I am not a gifted athlete. Those who know me will recognize that as an understatement. I only started running half-marathons out of stubbornness. I’m not good, and I don’t plan to ever be good. One of the few things that make it easier for me to run is that I have such an active imagination, so I can daydream for miles and not realize how hard I’m working. It’s the running equivalent of when you are on the highway and realize you can’t remember the last 40 miles.
Unfortunately it appears I have to start paying closer attention, because I fell again today. I landed on the same spot on my knee that I tore up last week, so the scab was ripped off and blood shot everywhere (GROSSOUT!! My students would love that). I did not go down fingers first this time, but have a brand-new nickel-sized cut on my right palm.
There was a lot of blood, so I had to go over to Sullivan’s and get a few napkins to mop up before I started running again. That was hardly my proudest moment.
I had been looking forward to the dingification of my new running shoes which are still dorkishly gleaming. I didn’t expect to have it come from a spattering of blood.
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