It began innocently enough. You missed a long run one Saturday and when we got together the next week, you casually mentioned that you bought a Groupon for a month-membership to the CrossFit place in town. I snorted, “CrossFit?! So how long before you contract MRSA and slip a disc doing burpees or bungees or kippers or whatever?!” You laughed, and promised you’d only push the small tires around the gym so you wouldn’t have to miss any runs, and, like always happens, the conversation drifted on with the miles.
I signed up for the local spring marathon, the one we’ve trained together for three times. As I began to plot out my training plan, I felt a chill in the air when you told me you weren’t going to do it this year; you told me on a mid-week 5-miler, the longest run you’d meet me for anymore. Ok, I thought. I’m a big girl and I don’t need to always have friends training for the same race as me. I swallowed my disappointment, and the conversation drifted on. You proudly showed me your raw, blistered palms and described the rope-climbing competition the day before. I caught a glimpse of the rope-burns on your ankles, too. Rope-climbing? What is this, elementary school gym? Read more >>