Toilet Training; Training in the Toilet; that is today's topic.
Before you emigrate elsewhere, be sure to remember that all things around here aren't as they seem. I don't intend to recap, recount, or rehash the plague associated with persuading little people to drop their duties in a privy. That is a horror I don't intend to honor by remembering much less hash over again. It's more like I'm here to confess that my own training – and not of the outhouse ordination – is in the toilet.
As of today, at 11:11am, I'm in a petulant panic.
Why the sudden solicitude? In exactly 24 days, I'm registered to race and am scheduled to suffer through, the New York City Marathon. If this were a normal and healthy training cycle, 24 days would be party time because I normally have at least three 20+ mile runs under my bounding belt and get to focus on staying healthy. That's normally, but this year has been nothing near normal.
It all started with some achilles trouble that ultimately lead to a tear and three months without activity. After some promising rehabilitation, I was able to run some. Training was going okay. Not great, but okay. All of that was threatened when I smacked my knee cap during a bike wreck. No problem! I said. But that was three and a half weeks ago and I still can't run more than 10 miles. And when I do run those 10 miles I have to "pretend it doesn't hurt."
"Pretend it doesn't hurt."
Yes, "pretend it doesn't hurt" brings me to the next chapter of the story. About 10 days ago, I was sure that I had cracked the kneecap and decided to see a knee specialist. Turns out I was referred to the big-time knee-cheese for a local football team. Great! Thought I, while waiting in the lobby for almost two hours. This guy must know how to keep people active.
Long story short, and after two hours of waiting and a few x-rays, this doctor of knees, who's ego could be smelt through the door, told me to "pretend it doesn't hurt."
(As an aside, I don't like "cool" doctors. I like my doctors geeky. I like geeks for all things.)
This morning I didn't run because I lacked the wherewithal for pretense. It takes a lot of energy to pretend it doesn't hurt, you know, and today I was fresh out. If the knee would heal somewhat, I could crank out a 15 this weekend, and an 18 the next. Having an 18 would allow me to waggle and finish this mess of a NYC marathon.
The knee doesn't appear to be healing, however, and I'm in a particularly petulant panic.
It's not all that bad, really. Worst case scenario, I go to New York, wake at the crack of dawn, ride a bus for two hours, stand shivering in a coral for two more hours, then run while pretending it doesn't hurt until I can't pretend anymore. At that point, I'll pull out a a few Franklins*, summon a cab, and meet up with the primary reason for the trip: Megan and Jessica.
Megan and Jessica... is there a better consolation prize anywhere? Absolutely not. A trip with them is worth all 20 of my marathons combined.
(*As another aside, I won't be carrying Jacksons because we are staying in Chelsea. Sarah Vowell lives in Chelsea and she hates Jackson. I mean hates him with venom and vice. So, in honor of Sarah Vowell, I'll be leaving my Jacksons at home. Just kidding. I'm not that kind of Sarah Vowell fan. However, Jackson is a controversial figure. We visited his Hermitage while in Nashville. Quite a guy, that one. And not in a jolly-good-fellow kind of way.)