Oh man, how the hell did I ever make it through track season? The programs I had all that time ago - like, a whole month now - were so much harder than what I'm faced with now. Seriously, the one I got at the start of this month looked so mellow that I considered calling up my coach and asking him to make it harder. I'm freaking glad I didn't. People, I'm dying here. My legs hurt from the gym, my lungs hurt from the ergos and, well, everything hurts from the road miles. This afternoon on the way out to Whittlesea I wanted to scream "This shouldn't be this hard! I only took three weeks off!" into the Plenty Road traffic. It always surprises me how much fitness falls away in such a short period of time. And it's never a good surprise, like finding five dollars scrumpled up in the receipts section of your wallet. No, it's more like picking up a wallet on the ground and finding out someone has pooped in it*. You know, you'd be all like, "Hey, sweet, I found a wallet!" and then you'd be too grossed out for comprehension. Yeah, that would be pretty bad.
*Disturbingly, this is based on a true story, and the perpetrators' names have been left out because it's fucking gross and I don't like to think of anyone like that ever.