Running Confession.

Now that the Cowtown is over, and I’m pretty much out of the racing circuit for good, I feel that I can announce a shameful move on my part during training.

I just got back from the sports medicine doctor, where I spent the last hour grunting on and on about the pain in my hips, the collapsed arches, the general worthlessness of my body. The man only listened to me because he had to, because I was paying a pretty penny. And I’m sure he’ll go home to his wife and kids to divulge the nuisance of a client he experienced today. That or he’ll confess that he probably got a few more sneak peaks than he should have because I wore those darned Lululemon compression pants, completely unprepared for ‘stretching therapy.’ For those of you who don’t own any, they advise you to not even bend over, lest you like to read your tags from the inside out.
He, of course, asked what I thought was causing these hiccups in my otherwise healthy physique. I don’t know, man, maybe it was the marathon? Maybe some people aren’t cut out to schlep out for 26.1 miles, causing the achilles to feel slashed with a whip, quads lit under kerosene, and pictures of tiny dancers floating in the air from hallucinating on gatorade. But the truth is, my physical feats were not the issue, the issue was likely the result of the back hand of the Lord.
See, while doing a seven mile training run early in the season, I had miscalculated my nutritional needs. Not fueling up pre-run created a mid-run slosh that added a cold sweat and tremor to my jog. Seizing an opportunity in a fit of hunger, I stuffed my face with a delightful sugar cookie, stationed for those who had paid and donated to walk in the annual fight against brain tumors. I had snuck through the park as an impostor- resisting them on the first pass, and then deciding that nature would have its way on the second. I casually walked up to the stand in my athletic apparel, only missing a bib number. I stole from the brain tumor society. And I assume that since I didn’t make the donation I later pledged I would (ya, ya, I know), I will now pay for it in $175 trips to the sports doctor. Shame on me, but a cookie has never tasted so good.

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