I had 8 miles planned for the morning, but even before I got on the train, my brain started to crank up the cranky. I bought new running shoes last week, and they're a little bit too big. Not terrible, but enough to be noticeable. Although if anything, it may have affected my stride positively - or maybe that's just because they're new and cushion-y. I was pissed at myself because I've worn them twice now and can't return them, and may be stuck ordering both an 8 wide and 8.5 regular on zappos and trying out both in my apartment, then sending one pair back. Or both. They're adorable shoes, too... because clearly the style is the crucial aspect of shoe/runner compatibility.
And then it was flurry-ing all morning in the park. My hands were cold. Things felt hard. I was pretty sure I was holding like a 15 minute mile pace. Ugh. I had really wanted to hit 8 miles today so that I would be back where I needed to be distance-wise for the NYC half. But I was SO ready to call it quits at 6. And then at 7. Definitely moments of sheer torture. But I hit 8 (almost - 7.86...close enough) at a 10:30 pace, to boot. And just like that, all of the agonizing moments I felt all throughout the run seemed so inconsequential, so trivial. And I came home with a smile on my face, proud to have gutted it out and pushed myself so far this morning. Sometimes the crappiest runs are the most rewarding.