I really did.
As I stood at my mailbox, the unofficial starting line and finish line for home-based courses, I told the dog "We need to keep it short and sweet and slow today, even if it feels good. Gotta baby the achilles another day or two."
I dutifully trotted the usual short course, managed not to spill myself on the trail made silicon-snot slippery from lots of rain, and emerged pointed to home.
That's when the addiction hit.
I'd done my duty. I was plenty warm for some serious stretching back at the ranch. I told myself that that was what I should do. But myself wasn't listening. Instead he turned left toward the big grass field.
"The heels are fine. It's only grass. Nice soft grass. It's probably good for the achilles.", I told myself.
We always lie to ourselves when we know we're messing up. Isn't that weird? Why can't we just roll with it, be honest with ourselves? "That's right, after a slow slog, for the third day in a row, I'm going to hit the wet grass and pick up the pace, just for the thrill."
I did one loop of the field, faster than I should have. My shoes and feet were soaked. It felt great.
A good run, and almost all of them are good, just feels too perfect to cut short. It's a lot like a really fun party, or great sex, or an episode of Big Bang Theory... you never want it to end.
Numbers: 2.0 miles, half on pavement, half on grass, still too short, ended too soon.