Diez! Desyat! Zehn! Das! Dix! Ten! 10!!!

I'll go ahead and say it:  I really, really didn't think I would make it to ten miles on Saturday. Upon arriving however, I quickly realized that everyone else who showed up to the group run was training for full marathons, and the shortest distance that anyone else was going was 14 miles.  Even though I knew that they were more advanced and that I really was doing just fine...  I couldn't help but feel entirely deflated.  Great, I thought. I've only made it to 7 miles.  My longest distance was their shortest.  Not the best way to start an aggressive workout.

Off I went.  Determined to show them that I was capable of reaching the double-digit mark, I matched their pace (which was naturally faster than mine), but soon found that I just couldn't hold on.  Within minutes I had fallen behind the group, and was on my own.  After running around Lake Merced (4.5 miles), I was already feeling a deep burn in my legs and chest.  I stopped, sipped, stretched, and took off once more. My breathing at this point resembled that of a pregnant woman in her first lamaze class more than a runner's.  "hee-hee-hoooo... hee-hee-hoooo"... no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to draw enough air.  Towards the end I had to walk a couple of times.  Now normally this wouldn't have bothered me, but in passing an elderly woman waiting for the bus, she called out "Come on, sweetheart. Pick up the pace!".  Seriously?!  I really hope that my smile covered the nasty glare I was unable to suppress.  I was starving, thirsty, dizzy, achey, and stiff.  I even thought that a person wearing red shorts and a white top in the distance was a water cooler.  (no joke).  Pathetic?  Maybe.  But that mirage certainly kept me running for quite awhile before I realized I was seeing things.

Days later, I'm still having trouble walking.  But I'll tell you this much:  the way that I felt after... that amazing, "I did it!" feeling...  it made it all worthwhile.  

Six more weeks.  Three more miles.  I can do this.