The news of the hour is that I ran a half marathon (again) and have sworn off distance running (again). Now, I loved the weekend in Philadelphia, the roast pork + greens sandwich from DiNic’s at Reading Terminal Market, and the chocolate martini I drank at Max Brenner’s. I loved the company: all wonderful women, all early-to-bed kindred spirits, all quite generous about my growing inability to navigate maps and cities (??!!). Race weekend was exceptional, except for the race itself.
Running distance hurts. It just does. And I know that at one point in my life I thrived on the aches and pains of being a distance runner. I proudly hobbled down flights of stairs backwards because it meant something. That misery meant I’d accomplished something significant: I had run for a GOSH DARN LONG TIME.
But now, I don’t really judge my accomplishments on how broken I can get. In fact, I don’t want to be broken. I want to get my fanny back to the box to do some burpees. Because while burpees might suck a little during, life is pretty much back to normal once they’re over.
I’m still hobbling around like a gimp today, two days out, because of that long run. And while I am glad to have spent the better part of 2 hours with Anna and Lanita, next time we’ll plan a trip to Philadelphia and go to the library instead. Yes, that’s my nerdy idea of fun.
I will still run sprints. I will totally try to improve my time for the mile and the 5K. But I will (probably most likely) never try to run anything farther than a handful of miles again (Deb P., if you’re reading this, whatever I stupidly agreed to in the past was clearly the result of Red Cat hot tub wine and the general giddiness I feel in your presence). Because grrr. My knee hurts.