Yesterday I was cleaning up the “bonus room” where I do my drawing and blogging, in preparation for Denise’s relatives gathering at our place near Christmastime, and I found this picture:
This was the last footrace I was in that I did any running in. The picture was probably taken close to the finish line. More than an hour and a half had elapsed from the opening horn, and my lower legs were in agony, and I was telling them that relief was soon at hand and please don’t wilt on me. My fellow runner and friend’s boyfriend John was waiting at the finish line, and his car was parked mercifully near. When I got out of his car I could not walk the 50 feet or so to the restaurant we’d agreed to eat at after, so John took me home, where I literally crawled around for the next day from the bedroom to the bathroom, of necessity. Thus the runner in me died. Knee surgery in 1999 merely nailed the coffin’s lid more firmly.
Now, however, I am starting to feel the strength and the urge returning. This week I treadmilled briskly, though not runningly, for a solid hour one session. I’m heading south toward Sub-200-Poundville, and am on track to get there by April. If I do, I’ll start running again, sensibly and modestly. Wish me luck!