He came home to an almost empty house (he could hear the faint sound of music from his teenage daughter's room upstairs) and immediately set to work making an egg sandwich. He ate it with some re-heated coffee and fruit juice. Then he sat at the laptop and entered his warm up and cool down mileage, then his race--such as it was--into his running log.
Alas. He gave himself the requisite pep talk about trusting the process then looked at the time. He had 90 minutes before he needed to be at the field to coach micro soccer.
"Fuck it," he said to the empty room.
Then, if for no other reason than to declare emphatically that he was, in fact, training through, he changed his t-shirt, put on his trainers and headed out the door for another 5 mile recovery run. "Besides," he thought, "those runs when you're bonking and having protein sweats from the first step are the ones in which the money gets made."
He wasn't entirely sure it was a great idea and his knees and ankles protested for a mile or so. But despite the light headedness and sweating the run served its exact purpose--he felt much better when he finished, than he had when he started.