Shortly after moving to New York I added the NY Marathon to my to-do list and started running. I’ve always been somewhat athletic, but my style falls more in the sprinter category than long distance runner.

After a couple months of steady running, I competed in a some New York Road Runner races, got my mile close to 7:15, and managed to run 20 miles in a single outing. Then I found out I didn’t make it into the marathon and my commitment went to shit.

I guess that’s not entirely fair since I picked up snowboarding this last winter and went on 6 multi-day trips that were pretty decent. That said, I didn’t run a single mile from last November until this past Monday when I decided it was time to get back into the game.

I’m not a big fan of running in cold weather, so when Monday’s evening forecast was 60 degrees, I strapped on the nike’s and hit the West Side Highway for a decent 7 mile jog. I made it from my neighborhood to 26th st and back. If you’ve ever done distance running, you know that there’s a certain amount of stiffness and soreness that comes with conditioning. Your feet get battered, your muscles tighten up, but you know that you are doing something good for yourself.

Here’s where the stupid starts.

Tuesday I was kinda sore, but I was also committed. So I decided that running 8 miles that night was somehow a good idea. Boy let me tell you it was not. This time I made it to 43rd St. and back. Well, almost made it back. The last mile and a half home consisted of limping, dragging, and a steady stream of whimpers. By Wednesday morning, I couldn’t lift my own legs without using my arms, couldn’t negotiate stairs, and could barely walk across my shoebox sized apartment. This lasted for 48 hours. I actually had to call out of work it was so agonizing.

Normally I wouldn’t post something as embarrassing as this tale of my own foolhardy ignorance, but for anyone else out there thinking about taking up running: start small. Work your way up. Don’t pull an Eli.

See you on the path!