I had a really bad run last Sunday -- the kind of lumbering, dead-legged affair that started out miserable and steadily got worse. The previous week's heat was mostly gone but the humidity remained, resulting in my arms covered by globs of sweat that rolled back and forth on my forearms, surface tension overcoming gravity. As physically uncomfortable as that run was, the reality of my failed attempt is even more uncomfortable.
That single bad run is now in my head, telling me that there's no way that I'm going to be able to come anywhere near running 50 miles in four months (and really, this might be true; not being able to run 16 miles isn't a good sign). Three weeks ago I was on an upswing, my training going well and my confidence high. Now I'm second-guessing everything: maybe I should cross-train on my days off. Maybe I should slow my pace even further than I have. Maybe I should eat less. Maybe I should stop being a baby. Maybe I'm just in a fugue state and I'm actually fine.
This uncertainty has dissipated somewhat in the last few days, after getting two runs in the past tow mornings that went off without any real issues. A few more of those and I'll have a bit of confidence back.
It's frustrating knowing that one little slip up can undermine so much work, but none of this is supposed to be easy. At least my runs the past two days have provided two fun sightings. That helps a bit.