Let’s just say I spent an inordinate amount of time googling “hamstring tendonitis.” It’s yet to have reached the severity it was when I first pulled it, but it aches. Off and on. It will flare and stop. It doesn’t make me limp or really have any outward signs except the wincing on my face. I can run through it with a wrap and some Naprosyn. But I’m almost positive that, aside from slicing my own leg open, “running through it” is the worst thing I could possibly do.

It’s frustrating. A little disheartening. It seems that it happens anytime I go over 6 miles, especially if I try to get up the next morning and do it again. You’d think the simple answer would just be to rest in between running days, right?

Of course, it would. Of course. Of course!

But this is me we’re talking about. So, I probably get what I deserve. Whatever.

I was clicking around the other day, as I sat with my wonky leg hiked up on my new $15 ice pack. I came across this guy’s blog The Running Man. The basic gist of it is that he’s insane.

But besides all that, he wrote a post back in 2009 about his hamstring tendonitis. And, of course, aside from being completely insane, he apparently has a wonky hamstring, too, and runs 100-mile trail runs.

Yes. That exists. I think they call themselves “ultrarunners.”

I call them. Fucking insane.

But what pisses me right the fuck off is that this monkey has a fucked up leg, too, but writes a blog post about how he tends to get moderately uncomfortable right around mile 753 and so maybe he thinks… just maybe… he might need to toss in some strength training (of which he does NONE) so that his little irritating hamstring will stop being moderately uncomfortable right around mile 9830.

FUCK HIM AND HIS WHOLE FUCKING FAMILY.

All I fucking wanna do is a half-marathon. A piddly ass 13.1.

NO. Really? All I wanna do is make it around my goddamned neighborhood without limping home dejected and beaten and pissed off.

How the fuck can this little “ultrarunner” piece of shit not do ANY strength training? Holy FUCK! I’ve been known to bust out with crunches in the hundreds! Bench presses. Windmills. Squats. Lunges. Pushups. Free weights. EZ bar. Donkey kicks. Jump-roping.

The lack of consistency is stunning. The fact that I will lumber down the street at a whopping 14 min/mile and somehow think that is BETTER than walking, or resting, or anything at all. I might as well have fucking footdrop!

This is just a mess. A big, fat, swirly, convoluted mess.

On Saturday, I was pretty sure running a halfie in October was going to be a cruel joke. That it’s just not possible. That there are some people who were just NOT meant to do things like this.

On Tuesday, I was just pissed. Too pissed to rationalize anything. Just. PISSED.

By yesterday, I’d already backhanded the Monday girl with my big ring hand.

I still think Silly Mr. Running Man is a gigantic fucking turd, though. If I were in a race with him, I’d totally trip him up and run right past him.

Then I’d flick a booger on him and tell him his kids are dumb.

Yeah. That’ll teach him a lesson.