By Paul Fiorilla

After 24 years of running, one would think I would know better.
    Maybe I'm stubborn. Maybe I'm stupid. Maybe running has become so reflexive an act that I can't stop myself from lacing up my Nikes and going out. Or maybe all the pounding I've done over the years has altered my DNA, creating a being for which running has become as much an essential element of survival as breathing or eating.
    What am I babbling

about? My inexplicable inability to rest when I'm sick or hurt, which, due to the inexorable laws of nature, makes me sicker and more hurt. That turns a minor injury into serious pain, leaving me incredibly frustrated. If you don't know the experience, it's probably because you haven't run long enough. Or you have been blessed with superior wisdom or super-human health, in which case I'd personally like to trip you the next time we meet at a race.Of course, if anyone should

know better, it's me.       
     When I was young, I was a fairly serious runner (I actually did two-a-days during my career as a schoolboy, when I ran times that ... ah, well, that's for another day) but my racing career was halted by repeated problems with shin splints. When I got back into racing in my 30s, it was when I wrote a weekly running column for a newspaper. That gave me access to numerous running experts, whom I
used to write all sorts of

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