Running is a lot of work, I've found. Not the obvious kind of work, like, you know, the actual act of running, but everything else that comes along with it. I'm bordering on shin splints right now. It's not bad, and nothing like the Shin Splint War of 2006, but I feel 'em. They're there. They want to come out and kick my ass. I hate them, I'm terrified of them, and if I get them I will keel over and shrivel into a worthless ball of self pity.
So I'm playing nice. Taking extra days off. Icing. Riding my bike.
I need new running shoes. Desperately. See all those miles logged in 2008 (over on the left)? All but 100 of those miles are logged on these shoes. These bright purple Brooks. That is bad. It is time. However, it might be time, but there is no money. So I've resorted to back up.
A friend handed over a pair of running shoes she only wore a few times. They're good shoes, my size. But they're not mine. They're not meant for my feet, for my running style. But I wear 'em. I also pulled out an older pair of Brooks that I retired last year. They actually have less miles on them than my current shoes. So I rotate the three pairs in hopes of getting more life out of all of them. Also in hopes of warding off the shin splints.
I am running a marathon in the fall. Dammit. I will not fail, I will not pull out, and if I can afford the airfare to D.C. when the time comes, I will actually get to the starting line. There is a half marathon in September I want to run, and another in November. I have goals.
But I have such a love-hate relationship with running. I need to do it. I like the way my body feels after a run. I love the medals that hang above my dresser, accounting for each and every race I've accomplished. But sometimes I want to throw my shoes across the room and break my legs.
I'm really just pouting because I couldn't force myself out of bed at 5 a.m. and run this morning. I promise to head out after work. If I can decide which pair of dilapidated shoes to wear.