Thank you to the incredibly slow runners I passed who made me feel like I hadn't done my laundry for a week.
Thank you in particular to the man and woman I passed twice, coming and going, almost at the same spot along the park path. You made me feel like a two-bit deity, running from the heretics and their newfangled religion.
I try to think that every run has equal importance in the entire scheme of a training schedule. Though my early 3-milers may not seem to compare to my later 20-milers, the former is an integral rung to the latter. That said, last night's 8-miler was very important in terms of injury assessment, rebuilding confidence and race preparation.
Though my simple watch doesn't show anything too remarkable, the steady 9-minute pace felt liberating. Like shaking off the rust. My lungs burned from all that not running. My pores poured sweat like an attentive bartender in the 88-degree swelter. My stride fell into alignment after starting off as if I had just stumbled off a stool after being overserved. My right leg felt, well, more or less like the left leg--some tweaks every now and again, but nothing too worrisome.
Now, the leg is wrapped in precaution and numbed by naproxen. Nine minutes per mile isn't too far off 8:24 per mile, right? Right! One hour and 49 minutes, here I come.
Playing doctor (heheh) on the couch last night, I located the general location of the thigh pain. It seems to be in the area of the gracilis muscle or the semitendinosus muscle. And since I can't seem to lock down what motion is actually causing the pain (e.g., getting out of the car, climbing steps/hills, sitting up in bed in the morning), I can't come to a firm conclusion. But it's nice to put a name to culprit: semigracilistendinosus.
Wherein I pay you back for all the nasty things you said about me.
Cautioning me against Barbaroing myself, Big says: "If you go all Barbaro, you won't be able to get studded out. If no studding out ... what's the point?"
Answer: Eternal glory? Or are you saying I'm not as charming as a dead horse? I guess I'd better stay studly.
Under the impression that my faith was lacking, Vanilla offers help: "Since you missed a perfect opportunity to post the video I'll do it for you right here."
Answer: I once said I wouldn't question your manhood, but I now retract that statement. Thankfully, it's the presidential campaign season and my flip-flopping is in the spirit of patriotism.
Wondering if he had stumbled onto the wrong blog, Bornagainrunner says what you all were thinking Wednesday: "Dude! That was, dare I say, inspiring."
Answer: My apologies for the confusion. I must have eaten some bad cilantro.
Tired of my whining this week, MCM Mama reminds me of the important things in life: "'Victory' will save you every time. ... Now, focus on picking out your post race beer and relax about all this non-running business."
Answer: Yes, mom.
Showing her concern for my blimping, Ms. V offers encouragement and a diarhea: "Suck it up, buttercup.
"I have some Brett Favre Chili for you. You could drop, like five pounds."
Answer: Does Brett Favre Chili make you cry like Brett Favre?
Perhaps not realizing that as a Gemini I'm prone to bi-directional thought, Xenia tells me to stay on my side of the blogdumb: "Snap out of it, lard ass. I've got the market cornered on self-doubt. Your niche is stubbornness. Stick with your specialty."
Answer: Maybe if you'd stay on your side of the pond, we wouldn't have this problem.
Stay tuned for my Buckeye Half Marathon race report. Cross your fingers that Happy Hour cures what