The curséd killer kilometres are the antithesis of the mesmeric middle miles.
They go way beyond the evil shoulder monkey telling you to quit / slow down / take a break / that you’re no good etc. etc.
The curséd killer kilometres are when every step sucks the soul from your psyche. Then it really is the time to call time on the run. This is when discretion becomes the better part of valour. It’s time to come in. It’s time to stop, and not to beat yourself up for having stopped. Have a long, soaky bath in your favourite things. Put on your comfiest clothes and relax into a book / magazine / sleep / telly / film / shopping etc.
I got the CKKs the other day. I was off for a 20-miler (or so I thought). I tend to ignore any internal communications for the first four or five miles. These are just warm-up really, getting the heart pumping and stuff. But it was already ugly at mile 6. And at mile 7. And at mile 8. So I had plenty of time to think and talk myself round if it had (just) been the evil shoulder monkey. Not that he’s to be underestimated. He can be pretty vicious all by himself. But my form was all over the place, I kept kicking myself – literally, unintentionally obviously – my core was wobbly, my head was fogging up. Time to come in. Eleven miles done. Tolerable I guess.
No recriminations. It was the mature, sensible decision, I can occasionally make them! I do, after all, do this running lark as a leisure activity. Even I don’t deserve that much punishment.