Somehow I've managed a feat that defies imagination, expectation, and decent common sense. I've somehow managed to straddle the line between laziness and extreme exertion. How, you might ask?
It's a weird thing, really. After a long run, a feeling of premature accomplishment sets in. You pat yourself on the back, you remind yourself how great you're doing. And this process somehow robs you of your motivation. After my 7 mile run last weekend, I shrugged off the next few days obligations of my running schedule. Oh, I'm doing fine, I tell myself. I'm right where I need to be. And you see how I arrived here; in the midst of marathon training, I somehow manage feats of laziness and inaction. So funny, and so true to the constant contradictions of my life. Nothing can be simple, it seems.
So today when I ran my 3 miles, all the shrugging off of my running duty came back to haunt me in panting gasps and drips of sweat soaking through my shirt. These three miles felt like the most difficult since the first week of training. Amazing to me how quickly my body can revert back to its flaccid blank emptiness. They say our bodies have "muscle memory;" your body remembers the great condition it was in before and the next time, it's easier to return there. Well I guess my body has "couch potato memory." My body can remember its former complacence and will slip back there any chance it gets. I suppose I better not fall off the wagon again.
Today I tried a new stretch as well. The sides of my kneecaps had been sore and I'd been advised it was my TB band, or something similar. So I stretched that little TB band, doing a stretch that makes it look like I'm thrusting my ass outwards in an effort to garner some looks, whistles or compliments. None yet though.
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