Running is Hard, Running is Easy.

Running is Hard.
I will say, training in New York City in July's best (re: worst) weather is grounds for temporary insanity.  But once you can master the art of talking yourself into/out of the run, you've got the craziness handled.  A friend told me it helps to have a mantra: Running is Easy. And Running is Hard.  When the going gets tough, you can pick whichever one you want.  Running is Easy: you just put one foot in front of the other and remember to breathe.  Relax, running is easy.
Or, Running is Hard: No one, I repeat, no one is out here running hill repeats in 90 degree heat at 75% humidity at 3pm in the afternoon.  Running is F**ing Hard.

Temporary insanity, yes.  Because talking aloud to yourself is the only way to stave off the quits.
If the humidity doesn't kill your training regime, you can count on the sudden thunderstorms to interfere at the best (re: worst) possible moments.  Or, you can be sure you will experience a near-death dementia from sweating every ounce of salt-laden cellular potential you have out your eyeballs and armpits.
During the long humid weekend, I was out for a two hour jaunt when I realized that sweating consistently this much for this long was perhaps the best (re: you get it) way to die.

There I was, talking myself into the long run for the week, and I was armed with two water bottles and all the sweat-wicking body gear I could manage.  Twenty minutes into the run, I had polished off both bottles and had to stop for a refill.  But, I was determined not to quit.  Forty minutes later, my shirt looked like I had soaked it in the wash and neglected the spin cycle.  My anti-chafe cream had melted and was now functioning as anti-sunscreen.  But I was still plugging along - until the sighs started up once I caught sight of the traverse in Central Park known as "Great Hill."  It was here that I contemplated turning around and taking the air-conditioned subway home.  However, "Running is Hard" kicked in and I looked around at the three other pedestrians crawling up the hill, the four cyclists weaving to and fro with audible grunts, and said, "Ok, no one else is doing this. Running is Hard right now, but it's temporary."
Serendipity rewarded me ten minutes later as I stopped to refill the water bottles yet again and looked down at the stone fountain engraved with the name of a local group dubbed "79th Street Marathon and Pasta Club."  The little bit of inspiration I needed, right then and there.
And suddenly, Running is Easy.
Being part of a club is great inspiration for a long run.  It reminds you that you're not alone in the journey.  And that you're not the only crazy one.  (Ok, maybe I wasn't part of that club, but I was drinking the water, so it was inclusion by proxy.)
I continued along the edge of the Jackie O Reservoir (which was, miraculously, less humid and cooler despite its location as dead center of NYC), and while the Running was Easy, I was growing very, very tired.  The combination of the humidity, my water-logged stomach, and the lack of shade combined to slow me to a walk for about ten minutes.  And then I had to find a way to start running again.
Now, anyone who has run a long distance (whether that's 200 miles or 2 yards) can tell you that one of the most difficult obstacles is picking up the pace again once you've slowed.  Particularly in the case of heading back into a running pace after a slow walk.  The mind rebels, the heart pleas for mercy, and maybe the body will cooperate as long as there's no pain involved.  So, being the rational person I am, I had to convince my mind first that we were going to start running again.  Oh, but she's a tricky thing, my mind, because she's so adept about talking me out of every source of inspiration I can manage.  "Just push through this, you'll thank yourself when you're at mile 22 in about two months." Nope.  "There's another marathoner, just try to keep up a little bit - you can do it!" Hell no.  "You're going to have to admit defeat to your fans." Who cares?

And then, by some lovely, demented bout of insanity, I found an exceptional inspiration: the end.
I asked myself, what if this was the last time I'd ever be able to run, ever again?  EVER.  As in, my legs were going to fall off tomorrow (which, at the moment, I wouldn't mind), but I'd never be able to enjoy running, even at the truly worst moments, ever again in my lifetime.  These last thirty minutes were the last chance I'd have to know running.

Well, my mind liked that one.  Blame it on the actor in me, ever in search of some emotional height, or blame it on the primal fear of death, whatever.  All I know is, it worked.  Off I went, picking up the pace as I headed home, surprised by the amount of energy I found, and relieved by the sense of relaxation I was having (truthfully, the downhill path helped immensely).

Running is Easy, when you're about to lose your legs.