Day 2 of suffering the effects of barefoot running. I dread walking down stairs or sitting for extended periods of time where I’m pretty sure the blood pools in my lower extremities in large quantities as if it were unionizing in an apparent, colossal “F you.” I get it calves, I get it. Mea culpa-ish. I didn’t know.
In a meeting today, I recounted my harrowing tale of running a couple of miles: feet were fine, legs were fine, blahddy blah blah, until The Morning After. Color me disappointed that there isn’t some sort of pill for this malady. Anyway, at the end of my really, really good story, my colleague said, “So I guess that’s the end of that?!” As if I would just bail on this whole barefoot deal.
What do you take me for, sir? Some kind of challenge-backer-outer? Not me. That much, anyway. I’m *dying* to see how this one ends up, so as soon as I feel better I’m hitting the streets again. Even if it means sacrificing all humility and speed walking.