I am lazy today. Lay-zee. I think some of my motivation was stolen by a small person with big pockets while I slept, because I can’t seem to find any extra lying around the house today. And there are a LOT of things lying around the house, things that need to be cleaned and tidied and straightened up, but without that motivation, they’re just going to continue lying there. Taunting me.
I’m okay with it.
I need to tell you about the run yesterday. It was a fourteen-miler, and I wore my orthotics for the first time (I had been wearing them constantly to walk around in, and had worn then on one short run). I don’t know why I thought they wouldn’t be a problem. I’m a smart gal, but I am very good at overlooking the obvious when it doesn’t suit my purposes.
I had a blister on the instep of each foot by the end of mile one. By the end of mile two (a run from the beach straight up the Great Highway past the Cliffhouse and into Sutro Heights—nothing like running uphill in the City), I was in serious pain. By mile three, I just wanted to make it to mile four.
At mile four, the shin splints were flaring, and I felt like I had never run before. The blisters under both my insteps were huge and almost unbearable. And you know what? I kept running. It’s not even something to be proud of—it just was. I decided to see how much pain I could put myself through, how much I could stand on a sunny Sunday. Written like that, it sounds horrible. But it was more a mind-test than anything. I knew my shin splints weren’t TOO bad; it was the blisters that were killing me more than anything. And I knew people don’t die of blisters caused by orthotics. So I kept running.
It was interesting. For a large part of the time, I could talk myself out of the pain. Rather, I could feel it, but I convinced myself it didn’t matter. It was painful, but it didn’t hurt. I didn’t let it hurt.
And then, suddenly, I let it hurt. At mile eight I lost it, and told my group to go on without me. I decided to walk to the next water stop, only about half a mile away, and from there the organizers would come pick me up. The blisters by this point were more than an inch and half across, and had blisters on TOP of them. (I was using the Band-Aid blister thingies, and Body-Glide, and double running socks.)
I cried and cried and cried. I leaned on a bike rack and let myself have a really good big sob before pulling it together and starting my walk. Of course, right before the water stop, my training partner and favorite gal Marama ran up behind me and got all concerned, making me bawl again.
I was just so frustrated and angry with my body, and angry with myself. I wanted to do the fourteen. The twelve had been no problem! And now I can hardly make it to eight? I’ve decided I hate the orthotics, and that I need a referral from my doctor to a real podiatrist. I need the help of a specialist. Doy. You would think I would have figured that out by now, but no. Sheesh.
It is a testament to how painful the run was that getting home and sitting in an ice-cold bath of water and Epsom salts felt great.
Bah. Yesterday was one of those days that I realized the sheer hugeness of what I’ve taken on. I might, actually, be crazy. Bah, bah, BAH. I still believe in myself, and in Marama (who did the whole 14! Go, Marama!), but I know it’s going to be fucking HARD. (Again, doy.) God, it’ll feel good to actually do this. And yes, I’m proud of myself for getting to mile eight. I know it was an accomplishment. It’s just not the accomplishment I was going for. Sigh.
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