Two weeks ago as I was contemplating the then upcoming (now complete) annual local half marathon I was particularly worried about my foot.
See, I had been dutifully building my distance over the summer. I had a plan. I had determination. I had a crew of people supporting my long runs. Everything was going great.
Then we went on a mountain hike. My wife and I took a week vacay in the nearby mountains and did some adventure hiking up and over a few mountain passes in the backcountry. It was beautiful and fun. And I woke up the next day with this pain in the ball of my foot—I suspected a small neuroma—that felt like I was jabbing a small annoying stone up into the nerve.
I ended up taking nearly three weeks off from my training while it healed.
That three weeks was, sadly, at a critical training point for the half schedule. We generally maintain our fitness at a point where we can knock out a ten klick run whenever, all summer and winter. So when we sign up for races we build, incrementally climbing up towards longer distances. We’ve done this for nearly two decades, and usually it’s pretty foolproof for casual training… except when injury strikes.
“How’s your foot.” A friend texted me the day before the race.
“I’m 95%.” I replied. And I was. I thought I’d dodged a bullet on that one.
Then, race morning I woke up and stepped out of bed at around 5am and I felt it. No, my foot was fine, but the ankle on my other foot had a bright pain jabbing at my already anxious soul. What the hell? I couldn’t recall what I might have done. But I was getting a ride to the start line in less than an hour so my groggy pre-dawn brain figured it must be a combination of nerves and sleeping funny and I’d walk it all off.
I took a painkiller and limped around the house getting ready to run a half marathon in a mere couple hours.
The pain faded and, honestly, I thought I was in the clear.
Maybe in my thirties this would have been a safe gamble, but shit, I’m staring down the big five-oh in a few months and I need to start listening to my body when it’s talking.
The pain returned around fifteen klicks into the race, and it was not happy that I’d been ignoring it. I’ve never had an Achilles injury, but much later in the day resting on the couch and pondering my life choices I did some research online and figured I can probably now add it to the list of running injuries I’ve experienced. What caused it? No idea. Age, probably. Perhaps it had just been building or lingering there in the back and walking the dog or mowing the lawn or pressing the clutch on my truck had been the last straw. I’ll never know.
That last six of the race was excruciating. I finished it on pure adrenaline and verve, when I probably should have hailed down a medic and saved myself the fallout of what is sure to be a couple more weeks on the bench.
Race completed, but yet another story of bad decisions has been added to my repertoire.
