Oh, the line was back there some place?

Well my coach beat the crap out of us this morning. We did one of my favorite workouts: 500m intervals, 2 min rest.

Now, when I do this one on my own, I usually do 10 of them, and my rule of thumb is that if you can do 10 at or below a pace, you can do 2k at that pace. This morning, the order of the day was 6 x 500. So I picked a pace I thought I could handle for a "shorter" workout and went for it. Long story short, I picked an "optimistic" pace.

It's generally a bad sign when you have two pieces to go and you're looking around to know where the trash can is, and trying to figure out how fast you'd be able to get to it.

I wimped out on my last two and broke pace. I went sub 1:40 for the first 4, then 1:43 ish for the last two. If I'd had any guts I've had held pace and hurled. But I didn't want to hurl. Kind of like crying: Hurling is intrinsically not fun.

I suppose there's no way to get faster without suffering, but that work out is hard enough to do on its own, let alone first thing in the morning. Asleep, heart rate: 55. 30 minutes later, last piece, heart rate: 187.

Heart: "WTF are you doing to me? I can make you die, you know. Be nice."

So my legs are fried but I have a nice exhaustion/ endorphine induced calm going today.

I guess I should be happy. Anyone who went faster than I did also outweighs me by about 25 pounds. So I continue to triumph in the power/ weight ratio game.