The last twenty-four hours have done their best to kill running as I know it. First, a local running hero for me, who regularly runs extreme, elite events around the world, who writes a top-rated running blog and is invited to those world class events all-expenses-paid because of her influence, who does everything I’ver ever wanted to do as a runner and for that is my hero, fell down while cleaning her dog and broke her arm and ribs and punctured her lung. Apparently she’d exceeded her limits washing her dog. Then, this morning, my doctor told me to stop running.

***Insert expletive here***

I mean, running is what I do.  I’m a runner.  I’ve been writing a runner’s blog for over ten years.  It has several hundred subscribers.  That’s what I use to promote my novels.  I was training for a marathon in October.  I’m still sort of processing.  I have to take a daily baby aspirin now.

***Insert a more creative expletive here, the first one was insufficient***

To be fair, I only have to stop running until I complete a more exhaustive cardiology exam and treatment, but that marathon is now out-of-reach. Hopefully I’ll be fit enough to run the half marathon since my sister is flying into town to run the half. I know this is actually good that I learned a thing or two about my health condition and it’s all temporal, but I went in there this morning expecting to be told to lose some weight. I was ready for that. Not this.