The Injury Chronicles: A Run To Remember or, That Time I Booted

As I alluded in my grand re-entry to blogging, I've been rocking some really fancy new footwear off-and-on for the past month or so.

I've also been on a bit of an emotional roller coaster, as the only effective stress reliever I'd found that didn't result in a pounding headache was cruelly ripped out from beneath me. Granted, it's not like I lost a limb or anything, and in the grand scheme of my life it's just a blip on the radar. Basically, I'm going to take the opportunity to prattle on simply because I can (and all of my other friends and family are sick of hearing about it). So, if reading about running or my privileged problems isn't your bag, feel free to skip this one. I'll understand.  

And now, my pathetic tale of woe.

I know at least some of you were reading a year ago, when I started training for the BAA Half Marathon. A few more were reading when I actually ran it in October (and by ran, I mean shuffled).

I was proud. I was defeated.

A week after the race, I went hiking with a few of my friends that are also recreational runners. At one point, while discussing my crash-and-burn the week before, my friend mentioned that Boston's other big half, the Run to Remember, is touted as being a bit easier than the BAA, while still holding the elusive challenge of 13.1.

Those who aren't local or aren't into running might not know that the "new" BAA course is known for its psychological brutality; apparently somewhere along the line the race organizers said, "Hey, you know what?! We're known for running one of the world's most notoriously tricky marathons, let's make our half match!" As such, they designed the course to be 4 miles of mostly downhill on Suicide Alley, aka the Jamaicaway, followed by 5 miles of gradual incline past Jamaica Pond, which you can't see because of a wall of trees. A brutal cross-back over the sweltering hot bridge with a view of Forest Hills brings you back to Franklin Park and the 9-mile mark, where you get to endure 2 miles of flat loop on a sketchy golf course, a mile of steepish incline on a transit road, a mile through a God-forsaken zoo, and, just as you see the banners and balloons and think to yourself, "OH THANK GOD! THE PROMISED LAND!", you realize that some asshole decorated the 13 mile marker and you still have to run .1 around a track while an overcaffeinated announcer bellows your name.

In contrast, the R2R course is comprised of rolling hills, but it's Boston, so anyone that runs here regularly is used to that. It starts at the World Trade Center in the beautiful Boston seaport, runs through the shiny buildings of the Financial District, over by the historic Garden, over the river into Cambridge, then runs basically flat (minus a few bridges) for five miles in a loop along the iconic Charles River. Loop back over the bridge, run around the Common in full bloom, cut through the Downtown Crossing area back to Southie and you finish back at the World Trade Center, collecting your medal against the backdrop of the gorgeous Boston Harbor.

Rough view, no?

Not that I'd know, or anything.  

That's because on a gloomy Saturday morning back in the beginning of April, I bounded out of bed at 7am, stoked to go on a nine mile run. Obviously, there was something already wrong, because 1) I don't bound. Anywhere; 2) Least of all at 7am; 3) And definitely not for nine miles' worth of torture. I'm actually pretty sure that I had a mild hangover, if we're being honest, but for whatever reason, I was STOKED to start my run. And therein lay the problem.

In my haste, and by that I mean in my laziness to reach my arm approximately 12 inches to put on my glasses, I terribly misjudged my bounce. And then all I remember is an explosion of pain. Ankle, meet iron bed frame. HOLY. HEAVENS. I haven't felt such agony since the time I stood up too fast on a tour bus and hit my head so hard I literally saw stars. I stood there for a few minutes as tears stung the back of my eyelids and bile rose in my throat. Faster than I thought possible after an episode like that, though, the pain began to dissipate and I decided to wait a few hours, ice it and see if any bruising or swelling happened. 

It never did.

So, three hours later, off I went on my nine-miler which, coincidentally, turned into a 10-miler because I'm a math idiot and miscalculated the distance it would take for me to get home. I was happy with my time and over all, I felt good. I did my usual post-long run stretch, ice bath, shower routine, got in the car, and drove up to NH to spend Easter with Andrew's family. No harm, no foul.

As the week went on, I started noticing a bit of stiffness happening in my left ankle after short runs, but didn't really think anything of it. It was a drop-back week anyway, so the furthest I went was five miles. I knew I was pushing my shoes, the very same ones that caused so much drama in the BAA half, to their limit as far as wear and tear -- and by that, I mean the foam on the back of the left one had completely worn out. So, I started with what any runner does when leg pain starts: I bought new shoes.

[Source]

In a brand spankin' new pair of Brooks Ravenna 3s, I did a few shorties, an 11-miler ending at the finish line the day before the Boston Marathon, PR'ed a 5-mile race, and did a leisurely 9-mile run with Andrew. Unfortunately, I had to take more and more time off between them to recover. The crazy thing was, it didn't hurt AT ALL while I was running, save for the occasional twinge of discomfort and, well, what one would expect while running 11 miles. It was only afterwards, typically the next morning, that I would get a dull but persistent ache right above my outer left ankle bone. RICE became my best friend. The only cause I could think of was the new shoes; I honestly forgot that I had ever whacked it three weeks before.

And then, one day on a 2-mile treadmill jaunt, the area right above my ankle bone started to sting. Obviously, this paranoid hypochondriac had been WebMDing and Runner's World Forum-ing every twitch and tingle, so I immediately got off the damned machine and stretched my lower leg out. It felt a bit better, and I had no pain at all as I walked out of the gym. The next morning, however, was another story; I could barely put any weight on it and couldn't make it two feet without wincing from pain shooting up the outside of my leg. At that point, I called the doctor and made an appointment for the next day.

With four weeks to go until my big "Revenge Race," I went to a GP at my office's urgent care, who ordered x-rays and a walking boot. The x-rays were negative but the pain persisted, so I scheduled an appointment with a Nurse Practitioner specializing in Sports Medicine and non-operative injuries. After feeling along the bone and realizing it was an extremely localized pain, she diagnosed a stress reaction (fancy name for "bone bruise"), but would not rule out the possibility of a fracture. I'm planning to do a follow-up post on this stuff, but I was blown away by the care I received -- I walked in there expecting to be told to quit running for months and scrap the race, but instead I found support and a solid plan: 7-10 days in a walking boot, a short test run, a follow-up appointment, another test run -- all with the hope of being able to not only start, but finish, my 13.1.

Boot, Elevation, Ice... check!

As you might have surmised, it didn't work. I did a short run the week before the race and while it felt amazing mentally to be pounding the pavement, my ankle still ached enough afterward that both my NP and I weren't convinced there was not a small stress fracture lurking deep in the bone. With that in mind, I made the incredibly hard decision to skip the Run to Remember to let it heal. My Memorial Day weekend was bittersweet; Andrew made sure to get me out of the city and down the Cape, but I still shed more than a few tears over the lost opportunity of seeing all of my hard work and training finally pay off.

I'm actually still in the walking boot as I type this -- when the ache didn't fully go away, I called my NP back and we scheduled an MRI. Thankfully, it turned out that her original diagnosis was right on the money: a lateral tibial stress reaction, rather than a stress fracture. For obvious reasons, that is great, but there is a down side... bone bruises can oftentimes take twice as long to heal as actual fractures. There is also a bit of fluid in the area, and the MRI indicated mild tendonitis, although we aren't sure if that is secondary due to the primary trauma or because my gait has been whacked out since I got hurt. Today is Day 14 in little Bootsykins, although I am going to keep it on for a few extra days because I was a bit, err... lax with it on vacation last week (Like there was ever a chance in hell I was going to wear it to the beach. Right.). I actually have to call and make an appointment for physical therapy later this afternoon, as well as a follow-up with my NP. She thinks that, with any luck, I should be back to running again in about five weeks.

To be honest, at this point, I'd be happy just to walk. But I have big plans once this thing is gone:

I want to go to there.

Revenge Run: Double or Nothing.