Is 8 Ever Enough?

I did something today I’ve never done before, Modern Philosophers.

No, I didn’t go on a successful second date.  Very funny, whoever shouted out that one.

What I did was run eight miles.

I have to confess that even I am impressed with this one.

And it’s not simply because six and a half months ago, I was a fat, lazy blob slowly inching towards a heart attack on my couch.

I’m impressed because I have a horrible habit of pushing myself only so far, growing complacent with my achievement, and never trying to go any further.

Which is probably why I’ll die single and lonely (but in much better shape than in my earlier visions of this tragic future).

But maybe everything is about to change now that I’ve found the moxie and the life in my legs to go eight miles.  After all, Doc did tell Marty that the future hasn’t been written yet, and we all know Doc Brown is a very wise man (aside from being this blog’s most generous financial benefactor).

I’m going off an a tangent and I apologize for that.  The thing is, I’ll never pass on a chance to make a nod to Back to the Future on this blog.

So let’s time travel back to this morning.

I knew I wanted to push myself to a new personal best.  It’s been a few weeks since I broke the seven mile barrier, and with colder weather on the horizon, it was obvious that my opportunities to go for broke were growing limited.  I’d also plateaued on my weight loss, so I wanted to do something out of the ordinary to jump start my metabolism.

I didn’t push any pressure on myself, though, and I think that was a key to my success.

I left The House on the Hill thinking I’d go six miles for sure, but hoping that I could find the willpower to do eight.

By allowing myself that wiggle room, I removed any pressure of failing from the equation.  At the very least, I was going to complete a kick ass six miles, but if the running gods chose to smile upon me, I’d be blogging about a new personal best tonight.

Yes, Modern Philosophers, I did factor the potential blog post into my calculations.

It was a gorgeous morning for a run.  Hard to believe that we are already three weeks into the part of the year I refer to as The 182 Days of Terror.

Since there is no eight mile path on my running route, I was just going to wing it.  I cut down quiet side streets, explored new neighborhoods, and even ran past Mrs. Fish’s house just as she and Mr. Fish were heading out.  That earned me a “Go, Austin!”, which was much needed with the long run ahead of me.

A few weeks ago, I discovered a porta potty on my route.  There was no way I’d be able to go eight miles without hitting the head, so as I was cobbling together my vagabond journey through the neighborhood, I told myself I had to run at least four miles before I ventured upon the little blue box of bladder relief.

I hit that goal at the 4.35 mile mark.  Perfect.

With one less issue to worry about, I was certain I was going to achieve my goal.  All systems were good until just past the six mile mark.

That was when my body finally realized it was being asked to do something out of the norm.  It basically gave me a “What the $%^& is going on?” warning by causing every muscle in my body to ache at once, while also turning my legs into concrete.

Yeah, the last two miles were a real test of how badly I wanted to see The House on the Hill again.  Because the other option, which I had to seriously consider at one painful, moment of weakness (of which I am now incredibly ashamed), was to just become a homeless person and live at the side of the road.

Because it was either finish the eight miles and collapse in my driveway, vowing to never again leave it, or just collapse in some stranger’s driveway and vow never to leave it until the cops arrived to drag me away.

Somehow, I found the strength to keep going.

It probably had something to do with wanting a hot shower and a giant omelette for breakfast, but it might have also been pride and a desire to kick ass.

Either way, I finally made it home.  Any my time wasn’t even that bad.

I was damn proud of myself, and feeling so giddy, that I took a bunch of selfies standing in front of various Halloween displays throughout the neighborhood.

I’ve sprinkled some of those photos into this post for your enjoyment.

You’re welcome.

I will be honest.  I’ve never been this sore in my entire life.  I’ve barely moved all day because all I want to do is remain perfectly still so my muscles don’t terrorize me.

Despite the pain, it was totally worth it.

I had no idea I could run eight miles, and now I know I can.

It’s amazing what I can accomplish when I just try.  To give you some idea of how happy I am about this, here’s the selfie I took at the end of my run…

I’m not exhausted, freaked out, or in shock.  I’m smiling.  Pretty brightly, I might add.

Hard to believe a guy that handsome is still single, right?

I also busted through that weight loss plateau, and now I’m down 59 lbs!

To answer the question I posed in the title of this blog post: Yes, eight is definitely enough.

At least until I have the urge to run nine miles…