I had to buy new trainers the other day (and no, not the sexy kind that come with huge biceps and a six pack, but rather the kind that comes with a new loan from the bank and weeks worth of comfort manipulation training). Apparently it was time for me to lay my beloved speed racers to rest. As a matter of course every runner should replace their trainers somewhere between 500kms and the complete lack of sole. My dead give away was my pinky toes sticking out of each side of the shoes showing of my glorious rainbow sock collection, apparently they were not going to start flapping and fly me over the finish line. So it was with great sadness I lay to rest my 2nd official pair of speed racers and thanked them for getting me through some of the best times of my life. With 1500 grueling kms under their belt, they are not old and haggard, they are a beacon of inspiration; and will be honoured in the plushest part of my walk-in and greeted each morning with a smile and nod to the greatness they achieved.
I hesitantly welcome my new racers into my world as it would appear they have been spending a lot of time with my 12 inch heels and have been getting some ideas about how to cause excruciating blisters and needle point accurate pain just in time for summer and sandal worthy toes! Whilst I appreciate that the new kid in school needs to be treated with tenderness and care, I have adopted the tough love policy theory and have relegate my new smart ass shoes to the corner when they will stay until I have decided whether or not to run them over in an effort to speed the running education process!
In other news, it would appear that my G.I. Jane boot camp instructors constant torture chamber of love is beginning to pay off. Whilst pumping some serious iron one Friday morning (read 8 pounds and a look on my face that could melt steel), my scapula decided it had had enough of this sissy weight lifting and forcefully jammed itself against one clearly easily enchanted nerve. Bring on the pain that one seriously pinched nerve can cause and the realisation that Sunday brought the prelude to St Patrick's Day in the form of The Shamrock Run. A 10 mile race around a park dressed as the silliest green/irish character you can think of! Cue a strapped and bandage leprechaun with high socks, a goggly alice-band and sling running around the park repeating every irish swear word she knows! And to make the situation even more Irish, they gave me an award. No, not for looking the silliest (which by george I'm pretty sure I did), but for actually coming 2nd! Seriously! This was not exactly how I imagined my "Chariots of Fire" moment in the sun... hobbling to receive my award, tears streaming down my red and blotchy face cursing under my breath that the plaque was actually Vicadin in disguise!
But this story ends well. I have since recovered, my scapula has released it's bear-claw hold on my nerve and they are now communicating in small but manageably painful playful jabs. I am back at boot camp for the fun that is interval and sprint training and have managed to survive my first Paddy's day behind the bar! Now that is another story... Happy Hump Day Peeps!
