I put a nail in my own coffin Sunday morning when it was a sweltering close-enough-to-40-degrees.
Friday evening before the Ethiopians got to me, I stretchy-banded and balance-balled. My core will eventually get the hint that it should be getting stronger, I'm sure, but right now it's about reducing the holiday flab/weight, which would be easier without ice cream, birthday cake, more birthday cake and chocolate covered pretzels.
And then Saturday my banjo got some extra long attention (alt. wrist exercise), and I did what can loosely be described as "bowling." Unlike some of my reader [sic], I am not some league champ. But I am awful -- but awfully good at trying too hard and feeling pain in my shoulder and forearm the next day from whipping a too-heavy ball down the lanes with a 50-percent accuracy of hitting the gutter each frame.
Sunday morning, with too much eating the night before and not enough drinking (water, that is), I suited up for an eight-miler. My perception of how many layers is too much to wear has been completely floigenschnoggled by the freezing temperatures, so when I saw 38 degrees -- with a projected high above 40 -- I did not compensate properly by shedding enough layers.
And while the weather was warm, the snow was not by any means gone. I was high-stepping through snow. By the turnaround point I felt destroyed. That's when I noticed I had been running with a rather stiff tailwind (not self-generated), into which I would now be running four more miles.
I managed a 10-minute mile pace, but I wanted to punch babies when I was finished.