Going nowhere fast

My quest to run 2009K in 2009 has hit a speed bump.  A speed bump with a warning sign stating “PMS” ahead.  PMS meaning Post Marathon Slump, not that other thing.  My logbook is covered in cobwebs – I’ve neglected recording my “workouts” as a delusional means of avoiding The Sad Truth.  The Sad Truth: my mileage has been dismal and my cross-training non-existent.  I may need a map to help find my way back to the gym, it has been that long.  I’m a low(ish) mileage runner at the best of times, supplementing a few high quality runs with spinning, swimming, and yoga.  This new low mileage, low quality, no cross-training plan is not doing much for my conditioning.  A concern, as I am running a half marathon in two weeks and a 50K ultramarathon in five weeks.  My quadfecta is still a pitiful bifecta.
 
Some of this fall-off can be directly linked to my own sinful sloth, some of it to plain old bad luck.  The descent into laziness started at the end of March.  I was away at a conference and managed one measly run on that instrument of torture known as a treadmill.  Then I enthusiastically embraced a mini-taper before Around the Bay; followed by an unplanned mini-recovery (unplanned because it followed a – stupid in hindsight - spontaneous run at race pace, rather than at a less taxing training pace – oops).  A scant two weeks later the more lengthy Boston taper began.  Then a few brief, but enjoyable, days of post-Boston recovery.  Still in post-Boston rest mode, I was inflicted with a flu virus, the likes of which I haven’t experienced since fifth grade.  Laid flat out for one long week (another minute of daytime TV and my next stop would have been the asylum), my daily workout consisted of a10-metre lap from my bed to the sofa, to the washroom, to the sofa.  My heart rate once spiked so high from the effort of pouring a glass of orange juice that I needed to rest en route from the fridge back to the sofa.  My eyelids hurt when I blinked.  It was all kinds of ick.  The following week I commanded my legs to run and they responded with a resounding hell no.  Then Husband’s appendix exploded and although I logged a lot of time at the hospital, my running shoes remained in the closest untouched.  And here I am now.  Stuck in a rut of inertia.
 
I need to scare motivation back into my idle legs.  That means facing The Sad Truth and all those horrifying blank entries in my logbook.  I need to quantify my inactivity.  Cold hard numbers will galvanize my spirit, once I recover from the initial shock of facing my secret laggard.  Gulp.  The Cold Hard Numbers: eight-hundred and ninety-one kilometres (it seems more impressive when written in long form) and counting.  Um, gotta run.  
 
Title Reference:  Beck – Goin’ Nowhere Fast.  From the Album Banjo Story.  1988.