The Crud
About two-ish weeks ago, I started feeling like I had a cinder block sitting on my chest. Whatever, I thought. I figured my allergies were acting up, and kept running/ignoring it for as long as I could—that is, until I started hearing junk rattling around in my lungs. As I kid, I was prone to everything from bronchitis to Strep to dropsy to the ague, and fearing the worst, I headed over Duane Reade for my inaugural visit with the walk-in doc. He was really knowledgeable and approachable, and diagnosed me with, as he jokingly called it, “the crud.” (Yes. That’s a technical term.) Basically, he said that, since mid-May, New York’s been hit with a city-wide chest cold. It’s fierce for about five days, and then lingers for a few weeks. The whole time, your coughing fits could not possibly be more attractive, and you get intimate with your body’s bizarre chestal output. Awesome. And gross.
Anyway, even though I’ve technically been fine/not contagious for a while, I’ve had to take a break from training. Last night marked my first run in 10 days, and while I was aiming for 40 minutes of uninterrupted galloping, I only made it to 30 of somewhat-interrupted trotting. Sally (our doofy dog) was my running partner, and since she’s not much for long-term endurance, she and I were both drag-assing it for the last half-mile.
My coaches reassure me that I’ll get back on track soon enough, but grrrrrr. Just. Grrrrrrrrrrr.
Please show The Crud that it can’t get the best of me by donating here or here.
