Tonight, another reading from "The Book of Stupid Things Ryan Has Done," 2008 edition. Chapters 45-49.
It's official, I am a moron. I was trying to get better, to let my bruised ribs heal and the heels stop throbbing every time I run. I went to the doctor and got myself checked out, got my pills. When the doctor told me not to work out for a couple of weeks, I told him that wasn't going to happen. He warned me. He did. None of this comes back on you, doc. You warned me.
He told me that every time I moved the bad spot, I was basically re-injuring it.
To be fair to myself, I tried to take it easy. I did. I took a few days off from training and when I came back, I held back. I ran flat pacing at track instead of doing the interval workouts. I got into lanes away from other swimmers and took it easy.
Then this week happened. I figured I was feeling better and hopped into the pool. i managed 2200 yards or so, but when the session ended, I couldn't pull myself out of the pool. I had to dig my right arm into the ladder handle holes in the concrete and haul myself out one handed like a rock climber. It took until Tuesday morning before I could move my left arm without seeing stars.
I don't know why, but I decided that running would be easier, so Tuesday I tried to set up a run with the team. I was the only one who showed, so I bagged it and went to the gym. I did a mini-brick, alternating between stationary bike and treadmill for about 90 minutes. It felt okay, but I was still really sore on Wednesday.
I took Wednesday off to go to a fundraiser. Beer, pizza and no exercise. Good for the body, good for the mind.
Tonight, we had track at the boardwalk. We were supposed to do sand intervals, but out of deference to my ribs, I figured I'd run on the boardwalk only. I did 2 miles easy, no big deal, so for mile three, I decided to try and hit my time trial pace. I ran flat out for a mile and made it in 7:35, missed by 20 seconds. It really hurt. I had to hold myself up against the seawall with my good arm for a minute or two.
No fool, me, I figured I'd done something stupid, so I started walking back. I covered half a mile, feeling every step and for some reason decided to try again at the half mile point. Now, my time trial was 7:20 and that means a half mile should be about 3:40. I made it in 3:21. And nearly passed out.
This concludes the reading. I think that maybe Coach G should institute a new mentor job: What Not To Do Mentor. I'd be good at that.