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I went for a run yesterday.
It's fourteen months since I could go for a run. Last September, I gave myself that impressive case of plantar fasciitis, the residual of which is a slight tendency to drag my right foot, causing me to trip sporadically on anything too flat.
I don't feel bad today! A little stiff, particularly in the quads (lookit me abbreviating), but my foot is fine. I'd go for another run only I'm chock full of brunch.
I loved running. I am a slow lumbering beast, graceful as a mammoth on a pogo stick, but it doesn't matter. Running happens inside your body. It's a contest with yourself. The external look of the event, in my case comical to the point of parody, is incidental.
I don't run in Gear. Honestly, it would be wasted. Wind resistance is not your Mammuthus primigenius' main issue. In the World's Slowest Not Actually Immobile Race, I would place midpack. No one is going to mistake me for a Serious Runner, even in a nice new pewter-detailed wicking nanosuit with transdermal electrolyte dispensing matrix. Yesterday I ran in blue pajama bottoms, black denim shorts, black hoodie and fishing vest. My concession for next time would be to skip the vest, or at least zip it up. It was a bit too much like having someone constantly slapping percussion on my rotunda as I ran.
There was, you understand, a high ratio of walk to run in this putative run. (I wun! I ralk!) But I did do my favorite sprint, that last little hill up Cook to Station Street. Nearly turned my lungs inside out. It was glorious.
{rf}
It's fourteen months since I could go for a run. Last September, I gave myself that impressive case of plantar fasciitis, the residual of which is a slight tendency to drag my right foot, causing me to trip sporadically on anything too flat.
I don't feel bad today! A little stiff, particularly in the quads (lookit me abbreviating), but my foot is fine. I'd go for another run only I'm chock full of brunch.
I loved running. I am a slow lumbering beast, graceful as a mammoth on a pogo stick, but it doesn't matter. Running happens inside your body. It's a contest with yourself. The external look of the event, in my case comical to the point of parody, is incidental.
I don't run in Gear. Honestly, it would be wasted. Wind resistance is not your Mammuthus primigenius' main issue. In the World's Slowest Not Actually Immobile Race, I would place midpack. No one is going to mistake me for a Serious Runner, even in a nice new pewter-detailed wicking nanosuit with transdermal electrolyte dispensing matrix. Yesterday I ran in blue pajama bottoms, black denim shorts, black hoodie and fishing vest. My concession for next time would be to skip the vest, or at least zip it up. It was a bit too much like having someone constantly slapping percussion on my rotunda as I ran.
There was, you understand, a high ratio of walk to run in this putative run. (I wun! I ralk!) But I did do my favorite sprint, that last little hill up Cook to Station Street. Nearly turned my lungs inside out. It was glorious.
{rf}
