My First Ten Mile

When I was younger, I used to listen to my sister talk about her long days with a mix of horror, disgust, and adoration.  Ten miles at once.  It sounded like the stuff of nightmares.  The most I had ever run at one time before entering high school was four miles.  The fact that some people even did as much as six was astonishing to me.  The summer before my freshman year, I got up to eight, but never attempted the timed ten-mile that my older teammates did every Monday.
Finally, the day came.  It was the first week back in school, and it was timed long-run day.  I hadn't hydrated at all that day, and it was about ninety degrees out.  I hadn't really planned to do ten miles, but it was a new course, and the teammates that I usually ran with were going for it.  I quickly realized that I wouldn't be able to find my way back without them, and I didn't think another two miles would be so bad.
I have never been so wrong in my whole life.
The first five miles passed without incident.  I kept up with the girls, and I didn't even drown in my own sweat.  The second five miles went somewhat less smoothly.  Suddenly, my lungs were burning and my legs no longer wished to continue.  I had to pee with an astonishing desperation.  I thought my bladder was going to explode, and I was extremely dehydrated.  I finished the run with a blazing time of 89:97.
I love looking back on this first long run every time I have a bad run or a rough race.  Since my freshman year, I have cut over twenty minutes off of my ten mile time.  It's great to see your training pay off, and to know that even if you have bad days, your hard work is still there.