Well, if my training mission as assigned by the Coach was to “fail so that I might learn and grow”, then after this evening’s failed fartlek run I am a fucking Rhodes Scholar baby, because, boy did I ever stink it up.
Big time even.
While I admit to being a bit trepidatious about running this week given it was forecasted to be hot and shitty (it was) I still managed to cinch up the apple sack after work and make my way to Woodlawn Lake – my usual running spot – to do my best to get business done. As is also part of the routine, I had a ZZ Top album loaded and ready to go on the iPod, namely the 2003 ‘Mescalero‘ album.
This album represents their first offering on their new RCA Records label, their 14th studio album over all. The Recording sessions took place at the Foam Box Recordings studio in Houston with Billy Gibbons at the controls as the producer. The album is largely centered around a variety of Tejano instrumentation including accordion, pedal steel and harmonica. Not that I gave a shit about any of this at the time while I was in my final death throes somewhere along the paved Woodlawn Lake path.
I knew in the first 15 minutes that this run was not going to go well. My legs had absolutely no power in them and by body felt completely void of energy. Likewise, my breathing was labored and difficult; “Houston, we have a problem”. I managed to complete the first of 2 x 4 min/1 min intervals – barely – but 1 minute into the 3rd interval I absolutely died. Finito! Just like that…mentally, physically and emotionally…and only 35 minutes and a mere 6.2k into the program. Not even great tunes like ‘Me So Stupid‘ or ‘Alley-Gator‘ could do anything to motivate me to keep going. I was a sweating, dripping, coughing, wheezing, 100% broken down mess.
Talk about discouraging.
I decided instead o consul myself with a little “record therapy” at Hogwild Records followed by a delicious Hula Burger and pint of Lazy Magnolia Pecan Ale at Luther’s Cafe while watching ‘RuPaul’s Drag Race‘ with about 60 screaming and very enthusiastic transvestites. How’s that for consolation?