|And some cookies while you're at it...|
Well, I didn't run for two weeks after the race. My initial happy legs gave way to a painful calf following the wearing of my favourite boots (they don't even have much of heel compared with some of my other footwear, but there's something about them that has been making my calf hurt; I am now phobically avoiding them). I couldn't walk without pain for a week. The 3rd week post-race, I did a gym session on the advice of Adam to get a baseline for my cardio and ran 3 miles on another day. This was hard hard hard, and I twinged my calf a bit. Cue sore and aching calf, and no running, for the rest of that week.
The 4th week post-race, I ran three times (3 miles, 3 miles, and 5 miles). My calf felt okay, if a bit stiff, and I was confident that I could carry on the momentum the next week when I was working in Shetland. Except the weather was abysmal and I couldn't face running outside, and the Lerwick gym was doing some kind of promotion whereby you got points and prizes for doing the equivalent of 5km every day for a month so the gym was heaving and the Gym Police were limiting people to 10 minutes at a time on the cardio machines and even the weight machines had queues, all of which is my idea of Gym Hell, so I didn't run at the gym either. There was a bright side, though; I didn't miss Masterchef: The Professionals. I did manage a 3 and 5 mile run once I was back home, both of which felt okay physically but a bit meh emotionally.
And then this week, I had no motivation whatsoever. I even entertained the idea of giving up running altogether. I finally dragged myself out for a 3 mile run yesterday, but that was only because I had an appointment with Adam that afternoon and I wanted him to see my calf immediately after having run on it. I was relieved to notice that 1) I enjoyed this run 2) my calf didn't hurt and 3) I enjoyed this run (worth saying twice).
Adam gave me a verbal kicking (in the nicest possible way) to remind me to look after my legs (e.g. stretch, stretch, and stretch again), a physical pummelling (not so nice, but a good test of the treatment room's sound-proofing), and then a nagging text later that night complete with shouty capital letters to WEAR YOUR COMPRESSION TIGHTS. I did, and my legs felt tons better. So, funnily enough, did my psyche. I think I'm ready to start again.