Wrong kind of runs

Alas. It was a weekend totally devoid of running. I spent Saturday doubled over in bed and Sunday moving very slowly from A to B and back to A. The dreaded stomach flu. Awful, awful, awful.

But I thought about running quite a bit, because the way my stomach felt all weekend is much the way it feels at mile 65 of any race. I tried to practice dealing with it. Staying in the moment, so to speak. Not letting the misery get the best of me.

Counting my breaths helped. Sleeping helped. Listening to the kids padding and thumping through the house helped (poor Brian!).

Grindstone invaded my fever dreams. Obviously my subconscious is a bit worried. First I dreamed that I couldn't find the starting line. I was late beyond late, the race had started hours ago, and I was driving around in a little car making no progress out of the labyrinth of Virginia backroads. The stating line was nowhere to be found. Awful.

Second dream: I started the race, but the next thing I knew I was waking up in a tent. I had no memory of getting there. I remembered that I was supposed to be running, but I could not find anyone to tell me where the course was. I started running, thinking I would find it eventually, as long as I kept going. I woke up still running, still looking. Oh, dear. I made it to the bathroom (thank goodness) and it wasn't until I finished up in there (bleh) that I realized the whole thing had been a dream.

So much for the 5-hour run I had planned for the weekend (Sorry, Susan!). It was all I could do to get through Nell's birthday party Sunday in one piece.

Nell is 8! Happy Birthday, Nell! Dear, sweet girl.




Eek! It wasn't until I posted this photo that I noticed the momento mori in the background. Alas, poor Yorrick (or Coco or George or whoever the poor primate was....).