If the marathon training itself doesn’t render me incapacitated, the PT it causes me to endure surely might.

My left heel has been acting up since early March.  And when I say “acting up,” what I mean is that the little S.O.B. is not cooperating in any way, shape, or form.  In fact, it causes my form to fail so miserably that those around me no longer first think of my birthday when I scream 911.

At one point last month I really thought my quest for Boston was over.  No way could I train while hobbling along on a bum heel.  I iced it, swore at it, massaged it, stared at it…nothing worked.  And since there is some rule about lining up on race day completely shit faced, I decided to make a phone call.

I met Tom Seifert in 2008, after my first ever 10k (WarBird) race.  It was about 3 months into the newfound passion.  My body was not yet used to the constant toll I tried to explain in an indirect “let’s run as fast and as far as possible right away” kind of way.  So after I gimped to that are-you-kidding-me-this-is-so-not-6.2-miles-finish-line, I smelled brats and beer and saw some guy manning a massage table.  No brainer.  I grabbed a beer and moved like there was a runner-up trophy for a polio-a-thon over to that table.

Tom had no regard for proximity that day and he still doesn’t.  Personal space does not resonate with him.  But for some reason you couldn’t care less as he is twisting you in such a way that you immediately reconsider your current career in favor of attending The Mongolian School of Contortion.  All you can think is that Cirque Dreams would definitely be more fun than ever running another 10k, let alone training for a marathon.

However, since I can’t do Caesars or the Fort Wayne Embassy right now, marathon training it is.  And in that I desperately need this heel to cooperate in order to get through it, back to Mr. Why Are You So Close To My Face I went. 

Don’t get me wrong, he works wonders.  This is the second time I’ve had my heel scraped. 

Scraping = the equivalent of brass knuckles digging into your muscle tissue to break up the “stuck” crap.  Brass knuckles with serrated edges, that is.  It’s not for the faint of heart.

But neither is the marathon. 

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