Today I tried to kill myself. Again.
In a moment of utter foolishness, I signed up to run a HALF-marathon over Labor Day weekend. (I specify HALF-marathon because training this summer has convinced me of one thing regarding full marathon runners: they are bat-sh*t crazy.)
Today I ran 11 miles. The first five were easy.
Then came Mile 6.
It’s a little more than halfway through. The lovely Julie Dao suggested on Twitter that at this point I should have been joined by unicorns and candy. But no…
Instead, Mile 6 ushered in aching hips, sore feet, and the dreaded ankle pain that felt like someone was stabbing through the top of my foot with a butter knife. (I garnered this lovely injury by stepping in a pothole in Greece this summer. And falling very gracefully while teaching any Greek children on the road how to curse colorfully in English.)
So I hobbled along until just before Mile 10 when I was bombarded by a crazy swarm of bees. (No, I’m not making this up.) Then I ran like… well, like there was a swarm of angry bees on my tail.
So, yeah, the middle of long runs sucks. Here’s where you can feel free to insert some great analogy for writing the middle of a novel. (Something I’m also quickly approaching that also tends to suck.)
However, I ran 11 miles today so I’m going to go eat a big bowl of peanut-butter chocolate ice cream that’s calling my name. It’s not candy and a unicorn, but it’ll do.