Writer on the Run XXVII

I slept over thirteen hours and woke feeling like I had been in an car accident. He laughed as I tried to  make my way to the bathroom...not entirely sure how I was going to be able to sit down or get back up. My only hope was the more I moved the looser my muscles became. He was leaving to go back to Montreal this evening and I was heading back to Jersey for the last few days of my trip so I didn't want to spend the day in bed...well I did, but I wanted to spend the day in Manhattan with him more. The bottoms of my feet were raw and full of opened blisters, I was nervous about the shoes I could wear knowing there was no way I was wearing socks or the shoes I used in the race yesterday. I remembered on the bus on the way to Staten Island a gentleman was talking about how he had a 10km race this morning, the day after the marathon...clearly I didn't train well enough.

I looked down the flights of stairs and thought about going down on my bum but I toughed it out and leaned on his shoulders with each step. We decided to slowly walk to Harold Square to shop around and grab a bite to eat. The worst pain by far was at the top of my foot where it met my ankle...with every step I wanted to bang my head on a brick wall...who the fuck does this...and more than once?  Screw it, we're taking the subway...