Usually, when I get obliterated, it's in the comfort of my neighborhood pub. Or the confines of my apartment. Not so Sunday.
My 10-miler started off well and good. I was slow, but with the heat and a case of the sniffles, it was a comfortable pace. That all changed after the halfway point.
Anatomy of Devastation
The first three miles (and last two) of my route had plenty of water along the way. Drink early and often, I thought, and I'd avoid any trouble. (Never you mind about carrying my own water.) Trouble found me in those desolate middle miles.
I wanted to get this run in earlyish to avoid the heat. But the pub and a bottle of Johnnie Walker conspired to make me sleep in until 10:25 a.m. I didn't start my run until 11 a.m. -- just in time for the midday sun.
I usually eat breakfast before a long run. Not Sunday. I didn't want to waste anymore time with digestion.
Here's a word problem for you: If hydration starts the day before a run and boozing dehydrates the body, what color was the Viper's urine Sunday morning?
On top of all this, my legs were dead (sexy). How annoying. I skipped one of my runs this week to recover from the SSC. Three full days of rest didn't do the trick. However, looking at my running log, I see that I was due for a back off week and my legs almost always feel dead during a back off week. I guess that's kind of the point, isn't it?
End result of this run: I was beat. I was walking for a large portion of the second half. My pace was ridiculously slow, which is worrisome when I have a race this weekend. I sat on my couch in a daze, knowing I should drink my water, knowing I should eat something, knowing I should cool down with a cold shower, but not wanting to do anything.
My weight has been pretty consistent since my gaunt freakout last week. Three burgers and a steak sandwich this weekend have hopefully put the Good Ship Viper back on course.