I’m lying in bed. Eating leftover pizza. That I found in my microwave.
Not really lying.
Sort of semi-reclined. On my side. In the only manageable position I’ve been able to find in the last 5 hours.
Ok. So lemme tell y’all what’s happening over here. After yesterday’s unplanned ultra. Lest you look at a real runner. And think it’s that easy for all of us.
What I’m gonna do here is start from the bottom. And work my way up.
My toenails hurt.
Did you know that toenails can hurt?
Those bitches are bruised. AF.
It hurts for the blanket to touch them.
Blanket touches shouldn’t trigger pain.
But oddly enough. My left arch. That has been hurting for the last two months. And experienced shooting pain for a solid 15 miles of yesterday’s race. Feels fine.
My left ankle, too. Which has been injured since September. No issues.
I think they’ve both surrendered in the face of futility.
My right hip flexor. The thing that does the lifting of the leg motion. Is no longer operational. So I can side step my way down stairs. Which takes a solid 22 minutes. But I can’t go back up. Unless I make my left leg do all of the work. And just sort of drag my useless right leg behind me.
There is chafing. On my inner thighs. A significant amount. Because my thighs are significant. And I wore the shortest shorts in history for that race. So those two spent a LOT of time together yesterday.
So I’m doing a lot of maneuvering to try to keep them from touching now. Which is a struggle. Because who the fuck where’s pants to bed. So every time I reposition. Which is often. Because nothing is fucking comfortable. I have to do this sort of overly dramatic wide leg slow spin. Onto whatever side I’m moving to. And then extreme scissor my legs. To enforce the no contact rule.
Also. You know where some bitches get a tramp stamp tattooed? And it’s kind of sexy? Sometimes? Yeah, I’ve got chafing there, too.
It’s not sexy.
And just above that unsexy chafing. I’ve got some sort of mass running horizontally across my spine. And it is also bruised. AF. So I can’t sit back. Or lie down. Or exist. Without shouting words like “mother fucker” and “holy fuck” and “for fuck’s sake” and really any form of the word “fuck.”
I haven’t pooped in nearly 48 hours. Because that race started before my normal poop time. And then shut all of my internal operations down. And they still haven’t managed to get back online.
My god I wanna poop.
And food. Fuck. There is not enough food in this county. Let alone my actual home. To satiate me.
Most ultras. I experience some pretty intense stiffness and muscle soreness. And I’ve got that. Every move is a very conscious effort.
But I’ve also got all of this extra shit to go along with it.
And it’s severe.
But also. And here’s my dirty little secret. I love it. I love the pain. I will bitch and moan and complain for the next two days. At least. Because fucking relentless pain.
But I love it. That’s how I know I did some shit yesterday. Like, some intense shit.
And I’ll recover. Eventually. I hope.
But I’ve got that fucking sticker forever.
And these memories. With these badasses I run with. That never let me feel alone. Or like a burden. When they let me tag along on this epic shit.
Also my nose is chapped.
Fucking ultra running.