For the entire run I felt like I was on the verge breaking out of the lactic threshold. But my legs just lingered. After the first mile (when my legs, even my pained calf, are generally warmed), my legs just felt stiffer and stiffer with each stride. For a minute I thought that the past several months was all a dream. I wasn’t a runner after all. I hadn’t run 12 miles on Sunday. I didn’t have a summer of races under my belt.
But then I started being practical. These weren’t my legs! Sure, they’re the stubby, knee-scarred things I’m used to trotting on, but they weren’t my running legs. So, when I came home I made and posted the following sign all over Summit County:
OK, I didn’t actually post that sign. But I am desperately trying to figure what has happened. I’m also trying to calm myself down. We’ve all had bad running days, so I’m pinning my hopes on that notion. Just a bad day.
And Saturday will be a fantastic day. Whatever legs show up at the starting line.
Now I’m going to rest until Saturday, stretch and ice my calf, and eat my carbs. Mmm, gnocchi and grilled plums, here I come!
