I flipped. It has taken six years of running, two marathons, countless half marathons, 10ks and 5ks, but, at last, something pushed me over the edge. And my poor training partner, Lucy, was there to face the brunt of it.
It was at mile 21 of a particularly hilly route. The day had started on the wrong foot when I forgot to put an electrolyte tab in my water bottle. Fear not, I told myself, one small shift from the normal routine does not mean a complete and utter meltdown. Little did I know what was to come.
We set off to run to Carmunnock, up the deadly hill through Castlemilk and onto the Braes before heading back down and up again to Carmunnock, down and up again to Busby and onwards and upwards to Clarkston and back to Glasgow.
At Castlemilk, the second break from routine came when I stopped to eat a different cereal bar to my usual brand. The chocolate coating had gone a bit soggy in my pocket and afterwards it didn't sit as well in my stomach. But still I ploughed on without too much complaint.
We knew the route wasn't as long as the necessary 22 miles the marathon training schedule dictates must be covered five weeks ahead of the race, so we had already put in an extra five-mile loop round the paths and trails in Pollok Park. So when we finally returned to the park, 13 miles later, we were disgruntled to find we still had four miles to fill before we could head back.
Dutifully we hit the trails, partly to give our battered legs a chance to recover rather than hammering round on the tarmac. I thought I could face the extra miles and tried to relax as the lactic burned in my weak calves, ankles and hamstrings. As we finished one section of the trail I turned to head back towards Mosspark and the end of the run.
But Lucy stopped me. "We need to do an extra loop or we won't get 22," she shouted. And, in my exhaustion, with blood sugar levels at rock bottom, I flipped and threw my empty water bottle at her.
The thought of even an extra metre was too much for my stricken body and weakened mind. Like a five-year-old child throwing a tantrum I screamed and swore, telling her, in no uncertain terms, where she could stick her extra loop.
Some mountain bikers who had just finished the same section of trail looked on stunned. In that split second, I didn't care. I was effing and blinding in front of around six adult cyclists and one child, at poor, innocent Lucy.
Needless to say, she didn't give in and we did the extra loop, running in a cold silence as tears poured down my face all the way back to the shop. The adrenaline gave me the boost I needed to mask the pain in my legs long enough to get me home, but the guilt of shouting at the one person that has helped me so much in my running later brought tears of its own.
As the Garmin ticked over to 22.21 miles we pulled up outside the shop and Lucy bought us both the most delicious tasting can of pop I have ever had in my life. I apologised over and over again, but the sense of shame remains.
I have been to the edge many times on runs, but never have I thrown such a hissy fit. And never have I directed my wrath at someone other than my husband. Even the cake I baked Lucy to say sorry looked pathetic and token compared to the hours she has spent encouraging me and helping me through the lowest points of long distance running.
The next day, we hit the road again, for a short recovery run, and, as the sun shone through the trees as we passed the very spot it happened in Pollok Park, I couldn't believe I lost control. Just for a moment I was more angry and crazy than I have ever been while running. And that's not what it's about. This is supposed to be fun. A challenge, yes, but not to the point of breakdown.
A new attitude is needed for Loch Ness - time/pace/PB are out the window. Now it is time to relax/enjoy/run.