Call the wh-aaaaambulance, I can’t run.
Well, to be specific: I can run, if I so choose. But it hurts. A lot. Like the kind of hurt where the first few minutes your heart rate creeps higher than it should and you break into a sweat, but not the good kind of sweat.
In my usual fashion, I pretty much ignored it and assumed it would go away. Well, lo and behold, it hasn’t. In fact, it’s gotten worse. What-the-what?!
I’m getting old(er).
I haven’t been sidelined in a good, long time. And the reality is, I’m not truly sidelined — after all, I can still bike and swim and walk and ski and and and…
But you know how it goes: the minute you are told you can’t do something, you instinctively want to do it so badly. I watched (online) friends smash some amazing PRs at a race I traditionally do this past weekend and was quite torn between thanking my lucky stars that I wasn’t running in the downpour with them and… wishing that I was.
For once, I’ll let my brains take over my brawn (ha. me. brawny) and listen to the physiotherapist, the coach, the massage therapist, friends and the “I know better than to” side of my brain and rest… and see how quickly I can get back in the game instead of watching it from the sidelines.
Texas is what, 2 months away? Or so? Lots of time.