Thinking back to those misty morning gym classes in high school and wheezing around that damn football field, I thought, "I am TOTALLY kicking my ass from high school." If that's not motivation to keep going, what is?
The third and fourth laps I returned to a completely reasonable yet surprising 7:46 pace.
I left that track BEAMING, people. I smoked my time from 17 years ago.
Sometimes you surprise yourself. Aim high. Reach for the stars. Carpe diem and all that crap.
One year ago: The Sugar-Free Thing, in which I don't eat sugar.
Two year ago: LLLL, in which I do a million things.
