It's highly unlikely that my grandmother has access to a computer, let alone reads my blog. But for the sake of all grandmothers everywhere, I will refrain from using profanity in this post.
Not to mention that I don't want the kind of traffic my choice of words would attract to my blog.
But rest assured that my brain is so full of foul language, it could explode like Tourette's suffering fireworks. Why? you ask. Well, as it turns out, yesterday's bad form was not a one-off. It was merely the precursor of today's Master of All Bad Runs. An appetiser to the main dish. A teaser, if you like, for the feature disaster film.
I dragged my feet home from work. Garmin showed a pulse of 228. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. It just hurt. And then, when I was but a kilometre from home, it hurt some more. A lot more.
Stomach cramps attacked me with such force that they almost paralysed me. I thought I was going to throw up. I stopped running and started walking. Then after a few meters, I tried running again. It took two steps for me to realise that this wasn't going to work. I resigned to walking the rest of the way. I stretched, I breathed deeply, I walked upright. Slowly, the cramps faded. I kept walking, up some stairs, through the local graveyard, past a school. I started running tentatively, certain that the pain would come back, but it never did. I looked at my Garmin: 4,2 km and I was almost at my doorstep. No way I would accept cutting a 5 km run short because of some stupid cramps. I took a detour to round it off. I survived.
Like I wrote yesterday, some days you feel invincible. Other days you have to give it your all to earn those kilometres.