Gastrocnemesis

I tried running barefoot, really barefoot, the other day. Ok, I did cheat a little bit. I ran barefoot on a treadmill to see what it was like without having to worry about rocks, glass or syringes; and I have to say, it was great. It took some time to get used to, but once I got warmed up, it was very liberating. Without the weight and constiction of shoes and socks, I didn't even get tired. I only went a mile and a quarter at eight miles an hour, but other than trying to stay on the treadmill, it was effortless. Even though I was feeling good, my feet were getting a little raw and I was rattling the entire apartment building, so I decided to stop.

After that, I felt so good that I needed to burn off some more energy and took off on a short run in my sandals--running on the street is different because you actually have to propel yourself forward; on a treadmill you just have to move your feet. Either way, it felt good, and as I was rounding my way back to the apartment, full stride in my sandals, the universe, in order to show its support for my grass-roots return, sent a hippie on an old bike with a big red beard and thrift-shop wardrobe who cheered, "Yeah, man! Run, man, yeah." I felt like I was truly born to run. The next day, however, the universe decieded that maybe I was getting ahead of myself and crippled me with sore calves and raw feet, and two days later, I am still hobbling around(Lib says I look like Frankenstein's monster) waiting for my legs to stop hurting so I can get back out and run.