It's been a difficult week. Not necessarily physically - all tendons, joints, and muscles seem to be coping with the slowly increasing mileage - but psychologically. All four of the runs this week have been preceded by lengthy arguing with myself about whether or not I should do the run. The only way that I could get myself out the door was to promise myself that if I really really hated it, I could turn around and come back home.
Of course, once I was outside I felt much better and all four runs went well. Even the 7 mile run on Friday went okay, despite being drenched by the sleet that started half-way through (leading to major head-freeze) and despite being chased at the end by one of the hunting dogs that had escaped from its kennel at the Big House. I was kindly rescued by two of our neighbours who were having a gossip in the lane and who distracted the dog long enough for me to get home and unthaw my head, and who didn't make me feel like a big girl's blouse for needing to hide behind them while the dog meandered past.
So what's the problem with the running? Sigh. I'm afraid that the problem is me. Or, more specifically, my refusal to be told what to do by anyone, including myself. I run because I like it, not because I have to. But now that I've committed to the marathon, this means that I HAVE to run whether I want to or not. It means that I don't have any choice anymore, and I don't like that. (Yes, that was written with a scowl and a pout and a stomp of the foot.)
It took me all week to figure this out but, now that I've gotten there, what to do about it? I'm not about to let myself get in my own way so perhaps it's time to be a grown-up and say, 'I'm the boss of myself and I can do whatever I want. And if what I want to do is run a marathon, then that is indeed what I will do. And you can't stop me.'