Yesterday, me, my Gazelle, and our furry children ventured out to the Loch Raven Reservoir to relax, eat, and stare at an open body of water for a few hours.

Staring at open water always makes me want to take a nap. It’s kind of like my version of Valium.

The puppies had a ball. Maya has this regal demeanor about her that I’ve never really figured out. She can go from scrapping with Nikko and snotting in his face to this, all in a split second.

(Disclaimer: I know that every picture in this post sucks, because I left my big girl camera at Jen’s house over a week ago.  I’ve been trying to avoid posting pictures because of this, but I just love sharing so I can’t avoid it any longer.  Sorry.  Hopefully you are not so disturbed by the iPhone quality that you stop reading.)

She has a calm soul. She knows when to relax and just take in the scenery.

This one, on the other hand.

I love the hairy little guy to pieces, but he acts like he ate crack for breakfast. he does not relax. His favorite part about the trip was the “leaving” part. Oh, and when he got to eat his dinner on a bed of seaweed.

What did I realize during our little family excursion?

I realized that I really flocked up my knee during Sunday’s wicked athletic 18.7 mile WOG.

In order to arrive at our desired picnic and zone out area, we had to hike for roughly 852 miles, which included hopping, skipping, and jumping. And thorns. Lots of thorns.

It also required many slopes and hills. It was the downhill periods when I the fact that my knee was really jacked up actually hit me. Just imagine a dagger, jabbing into the outside of your leg; just below the knee, on that little boney knobular thingy that sticks out. It’s called a Fibular Head.

Mine doesn’t like me right now.

Last night when we got home from our excursion, I painstakingly wrapped little Fib in epsom salt, said a little prayer, and watched a terrible movie. When I unwrapped everything, the pain was magically gone.

I’ve decided that my new purpose in life is to make it through this marathon in one piece, and hopefully live to tell about it after. And continue running for many years to come.

Step #1: On my lunch break, I purchased the largest carton of epsom salt that I could find, a knee brace, an (un-pictured) ACE bandage and 2 washcloths.

Step #2: I mixed the epsom salt with water, and proceeded to spill the murky water all over my pretty desk. Oops.

Step #3: I inserted wet epsom salt into the washcloths, wrapped up the parts of my leg that don’t feel right…my Fibular Head, and the exterior part of my ankle, then secured everything with the ACE bandage.

It looks kind of suspect, but if it works, I don’t give a sheet. It also helps that the pant leg of my jeans conceals it nicely

P.s…please ignore my granny CROCS. I love them.

Step #4: Call PT and proceed to schedule at least one appointment per week between now and 2 weeks following the marathon.

We’ll see how it goes…

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This morning, I “ran” 18.7 miles.

Which wasn’t really running.

It kind of wasn’t even really jogging.

The first 10 miles were so much fun. I literally smiled most of the way, despite a little knee twinge. I tweeted much of the first 10 miles (complete with pictures), and it reminded me why I love jogging so much. I was exploring places that I had never been on foot, and that is one of my favorite things about running.

So, it all began with 13 miles of calm trotting, with some walking thrown in the mix.

Then, it was 3 miles of walking and limping, which gave way to 2.7 miles of crawling and crying.

Ok, that part is a lie. But, if I could’ve curled up in a ball on the side of the highway without any risk of being admitted to the nearby psych ward, I probably would have. Definitely would have.

I considered hitchhiking a few times, and for those of you who know the non-virtual me, that is serious business considering my fear of all things kidnapping and murder.

Downhills seem to be irritating my knee to no end these days, so I made a decision early on that I was going to walk most of the downhills. I planned on being on my feet for a very long time due to this extra planned walking.

I didn’t, however, plan on being outside for roughly 5 hours, battling the blazing inferno that is an open highway at 12PM. There.is.no.relief. The sun just blazes. And blazes. And my fingers swell from the dehydration. Then, my calves seize up like the transmission in my 1983 Ford Escort hatchback.

Brown 2-tone with red interior, of course.

(Which was like the coolest car ever. I miss wearing skirts to my fancy courthouse internship, then having to climb through the hatchback because the door locks on the car didn’t work. Classy!)

Anyway. I was more thankful to be home after my 18.7 miles than I have ever been in my entire life.

So, the Good: I was on my feet for 18.7 miles. Feet time is still feet time, regardless of speed or perceived effort.

The Bad: I was seriously a hot mess. It was a really lackluster performance, but I’m trying not to focus on that part.

The Painfully Sunburned:

Ouch.

I see unreasonable amounts of aloe in my future.

* Have you joined my Facebook Group yet?

* See how my training is going over here!

* Wonder what I’m eating?

* Everyone loves a giveaway