Oh, you poor thing.
I know why you’re so unhappy. I forced you to run 18 miles in a newish pair of Adidas Adizero Tempos, which, with their slightly too-narrow toebox, pinched your award-winning bunion. You were also probably working hard to compensate for the right leg’s compromised hamstring.
Then I took you on a 22 mile spin along the Central Park hills despite the fact that you were still iffy in the bunion department. You let your displeasure be known on Tuesday, at mile 11 of a 14 miler, again after numerous ups and downs on the way to White Plains and back. “Here’s a little tendonitis for you,” you muttered ruefully and then added, more ominously, “Or maybe it’s a stress fracture.”
Oh, sure, I made a show of caring about your needs, wrapping you in ice for 20 minutes several times on Tuesday and feeding you horsepill-sized anti-inflammatories. But then what did I do? I frogmarched you to the track on Wednesday morning and forced you to run 6 miles at around 7:10 pace, with another 4.4 miles around those. You did your best, stifling your dismay until the penultimate tempo mile, during which you shouted in no uncertain terms, “No more! Can’t you see I’m in pain?”
Yes, I could. Because you shared your pain. Your pain became my pain. And now we’re in a lot of pain together.
But not so much pain that I didn’t make you run another 4.6 yesterday afternoon, mere hours after our abusive session at the track. Nor did I spare you 9 miles this morning. You’re probably wondering if we have another run later today. I’m not answering that question.
I’m sorry. I’ve given you the painkillers (Hydrocodone) that we save for special occasions. And I’ll offer you more ice throughout the day and evening. Perhaps even some Swedish vodka.