Today, I attempted to run 10 miles with Shane, my favorite running buddy. We went a spot in PA where we generally like getting long runs, since there's a little elevation and we know the area. (Plus, there's this one bench in the perfect spot for a snack break, and Shane packed sour snakes. I run for food.)
I've got the VT 50K in a few weeks (fuck) and we're both running SKy to Summit, another 50k, in November. We need elevation. Most of the run went great, too, and we would have had a perfect 10 miles if not for my FUCKING right knee. For reasons unclear, it started to be a bit sore around 6.5 miles, which built gradually to a steady pain with occasional sharp twinges. It reminded me a little of the pain I felt at the last mile or two of my 50k last spring. And it blew.
Suddenly, our 10 miler turned into a "let's walk" at mile 7. I hated that, and I did try to run, but it was really bothering me. Shane and I both agreed walking was a good call, but I still felt really bad. Especially when I bitched out when we got back to a road crossing.
I called a Lyft.
Our driver, however, was a goddamn delight. She was cracking up the second I apologized for how bad we smelled, explaining we'd been running.
"Oh, is this the Poop-Out Bus?" She asked.
We did not know what that was. She, an avid walker, told us that at fundraising walks there's often a bus for people who decide they're too tired or can't keep going. She also told us about her marriage, weight loss journey, and how our stinky-ass selves were making her think about running 5ks again.
I had been ready to throw my shoes into the creek in a fit of rage about my knee, and along came this super sweet woman to distract me from my own bullshit. She had us laughing all the way back to the car.
And she promised not to tell anyone we took the Poop-Out Bus.