It was touch and go whether I was going to survive this morning’s 4km extremely slow recovery run.
This last Sunday I clung onto the OG’s proverbial coattails for my 2:28 (2:27 on my watch!) half marathon. He waited for me at every water table so the pressure was on – as opposed to my normal style of “what the f… am I doing here, let’s have a little walkies”.
But now I am SORE! Everything hurts, but especially my quads – not being terribly good on up hills, I had to pound my way like a crippled bat out of hell down the hills to try and close the gap.
But the VERY WORST thing is that my OG is not sore at all. He’s a beginner goddammit. I think it’s a man thing – hell, they can be irritating. I want to kick him in the shins. Hard.
On the bright side, if I do every race chasing this irritating creature, I can only get faster. When I considered downgrading March’s 32km race to 15km, I was met with resistance. But I can’t do 32km at the same pace I did the half marathon, I protest. Of course you can, he says. Obviously no shit will be taken.