My husband asked whether we could have one Sunday morning without arranging everything around my long run, and I was immediately defensive. I had the whole explanation ready about the ultra and the weeks left, but he wasn't saying the race didn't matter. He wanted us to eat breakfast together without somebody checking the time. Felt a bit hurt that he asked, then guilty for being hurt, which is a thoroughly unhelpful combination. I love that he supports my running, and perhaps I've started treating that support as automatic. We agreed on a morning that works. I'm pleased about it, though a small, unreasonable part of me is still counting the kilometres I'll have to move.

I keep reading the ultra cutoff times as though another look will change them. The training numbers are useful, but at some point I stop planning and start asking a spreadsheet to promise that race day will go well. It can't tell me what the weather or my stomach will do. I wrote a simpler plan tonight with the things I can actually act on, including what would make me stop rather than keep bargaining with myself. That last bit took longer than the pacing. I spend my working day asking people to take their health seriously; being nearly fifty doesn't exempt me from following my own sensible advice just because there's a medal involved.

An easy run actually stayed easy this morning, which may deserve its own medal given my usual interpretation of the word. I let two club runners disappear ahead instead of quietly adjusting my pace to keep them in sight. The first kilometre felt creaky, as it often does, but once I warmed up I could hear my breathing settle and enjoy the path instead of negotiating with my watch. Came home with enough left in my legs to stand making breakfast without leaning on the counter. The greyhound watched the whole recovery process from the couch. He does seem to understand rest considerably better than I do, despite having no training plan.