That's what two older women snapped at me this morning. I was, apparently, cheering too loudly. Granted, it was about 5:45 a.m. Still. There wasn't much else for me to do.
Today was the final day of the eight-week running camp. That meant the dreaded timed mile. It was a day I had actually looked forward to. It would be a tangible result of eight weeks of waking up even before the butt-crack of dawn, of running when it felt like my insides were twisting out, of being so exhausted by the end of the day I couldn't function. I had been having anxiety dreams for the past couple weeks. How fast would I go? Would I have horrible stitches and fall across the finish line? Or would I kick butt? I wanted to know.
And then I pulled my quad Wednesday. And it hurt even worse during warmups today. I was out. So there I was, stationed about 200 meters from the finish line, shouting out times and yelling encouragement - much to the disgust of the two women walking around. They pointed to the darkened condos behind the course (it's a paved loop around a lake). I didn't bother mentioning that they also backed up to a major street. I really didn't care. If shouting the times and clapping and yelling for them to GO GO GO!! made them even a few second faster, it was worth it.
The runners were happy I was there. The fastest one finished in 6:50, knocking 14 seconds off her personal best. It was awesome. I was disappointed I wasn't running too. The coach wants me to take at least a week off. The next camp starts Oct. 30. I might not be ready to go by then. But this is out of my control. I just have to hope I'm a fast healer!
I guess now this means I actually have to watch what I eat, since I won't be doing five-mile runs for awhile...
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