Day 3: Cheaters never win..

I cheated. And I'm not gonna lie, I enjoyed it.

On morning number three of my 30 day challenge I woke up and had every intention of logging some big miles today. I haven't really been pushing myself this week, so in order to hit a 40 mile week total, I needed to hammer down 11. No problem, I've done more miles before, and I've done them pretty regularly. So, insert caffeine into blood stream in the form of coffee, put on my running shoes and I was out the door. People always ask me why I do a lot of my running in the gym, and the answer is simple. I'm an incredibly spastic runner. I keep my arms high and tight and my tempo is all over the place because it's usually based on the beat of whatever I'm listening to, which is a total grab bag of terrible top 40s, emo-rock, and dj mash ups. My running, much like my playlists, is never pretty. It's fair to say that on any given run, my style will mimic each and every one of these guys. This morning, I was a total belieber, which meant for most of his most recent gift to the world of ears, I was maintaining about an 8:20 pace, which would have been awesome had I not totally blown it three miles in.

I feel like each one of these posts so far has had a relatively up front confession, so why stop now? As child number three in a family of four, I learned at an early age if you wanted something (like the best seat in the car, the remote control for the tv, the #1 spot in my parents' hearts) you had to give all you had to get what you wanted, which meant you  either had to have more initial effort than someone else, or at least more resolve to not give up. Well, it's safe to say this attitude has carried over into preetttty much everything I do in my adult life, so when I found myself falling into stride with a fellow runner as we started cruising up the Queensboro bridge, I stepped on the gas.

I'd like to say my rise to the top was as meteoric as my musical muse's, but....it wasn't. I'd like to say I found wisdom in his words, and would never say never, but....I didn't. Instead I found myself
bonking--hard--400 meters into my sprint and I was left in what I can only assume must have been Carl Lewis' dust. Failure is a bitter pill to swallow but my girl Mary Poppins totally had it right: a spoonful of sugar does help the medicine go down. In my situation, the medicine was the bitch slap I receive c/o my man Carl Lewis on the bridge, and the spoonful of sugar was indeed a spoonful of sugar. That's right ladies and gentlemen, I gu-ed. I gu-ed, and it was good. And while I didn't catch up to the Flash on the bridge, nor did I finish my intended 11 miler, I made it through a solid six. 

I have to be honest, I didn't think I was going to report back to you all on my pretty hasty return to the arms of my granular white mistress, but the first step towards recovery is admitting you have a problem. So here I am. My name is Katie, and it's been 8 hours since my last refined carb.