The Perfect Sunday

Scene: Me on the trainer, pounding out the bike portion of my 4.5 hour brick (3 hour ride, 1.5 hour run), most of which were simulated hills (on the trainer), and sweat dripping off every inch of my skin.

Me: UGH! These last 30 minutes are impossible! I just want to get off this thing!

Him: I don't want to hear that. It's only 30 minutes more. You've sat on that thing for 4 1/2 hours before. It's more in your head than your legs now.

Me: I know, I know.

Him: Who owns that bike?

ME: Huh?

Him: I said, 'Who owns that bike?'

Me (meekly, breathing heavy): M-me.

Him: Who owns that bike?

Me: Me?

Him: WHO. OWNS. THAT. BIKE?!?!

Me (screaming): MEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!

Him: That's what I thought. Now put those 30 minutes in the bank and let's get moving.

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40 minutes later, at the gym and on the treadmill for the run portion (thanks to the 8 inches of snow the other day). I have my soon-to-be-qualified-for-Boston sister on my left, and the newly minted half-marathoner man to my right. I have a solid breathing pattern, strength in my legs, a visor to catch the sweat, and my new pink running shirt (ya know, to feel like a girly). I got Bruce screaming through my earbuds, and smiles from my running partners when I glance to the left and right.

What I don't have?

Knee pain.

Back pain.

Self-defeating thoughts.

Fear.

I even managed to get through the whole run without crapping myself all over the treadmill from the major GI distress I was having, mostly due to my thus-far ineffective nutrition plan.

This alone is a victory.

Trust me.

Yeah, it's gross. But hey, I'm learning that training is not only about bike splits, swim yards or run mileage. I also belch a lot when I ride the bike, so yeah, there's that.

All in all, I would say this was about as perfect a Sunday as I could imagine.