...well not in the way you think.
Less than 24 hours after a Thanksgiving day marked by the oh-so-traditional gluttonous binge in which I stuffed myself way more than is humanly (or poultrily?) possible, I was feeling fat, not surprisingly, and wanted to somehow try to shed off some of this recently added mass around my mid-section. It had been about six weeks since I last ran because of a self-imposed rest I was giving my foot to help it recover from plantar fasciitis. My foot had been getting better, and on this day it felt fine and free from the usual morning pain. So I did what any stubborn headed runner who hasn't had a mile under his feet would do.
I laced up my running shoes, and I ran...
At first, my body and my feet seemed to be out of sync with a few creaks here and there as if needing a tune up of some sort. But befre too long, it felt oh so good. The sound of my feet as it hit the ground, the cool air on my face, the feel of blood (and life) rushing through my legs, my heart, my lungs... well you get the idea.
My plan was to go for an easy three miles, but that was just too short. So I added another two. During the last mile, I sensed another runner coming up behind me so I picked it up to see what I have. I finished my run with a nice kick feeling content, nay, happy but worried how my foot would be.
The following two days my foot was sore again. I somehow expected that. It still needs the rest, but dang, those 5 miles sure did a lot for my spirit than the rest would've done for my feet.