On Saturday, my 15-year college class reunion went on without me.
My (somewhat surprising) sadness at not being in Minnesota for the occasion was tempered by the satisfaction of being in better physical shape than in 1995.
(It helped that I was kicking ass on a 19-mile run, too.)
Yeah, you heard that right. My route may have slapped me around last week, but on Saturday I did the ass-kicking. Sub-3 hours. Almost sub-9s. Proper fueling. Energy to spare.
(We're tied now, baby.)
No marathon training season would be complete without the requisite Spectacular Wipeout Leading to Possible Injury (i.e. reunion with the road). Saturday fulfilled this need. At mile 5, as I came upon Mt. Lebanon Cemetery, my right ankle went out from under and I rolled into the middle of Baker Street.
While I was able to dust off and keep on trucking, my left shin got the brunt of the asphalt slide. Left shoulder also feels like a 20-pound weight is sitting on it. My right ankle, though, is the most seriously unhappy ... a sprain, perhaps ... enough to be swollen to twice its size and require a new addiction to ibuprofen. Although it is not pain, per se. Not enough for me to yet reconsider the BAA Half-Marathon on tap for next Sunday.
That which does not kill us makes us stronger, eh?
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