I had gone out that day for my 18 miles. I made it to 10 before I called my husband, begging to come and get me. A few hours and 102* fever later, I wanted to die. I think I even went to sleep hoping I would. I think that's what happened....our ancestors just laid down and gave up and died. But alas, I awoke again, still sick. Finally, I made it to urgent care where I was told I had a "flu like virus". Meaning? It feels like the flu, except there isn't a damn thing they can do about it.
So here I am, nearly 3 weeks later and finally starting to feel normal again. Every run has been a struggle. I did 18 a week and a half ago. It. Was. Ugly. Near 90* temps right now aren't helping matters. I had 12 scheduled last weekend, but only managed 8 before my body gave out. I felt like quitting at 5. Hell, I wanted to quit at 2. This weekend, I have 20. I may be wishing for death yet again. During my training I've said I'll never ever ever never do another marathon. But who am I kidding? ;)
I leave for Beantown 3 weeks from tomorrow. I can't believe it's nearly here! I got my race number...22966, if any of you stalkers want to track me. I'm still being told that a donation website is being set up. In the meantime, some lovely people, through my sister's efforts, have already donated. People I haven't seen or talked to in 15 years are stepping up to help. I get a little teary thinking about it.
My brother in law asked to do a story on me (he's a sports reporter dude). I feel honored, but refused. There are so many more deserving qualifiers that it just wouldn't feel right bragging about an accomplishment that isn't.
