Last Monday afternoon, some 24 hours after my record-setting (well, my record, anyway) New York City Marathon finish, I settled into the massage table for my annual deep-tissue rub down.
My masseuse, Elana, was strong, driving her elbows deep into my hamstrings and calves. Somewhere between my shoulder blades, just before gingerly flipping me over, she hit a soft spot that set my nose running like a faucet. By Tuesday morning, my throat was sore. By Wednesday morning, I had a full-on head cold.
I slid sluggishly into the weekend (despite Chris Brown’s best efforts), then spent the whole thing on the couch watching TV (“Mad Men”) and movies (“Rushmore”), reading Chuck Klosterman’s “Eating The Dinosaur,” and mainlining vitamin c and Good Sense Daytime Non-Drowsy MultiSymptom Cold & Fly Syrup.
Adding insult to injury, my annual bout of post-marathon blues has been a potent one. I’d been training for this year’s run — my eleventh in ten years — for months, banking on the sub-four, then a break to recover and build new muscle. I exceeded even my most ambitious goals (well, they were ambitious until a few hours after the finish line when I started talking about new goals), and had a blast doing it. More important that the finish (or the outcome), though, was all those long runs in between. The process.
Despite the remnants of that stubborn head cold, I went for my first run since The Marathon this morning. For the fist few blocks, my legs felt like brittle twigs. After a few minutes, though (somewhere around Bethesda Fountain, I think), I moved through the pain in my right knee (that darned Ethan-inspired slide injury!), settled into my cadence, and thought (again), ‘I wish I could just keep running.’
When I got home, my Blackberry’s red light was flashing. It was an email from my Dad.
“You ok?,” he asked. “Was wondering about you! Hadn’t heard from you and noted that the blog was not updated.”
So, thanks Dad.
And I’m thinking about Miami…