Plenty of people fear the number 13; 666 has a pretty bad global rep too. In Asia, 4 is the number non grata. But for me, the cursed number is clearly 18.
“18” has shown up twice in my marathon training schedule, and twice it has been the harbinger of poor health. My long slow distance was supposed to be 18 miles on February 26th and then again on March 12th. The day before the first planned 18-miler I woke up, put my feet on the floor and discovered I had a screaming case of plantar fasciitis. The day before the second planned 18-miler I woke up and couldn’t even lift my head off the pillow—thanks to a golf-ball sized knot in my trapezius that sent me right to the doctor’s office (once I peeled myself off my pillow, that is).
Eighteen and me, we be done. I’ve put my coach on notice: next time I train for a marathon (which will be in the late summer / early fall, for the Chicago Marathon in early October), I don’t want to see 18 on the agenda ever. Assign me 17.9. Give me 19.0 runs. Just please don’t ever tell me to run 18 again!
Speaking of odd coincidences, as of today I’ve run 49 percent of the roads in Marlborough while training for the marathon—and I am also 49 percent of the way to my $5,000 fundraising goal. 🙂
My wish for you today is that you stay healthy from your neck to your heels. And please people, whatever you do, avoid the number 18 at all costs. You know, avoid it in the casual way that you’d avoid coming in contact with, say, the bubonic plague or Ebola virus. It’s bad news I tell you! Very very bad!