Day 2

Okay, today was a lot better than yesterday; managed to jog .9 K (please note the decimal indication there, I am NOT referring to nine kilometers) before having to walk. Finally got my feet to understand they had to propel me along the path on their own. A more relaxed jog, however, brought a few other things to my attention.


The reason hitting the streets is less boring than a treadmill is because there are other people to see, maybe even say "Good morning!" to, and you don't have to buy every season of Law and Order to make it through your training. But there are drawbacks: among other things, you find out you have to lift your feet high enough to clear the paint at the crosswalks. There is nothing worse than the sound of expensive running shoes scraping along pavement.

And the area I could have sworn was flat as the proverbial pancake turns out to have slight inclines here and there, maybe no big deal unless you are used to the really flat treadmill. Even if you increase the incline of the treadmill, it can't compare to the irregular ups and downs of a jogging path.

None of this is really important except that if you trip on that crosswalk paint, all those people you said "Good morning!" to are going to see you crash and burn. Many would immediately try to put out the blaze and haul you up, only to notice then how overweight you are. You would surely harbor the black suspicion that several of them are probably suffering internal injuries in an effort to stifle the laughter, because you know you damned well would be if you watched someone else trip over paint.

Running gear is highly informal, so that, at least, is one worry you can dispense with at the get-go. But there are other, more harrowing, worries. Let's just call these worries "issues related to digestive processes". Make sure you pronounce that last word as "process-eees" as is so fashionable today. It used to be you could go ahead and say the word in three simple syllables, but that didn't sound official enough to qualify you as some kind of intellectual guru, a member of the process-eees, brain-laden in-crowd.

But I digress. It becomes obvious on an early morning jog that last night's supper of molletes--a bolillo cut in half, spread with refried beans, Chihuahua cheese, melted under the broiler and topped with avocado and a head-exploding hot salsa--may not have been the wisest of selections. You know how all those people who are in a marathon keep turning their heads to look around? Know how you thought it was to find out who was gaining on them? No, that is not the reason. Let's just say they are concerned that the vapor trail they cannot avoid leaving may be noted by other runners and the blame placed exactly where it belongs. And there is absolutely no strategic advantage to the vapor trail, either, because it won't propel you forward any faster and rarely overcomes another runner to the degree that he or she slows down. To the contrary, other runners often show a burst of sprint-like behavior in order to get upwind of you.

There is this belief that marathoners should have a heavy supper of pasta in order to provide them with plenty of carbs for next's days efforts, but that is only part of the story. Pasta is a simple carb that provokes almost no digestive residue. I think the custom started just to protect all the runners who don't have times good enough to provide them with a place at the front of the pack at starting time, not to mention the hordes of people on the sidelines cheering them on. It reduces the line of fire, so to speak.

A more reasonable jogging pace also allows you notice what hurts and how much. When you are gasping for air, all other considerations fall by wayside, or by the running path. Is that crackling sound my housekeys swinging from my fist? My earrings crashing into the side of my head? Does it emanate from my joints??? What are these diverse pangs, that peculiar sensation in my back? Is it because my sports bra could hold up the Sidney Opera House or is powerful enough to strangle King Kong, or could be used to slingshot the space shuttle into orbit? Who knows. As long as it doesn't snap while I'm jogging and seriously injure another runner, I don't care. I'll pretend nothing hurts and forge ahead; my knees are still holding up.