Well, it is now three days post-race and I still feel as if I have been run over by a truck. (And not a small fuel efficient truck, either, but a bone-crushing, planet-killing Hummer.)  I’m seriously wanting to banish all running related objects from my life. Unfortunately, that would mean that I would be a naked, homeless wretch, and I hate when that happens.  Truth be told, I haven’t a stitch of clothing that does not in some way scream “I’m a crazy runner!  Look at me!  Look at me!!” and the home office from which I write this post is filled to capacity with various running mementos. I couldn’t even live naked in my vehicle, as it currently sports a new bumper sticker courtesy of M. which proclaims “I heart 26.2″  And today I am decidedly NOT hearting 26.2.  Twenty-six point two SUCKS, people.  It leaves you battered and bitter and chafed.

On a happier note, however, I’m kind of secretly excited to still be in so much pain.  It means that despite not reaching my goal I pushed hard and was not a total wuss.  It also means that my long suffering family is catering to me even more than usual.  My Mr.Moose is giving up more of the bed than usual to accommodate my aching gams, and he also seems to understand that said gams cannot quite fit securely behind my antlers ears when we’re um…um…playing contortionist. And the GirlMoose made me a delicious post-race cake and the BoyMoose hung the laundry, because even if I could walk down the stairs to the cellar, the idea of bending and stretching to hang the clothes is completely absurd. Completely absurd – kind of like running 26.2.