Dabbling Again

I've been dabbling in running again.

And by dabbling, I mean I've kinda-sorta-already-run-7-(extremely slow)-miles-on-a-random-Saturday-afternoon.

This is both the best and worst thing to ever happen to me.

A lot of people didn't understand why I was so brutally upset when I had to make the decision to skip the half marathon for which I had been training for three months. Sure, it sucked to have to fall short of a goal I was fairly certain to achieve, but at the end of the day, it was just a race, at a distance I'd already run a few months before. It's not like I had trained for a marathon, only to have it ripped out from beneath me the day before (two of my good friends went through that with Boston and New York, respectively, which really provided me with some much-needed perspective in the long run). In retrospect, sobbing under a tree in the rain the evening before the race might have been a bit melodramatic.

At the time, though, I was struggling with a lot of negative emotions. In particular, I suffered from serious self-doubt, and it took until October for me to really understand that I made the right decision. Amidst all of the Nancy Kerrigan, "WHYYY???" moments, the real problem plaguing me was wondering if I had used my injury as a cop out: was I really incapable of running 13.1 due to a legitimate injury, or was I just afraid to do it after my underwhelming BAA performance, after very publicly declaring my goal to crush my personal record?

Obviously, those thoughts weren't based in reality in the slightest. An MRI showed a distinct stress shadow on the spot where my ankle was radiating pain, as well as peroneal tenosynovitis that likely developed as a reaction to the stress reaction. Not one, but two respected medical professionals who deal with these injuries every day verified my decision, pointing out that I didn't have a full-blown stress fracture -- yet -- but that if I continued to train and attempted to complete the half marathon distance, I could have literally end up snapping my tibia, my peroneal tendon or worse, both, at any point. They didn't even say that it was a mere possibility, but that it was a likelihood, given the location of the injury.

So, rather than sweating through my spandex and gobbling Gu, I spent last Memorial Day weekend self-medicating with chardonnay on a beach and a boat (and under the aforementioned tree, of course).

This year, I won't be so lucky.

Like the crazy, non-talented running lunatic I am, I have signed up to run another half marathon in the semi-near future. Note that I said "run," not, "train for", although if we're being real (and I always strive to be real), I am nothing short of woefully terrified of a repeat performance of last year. I could have gestated a child since I last ran more than eight miles in a week.

Gestated a child, people.

I learned a lot about how to train after my first half, which was actually only my third race, period. The second time around, I knew that I wanted to go at least 11 miles prior to race day; I actually had a 12er two weeks out on my training plan. I knew what to eat and when to consume it; I knew to start eating and drinking while I was still feeling good, rather than waiting until my energy started to deplete. Most importantly, I knew that the distance was no longer mythical or impossible, because I'd already raced it. Not just run it -- there were elements of the race itself for which no amount of training would have prepared me.

Now, I have the benefit of hindsight to realize what I did -- both right and wrong -- the last time, and to adjust yet again. Now I know that "cross-training" isn't code for, "Gossip Girl Marathon" on the training plan. Now I know that I'm one of those people for whom custom orthotics and CEP socks are of tremendous benefit, despite the discomfort. Now I know that my run doesn't end at the front door; it ends twenty minutes of calf-, IT- and hamstring-stretching later. Most importantly, now I know that even if I'm a mile from the historic finish line of the Boston Marathon, even if I've just had the best run of my life and I'm in the middle of the world's biggest runner's high, I need to take that day's run for what it is, to savor that feeling, to not let my emotions get the better of me, and to stop running. This week's miles are for this week; next week's miles are for next week.

And when the opposite of that feel-good runner's high happens and something hurts, even after a few days rest? Get thee to a doctorey is my new mantra.

The good news is that, should I ever feel even the slightest annoying twinge or tweak, be it from running or otherwise, I now have a fully-stocked arsenal of medical professionals at my disposal. In addition to my Primary Care, I have a Sports Medicine/Orthopaedics Gal (great for ruling out all the stuff the problem is not), a Physical Therapist (great for figuring out how to make the pain stop and teaching me how to strengthen stuff so I stop getting hurt), a Certified Massage Therapist (for all those random aches and pains that PT won't help), a Podiatrist (for pointing out all the other issues my flat feet have bestowed upon me) and a Chiropractor (for twisting my spine into impossible configurations and relieving whatever ailments the rest of them fail to solve). I even have an Allergist on staff to remind me that no, I have not contracted the plague or chronic fatigue syndrome; I'm tired and itchy and sneezing all the time because I have the immune system of a newborn.

In other words, I should probably live in a bubble.

So, that's the plan. I did 4.25 miles of hellish hills last night, and my legs are in in rough shape this morning. On with the CEPs and fire up the calf rocker -- it's going to be a long (but productive!) few months.