I did not actually end up running yesterday. Instead I went to the movies and snarfed popcorn with butter, then to dinner at a tapas place. I had two dishes to myself, then ordered a cheese plate "for the table" but, obviously, ate 95 percent of it. And had two glasses of wine. I was primed to feel like it was maybe REALLY time to run this morning, basically.
So I went to the gym to log some miles because it is still cold and also the NFC Championship game is on, and as I am from and currently residing in the Midwest, missing this game would mean that I would have to renounce my citizenship. I started with a 20-minute warmup on the elliptical to ease my old-person joints. Then I stretched, hopped on the treadmill and pounded out 3.32 miles in 30 minutes. I started at 6.3 mph (9:31 per mile) and ended at 7.6 mph (7:54 per mile). This is deceptive, because I ran most of the time at 6.8-6.9, but I am a strange and sadistic person and I feel that if I am going to be running on a treadmill I should be constantly increasing my speed, and I always end on a sprint. So there you go.
Then I spent some quality time with my bff the foam roller and called it a day.
I should also mention that a little more than halfway through, my hair — styled in a librarian-type bun from work this morning, which is what I do when I don't feel like showering (most of the time) — started to come undone and slide down the back of my head. Around the same time one of my shoes came untied. By some miracle, I managed not to die/flail/fall off the treadmill/trip/injure myself as a result of either of those things (because I was obviously not going to stop to take care of either situation; see above note about my strange and sadistic tendencies).
I felt really good throughout which was happy, but mostly I am just excited that my sad mileage counter no longer reads zero. I am judging myself less for having a running blog now that I have actually gone running. I'm legit now.