Give me scars. Give me pain. Then they'll say to me, say to me, say to me, there goes the fighter. (Insert triumphant visual of me crossing the marathon finish line sub-3:30, somehow still energetic and exuberant enough to jump and leap toward the crowd of adoring hometown fans. Hometown still TBD).
Or in my case, there goes the
I chose to cut way back on the miles these past two weeks to nurse an IT band flare up. It was a perfect storm for going batshit crazy. No running. Family "vacation". Lots of driving. Lots of standing around at a overcrowded germ-infested playground disguised as a science center. Lots of listening to Born to Run on audiobook, all the while NOT running. Did I mention the part about not running?
I'm happy to say I survived the endorphin withdrawal without figuratively beheading any member of my dear family. And I really enjoyed Born to Run. It was entertaining, inspiring and thought-provoking. The book left me thinking a great deal about the joy found in running. So much so that I decided to incorporate smiling into my overgrown mid-tantrum toddler running form. Which brings me back to the reason my neighbors might have concluded I'm certifiable.
In other news, I played a super fun April Fool's joke on myself. I told myself since I had to scrap plans to race a half marathon next week (due to low mileage, a cranky quad/knee/hip, and a family vacation), I should just run a marathon in 8 weeks. Why the heck not, right? How hard can it be to squeeze in 16 weeks of training in half the time, while starting with a baseline of a not-quite-resolved overuse issue and two weeks of the lowest mileage I've logged in over a year?
Yeah, Self, that was a good one. You almost had me.
Happy Easter, happy April, and happy trails to you, my friends.