Well, damn.

I didn't run 300 miles in the month of July.

I ran 215. I'm disappointed in myself, even though 215 is an admirable number and more than I did last month.

Things got in the way -- medical things, weather things, life things -- but I hate making excuses, so I won't.

Instead, I'm going to focus on the positive: I'm pretty damn certain that I will finish the marathon in December.

I ran 15 miles on the first Saturday of July. I didn't plan on it; I just did it. And while it went OK (i.e., I survived), I paid for it dearly. I was completely and totally exhausted, got a horrible headache and actually took a sick day from work (and I have almost 210 hours of sick time accumulated, so that tells you how often I take them).

I was kind of afraid to push myself after that, so I didn't. I ran 6 miles, I ran 8 miles, 10 on the weekends when there wasn't a weather issue or something else going on.

But this past Saturday, I did indeed run 15 miles again. And it was fabulous.

I was prepared to be totally trashed afterward, and that was going to be OK. We didn't have any plans this past weekend and there was nothing I really *had* to do. So in the event, that I was completely exhausted, I could sleep.

I was fine, though. A little sore immediately afterward and for a few hours after that. A little tired, but not more than usual. Instead of hijacking the couch for the day, I got up and went shopping. I did some laundry. I did some cleaning.

I didn't crash that night -- I mean, I sat on the couch and watched "Sports Night" (one of the best shows EVAH) on Netflix Streaming, but I was fine. Not overly tired. Not overly achy.

Just fine.

So, despite the fact that I didn't reach my goal this past month, I can tell that the six-day-a-week runs are making me stronger. The twice-a-week visits to my personal trainer are making progress.

And I will finish that marathon. There's no other option, really.