|This is us at the opera. This is not what we look like running.|
As of yesterday, he's still trying to get me to run.
Because I overslept yesterday morning and missed the wonderful companionship of the Derby Sunday morning 10-miler group. And so I told myself I would go running on my own. But it didn't take much convincing for me to avoid the 15 MPH northern winds and stay in my bed reading a book instead. I took the dog out for a run (all of 15 minutes in the cold and breezy). Then I spent the afternoon watching basketball.
Let me make it very clear: I did not want to run yesterday.
But I made the mistake of asking my dad if he planned to run. His response? "Sure! I'm ready whenever you are!"
So we went out to do a little 2 miles. I made the additional mistake of telling him I planned to do a 2-mile warm-up, followed by 14 minutes at tempo. After we finished our little 2-mile out-and-back (with me grumping all the way about how my legs hurt and I didn't want to run and my body didn't feel like it wanted to do this), he said, "I'll take your coat in if you want to keep running." Whine . . . sigh. I walked back and forth, debating whether or not I wanted to go ahead with the tempo run, and finally told myself, "It's only 7 minutes out and 7 minutes back; it would be silly not to do it." So I sighed again and said, "Alright, I'll do it. If it hurts too bad, I can always turn around and come back after a few minutes."
What does my dad do? He runs with me. "You can just run on ahead, and I'll turn back whenever you turn back." Of course, once we got started, I had to finish it. So I ran my full warm up, and my full tempo run, and another 10 minutes of cool down, as well.
And I wouldn't have done any of it without my dad.