About a quarter mile later, I feel a pain in my foot. Since I'm a total badass (or moron), I decide that I will just pound the pain out of my foot. This proved to be a faulty strategy as the pain went from miserable to unbearable. I finally pulled over on the side of the course and tried to massage my foot, hoping it was just a cramp. I got back up and ran about fifty more feet when I realized that I had a stress fracture in my foot. I decided the best way to handle this was to walk on the outside of my foot so my foot was basically at a 90 (probably more like 60) degree angle to the ground.
So I hobbled my way to the post-race party and did what any red-blooded, broken footed American would do. I drank beer. It was almost 9 AM, so I quickly pounded seven beers before lunch time. I ate lunch and drank more beer. I ate a snack and had more beer. I went to a street fest, so I could stand around on a bum foot and drink more beer. After 15 hours of drinking, I did the obvious thing for a guy with a broken foot. I went dancing. I couldn't quite perform true West Coast Dance, but I was able to do some West Coast Grind with some nice looking young ladies.
None of these were good decisions, but I really didn't have a choice. I can't stop being a badass.
A few days later I went to the doctor. I think he could tell that I was a total badass (I'm awful at hiding that fact), because he repeatedly told me that if it hurts, don't do it. I expected to say this once, maybe twice to remind me. Instead, he said this four times. I kept acknowledging him every time he said it, but I obviously had no intention of following his orders. I mean, as Patrick Swayze taught us in his quintessential role as Dalton in the movie Road House, "Pain don't hurt."
So just four days later, I went to a Blake Shelton concert, because standing on a broken foot sounded like a splendid idea. It was late in the concert when I heard a commotion behind me, and saw one mess of a girl being held up by five different people. Somehow, between the five of them, they could barely move this girl.
At this point, most people would think to themselves that they have a broken foot so maybe I can find somebody to help them. Luckily for these broads, I'm not most people. I didn't think about my broken foot, I really didn't think at all. I asked if they needed help, and when they said they did, I threw the passed out girl over my shoulder and carried her out of the main concert area to the nearest medic, saving a young girl's life in the process.
Does that make me a hero? It's really not my place to say...but yes, it does make me a hero.
And after my heroic deed, I could have stuck around and probably had a crazy sixsome with the five conscious girls, but as a true American Hero, I was not in it for the sexing, I did it because it was the right thing to do (and they weren't hot enough). I met back up with my buddies to catch the encore and proceeded to get increasingly drunk while basking in the glow of my own heroism.
A few days later, I got back in the gym, and have worked back to doing lunges, squats, and riding the bike for a little cardio. I've done everything, but the one thing I want to do, run. I know running with my foot is a horrible idea, but I've got an itch...and I may just have to scratch it.
Besides, pain don't hurt.
P.S. There is only one Chicago Bear that I truly love. His name is Mike Martz.