MARATHON TRAINING: INSTALLMENT ONE

Last September I decided with a group of friends that we were going to run a marathon this June. Before making this decision I had never run more than 2 miles straight. I began building up my mileage so I would be ready to start a serious training program in the Spring. Unfortunately, almost as soon as I began I sprained my ankle playing volleyball.

I'd like to share the account of my marathon training experience beginning in September 2007 when I suffered my first of many set-backs.

MARATHON TRAINING: INSTALLMENT ONE

In the days following my injury I watched excitedly as my foot swelled to the size of a Nerf football and bruised up in the most unusual of places. I suspected that my foot was hamming it up a bit for the added sympathy factor, but I didn’t mind. I was disappointed that my training had to be put on hold, but secretly a little relieved as well.

Unable to make much use of my clubfoot for an entire month, I busied myself collecting game pieces in an earnest attempt to win the $1,000,000 grand prize in a fast food restaurant promotion. I didn’t win the million dollars but I was awarded a free breakfast sandwich. Which is something. As I limped along, developing a serious case of fast food butt, I watched my friends steadily progress with their marathon training programs.

My boyfriend Frank was doing particularly well. A runner by nature, he slipped quickly and without complaint into a serious program. He also began taking steps toward a more healthful diet. This was hard to watch because Frank had become my partner in high-calorie crime. It was our habit to guzzle red wine by the case, gorge on daily loaves of sourdough bread (its mostly air), and power through excessive orders of Chinese take-out.

Frank had transformed from a pound-of-bacon-for-dinner man to one of those clean-colon types and I was left behind with my sad old habits.

“Shall we have brussel sprouts tonight with our whole wheat noodles?” he’d ask.

I’d respond with my best “ew gross” facial expression as I cracked open a can of cheap beer.

“Well…we could have corn instead,” he’d suggest, digging through the freezer.

“Corn’s fine if we can have garlic bread too,” I would say, dislodging a rogue French fry I’d found stuck in my bra.

Awkward pause.

“I can’t believe you just ate that fry you found down your shirt.”

“Whatev.”

to be continued...