Dencorub on face.

I'm currently sitting at my desk at work with tea towel full of semi-frozen ice cubes under my right hamstring. I think I may have progressed from 'tight' to full blown 'strain' this morning, and with a (hopeful) 1 hour 30 minute run on Sunday to come before week o' resting, I'd like to be up for it.

I set my alarm for 5:55am last night, with a hope that I would roll out of bed in a sprightly manner, whack on the shoes and bound down the round with the vigour of an 8 year old on his way to football training. Alas, it was not meant to be, and while I staggered out of bed ok, I didn't leave until 6:25, owing to my iPhone deciding to be retarded and not sync up with my computer in a remotely timely fashion. (Visual: I am now stroking my iPhone gently so it doesn't think I don't love it anymore).

I was very proud of my run this morning, less for what I did, and more for what I didn't do. I had my PB time for 10km in the back of my head for most of the run this morning, and ran the first 7km or so as if I were trying to break it. At that stage however, it occurred to me that I am training to run 42.2km, not 10km, and backed off to a more reasonable pace. I am still running a fair way above my 'marathon' pace of 6mins/km, in order to finish under 4 hours (I'm running at around the 5:35/km mark pretty consistently over the 8-10km range) which is nice, but not the be all and end all. I will break that 10km (that I set at the Nike Human Race in my first fun run nearly two years ago) in the course of training, but it doesn't have to be this week.

In the meantime, I reassure myself with the knowledge that someone on the streets of Melbourne this morning most likely got a view of a pasty, short, bald man in a singlet rapping out loud about the vagaries of life being a Maori rapper from South Auckland, confused by my enthusiasm for 'representing my crew'.

Word.