Great news: My chicken-apple sausage went untouched during a massive seagull raid at Avila Beach today. No sooner had Jason, MJ (roommate), Brandon and Jay's friend, Nolan, finished dinner and played three points of bocci ball did a flock of winged-rats descend upon our picnic area. We watched from 50-yards away as the seagulls ravaged our foodstuffs. Fortunately, the poop-bombers didn’t bite into the pair of chicken-apple sausages I had left on the table (nor did they reach my hot dog buns or cookies, leaving me the only survivor of the air assault). Another notch in the win column: no feces were reported on anybody’s belongings. They did, however, fly off with one or two uncooked sausages, dug into MJ’s hot dog buns and also knocked MJ’s remaining chorizo into the sand. Score that round to the seagulls.
Pesky birds aside, it was an awesome day. We Californians are truly blessed. Some folks in Middle America haven’t seen the ocean. The roommates and I, plus Jason, have made trips on consecutive days (it's a lengthy 10-minute drive on the southbound 101). The weather this week, as it should be, has been a tad hot, but is perfect in the evening. It’s closing in on midnight here and the temperature is comfortable enough that I’m shirtless wearing just a pair of shorts (on that note, I would like to recognize that the reaction David Beckham received for taking his shirt off following the San Jose-Los Angeles soccer match last Saturday was absurd – I can’t say I get quite the same reaction…shocking).
A great day on the beach it was, but today also proved to be a sobering reminder that I’m entrenched in my training regimen. (That was supposed to sound Rocky-esque, cue the inspirational music and let the workout montage begin. Mission: unaccomplished). See, I’ve come to the realization that I’m sore. Not just a little sore. We’re talking the it hurts to walk to the kitchen, legs won’t function, can’t lift my arms without igniting a forest fire in the biceps kind of pain. Jason and I have hit the weights pretty hard this week. I’ve moved up the scale from an infant fresh out of the womb to a full-fledged baby who has recently developed basic motor skills. The result is plenty of frustration and a heap of pain. The workouts, although not terribly difficult, have me hitting the bottle (of Ibuprofen on my desk).
I’m approximately three weeks into the fitness journey and I can honestly say that I remember why I quit in the first place (way back at the end of the 2007 track season). Pain sucks, man. Not to mention my arches are killing me. My right plantar fascia has yet to heal (and is possibly worse off than when I injured it back on June 6). I’m fairly sure the whole situation could have been avoided if I was wearing a pair of shoes with these new-age mechanisms called ‘arch supports.’ The veteran pair of running shoes I sported on that day were quite possibly a bad idea. Three weeks behind us and that pair of running shoes I left at a friend’s house in Van Nuys have yet to appear on my doorstep. I’m strongly considering purchasing a new pair.
Despite the arch problem, I’ve decided (using all my wisdom) that it would be a smart idea to compete at an all-comers track meet next Wednesday. I’ll tape the arch and lace up my now seemingly-ancient pair of spikes for the first time in about a year (I did make two appearances at all-comers meets in Santa Rosa, Calif. last summer). Hopefully I’m not in this much pain come next Wednesday because I’m running that 400-meter either way.
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