WEATHER: 40! Beautiful! I wore shorts!
MILES THIS WEEK: 66.5
MILES THIS MONTH: 124
WHERE TO: Allllll over the place…Georgetown, Glover Park, some neighborhood apparently called “Palisades,” lost in Maryland for a while…and then back.
MOOD: Beautiful! I wore shorts!
Today’s long run was done without the accompaniment of S. Sometimes you just gotta fly solo.
And though it went fantastically, we have a definite injury situation on our hands here. The left knee — which flares up about once a year with some sort of tendinitis — is definitely in a bit of pain.
No runner likes injuries, of course, and I have always had a particular way of dealing with mine — doing every possible thing to fix them except for stopping running. I will sleep with the afflicted limb elevated on a stack of pillows, wearing special fix-it socks and several ice packs (thus waking up the next morning with a clammy lukewarm icepack and a toppled tower of pillows between me and <whichever sleeping companion>). It used to be that if I just came home and iced the shit out of any given injury every waking moment for a few days, plus maybe held it up as high as I could at all times, it got better in a jiffy. Meanwhile, I’d still be logging my usual weekly mileage.
Somehow I just don’t think that’s going to cut it this time, judging by the pain. Ergh.
I fear that this is one of those “you’re getting old” signs. There are other signs — touching my toes? DIFFICULT. And I used to be like freakish-bendy, sliding my hands beneath my feet as I stretched down and like bending my knees backwards and then doing the splits in midair and all other manner of contortionist shit. And then there are the gout and the liver spots and the incessant urge to loudly maneuver my throat phlegm.
I actually read (somewhere…) that female distance runners peak at 27. Well, I am 27 and one-and-a-half months. THE DECLINE BEGINS! <sob> <fashions noose from shoelaces>
Wow. The mood from beginning to end of this post went from like 50 bazillion to -9. Time to go bake something.