OK, I admit it - I'm not done with running, but running seems to be done with me. I'm hurt. Injured. Wounded. Decrepit. And currently, out of action. The left foot had the last laugh following my most recent marathon. Unfortunately it was the sort of evil laugh a sadistic executioner might use upon discovering that his beloved beheading ax was duller than the butter knife he included with your final meal - a meal of bread with no butter.
What's wrong with my foot you ask? Well, sit back and let me tell you all about it.
I. Don't. Know.
Yeah, that about sums it up. I have no f'n clue what's wrong. What seemed to be plantar fasciitis has morphed through several different stage of painful, indistinct suckitude. Doctor Google tells me it is a combination of plantar fasciitis, post tibial tendonosis, and heel fat pad atrophy, served with a demi-glace of calcaneal stress fracture. My running bud, Randy, says my foot has been infested by tiny, evil gnomes. I think Randy has better odds of being right.
So, I'm off to the doctor, again, for x-rays and probably an MRI. With my luck, the evil foot gnomes have been hammering tiny iron nails into my foot bones, which will all come exploding out of my foot like so much reverse shrapnel when the MRI cranks up. I can only hope it takes out a few of those little bastards at the same time.