Sidelined

Ah, injuries. Pretty much standard for any marathoner. I'm lucky, in that I've been injury-free since last November, so it was only a matter of time before my body said "Hey! Enough! I need some rest!"

Perhaps it was a bit ambitious of me to dive into speedwork the day my plane touched the ground in Atlanta post-Anchorage, but running is addictive. It's hard to stop, especially with the training schedule taunting me on my refrigerator, and the knowledge that the hard work I've put in over the past three months has made me a stronger, faster runner. But I'm a firm believer that like colds, injuries are nature's stop signs, warning us to slow down before we do some serious physical harm.

Post-Peachtree, I managed a difficult speed workout (see previous post) and a brutal seven mile tempo run (courtesy of myself--there's a reason I avoid the Deering to Northside route!), then found my right foot searing with pain. The cause? Metatarsalgia, which is loosely translated as "pain at the top of the foot." Or, "it feels like someone dropped a table on the top of my foot, and it's hard to walk!" An overuse injury, probably not helped by my less-than-aesthetically pleasing feet (bunions and hammertoes, anyone?) or my high heels and flip flops, which Penelope berates us for in every single Pilates class. So, I made like a middle-aged woman and started wearing running shoes everywhere, including around the house in my underwear and pj's. And guess what--my feet feel better!

So, it's running shoes for me, with the exception of special occasions. I'm hoping I can get in an easy run mid-week, and then catch up to my schedule with a long run on Saturday.

In the meantime, you can find me padding down my hallways in my sneakers...