Which, of course, is juxtaposed with the fact that my 10 miles of running this past weekend seem to have rendered me completely immobile. A lingering case of plantar fasciitis has reared its ugly head in my right instep, and my calves are in that kind of searing pain that can only be relieved momentarily assuming the runners stretch at inopportune moments.
I really don't think I did anyting wrong. I am not an inexperienced runner. I think the forumla for distaster was:
Running outside, for the first time in a long time, on an uneven surface
+
Running 30% farther than I intended to
+
Insisting on repeating this the next day, in spite of the pain I was in.
I'd be lying if I said that I'm not slightly masochistic when it comes to physical fitness. But to me, there are few things more rewarding (or potentially damaging) than competing with oneself.
Anyway, the most frustrating part is that I can't go running on this glorious, beautiful, the-world-must-be-made-of-cotton-candy kind of day.
On top of that, it's ST PATRICK'S DAY! And for those of you who know me, you know that I "My Dad is a McKennery, my Mom is a Maloney, and my grandmother is a Flaherty", because I proudly proclaim it whenever I encounter another Irish person. So even though I don't have any celebratory plans of note, here's a general Erin Go Braugh to all you fellow meat and potato lovin' drunks out there.
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