I was unable to log my short Monday run.  Several hours after enjoying a yummy Sunday lunch with friends at a beloved haunt near the West Trenton train station, I still felt…full.  Which is extremely odd for this here human trash disposal.  Visiting friends for an impromptu barbecue/playdate (oh, my…I just used the “p-word,” without irony or derision.  I have indeed gone to the dark side), I could barely eat a damned thing.  I’d planned on putting back just enough to be polite, but that was about it.  However, when not even the hot dogs looked good, I knew something was amiss.

Nobody bothered to give me much advance warning, but I would soon learn that my gastrointestinal tract decided to have a Closeout Sale, as in EVERYTHING MUST GOOOOO!!!  Somehow, I was able to neatly and discreetly “relieve” myself in our guests’ powder room, in a short enough time span that nobody asked me if I “fell in,” or something similarly sophomoric.  Hoping I was all better, I gutted out the rest of the gathering, though my complete lack of interest in food, even after I’d just “made room” for it, was alarming.

Except I wasn’t better.  Once I’d admitted my plight, Lady Legs-o-Lead could not get us home fast enough.  I was afraid I was about to destroy the interior of our sensible compact sedan, torpedoing its resale/trade-in value before we unload it in favor of a “family car.”  I learned that Kegel exercises are definitely not just for women.

Home.  Believe it or not, about one half dozen episodes of”Family Guy Puke” ensued.  I was a human fountain of partially digested food and liquefied excrement, racked with chills, and more than a bit dizzy.  I wanted to die.

The main symptoms subsided in the middle of the night, but I awoke Monday a hollowed-out half-a-man.  Weak as a kitten with feline leukemia.  So dehydrated, and having donated every nutrient in my body to the local sewage system, I could have cramped up my calves just by looking at them.  Work was out of the question.  Food was out of the question.  Running was definitely out of the question.  The only thing not out of the question was wrapping myself in a blanket, lounging on the recliner, and catching up on The Sopranos (What a great show!  Have you heard of it?).

So THAT is why I skipped my Monday run.  I know; what a wuss, right?  I should probably stop kicking the shit out of myself over it; I’d been 100% compliant with my training schedule for the first ten weeks, and I only missed a 4-miler.  Looking back over the training for my 13.1s, I recall that I missed training runs (even weekend 8- and 10-milers) like the NFL replacement referees miss obvious cases of defensive pass interference (i.e., left and right), yet managed to do just fine on race day, but this is different.  TWICE as different.  But still, as much as I read about flexibility, flexibility, flexibility, I feel like missing even one training run will be the difference between a finisher’s medal on November 18th, and an unscheduled visit to Hahnemann Hospital.

I’m overthinking this, aren’t I?


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