Dark clouds were circling last night as Martini and I went to the track, but I had faith that the weather would hold. I eagerly anticipated the return of the youth track team to help motivate me.
I looked forward to watching the older kids run by me with their long, quick strides. (Two of them are really quite talented.) I couldn't wait to trample the little ones, who like to congregate in whichever lane I choose to run in, no matter what. I savored the thought clotheslining that one coach, who is even worse about being in my way but should know better. I craved the anger-induced push to finish each 800-meter interval.
But alas, the track was abandoned.
Where would my motivation come from? Occasionally, I could relish in blowing past Martini, but that wasn't enough. Thankfully, I had dinner plans and visions of cold draft beer, pickle martinis, fancy food, Laphroaig and cheese cake danced in my head while I knocked out my 800s.
[Drunkard's note: If you haven't learned the merits of Scotch and dessert, I beseech you to try it. Like right now.]
8x800 meters (3:38 - 3:48 pace goal)
In celebration of sufficiently trouncing the best that Vanilla has to offer, I will raise many taste glasses on Saturday in triumph at the annual Blues & Brews. It'll be my very own little biathlon. Glory, here I come.