Race Report: Connemara Ultramarathon

What feels like a lifetime ago, but was actually three weeks and one broken foot ago, I ran my longest ultramarathon to date: 39.3 miles in Connemara, Ireland (I finished in 6:46, if you're just skimming for the results).  I traveled there with 7 other runners, and we stayed together in a house in Galway.  Find out what happens when runners stop being polite and start being real...

Just kidding, everyone was polite, and also that wasn't where we stayed; that's just some random spectacularly beautiful castle in Connemara.  You know what else they have in Connemara, besides castles? Spectacularly beautiful scenery:

And also?  Spectacularly large quantities of sheep:

Photo credit: Abbe Lew

Lots and lots (and lots) of sheep.  So many sheep.  And mountains.  Sheep and mountains and lakes and not a lot of coverage from the wind...  But I'm getting ahead of myself.  This was a long race, so I'm going to try to keep this report as brief as possible.  Ready?  (I wasn't, and I wound up with a broken foot, so I definitely advise you prepare yourself.)  Let's do this.

Pre-race:  After getting drunk in the airport yet failing to time my intoxication to coincide with a night of sleep on a trans-Atlantic flight (true story: passed out on the runway at JFK.  Woke up 20 minutes later and spent the duration of the flight awake, watching Zero Dark Thirty, which is a great film but maybe not one to watch on an airplane...), we arrived in Dublin on Friday morning to a legit hail storm, the likes of which I had never seen and wished never to see again, least of all not on Sunday when I would be attempting to run 39.3 miles.  Thankfully, as we drove out of Dublin in our siiiiiick 10 passenger non-predatory van, the skies seems to brighten.  

Non-predatory van.  Also, I'm not actually driving, both because I was probably drunk, and because the steering wheel is on the right.  Photo credit: Elyssa

Or so I'm told; I slept the whole way.  In any case, we disembarked from our van for a full Irish breakfast at Maura's sister's home.  I ate 14 different kinds of sausage and was happy.  Then I went back to sleep.

Lo and behold, when I woke up, we were on the other side of the country!  Seriously.  Here is a map:

Though this was my fourth trip to Ireland, the was my first time on the West Coast, and it was pretty awesome.  Galway itself is right on the water (I can read a map too!), and a paved pathway runs right along the shore.  (Fun fact: according to a plaque, this is Ireland's longest seaside promenade walk, which sounds a bit like my saying I'm the tallest Claire from my hometown who likes running... No offense, Galway).  

After we got situated at our house for the weekend (thanks to Maura again for using all her personal and familial connections to find us a place to stay and many places to drink beers) and popped in to say hello to Maura's mom and brother, we got lunch.  And beer.

I should mention that I ate nothing but clotted cream, sausages, and fish and chips for the entire lead up to this race.  I also finished a 39.3 mile race, so do with that information what you will...

We spent much of our first day sorta tired and sorta drunk, so anything else that happened that day either escapes my memory or wasn't that important.  Moving right along...

We woke up on Saturday and headed to the promenade for a shake out run.  Already grappling with a stress fracture, this was to be my first run of any distance in about 10 days.  I don't know if it was the healing power of the motherland (and her food...) or the thrill of being on vacation in a new place, or just the joy of running with friends again, but my foot felt pretty okay.  Not awesome, certainly, but it held up over 4-ish miles.  At least I would make it to the starting line.

We showered up and then headed out to Connemara to see the area at a time when we weren't grumpy, hungry, and tired (though after several hours of driving, we were all of those things even a day before the race).  The scenery truly was remarkable, and unlike anyplace else I've been.

I don't go to a lot of places where cows block the roadways. Photo credit: Elyssa

After our trip to the Kylemore Abbey, which was fiiiine, I guess, if you're into beautiful Gothic architecture and the prospect of a man building a castle for you, we headed back to Galway to pick up our bibs at the race expo.  It was somewhat more difficult for me to find my bib number than it was for others, as I was one of 46 Walshes.

My people.  Photo credit: Bojana

Bibs were collected, groceries were procured, beers were consumed, a feast was prepared, and as always, a bib person was laid out.

After probably a few more beers than were necessary, I tucked myself into bed and tossed and turned until my 5:15am wake up.

Race morning: Because I was the only idiot who was running the Ultra, I was the only one who had to wake up so early.  The course was a loop, you see.  The 39.3 mile runners ran for 13.1 miles, to arrive at the marathon start.  The marathoners ran 13.1 miles to arrive at the half start. The halfers ran for 13.1 miles and arrived at the collective finish, which also happened to be the 39.3 mile start.  Which means that while I was already running, the buses taking the marathoners to their start passed me by. 

It would appear that the bus is VERY close to me. Thanks for that, guys... 
Photo credit: Abbe, from inside the bus

Anyway, I had some coffee and toast and fretted a bit about not going to the bathroom before I left, then got bused out to the start/finish, which meant I had the incredible opportunity to get ready indoors at the finish line hotel.  I will admit that my nerves on race morning were on high-alert; between the broken foot and having never run 39.3 miles before, I was pretty anxious about the prospect of DNFing in the rural Irish countryside, and mentally rewatched that episode of that Bear Grylls show where he has to sleep inside a dead camel so he doesn't die of exposure overnight.  "Can a  girl fit inside a sheep carcass?" I wondered...

The pre-race meeting (Ultras make you attend pre-race meetings so that they aren't liable if you die from running so much.  I'm only half kidding...) also made mention of a bag drop, so I jumped at the opportunity to leave a bag of gear at the 26.2 mile mark.  Into it went:

- Cheddar goldfish, mostly crumbs, from having traveled from New York in a ziploc bag
- Swedish fish
- Immodium
- Dry shirt
- Dry socks

On my person, I carried 1 handheld, filled with water, which I intended to refill along the way, and 4 Gus of all the flavors I dig.  I finally hit the bathrooms just before it was time to make our way to the start.  

When we got outside, I was unpleasantly surprised at how hard the wind was blowing, and was somewhat nervous that my attire of tank top, long sleeved tee, race jacket, gloves, and capris was not going to be enough.  After standing around shivering and making small talk long enough for my hands and feet to go numb, we were off.

The race (finally... I'm getting tired of writing...): The starting line was about a mile uphill from the finish hotel, so it was nice to know that at least our final mile would be downhill, if nothing else was.  And mostly, nothing else was.  With no real finish time expectation (and no actual expectation of finishing at all, on account of the foot), I decided to mentally break the race down into 5 mile chunks.  Three 13.1 mile chunks sounded horrible to me, but 5 miles at a time, in 8 pieces, seemed reasonable.  I wasn't wearing a Garmin and had only my digital watch, but tried to remember to hit the lap button each mile to get a sense of effort.

About 2 miles in, I had already warmed up enough to take off my jacket.  I tied it around my waist for awhile, thinking I might want later, but ultimately that got to be a hassle and I ditched it in the brush alongside the road.  

THIS IS CALLED FORESHADOWING.

About 4 miles in, a girl ahead of me stopped to pick up something she'd dropped and ended up running right behind me.  She spied my Surf City Marathon shirt and asked if I was from the states.  Kristen was also a Yankee, and California dweller herself, and a friend of one of my travel companions, Lisa!  Her husband was running the Ultra as well, though well in front of us at this point.  She was also managing an injury - plantar fasciitis - so we fell in step together.

The first 13.1 miles were by and large downright pleasant.  The hills were rolling, the breeze wasn't too tough, and the scenery was breath-taking.  I was having some mild stomach issues, but mostly they could be avoided if I didn't eat any Gu.  I figured things would sort themselves out and wasn't too concerned.  Kristen and I had plenty to talk about, and were pleasantly surprised when we arrived at the full marathon start.  I was smiley, even!

This is stolen.

We also picked up a few Irishmen at this point, and our little group grew to about five or six.  We were chugging along, having hit the 13.1 mile mark in 1:56, but my stomach had been churning for awhile.  Every time I tried to take a Gu, the churning became potentially pants-shitting.  Unfortunately, the "aid stations" on the course had only water, and the only calories I had on me were the Gus, so I decided I'd have to keep going to 26.2 and my salty snacks and Imodium without any fuel.  Not ideal, but certainly doable.  Hell at this rate, maybe we could break 6 hours!  

THIS IS ALSO FORESHADOWING.

I don't know where, exactly, but what felt like shortly after the marathon start, the wind picked up.  And so did the terrain. Kristen and I went from chatting about running to telling each other stories to take our minds off the fierce winds and climbs (admittedly, she did most of the talking, for which I am deeply grateful, Kristen!).  We had to use our hands to hold our hats on, and were nearly blown off course more than once. We'd done more than 3 of those eight 5 mile chunks.  Sadly, completing 3 of anything doesn't feel like all that much, and as we continued plugging away into the wind, my morale was dropping decidedly.

The Ultra profile isn't even offered online, so where this says mile 0.00 was my mile 13.1.

Looking back at the elevation profile, miles 16 to 22 (4 to 9 on the elevation profile above) were indeed uphill, and by the time we hit mile 20, normally a moment of "fuck yeah, almost done with this bitch!" in the marathon, I was feeling pretty low.  The climb into the wind had taken a lot out of me, and I'd been running for close to 3 and a half hours without consuming any calories.  Kristen's plantar pain was also beginning to ache.  She had a drop bag at mile 22, so that became our new goal: get to 22.

(I don't know why we runners set these goals.  Get to 22 and then what?  And then keep running for 17.3 more miles, actually.  But if you're a runner, you know how these mental games work.)  

In any case, 22 was miraculously the top of the hill, and not only did we find Kristen's drop bag there, but we found her husband as well.  He'd been suffering from food poisoning and decided to ease off the pace and run with his wife.  Lucky for him, she'd made a friend who had Imodium 4 miles ahead (me!).  New goal: get to the 26.2 mile mark.

While the next 4 miles were downhill, they were brutally windy.  We all ran single file, trying to stay tucked in behind anyone ahead who might offer a draft.  At this point, we weren't even speaking, both because the wind was so loud, and because we were feeling pretty defeated.  I hear the scenery continued to be beautiful, but we didn't do anything except look at the ground in front of us, since looking up with cause our hats to be ripped off our heads.  We later discovered gusts were up to 40mph that day, which isn't awesome...

At some point, I think when we got to Kristen's bag, I hit "stop" instead of "lap" on my watch, so at this point I had no idea what our actual time or splits were, but I guessed we hit the marathon split at about 3:50.  If I'd had the faculty to do any math, I would have realized that was nearly impossible, since there was no way our second 13.1 miles were faster than our first.  In any event, official results indicate we hit the marathon split at 3:59, with a 2:03 second 13.1.

When I got to the bag drop table at 26.2, I tore into my stuff.  I tossed the shirt and socks and went straight for Imodium and Goldfish.  I also stuffed the baggie of Swedish Fish into my SpiBelt, though I was skeptical they'd help, since they are basically Gu in solid form.  I shared Imodium with Kristen's husband Chris, and we turned a corner to conquer the final 13.1.

I'm going to redirect your attention to the elevation profile up there.  See where mile 13 is?  That was mile 26.1 for me.  See what comes immediately after that?  Truly, I don't think I've ever been so demoralized in a race in my entire life: I have just spent 10-ish miles running uphill into a fierce headwind, I haven't been able to eat anything in 4 hours, I have a broken foot, I have 13.1 miles left to run, and I was facing a mountain.  Really, the only thing I had going for me was those cheddar Goldfish, which I could actually keep down, and which - no exaggeration - possibly saved my life and definitely helped my mental game.  Thank you, Pepperidge Farm.  I tried to channel my inner ultramarathoner, 26.2 miles too late, and decided to walk the hills.  I bid Kristen and Chris adieu and began hiking.

For awhile, actually, this strategy was indeed effective: I hiked everything super steep and ran everything runnable.   The Irishmen Kristen and I had met earlier were still around and using the same strategy, so we took turns leading and checking on one another.  Truthfully, the fun part of the runner camaraderie had given way to some straight up survival stuff: buddy, you hydrating?  Need some Swedish Fish?  Are you warm enough? 

Warmth was definitely starting to be a challenge.  The wind continued blowing furiously, and now that I was moving so slowly, it was hard to stay warm. I had been aiming to keep my pace around 10:30, but when I crossed the 32 mile mark, the pain in my foot went pretty suddenly from dull and tolerable to sharp.  I pulled over to check it out and untied my right shoe entirely to allow for swelling.  I tried running a few more steps, but each resulted in a sharp pain.  With 7 miles to go, I was pretty much unable to run.

I plodded forward, eating Goldfish and thinking about my options.  Really, there was one: finish the damn thing.  There were no spectators, no medical tents, hardly any other runners around.  If I quit, I'd have no way to get to the finish line.  So I kept on hiking.

My pace was now down to about 12:30/mile.  Normally, 7 miles should take less than an hour, even late in a race.  I realized I was looking at almost 90 more minutes of hiking in the freezing wind and had long since ditched my outer layer.  I kind of freaked out: I could actually wind up with hypothermia. 

Plus, I was feeling shitty about myself.  I don't ever walk in races, and here I was, walking the last 7 whole miles of this one.  Yes, I was making the right choice for me, given my foot, but my foot was injured in the first place because I had half assed my training.  I had no one to blame but myself.  You can get to some pretty dark places when it's just you and sheep and 7 miles of climbing...

At mile 35, I arrived at the base of the infamous Hell of the West, the steepest stretch of the course and nearly two miles straight uphill.  The runners (hell, they were all walkers at this point) near the top were barely visible.  But I knew this was the last push before the finish, and if I'd made it this far, no freakin' way was I going to give up and die of exposure.  I chanted "hike the hills" to myself (even though I'd also been hiking the flats and the downhills for the last 3 miles), and powered my way to the top.  It took close to 30 minutes to go 2 miles.

From the top of the Hell of the West, the course is downhill to the finish, and the wind was starting to die down (37 miles too late...).  I tried running immediately, but unfortunately my foot hadn't magically healed in 5 miles of walking (weird, right?).  I walked another mile.  Finally, I decided that I wanted the race to be over, damnit, and if any of my friends happened to be hanging around the finish area, they were absolutely not going to see me walk there.  I ran the world's slowest mile and crossed the finish line of my first 39.3 mile race in 6:46.  The last 13.1 miles took me 2 hours and 45 minutes.  

This is also stolen. And that half-grin is definitely fake.

I stumbled into the designated Ultra finisher area where the race director came over to check me out.  I fumbled around in a daze for a few minutes, accepting a couple cups of Coke and my checked gear, then made my way into the hotel.  I quickly found the pub, and in it, my friends.  Baker saw me first, raised his glass, and exclaimed "Walsh!"  I burst into tears.

All my friends came around to hug me, the whole pub started clapping, and strangers came up to congratulate me.  

Thanks for the Guinness, Baker.  Photo credit: Elyssa

I don't know why I was so emotional, to be honest.  I was tired, for starters.  I had been running for 6 hours and 46 minutes.  But I was also pretty emotionally drained, not just from the mental challenges of racing in tough conditions, but from the lead-up, will-she-or-won't-she drama with my foot.  I've done enough marathons at this point that I don't really struggle with the mental games, but I definitely did at Connemara, and that took a lot out of me.  I was at once both proud and surprised that I finished at all, and disappointed that I didn't train better or race smarter.  It's a weird sensation to experience accomplishment and regret simultaneously.

But it was nothing a couple pints couldn't fix.

In conclusion: I have a lot of thoughts, and future plans, related to the Ultra.  I think part of what appeals to me is that I still have so much to learn, and so many ways to improve.  I still want a sub 3:20 marathon, but I also really want to get better at Ultras as well.  "Better" is subjective in Ultras, of course, but I'm definitely not done exploring what "better" is.

For the time being, I have another week in the boot.  I didn't cause any grievous injury to myself in Ireland, and knew going into it I'd likely wind up with a boot upon my return, so in that sense, I have no regrets about running in Ireland.  As I mentioned before I left, I don't think it's been a terrible thing to be banned from running for a few weeks, as someone who's obviously struggled with motivation for the last few months.  Part of me is hesitant to make big plans for the fall race season, since I don't know how much my fitness will be impacted and how susceptible I will be to another injury.  But part of me - the post-race part - wants to make huge plans: a sub 3:20 marathon AND a 50 miler!  And drinking all the beers!  I'll be sure to keep you posted as it plays out.

As for Connemara in particular, it was disproportionately more difficult than any other race I've run.  That is to say, it wasn't just more challenging because it was longer, it was more challenging because it was longer, and steeper, and windier, and I struggled with my foot, and with fuel, and with my mental game.  None of those things make for a "good" experience, but I can say without hesitation that I'm so glad I ran the Connemara Ultra.  Runners are weird people like that.

#BostonStrong

As I trust you gathered from Monday's post about the #BostonStrongNYC run, I did no actual running during the observance, on account of having been sentenced to three weeks in a boot.  It is both functional as well as fashionable, and I am delighted to wear it to work everyday... 

Blogger code dictates one must take work bathroom selfies totes omg143!!!1!

Despite my footwear, I did actually hobble around the Lower Loop of Central Park on Monday while hundreds of others ran around me. 

Thanks for the pic, Baker. If you look closely, you can see the boot and my short shorts

 A lot has been said about the "running community" since the bombs went off last week, some of it feel-good (if cheesy), but some of it critical. To be clear: Last Monday wasn't about running. It was about terrorism and extremism and I'm fairly certain distance running itself isn't an affront to the terrorist dogma.  

But for those running and supporting the Boston Marathon, last Monday should have been about running.  Because what normally happens on Patriots' Day in Boston is that 25,000 people run a marathon and thousands more watch and clap and don't have to worry about being killed or maimed by fucking idiots. 

What's an affront to the terrorist dogma is the normalcy of going about our everyday lives without fear.  And so this past Monday, the running community worldwide got back to our normal routines, and while we did, thought about those in Boston who don't have that luxury.

Mike reached out to me from Seattle over the weekend and offered to share his story of the running community's response from the left coast. Take it away, Mike:

On Monday evening, more than 300 runners finished their stretches and ambled off on a leisurely run through the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Seattle. Some were dressed in running gear, some dressed in ratty, old clothes dug out specifically for this occasion. One man wore a balloon hat. Another wore all white, another all black. One woman carried a giant American flag. There were giant groups, trios and duos, and some running individually. All shared smiles, all squinted in the springtime evening sun, and at 6pm, all surged down the street.

One week earlier, over 23,000 runners began the 2013 Boston Marathon. Most were dressed in running apparel – short shorts, hats, sunglasses, lotion, water bottles strapped to their waists. Some were there for the first time, others were veterans. Some were there to break records, others just to cross the finish line (a massive feat in and of itself). But around the 4:00:00 mark, two explosions just yards from the finish line kept more than 5,000 from finishing the race, injured over 180, and killed 3.

Back in Seattle, just minutes before 6pm, a man wandered up to the group. He had tears in his eyes. “Remember Boston, people,” he said. “Remember Boston. That’s my hometown. Thank you all for this. Thank you all.” He held his arms in the air, as if to embrace the entire crowd.

There were accounts from different news sources at the scene about runners crossing the finish line in Boston, hearing and seeing the explosions, and immediately running another two miles to the nearest hospital to donate blood. Other stories told of runners sprinting back into the carnage to lift fences and rubble and bodies to safety. People ran to safety, people ran to their loved ones, first responders ran to assist. And on Monday, people all around the country ran to pay their respects, not just to those who lost their lives, but to those who were injured, and to those who risked their lives to help. Not just to an entire city which locked itself indoors for a week, but to those that stayed outside for a week, searching for someone responsible. And not just to those submitted by the force of the explosions just yards from the finish line, but to those who were stopped short, and to those who finished. Running, it seems, is a universal sign of joy, of love, of fear, of pain, and of heroism.

One news reporter asked, “What, as a runner, made you want to take part in something like this?” The runner responded, “The horrific things that happened in Boston weren’t just an injury to Boston, but to the running community around the world. This is a way to show the people of Boston and the people who lost their lives that they’re part of a very, very big family, and we and everyone else doing this in the world are going to support them in whatever way we can. Today just happens to be running.”

So off the group went, at 6pm on Monday evening. As I hung around the middle of the pack, I took a second to turn around and see how many people followed; I saw a massive field of blue and yellow and white and black and red flooding the streets and sidewalks, engulfing parked cars and pedestrians heading the opposite direction. Hundreds of heads bobbing up and down, hundreds more feet striking the asphalt without meter; still ahead of me were hundreds more.

We ran like a force, weighty and speedy, zipping down the streets of Seattle. And we weren’t running simply for the love of running, but rather to stretch the arms of our community out to Boston from 3,000 miles away and embrace her; to take our turn amidst the long line of cities around the world waiting to do the same. After all, running is what we do – we’re humans with lungs and hearts and bones and brains and feelings. So we ran, because that’s how we speak. And we spoke simply to remind the people of Boston and those affected by the explosions that their family is here to support them in whatever way we could. That day just happened to be running.

To Boston, with love,

The Seattle Running Community

#BostonStrong NYC

I'm going, and my foot looks like this:

I moonlight as an astronaut

What's your excuse?  See you tonight at Tavern!

Everyone Needs a Hug Once in Awhile

For fuck's sake, this week has been horrible.  Bombings.  Explosions.  Bioterrorism.  Babies with concealed weapons permits (FYI - have not been up on my Politico this week as my current events-related depression peaked by about Tuesday, so I could have an imprecise grasp on that last one...).  

Truly, I've run out of emotional energy, and we're only at Thursday.  Here's a video of a sloth hugging a cat.  If nothing else, watching it will provide you with 4 minutes of 15 seconds of not thinking about shitty things.

   

Next week: Connemara Ultra race report, stress fracture update, increased faith in humanity and the universe.  Fingers crossed.

On Boston

I have had the privilege of making the famed left on Boylston twice as a marathon runner. I can say, without hesitation, turning that corner and staring down the finish line of the Boston Marathon is the pinnacle of an amateur marathoner's career, regardless of what the clock says.

For those who were unable to experience that yesterday, for those who had to retrace your steps back down Boylston and flee, I hope - and trust - you will enjoy that much-deserved finish someday. The marathon itself is a symbol of resilience, and we, as a family of runners, will be back.

For those who will never experience that after yesterday, for those who were killed, who lost the very limbs that allowed you to be approaching that finish line, today, and everyday forward, we will run for you.

"Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther - And one fine morning..."

A PR is a PR

Well, that was the most grueling 406 minutes of my life.

Between the mountainous climbs, the 40mph wind gusts, the busted foot, and the fact that it was nearly 40 fucking miles long, the Connemara Ultra Marathon was far and away a more demanding physical challenge than any I've ever encountered. The mental game was no cake walk either. In fact, I was so overcome when I stumbled into the finish line pub - with exhaustion, with emotion, with adrenaline, with fear, with surprise in myself - that when I saw my friends and they raised their pints and called out to me, I broke down in tears. And then the whole pub cheered. It was actually pretty awesome.

There's much more to tell than that, but the quick and dirty is: I finished 39.3 in 6:46. My stress fractured foot held up through mile 32, and I run-hiked from there. I'm tired, I'm filthy (from plane travel - I did indeed shower post race), and since Sunday I haven't seen a pat of butter I didn't want to make sweet, Irish love to.



Also, clotted cream.  Why are you not a thing in New York?

Anyway, I'm going to do something about those conditions right now. Come back later this week for a full race report.

Game On

I spent last night in very high heels on the deck of the Intrepid, which isn't the most forgiving of conditions for any foot, let alone a stress fractured one. Nonetheless, after my morning of (doctor prescribed) cross training, I headed back to the Hospital for Special Surgery brimming with optimism. Not because my foot felt good - seriously, heels on that concrete and steel floor are terrible -  but because no matter what the verdict, I'm headed to Ireland tomorrow. I was just waiting to hear whether or not I'd be packing my Kinvaras.

I have been to the Intrepid 4 times. 3 of them have been for fashion shows.

My appointment today was approximately 30 seconds of pressing on my foot an 10 minutes of talking about risks and treatment and possible outcomes.  Dr. Metzl asked where my head was, I said I was inclined to at least start the race and risk a DNF. Furthermore, if I was going to do anything, it was going to be the ultra I signed up for, not 26.2 (not like that'd be any easier on my foot), and not 13.1. He told me if he were in my shoes, he'd feel the same. If we were dealing with a stress fracture in my hip, he'd pull me from the race without question. But for the metatarsal, he thought I could give it a shot.

Let me be clear: Dr. Metzl was by no means cavalier about the current state of my foot, nor the potential for further damage. In fact, he pointed out in his post-appointment orating of notes (he tape records some notes at the end of the appointment.  The first time it freaked me out and I thought he was just talking to me and indicating what punctuation went where, which is a super weird way to talk to people.  Turns out he must have someone else transcribe his medical records) that it was less "potential" and more "probable." And he told me if I went ahead with the race, I'd be paying for it on the post-run end. But he also explained that right now, I'm looking at 2 additional weeks to recover. If I run this weekend, it'll be more like 4-6. The latter involves more time off (in case you didn't get how integers work...) but not substantially so.  And if I'm being perfectly honest, an additional of 2 to 4 weeks of time off to someone who's been burned out since Fall marathon season doesn't sound as terrible as it might to someone in the throes of passionate runner love.

Oh, the good doctor also reiterated that while, yes, it was possible that my foot shatter in some horrifying Kevin Ware-type bloodbath, that was extremely unlikely.  Which was nice to hear, since I've already seen enough video footage of compound fractures to last me a lifetime.

So with that, Imma get back to work, since I'm leaving tomorrow to go to Ireland to run a 39.3 miles race on a sort of broken foot.  Peace.