The Injury Chronicles: Part Two

This morning, the 2012 BAA Half Marathon sold out in an hour and fifteen minutes.

After a lot of thinking, hemming, hawing, whining, drinking and thinking some more, I made the decision not to enter this year. It sounds like it was a hard call, but really, it wasn't. The fact is, while there is a good chance I would be physically ready and able to run 13 miles by October 7th, mentally it could would be a disaster.

Why? Because frankly, I'm scared to start running again. I'm scared of the huffing and puffing and the snail paces on the clock. I'm scared of the blisters, the band-aids and the bloody socks. I'm scared of the ice baths, the endless energy shots and the Costco-sized gallons of Gatorade that threaten to overwhelm my (tiny) fridge.

Mostly, I'm scared of pushing too far, too fast. Of hurting myself all over again. Of running my feet, quite literally, into the ground.  

I started physical therapy last week. Despite being surrounded by medical professionals for most of my adult life, I was still really intimidated by the prospect of having a qualified professional watch my every move and then instruct me on how to fix whatever I did incorrectly. What if I was, I don't know, bad at it, thus hindering my recovery to the point of never being able to walk, let alone run, again? (You probably think I'm kidding, but Andrew will vouch that I have these kind of reactions often. I'm nothing if not consistent in my paranoia and fear of judgment and failure).

During my assessment, my PT echoed the thoughts expressed by every doctor I've seen; I have a really flat right foot and a really, really flat left. He even went a step further and said that the left arch has entirely collapsed. Like all those before him, he assured me that this is not my fault, that it would have happened in due time anyway, that running just accelerated the need for a good podiatrist and custom orthotics. Like my sports med doc, he thinks that the stress reaction itself was likely a result of severe overpronation and that  the trauma of whacking my foot was just a catalyst, the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back (or almost broke my ankle, if you will).

Thankfully, he also used the phrase, "already turning the corner" and gave me a referral to a very highly-regarded podiatrist, whom he guaranteed would not give me the one-glance-and-done routine perfected by the last pod I saw. Unfortunately, said M.D. is unavailable to see me until August 20th, which is a really long frickin' time from now. In the meantime, I've been a good little doobie, paying thrice-weekly visits for electrostim, massage, stretching, strengthening and ice. I do my little exercises three times a day (err... I try, anyway), tying my little rubber band to a desk chair and miming the alphabet under my desk. And, to the horror of most women I encounter, I have abandoned all sense of fashion and overhauled my collection of summer footwear.

Tangent: This is week 11 of wearing sneakers. Did you hear that? WEEK ELEVEN! OF SNEAKERS! I admit to a minor indiscretion involving a pair of three-inch wedges and the occasional fling with flip flops, but for the most part, I've been wearing holes in every pair of pseudo-supportive sneakers I own. And by that I mean I've been purchasing every kind of over-the-counter insoles known to womankind in the hopes that they will somehow miraculously provide the arch support my failing feet crave, thereby saving me several hundreds of dollars next month. So far, no dice. By the time I'm done I will have amassed enough CVS Extrabucks and CitySports Rewards to finance my entire apparel-shoe-sock-and-gel budget for a year, let alone pay for custom insoles. But I digress.

Today, the 2012 BAA Half Marathon sold out in an hour and fifteen minutes, without me.

And I am relieved.