Being fertile is a mixed bag. On one hand, any fitness planted is liable to immediately take root, and spread like an invasive weed. But on the other hand, seeds of doubt and discord are more easily sown. Folks, right now I’m a Nile Delta of fear and loathing. Fatigue, faltering confidence, and the very plausible notion that this won’t work out have all descended upon poor ol’ Paul.
Monday, March 27th
Four awful miles. Felt like I needed to be taken to the glue factory.
Tuesday, March 28th
Seven even slower miles. The wheels are falling off.
Wednesday, March 29th
Jogged to the track and just floundered around through a series of nonsensical reps. Had to be shipped home in a body bag.
Thursday, March 30th
It was windy outside, and speculating that the gusting air around me was causing my malaise, I jogged on a treadmill. To no avail.
Friday, March 31st
Back on the treadmill, this time to approximate a workout. One mile slogging warm-up, three miles at 5:15 pace. Several minutes of dry heaving.
Saturday, April 1st
Only made it two miles on this run…
Sunday, April 2nd
Jogged seven miles then went to the track for some snappy 200s. Started around 31, got down to 27. Might have ripped my sinewy hamstrings straight from the bone.
It would appear, that I’ve “really stepped in it.” There’s a reason nobody trains this hard. Because it’s impossible. I’m a runaway train on the fast track toward a barn fire right now. I’d guess my chances at successes sit around 30%. Unless I am able to track down those performance enhancing drugs I’ve heard so much about, this dream is destined for the pipes.
This is the ninth post in a series by Paul chronicling his journey to break the two-minute barrier in the 800 meters. Check out his previous post below: