Brits are Sick Puppies

A friend of mine recently wrote to me:


"So how's the marathon training going? I see you have indeed added an
entry to the blog. Its still pretty poor though. If you want
sponsorship, then your audience needs more gruesome detail on the pain
and personal torture front. I want graphic descriptions of your burning
lungs, scorched throat, etc, etc. Even when being charitable, one likes
to get value for one's buck."


So I dedicate this post to Paul.


Hill (note the singular) Workout number two was quite similar to number one in its excruciating nature. For some reason, I decided that, having completed three miles the week before, I would venture into my fourth mile of hilly goodness. About six strides into my fourth mile, I was not too sure whose swift idea it was to be so brave. My calves were harder than diamonds (and profoundly less valuable on the open market), my lungs were searing, and my left shoulder had decided that it might be fun to simulate the pain that would be caused if a knife were being jabbed into and twisted around in the ball and socket joint just under my shoulder blade. Still, I soldiered on.


The great thing about preparing for a marathon with Team in Training is that I have the opportunity to talk to people for long periods of time (when I am not being grouchy and antisocial while running "Go TEAM!" "grrrrr...."). This is an excellent distraction, except when your running mate has taken it upon himself to expound to you all of the inconsistencies of his dog's bowels, and the complicated process of getting it out of his rug (could I have the stabbing shoulder thing back, please?) This Monday, however, I got to know Eydie, the daughter of a Jewish LAPD police officer, and a pretty interesting girl. We compared the intricacies of a yours-mine-and-ours kinds of family and, before I knew it, the last mile of hill (still singular) was gone. It was, as they say, all downhill from there.


So, my dear Paul (and all of you other terribly repressed, yet brilliantly sadistic readers out there), I am afraid that I must disappoint you for now. Every run leaves me feeling more confident with my abilities and my chances of accomplishing this goal grow stronger every day. My muscles hurt less after workouts (though, I must admit, I broke up with Master Wilson. No more 5000 crunches for Jen), my breathing is evening out, and I am becoming a running rock-star! Maybe after the holidays, when I will probably not have run as much as I should due to cold temperatures (which to a San Diegan is anything under 50). Maybe after I have gained ten pounds from home cooked Southern goodness, will the wailing and gnashing of teeth commence. Maybe...


You'll just have to wait and see.



Happy holidays, y'all.