In retrospect, I should’ve seen this coming. But after being sick for nearly a week and missing four – yes, four – trail runs, I was exactly 55 miles behind in workouts and pacing my apartment like a caged lion. Must. Go. Running!

Okay, technically, I’m still in contention for Most Mucus Ever Produced by a Human Being, but I had tissues. I had them everywhere. I put some in my car, in my pockets, in my hand. I can sneeze and run at the same time, I reasoned. I’m gifted that way.

Yeah.

Things started out well enough. Sure tissue turns to gummy lint balls when clutched in your sweaty little hand, but hey, I can still blow into gummy lint balls. I’m fine. Fine! And when I jacked up the volume on my iPod enough, I almost didn’t notice my sinuses draining into my stomach.

For the first ten miles, I distracted myself by counting animals. It’s astonishing the wildlife that can withstand L.A. smog. Two bunny rabbits, three deer, one quail, one hawk and enough lizards and butterflies to forcibly take city hall. And hey, bunny rabbits don’t care that you’re not able to fully inflate your lungs. Bunny rabbits are very forgiving.

Mountain trails, however, are vicious bastards.

After twenty miles, I collapsed next to my car. I was cramping, gasping and nauseated. Then the unthinkable happened.

I dropped a tissue.

On the ground. At least three feet below my fingers. Dammit.

Must. Not. Litter, I gasped.

I reached down. My quads screamed, my hamstrings revolted and all the snot in my head sloshed around in a most unpleasant fashion. I stood up, and the world around me got all wobbly. I tried draping myself over the car for support, but after three hours in the sun, touching my roof was roughly equivalent to sticking your hand in a boiling soup pot.

With no alternative, I fumbled for my keys and collapsed into the driver’s seat. I needed a plan. My house was fifteen miles of winding mountain roads away. Probably I wouldn’t make it without puking, and there are hardly any places to pull over on switchbacks. Plan A, I decided, would be inside my center console. Plastic and contained, I reasoned. Like throwing up in a bucket. Plan B – well, Plan B was pretty much every man for himself.

It was the longest fifteen miles of my life, but by God, I made it. I collapsed onto my bathroom floor clutching a bottle of Maalox. After a few minutes, I managed to strip off the sweaty, dirty running clothes thereby reducing the likelihood I’d have to wash vomit out of my favorite sports bra. It almost felt like a victory. Then I remembered the fix-it guys were supposed to show up any minute with their own keys to my apartment.

Dammit.

It took a minute to decide how much I cared that I was naked and gasping on the bathroom floor. One of them might have a camera phone, I reasoned, which was enough to get me to kick the door shut with my foot and fumble with the turn lock.

Now, if only I could manage to get in the shower…