Diary of a Washed up Runner: Day 5 — 1/5/2012, Another Look Back

Posted: May 5, 2014 in Diary of a Washed Up Runner
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

(*Author’s note: this is a new feature on Burnpoetry, chronicling my attempts to reconnect to my once-favorite sport of long distance running.  For the detailed explanation, click on this link.  I will periodically be retracing my steps and going back to my first attempt at this running-running diary and this is the first ever post so I though we should begin here.)

Distance: 1.75 Miles
Location: Treadmill, Urban Active
Self-Loathing: Trending upwards with alarming rapidity

The day after your first day back is always rough.  I woke up this morning with a stiffness usually reserved for the geriatric.  The special care I had paid my hamstrings paid off during the run, but the creaking, popping small of my back is demanding attention from me.  Like a pouting, petulant child, the pain calls my attention when I would much rather ignore it.

As I have been trying to make it back to the treadmill that means that I will have to cut back on my diet pop intake.  This will surely take some doing.  During the day it becomes clear that my wakefulness is actually propped up entirely on pencil-thin, stick-figure legs by caffeine, aspartame, and yellow-dye #5.  Those legs got kicked out from under me.  Whipped out like a Jean Claude Van Damme, spinning death-kick to the legs in Bloodsport.

One of the chief issues I have with this entire venture is that it will require the drinking of a good deal of water.  For some reason, and in a twist that seems to go firmly against the standard intsincts of every human on the face of the earth, I don’t enjoy drinking water.  Do I know that I need this life-giving substance just to keep my heart beating and my synapses firing?  Definitely.  Do I still push it away like a wary college girl does a mixed drink from the Roofy Roofy Roofy fraternity house?  Certainly.

When I do drink water, it’s with a feeling similar to a child who is being forced to take his cough medicine.  I slam down too much, too fast, with what can only be called spite.  Usually there’s a brief period of time where I find myself feeling more dehydrated while drinking water.  I have yet to discover a scientific reason for this.

I stretch my hamstrings as often as possible.  In my job at the teller line I reach for my worn down dress shoes.  I sneak to the bathroom and swing a tired leg up onto the top of the toilet, leaning in like a hurlder jumping porcelain.  Dress clothes are not meant to be stretched in and my attempts to stretch on the sly during the day serve to untuck my shirt again and again until I looked like the little-known, portly member of the Rat Pack, post Vegas bender.

The treadmill seems to be chewing through my stride before I can lift again.  I struggle to make it for the full time, but manage to finish.  Huffing, puffing, I look forward to the weekend that I’m already planning to take off.



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