Last week was supposed to be a big week. We were in Vermont for a much needed vacation and I had plans to run every morning and, heck, even get out for a second run here or there. I was looking for fifty miles for the week. It was going to be awesome. My own little training camp.
But then life happened. Little Dude didn’t sleep well and E and I alternated being up with him either very late, or very early. So I ended up sleeping in, or going back to bed. By the time the day got moving, it was 10 am.
Then there were the activities: swimming, hiking, concerts, play dates, lunches, dinners and drinks. Little Dude swam for the first time, and then the second, at first he wasn’t a fan, but he came around. We hiked the Lake Mansfield trail, and then through the fields of Stowe ate at the best farm to table restaurant Vermont had to offer, listened to folk songs on a train platform, and drank local beers on the deck. We had a great time, but I barely ran. What was to be a random hammer week turned into my lowest mileage week in months.
Still, I ran every day. Until I got home that is, and a call from an old friend led to beers on the roof chatting with neighbors and watching Little Dude play with new friends. After twenty straight days of running, I said fuck it and took a day off.
And you know what? I don’t care. I don’t care about the low mileage, or missing the day. Some weeks you just need to wade in the reservoir with your son and drink beers with old friends on the roof. Some weeks, especially in August, are made for taking it easy.
But that was last week. This week, I got big plans.