Books are dangerous. They don’t tell you that. I’m a book pusher. I encourage habits that can turn dangerous. Perhaps I need to reevaluate my moral standing.
I just read, Born to Run. If you haven’t heard of this book yet- 1. Hello, welcome back from underneath that rock. 2. Go find it!
As a result of this book, The Boy and I have started researching running styles and discussing our running goals. Running goals? Crap.
I’ve even gone as far as looking up ways to implement the Tarahumara Indians’ diet into our lifestyle. The Boy laughed when I suggested we plant their corn in the backyard. Okay, fine, I may be known for going a bit overboard.
(I have to tell you that when I suggested to The Boy that we stop eating as much meat, that it actually felt as if the earth had ceased to move. Apparently one thing I’m not going to mess with is his ability to indulge in flesh.)
So tonight was our first jog using a new style. The running style was designed to eliminate the risk of running injuries. Perhaps it will take time because tonight my calves are screaming.
Dangerous, dangerous books.
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