Ring the bell. Paint a cross on my door. I seem to have developed the plague.
I’m feeling breathless, drained of energy and I’ve got a cough to rival any 60-a-day smoker. All I want to do is lie in bed but I can’t even do that without coughing. I’m not getting any running done, but my stomach muscles are getting lots of work from all of this hacking and coughing. My legs feel like cooked spaghetti and I’m sulky, grumpy and feeling sorry for myself. So altogether, I’m wonderful company right now.
I’ve been given a round of antibiotics and been told by Marathon Coach Steve to lay off the running for a week. I’m sulking about not being able to run and about not being able to train.
However … I still seem to be doing better than the boyfriend who has the same thing and ended up at midnight going to walk-in clinic at the local hospital. He got prodded to within an inch of his life and they shaved bits of him for an ECG. With his hangdog look and now patchy body hair, he’s ended up looking like a chimp destined for the lab. I know I should be more sympathetic but I’m using being poorly as my excuse to be unsympathetic. And to snigger at his new piebald look.
I just want to run. When I don’t run I feel crap. I can’t quite get my legs to understand that running now will make me feel worse, not better. My body is in revolution – my brain wants to sleep, my legs want to run and my stomach wants to eat crap food. We’ve reached an uneasy truce. I give my stomach crème eggs and ignore my legs and brain.
Although all this non-running is giving my toenails a chance to grow back. I wouldn’t say that my feet are ready for non-runner eyes just yet, but they’re probably past the vomit down the front of your shirt stage now. It’s all glamour, this running lark.