Yesterday, I aimed to run at least 24 miles.
Unfortunately, not for the first time, the weather ruined my run.
I've heard the expression, "There's no such thing as bad weather, there's only bad clothing." Whoever said that wasn't running in yesterday's condition.
I met up with ultra lister Paul Houston and we took the train to Oxford. We ran to the start of the Thames 100 Miler and watched the runners come in. Wow. They looked dead. Do I look that wretched after running 100 miles? Probably.
Then we ran along the path for nine miles or so - seeing various runners, cheering them on. They were startled at me, because they felt like crap having run over 90 miles and then there's this LOUD boisterous American girl. But they mostly seemed happy.
It was pouring rain during this time, but it was bearable. The trail was ridiculously muddy (poor Centurions!), and I kept slipping.
Then we took a side path and began running towards Oxford in a roundabout way. It sounded like it would be pretty, small villages and such.
But then it began snowing.
And snowing harder.
And some icy sleet blowing in our faces.
I was soaked. I couldn't feel my feet, which is problematic after my frostbite last year. My gloves were soaked, I could barely carry my water bottle my hands were so cold. Finally, Paul said to me, "If we want to turn around..."
I have never been so cold. I was also feeling jetlagged, which has never happened. I felt spacey and dizzy and sick and terrible.
Running back, we ended up in a small town where we warmed up with hot cocoa. Paul bought us gloves and socks, which helped. It took me a while to feel normal (I felt like I was going to pass out for a while.) and get warm.
We hopped on the train back to London, chatting about upcoming races (Paul's training for a 95miler in Scotland), and ignoring the odd looks on our muddy attire.
A hot shower never felt so lovely!