I still believe, wholeheartedly, in the value of a good long run, and I’m still planning my next crazy venture, but here’s the thing: a really long, hard workout in the rain when it’s 42 degrees and you have the beginning of a cold may not be the best option. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the brightest idea I’ve ever had, but after a cozy Thanksgiving, I decided that since the turkey had begun to digest 3 x 2 miles might be a really fun thing to do. And it was. I’d be lying if I said the last one wasn’t harder than I wanted it to be, but it was extremely satisfying to finish and crawl into a nice hot tub and wrap up in warm jammies with the knowledge that I had earned another slice of pumpkin pie and confidence that comes with doing something hard.
However, the next day, I felt a little cruddy. And today? I feel a lot cruddy. I actually had to leave in the middle of Brian’s sermon because I had one of those coughing fits brewing beneath the surface. You know the ones that start deep down in your throat? They start off as a tickle, but then, the more you try to suppress it, the worse it gets until, finally, you have beads of sweat popping out all over your forehead and the people in the pew behind you see your shoulders begin to shake with the effort of keeping quiet. So I slipped out and missed the end of the sermon about the end, which is a bummer since, knowing Brian, the ending was probably pretty uplifting and filled with hope and comfort. Instead, I sat in the ladies’ bathroom and coughed into balled up toilet paper.
I’ve spent a large portion of the afternoon curled up in bed, and I missed my planned long run, which really does not play into my “crazy” plan. The message here, I guess, is “live to run another day”, or maybe it’s run your guts out, and when you find you’ve pushed a little too hard, back off, rest, recover and then go at it again. Next time, the boundary will lie just a little farther, and a new one will have to be broken. Yes, I think that’s the message. I like that one much better.
So for today, I’ll just lie here like a lump and watch “Gladiator” for the thirteenth time. With any luck, “Braveheart” and “300” will be on afterwards. I’ve also concocted a rather tasty medicine for what ails me. I’m sure it’s not approved by USA Track and Field as an appropriate recovery fuel, but I think it’s beginning to work quite nicely. All you need is a tea bag, hot water, a bit of lemon, a few whole cloves, some black pepper, a drop of honey and two full shots of homemade liquor. If you have no old time mountain family members to speak of, regular bourbon will do. Bourbon is a fine drink by my standards, but if you are one of the ever decreasing number of fortunate souls who grew up with grandparents who were true blue Appalachian white liquor makers, then dig into the back of your pantry and find that Mason jar when you’re under the weather. Chances are very good that whatever is in it will either kill the virus or kill you; either way, your suffering will be over. Rite-Aid just cannot compete. But don’t take my word for it. I believe it was William Faulkner who said, “Ain’t nothin’ I got whiskey can’t cure.” Of course, he won a Pulitzer Prize. I just want to sleep through the night. Here’s mud in your eye!