I get it, some people have real problems. I have running problems, which, given my relatively charmed life, feel like real problems. My running problem is I can no longer run. Literally, I’ve lost the ability to run.
You already know
excuses reasons one and two. One, I basically stopped running in July due to the extreme heat and my extreme intolerance to it. Two, those plague-ridden mosquitoes gave me a bacterial infection and west nile virus. Three and four are new.
Three, I somehow tore a muscle at the top of my calf (gastrocnemius muscle) that doesn’t hurt in the calf, but is creating discomfort in my knee pit (is there a technical name for that bend?) and pain in the inside of my knee. The “somehow” was probably running a cross-country workout on out of shape legs, hitting a hidden hole, and nearly collapsing to the ground; my weak and ill-prepared calf took the brunt of the stumble. I’m on an easy running no hills recovery plan that fits perfectly with my inability to run hard or hilly.
Four, the mosquito virus has destroyed my immune system and it is now as effective as that of an infant/nursing home resident and I contracted the flu. Not the I feel feverish and nauseated and achy feeling that isn’t really the flu but everyone calls the flu, but the cold-hot-cold sweats and the even my eyelids are aching and the flip-flopping between vomiting and diarrhea for days flu. I forgot how awful it is to vomit when sober. [Side note, puking at work seems to arouse suspicion when you are a woman of a certain age and the last two women of a certain age who puked at work made baby-related announcements within weeks. This is not that kind of puking.] I will try (almost) any immune-system rebuilding suggestion you have. If it’s a so-called superfood I’m eating it. I’d be willing to drop a paycheck on the snake oil at Noah’s if I thought it would help.
All that to say what I’m not doing this season is racing. Not even secret racing. Instead I’m rebuilding and pushing back my running goals until late spring. I can wait for a PB. Eight months isn’t a long time, not at my age.*
*I’ve almost got myself convinced.
Title: Tragically Hip – Wheat Kings. 1992.