What goes up, must come down.
I was feeling on top of the world after my 10K. And the week following was a pretty normal workout and eating week for me.
Then I had to go to Vegas.
And it all fell apart.
I missed working out Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. I ran four miles on Thursday as part of a five mile effort and felt on top of the world. And decided I could take Friday off.
Combine that with what I ate in Sin City. A muffin the size of my head for breakfast ... on top of a Fiber One bar and apple. Dinner came too late all three nights ... after 8 p.m. The cookies in the box lunch found a home in my stomach and I even collected a few extra for the plane.
Why would I sabotage myself this way? I finished a 10K, remember. Hell, I even WON! I'm practically Superman and Wonder Woman, right? I have reached a certain level of fitness, I reasoned. I can take time off, eat a little looser, and then just pick up where I left off.
Reality is a bitch.
My plan this morning was to run five miles. I felt great on Thursday, so I figured skipping one more day wouldn't phase me.
I ran two and a half. And it about killed me.
I was winded and tired and just couldn't do it. I slowed the speed down. I lowered the incline. And I thought I was going to die.
I was so mad at myself. My self-imposed punishment was to stay on the treadmill for a total of seven miles, even if it was only a walk.
Foolishly, I'd begun to entertain the idea of an every-other-day workout schedule.
Not yet.
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