I love Thanksgiving. I love having five days off from work, even if it means cooking and cleaning until my hands are covered in burns from the oven, and are raw from being washed over and over.

I love turkey, gravy and the wonderful pile of carbohydrates that sits along side them on my plate. I especially love warm apple pie topped with vanilla bean ice cream.

I love laughing and talking with my family and friends - at the dinner table or over the phone line, it matters not.

I love starting the holiday with a run, before things start simmering and bubbling. Usually, I really love the run.

This year, I fell off the nutrition and hydration wagon a little earlier than usual. I spent Wednesday cleaning, which meant that I was intensely focused on my tasks and very distracted from my normal routine of eating wholesome foods every three hours. Ravioli from a can does not equate to a nutritionally solid dinner. And let’s not even talk about hydration. Coffee and soda are not the same as water.

On my Turkey-Day Run, my body let me know that I had made some poor choices. I held a decent pace, but it was a mental battle the entire 5-miles. My brain felt sluggish. My legs had less oomph than usual. I was concentrating so hard on making it through the miles, that I hardly noticed the raw, rainy weather.

Instead of replenishing my body with what it needed, I opted instead to commence with the Thanksgiving Day Gorging, complete with more wine than I usually consume in a whole month, let alone during one meal.

When I awoke on Friday, I knew my running schedule was about to be rearranged. I opted to take a “rest day” on Friday – which I took very seriously and sat on the couch for most of the day. Saturday, I did my weekly long run, and still felt sluggish – a two-day food hangover! Then on Sunday, I had to make up for the rescheduled run from Friday, so it was 6 miles on tired legs. Another mental battle, but I got it done.

As if that wasn’t enough, I decided I needed to do some penance for my poor behavior, and rounded out the weekend with a 20-mile bike ride on the rail trail. It was muddy and perfect – a rare opportunity at the end of November in New England.

Getting back to work means a return to my 'normal' routine. Hopefully that will translate into a few less pounds and non-sluggish miles.

It is upon me. The season of rest. The struggle for motivation, for focus. The time for hibernation, comfort food, and cuddling. The inner struggle that happens each morning just before the alarm yanks me out of bed, and the first question that pops in to my head is ‘Can I run later today? Later this week? Is there enough time to fit this in at a more reasonable, less cold-and-dark hour?

Usually, the answer is ‘no’ and I begrudgingly get out of bed and start the routine. Thirty minutes later, I’m on the street, in the dark, vest-reflecting and head-lamp luminescing, but still too sleepy to fully catch on to what I’m about to do.

Ten minutes later, I wake up and realize that I’m running, and I congratulate myself for getting out there. I remind myself that it is not time to hibernate, because this year is still the year of making a difference. I still have one more race to run, so while I can slow down and catch my breath, there’s no stopping. Not quite yet.

Not until April 16th.

For the longest time, I had a copy of a comic strip that always made me smile. Although I don’t recall the name of strip, I can easily remember the action in each frame. It went something like this:

First frame: Dad in business suit. Son in swim trunks, holding a garden house which is pointed at Dad.

Second frame: Dad says sternly, “Don’t even think about it.”

Third frame: Dad is soaking wet. Son looks sheepish as water drips from end of hose. Son says “I had to” to which Dad replies “I know.”

That’s how I feel today. A little sheepish, but…well…I just HAD to.

I hope Coach will be able to reply with an “I know.”

For starters, yesterday I did my ‘long run’ with runners that move a little quicker than the dictated pace for the day. Instead of 9:00-9:30 per mile, we averaged 8:22 for the 7.30 mile run.

It was cold. The wind was at our backs and it was all downhill. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

As if that wasn’t defiant enough, I decided that since I was *already* going to be in trouble with Coach for running too fast, I might as well completely piss him off all in one weekend. Then I could return to being my obedient self, having gotten it all out of my system.

So, against the advice of my Coach, I decided to run a 5K race this afternoon. It was a beautiful fall day, with sunshine and temps around 47F – perfect running weather. How could I resist?

In my defense, I would like to state for the record that I would not have run the race if I felt like it would jeopardize my post marathon recovery. Although my legs have been a little cranky the past few weeks, the last few days has seen marked improvement. Plus, I made it a point to use the foam roller last night and I went to yoga this morning to stretch out any remaining kinks.

I asked myself “What would Coach tell me to do?” for race prep and race pace, based on the current conditions. I decided I would shoot for an even 7:00 min/mile pace for the whole race. The course is the same flat, straight greenway that I have been running all my speed work on, so I knew that the pace would be sustainable.

I did a 1.50-2.00 mile warm-up. I stretched. I went to the start line and felt relaxed while others were bouncing up and down with anticipation. I was just going to run. If anything hurt, I would stop. No pressure.

My stepfather, David, had volunteered to be the lead ‘pace’ bike for the race. It was awesome to have him at the race and even cooler to watch his bright yellow jacket zip into the distance as the lead runners flew down the course. David said he clocked the lead runner doing over 12 mph at one point!

The start of this race is always too fast, for everyone. Since it’s flat, straight and downhill, there’s nothing to slow us down. I completely freaked when I looked at my watch about 400 meters into the race and realized I was running at a sub-6:00 pace. I immediately slowed down, but it took me until well past the first half mile to find the 7:00 m/m pace. I was not surprised to hear the timer tell me that I had run the first mile in 6:38.

As I approached the turnaround, I noticed that there was only one female ahead of me. She had quite a good lead on me (about a minute ahead of me at that point, I later learned from her) so I knew there was no chance to overtake her. I was comfortable where I was…or rather, just uncomfortable enough to not want to push any harder.

I missed my split-time at the second mile mark, and kept focusing on maintaining my pace. I could feel the heartburn starting in my stomach. The legs were cooperating, but my engine felt a little under-powered. I’m sure that had *nothing* to do with the Swedish meatballs, chips, taquitos, pasta, salad, carrots, fruit, sausage with peppers onions and candy that I had for dinner the night before. Oh, and two juice boxes.

The third mile passed by, and I think the timer said 20:15. With only a tenth of a mile to go, I knew I had a PR and was totally elated. I pushed for a final pathetic kick, and made it over the finish line in 21:06, still the second female.

I scored first place for my age-group, and since I was the first female from my town to cross the line, I won a free 3-month membership to a local gym. Not bad considering I haven’t run a 5K since the springtime.

I took the time to do a 2.25 mile cool-down with some other runners, the treated myself to a donut and drove home.

Sorry Coach, I just had to.