Yesterday I wanted to get the endorphins flowing, and push it hard on the run.

We're talking puke threshold levels, when your lungs are burning and you feel like you're going to collapse and that your heart might just about pound out of your chest.

I've been lazy on the running front this summer and it's been far too long since I have truly pushed myself.

So I decided to run. Fast.

I took off at a sprint, but reigned it in a little bit once I hit the first quarter mile. I didn't want to be completely gassed at mile 2.5.

I pushed hard through the uphills and the downhills.

I glanced down at Garmin as I flew down one of the hills and saw I was flirting with a 7:30 minute mile pace. When I was on flats, I was holding a steady 8:30 and on uphills I was anywhere from 9:00 to 9:30 depending on the length and steepness of the hill.

My lungs were screaming at me during the last half mile (which was of course all uphill). I was sucking wind and could feel the bile in my stomach churning. Yes, I had reached the puke threshold.

I kicked hard around the final turn, breathing deeply, sprinting with everything my legs had left.

I crossed the imaginary finish line, doubled over, hands on knees, sucking wind and forcing the bile back down.

Don't worry I didn't actually puke.

I took a second to catch my breath before looking at Garmin again to see my final time:

26:56, an 8:41/mile average.

Hands down my fastest 5K ever.

I didn't know I had it in me to go that fast. And all it took was me setting my mind to it.

I said I was going to run fast, to push hard, and I did.