The Boy woke up a little bit before I got home from today’s run, so I excused Lady Legs-o-Lead, so that she might finish her sleep. I started my post-run recovery by sitting on the couch, watching a Curious George DVD, eating a toasted bagel with peanut butter, and drinking three cups of coffee. You have to replenish those fluids.
A few hours later, I folded myself into my Volkswagen Jetta and drove the 45 miles to Philadelphia International Airport. Creaking out of my low-end German import, I felt ninety years old. Just missing the cut for a standby seat on an earlier flight, I had an hour to kill. Because Terminal F at PHL sucks donkey dong (even more so than the rest of that ghastly airport), there was nowhere to sit. Which was probably a blessing in disguise; who knew if I would be able to get up? I stood near a recycling bin for an hour, feeding it sections of The New York Times as I finished skimming them; I was too tired to read. The flight attendant would thank me.
I boarded a Canadair Regional Jet, the passenger cabin of which was likely engineered by a midget with a vicious mean streak; I mean, what the FUCK?!? Using this aircraft for a flight of more than 250 miles should be a felony, but I digress. After two hours on this medieval torture device with wings, I disembarked in Indianapolis, hobbled into a rental car, and drove two hours to Fort Wayne.
Thankfully, my rental car had a satellite radio, so I rocked out to “Hair Nation” for all 130 miles of this road-tripper’s paradise. Faster Pussycat, anyone? Arriving at the Fort Wayne Marriott, I dumped my gear and treated myself to a succulent plate of barbecue pulled pork, and a sufficient quantity of red, red wine.
I might be wrong on this, but this could be exactly how NOT to recover from a 13.1 mile run. To get back on the schedule, I owe myself four miles before the crack of dawn, but I am already stiff as a board. I don’t think this will end well.