Hell isn't cold...

I always say that if I ever went to Hell it would be cold, not hot. Well, Hell isn't cold...it's running in high humidity.

I did a 7 mile training run this morning at 6:30 a.m. It was gray and dreary out and around 70 degrees. Perfect running weather...I thought. Then I stepped outside. It was like breathing water. Then I got started and it was like breathing water while wearing lead pants.

Whenever I run, the first and last miles are the hardest for me. The first mile is the hardest physically...getting my legs warmed up, getting my stupid asthmatic lungs working properly, getting my head in the game. The last mile is the hardest mentally...fighting the ever present urge to slow down, to walk, to quit. So I just kept telling myself that once I got past that first mile, I'd be okay. At mile two I was still in wounded wildebeest mode (huffing, sweating, coughing, attempting forward motion that sort of looked like running), not helped by the fact that as I was passing a flock of ducks on the river, one of them started quacking at me and it sounded so much like real laughter that I actually yelled at the duck to f*ck off. Then I laughed at myself, convincing myself it would get better and talking myself out of quitting.

I was sweating so much that headphones wouldn't stay in.

I was sweating so much I finished all of the water and Gatorade in my fuel belt about 3/4 of the way through just shy of 7 miles because I really, truly couldn't go another step, even to round my run out to an even 7.

I was sweating so much my husband looked at me like I was an inch from death when I walked through the door.

I was still sweating when I got out of my (cold) shower.

I just stopped sweating...6 hours after I finished my run.

This Half Marathon can't get here soon enough. I want to go back to running 5Ks, and 5Ks only. Screw the Vortex.