Running. Ace Ventura. Two closely related concepts.
WEATHER: Snowing. I shit you not.
MILES THIS WEEK: Too few.
WHERE TO: O God.
MOOD: O God O God.
TODAY’S RUNNING SONG: <vomits and dies>
Where have I been for 2 weeks? I have been nursing the strangest and scariest injury ever, which I can only call “The Clubfoot.” The Clubfoot struck one night at a hot and sweaty yoga class. I was busily leaking all of the moisture from my body, most of it coming out of my facial region, and also (likely due less to my warm, limber muscles, and more to the lubrication provided by having every limb of my body coated in a mixture of sweat and whatever bacteria resided on my rented mat) putting my right knee up over my shoulder, when suddenly…
My waist must be skinnier and my boobs must be pointier! POINTIER, I SAY!
MILES THIS WEEK: 25ish
WHERE TO: Nowhere.
TODAY’S RUNNING SONG: Bluegrass makes running better.
This ultra training thing is all a lot harder than I remember it being last year, and not just because my Achilles tendons have turned against me. Somewhere in the middle of my second long run of every weekend, I find myself questioning whether this is a hobby I truly enjoy…whether a benevolent and loving God truly exists…what my purpose in life is…all of which comes out in the form of water fountain rage, a phenomenon in which a tour bus full of thirsty tourists pulls up JUST AS I shuffle, dehydrated and nearly defeated, up to the Jefferson Memorial water fountain, and I run at the tourists, limbs flailing, threatening to slime them with my body’s generous coating of salt, sunblock, sweat, and dead gnats. “JFICIEU$I#(@UDHVJD!” they say, in their foreign languages, which I take to mean, “This woman truly should get to drink for 10 minutes as we watch, disgusted!” Which usually happens.
It's coming. Grab some beers and pickles and girly mags and get into the cellar.
WEATHER: Cold and windy and rainy and a little demoralizing.
MILES: 25? Many of which involved stomach-clutching awfulness.
MILES THIS WEEK: 25? Many of which involved stomach-clutching awfulness.
WHERE TO: Crescent Trail, Bethesda, Wisc Ave., back to the trailhead, down the Mall, several detours to several (CLOSED! YOU BASTARDS!) restrooms, home.
TODAY’S RUNNING SONG: http://youtu.be/YUtHjOvPKT0 (Yes, I hate the video as much as you do, but the song puts me in coke-addled 2-minute-mile territory, I swear.)
So I’ve been in a foul mood (and not posting) for a while, largely because of a nasty bout with what I imagine to be tendinitis in my right foot/Achilles tendon. And as loyal readers know, injuries — even minor ones — turn me into a drooling hellbitch who goes on Netflix-and-enchilada benders. Granted, I can still run on it, but not without a bit of pain. Hmph. Today I found myself actually asking myself:
Whose pants are these in my apartment?