After my first marathon, I descended the stairs in our house on my butt. I sobbed on the third day when I attempted to drive Will to school and realized I still couldn’t move my leg from the brake to the gas. My friends had all run the half marathon, and although they were sore, they weren’t incapacitated like me. So as I sat at home and cried that Tuesday, I started googling post-marathon pain to make sure I wasn’t alone. Turns out, this crab-walk/hobble/wince wasn’t unique. When I came across the video below, however, I cried until I laughed until I cried again.
Today isn’t nearly as bad as 2007, but going down stairs still isn’t pretty. I’m by no means reduced to my butt, although it’s crossed my mind. Downhill is a similar struggle. Coming home from work tonight, I was gingerly making my way down St. Paul Street, when I saw a woman hobble out of her car. In a Boston jacket. Her husband looked on bemused, then noticed me. She and I exclaimed simultaneously, “I’m so sore!” Perfect strangers, united in misery. I love the marathon.