The Forefoot of Discontent
After smashing my left foot off a large rock a month ago, running in my Montrails has felt like running barefoot… in a bad way. With a 60km race planned for the weekend and every run making my left foot throb for days afterwards, I decided to visit a podiatrist. When I mentioned running 60km, she placed one hand across her face and gave a whimper. Although she didn’t explicitly say not to do the run, the meaning of the hand was obvious. The sensible voice in my head kept telling me I shouldn’t run. Then my girlfriend started repeating the same phrase, which made me wonder if she could hear the voice in my head. This led to a tense situation, where I was able to take up both sides of the argument inside my own head, and argue against doing the run on both physical and mental health grounds.
So ends a week of little running and much cabin fever. I ran vicariously through my friends’ Facebook updates. Instead of running 60km, I did a few hours on the Versaclimber with a rucksack. Then I made apple crumble using apples picked from my housemate’s orchard.