Poor Scully. I honestly don't know why she likes us. Every time we see her we drag her on some crazy running adventure that we promise will be fun.
Last week - hill training. Last night - intervals.
At least we pick nice areas to run in. A lovely warm up run down tree-lined streets full of big ol' houses and beautifully manicured lawns. Dappled sunlight filtering down through the trees. Peaceful and quiet it was.
Thirteen minutes later, we arrived at another lovely little subdivision which backs on to a ravine. More trees, more beautiful homes, more lovely sunlight. So deceptively calm and quiet.
This time however, instead of a leisurely run and enough energy left over to chat, we ran our asses off. Four minutes of hell is how I like to describe it.
Basically, the goal is to run around the 800m (half mile) subdivision as fast as you can without collapsing in a heap. Two minutes off to catch your breath and get rid of the urge to vomit and then do it again. Six times. Seven if you're Doug.
Scully is a brave little lass and tough as nails. She was hurting from her Tuesday night stair workout, tired and feeling under the weather. Yet she managed to never be more than a few steps behind me the entire time. We ran fairly consistent 4:12-4:20 intervals which means our pace hovered around 5:12-5:18 minutes per kilometre. Crazy!
One interval actually broke the 4 minute barrier (3:56!) which I have never ever managed to do before - despite repeated attempts last year and even having someone pace me. Apprently, if you throw two diabetics together, all sorts of crazy stuff happens.
The 6:15 pace we ran on the way home seemed almost too easy after the intervals. We could talk (sort of) and breathe normally again. I was hurting, Scully was hurting, but we did it!
Now I have to think up some other kind of hell to put her through the next time we run together. Hills on Erion Road? Sawmill? Brock?