SAN ANTONIO — On Tuesday evening, beginning at about 6 p.m. Central, Erin Vratil and I ran the four-mile extended dog loop in 43:25, with splits of 10:52, 11:21, 10:33, and 10:39. We ran the loop after walking about three miles with dogs Scout and Soccoro.
On Monday, Erin and I ran 5.22 miles on what I'll call the Barrel Oak Street Loop in 52:01 with splits of 11:02, 10:35, 9:59, 9:19, 9:12, and 1:50. I believe we started at about. ...shit; I'm not sure. I'll say 7 p.m. Central. I ran this on a diet of two fried pork chops, black-eyed peas, fried okra, a slice of cherry pie with cheese and ice cream, and a slice of pepperoni pizza.
On Sunday, after a round of golf at La Loma [I scored 116, Erin 115, and Chris 107, the first time both have beaten me in the same round, the second time Erin has beaten me, and the (I believe) third time I have lost to Chris. This could be our order for a while], Erin and I walked about three miles with Scout and Soccoro.
My runs on Tuesday and Wednesday were relatively easy. Upon further inspection, the last of our Monday outing probably added to the most effortless three-mile run run so fast since I started this streak in July. We did it in 28:30 and it was a fucking snap.
It was far snappier for Erin. She is very fit, capable, literally, of running circles around me on runs this slow.
Tonight's four miles were easy enough to give me confidence of running 16 miles at a similar pace in the morning, I'm curious. I asked Erin if that pace would be easy for her over 16 miles. "Oh yeah," she said, as if I had asked her about the maintenance of it around the block. She considered my statement of confidence, hesitated briefly and said, "I'm worried you might really struggle, because. ..." My ego rattled before she could continue and I interrupted by saying, "It's such a hard course? No, Erin, it's not harder than the Park Hill-Gimblett Loop."
Erin's and my ego often collide. Typically we respond with a heated unfolding of cerebral maps to show the paths of our justness. In this particular instance, I responded by talking out of my ass.
It doesn't matter how difficult the course is. Sixteen miles run across a giant countertop surfaced like the Olympic track in Beijing would be difficult for me, at an 11-minute pace for Christ's sake. My confidence has subsided, and discomfort is bound to intrude.
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