I was a little depressed last night, as we returned home from the Oz party that Eric hosted, because I had only gotten in about 3 miles of walking for the day when I had intended to do at least 5 miles. Worse was the knowledge that I could have managed the miles, if I'd only been willing to leave the house and risk doing more miles on real concrete sidewalks. As it was, I'd done nearly two miles on sidewalks already that day, and I hadn't had any major problems with my legs.
But I kept putting it off until it was really too late to do it. And so I was feeling a bit down.
When I got up this morning, I decided I was going to do 9 miles today to make up for yesterday's laziness. I got up just after seven, and promptly started to do nothing. I fiddled around on the internet. I read the paper. I had breakfast. And before I knew it, 11 o'clock had rolled around and I'd done no training at all.
Growling to myself, and probably snapping at poor Eric a little, I hauled myself over to the treadmill and started. I did four and a half miles on an increasingly noisy and clanking treadmill, then iced my legs for a half hour and rested before doing another four and half miles. That's right. I did it. I made nine miles today.
None of the agonized pain in my legs. Maybe a little hint of it in my left leg, but not enough to panic over. I might need to get it taped a couple more times before it completely subsides. Nothing in my right leg except the usual aches. My feet are killing me, but I expected that. Already, just a few minutes after stopping, the pain is fading quite a bit.
Tomorrow is a rest day, and I'm going to see both the physical therapist and the chiropractor. I'm happy to have good news to report.