Really this all starts on Sunday, when at BIRC I pulled a 2k that I wasn't exactly happy with and tried to reason that everyone else wasn't very happy about their 2k either. And then on Monday I went to do a 3 by 6K in my shiny new thigh-squishers and after 1 good 6k found that I could not, whatever I did hold a spilt on the second, and then I was all of a sudden crying hot angry tears in the darkened weights room at Goldie while I should have been doing the third. Not good. So I went to see David who gently reminded me that it was only an erg.
So why, during the outing on Tuesday did I feel a general sense of foreboding? And why on Tuesday evening, after a good weights session did I suddenly get irrationally furious at David for doing something as terrible as suggesting I moved an erg earlier in order to go with him to a very very nice dinner?
I have a little theory about where all of this has come from though. This week has been a pretty potent mess of things that could knock me a little off balance by themselves. I saw Mum and Angus this weekend and now I'm a little homesick having been away since late August; I have done 11 weeks of clinical medicine which is really kinda tough; I have done 10 weeks of trialling and all that involves; oh yeah and we are going to be Seat Raced this weekend.
But luckily I snapped out of it last night by pulling a PB 2k. And not just a little PB- a big 6s faster than ever before PB. And then going for the previously mentioned very very nice dinner at The Pheasant. Usedul because it meant I could deal with Clinical Communication Skills "Breaking Bad News" session like a reasonably well adjusted medical student not like some crazy sleep deprived person.
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