Tapering and chinese methods of torturing a runner

Isn't it wonderful that it's still light outside at 6 in the afternoon?

I ran home from work in the sunshine, choosing the shortest way (a mere 5 km) because this is a taper week before Skövde. Besides, with my luck I would probably stumble and break my leg the day before the race. I'm still not letting myself believe I might actually get to run the race this time, after I got sick the day before the race last time. Anything could happen. I might catch a cold. Get mugged on my way to the train station by an ultra running thief that hadn't booked any train tickets and now the train was full. Pink Floyd might decide they want to honour my life-long adoration for them by playing a live gig in my living room. The sky might fall.

So now I'm avoiding walking under ladders, breaking mirrors, the number 13, working on a Sunday and crossing paths with our black cat, Sote. In fact, I think I might lock him up in the storage room, where his evil voodoo power cannot harm me. And if that doesn't help, at least I'll get a good night's sleep.

Don't be fooled by his "who, me?" expression. He's pure evil.

I started my preparations for the race by going out last Saturday and drinking. Not heavily, but a couple of glasses of wine are enough to get my nose running and make me believe that I'm getting a cold. My friend S, who's currently taking a course in training and well-being, quickly turned the conversation to my favourite subject: me. Well, running, but it was my running we discussed. She has been following my injury history and BAM! That's when she dropped a bomb on me. She (and I can't write this without my eyes welling up, lips all quivering, I mean how could she say something like this, she's supposed to be my friend), she said that all those little annoyances I've been feeling are just precursors to injury. She said --

Let me catch my breath for a second. I just started hyperventilating.

She said that with overuse injuries like mine, you have to rest for --

Ok, Shaman, you can do this. Deep breaths.

3-6 weeks. She said.

I proceeded to cover my ears with my hands and sang loudly at the top of my lungs. La la la.

I could see her lips moving. LA LA LAAA, I sang. Even higher. In a high-pitched, shrill voice.

After I calmed myself down with some more wine, and she managed to convince me she meant well and that, despite appearances, she wasn't really trying to make me have a heart attack, I listened. And realised that she was right, only this wise advice was coming at the wrong time. I can't rest now! I should have done it in December, when the training season was over, when I could afford to take some weeks off. Not now, with all my important races taking place this spring!

After I uncovered my ears (cautiously, because who knows, she could still come up with some way to torture me. Despite the haze of alcohol I was in at that moment, I vaguely remember her mentioning something about *brrr* Military training), she told me she could take a look at my training logbook and see if there's any cause for concern. And if she finds any, I'll make a solemn promise to rest for a couple of weeks. This summer. Or when my injuries stop me. Whichever comes first.