Remember me? I was the one who said she would take a break from running. I was the one who said she would concentrate on pulling tight muscles out of their angry knots. That lasted exactly a week.
For seven days straight I dutifully put in an hour of yoga. For seven days I obediently ignored the treadmill’s silent stare while I gently teased out the troubled spots. I had gotten so tight I couldn’t reach the floor with fingertips. I had gotten so bound up I couldn’t look over my shoulders. I needed the time away from the tread. Until Rockland.
Okay, okay. Technically, Thomaston. Do you care? The Kisa and I went to Maine for a belated holiday celebration with my family. Staying in a hotel means the pool for him and a different treadmill for me. How could I say no? How could I break with tradition?
Sunday morning found me & myself staring at the hotel’s only traitor tread’s display screen, ready to fly. With borrowed earbuds (why do I always forget my own?) I found my girl power playlist (I’m in love with Sia now). With my family in the other room eating an illegal breakfast, I climbed aboard another Guinea. With my heart in my throat, I started running 22 seconds faster than my normal warmup. I wanted to see if my speed was lost for good or if the time away did me some good. The latter. True, I only ran for 25 minutes but almost cleared three miles. And, and, and! It wasn’t torture to grocery shop afterwards. Walking down the aisles, looking for Bixby chocolate for Ruby Tuesday, I felt as if the short run just minutes before never even happened. A month ago I would have been hobbling. Progress.
I don’t start officially training for the 10km for another three days. In that time I plan to go back to ignoring the treadmill and scrutinizing the tightness in my quads, hips and lower back. Wish me luck.