We spent the weekend in Southern California, which meant a 7-hour drive south on Thursday afternoon (solo, with a 5-year-old), a side trip to San Diego on Sunday (1.5 hours down, 2 hours back), and a return trip on Monday (8 hours). I was desperate for a Tuesday trail run to get me up and moving, and particularly the accompanying post-run deep stretch that follows.
I woke to the sound of raindrops.
I quickly moved through the five stages of grief:
- Denial. “It’s not raining that hard. I can still run the hill.”
- Anger. “This isn’t fair! I just want to run my hill! Why must you be like this, Mother Nature?” (Shakes fist at rain clouds completely obscuring the hills.)
- Bargaining. “If I just take it slowly, I’m sure I can make it up the slick clay hill without slipping and breaking a bone.”
- Depression. “Crap. I’m going to have to go to the gym. I don’t even want to bother with that.” *
- Acceptance. “There will be other days with better weather, and I’ll enjoy the run more… right?”
Ok, maybe I never fully made it to the fifth stage since I spent my entire day in running clothes, watching the weather maps and hoping that the rain would break long enough to make the effort worthwhile. Eventually I reached stage 5b, which is “I’ve run out of time and now it’s time to get the kiddo from school.”
Does anyone else suffer from the five stages of grief when their workout plans get thrown off?
* The terrible irony is that I’d forgotten it was Tuesday, Zumba day. I could have had a ready-made, weather-resistant indoor workout if only I’d actually looked at the calendar.