First of all, I didn't really feel up to 15 miles, but I gave myself a mental talking to and decided that whether I felt like it or not, I needed to get it done -- that's what training for a marathon is about; it's hard and sometimes you don't want to do it, but you do it. So I started it.
At about mile 6.5, the sidewalk came to a stop and I was left to run in either the grass or on the road. Because the road is a busy one and there was no shoulder there, I thought it best to run in the grass -- which was really more sand, rocks and patchy crab grass than soft, plush golf-course grass. I'm not used to running on such uneven ground, and then an overhead streelight went out and I was momentarily plunged into darkness.
That's when I tripped over a sizable rock and went tumbling into the dirt. The fall wasn't as bad as the one last summer (when I skidded across the asphalt and splashed into a puddle), but I scraped my knees and palms and found myself covered in fine silt. I got back up and decided that even though my knee was throbbing and my big toe (which stubbed the rock) was aching a bit, I was gonna run on.
But after about a mile, and when the sidewalk resumed, I was feeling achy from the fall and mentally out-of-whack. So, at the next pay phone, I stopped and called my husband and asked him to come and fetch me. In total, I ran 8 miles. And I curse that patch of land without a sidewalk.