I'm not really a superstitious person. I don’t make a particular point of smashing mirrors while chasing black cats under ladders, but, as long as it’s not on a Friday the 13th, I don’t go out of my way to avoid these activities either. I am, however, very much a creature of habit (something that bears a mental image akin to an okapi, but compulsively functions more like an albatross), especially when it comes to race days. Though I may be quick on my feet, when things deviate from the expected routine, I have the capacity to go from placid casual to Chicken Little at the slightest sign of the falling sky.
In the final weeks leading up to the marathon I was nursing a knee injury in the form of ITBS. I was forced to cut training days like a sushi chef surgically slicing away the poison pieces of a puffer fish (no fugus were harmed in the use of this metaphor). Unfortunately, even with the additional rest days, the rigid build up of miles that far along the intermediate I program path never gave me enough time to warm the bench long enough for full recovery. So, just when I started feeling up to the task of returning to the full running schedule once again, I'd be promptly put back in the corner like Baby without a Swayze to save me, only to repeat those ole dirty dance moves down recovery Road House road once more. I was certainly at a disadvantage going into the marathon in such a compromised condition, but after sinking so much effort into months of training, I wasn’t going to let the little fact my leg was out of whack keep me from crossing the starting line. Now crossing the finish line…that’s a different story.
Oh wait, that’s this story. Seriously, keep reading…
