This morning I ran with the Posse.
It's not something that happens a lot anymore. After the Richmond Marathon last November, we kind of went our separate ways. To people on the outside, it probably looked like we broke up. But, it was nothing like that.
It was just a matter of conflicting training plans.
Post-marathon, I embraced my inner triathlete and began Half Ironman training. Everyone else, didn't. Instead, they took it easy (well, easier) for a few weeks and then honed their speed for both a spring half marathon and a 10K.
Their 10K was the day before my Half Ironman. At that point, we could have gone back to normal. Could have. But didn't.
70.3 training showed me that I am really more of a triathlete than a runner. I don't mind spending hours upon hours on my bike trainer. I could swim all day. And while I still love to run, especially with the posse, but I don't want to change up my training plan just to make that happen.
*cue stubborn whining*
Plus, (this is probably more of the reason than anything else) they have all gotten wicked fast. Like "I drank rocket fuel for breakfast" fast. And it's kind of bruising my ego.
I know I shouldn't care. I know that we are focusing on different things right now (me - triathlon, them - a fall marathon). And I know that they don't mind if I crawl back to our cars 10 minutes behind them. They are not like that.
When we met for a six mile run this morning, I was fully prepared to be at the back of the pack. In fact, when we started off at a conservative 10:00 pace, I joked that I needed someone to hold them all back so that I could last until the end of the run. I joked. But, I wasn't kidding.
At some point in the second mile, the warm up ended and I fell to the back. I was hauling tail and I still fell to the back. I started to doubt whether or not I could keep up.
mile 2: 8:40
mile 3: 8:29
mile 4: 8:32
mile 5: 8:16
Once my watch beeped at five miles, I knew I'd survive. And I even remembered thinking, "This actually feels pretty comfortable. Challenging, but comfortable."
We were running a 7:30 pace. That last mile was at an 8:02 average pace.
When we got back to the cars, I was the last to arrive. Somehow, my 8:40 average made me the slowest person out there. I can remember a time in the not too distant past that I would have killed for that kind of speed. And now, it made me feel slow.
I guess it's really all about perspective, isn't it?