This close to the goal, this close to the race a huge WRENCH has bounced into the works, threatening to derail these years of work.
Saturday, I went for a 13.1 mile run, in preparation for my upcoming first half marathon. I shaved some time off my first attempt, maintained a steady, sluggish pace. It was the run I needed to accomplish to feel ready to fly down to New Orleans.
During the run, I don’t remember anything happening. I vaguely recall pseudo-rolling one ankle, but I don’t remember it hurting then or after or even which ankle it was. I didn’t register any searing foot pain. There was the aching through my entire pelvis like my hips were going to abandon their joints; there was the knotting tension balling up at the base of my spine.
But no food pain.
However, after returning home, as my joints started to settle and my muscles began to cool, an awful twinge blossomed on the side of my foot. A sharp, shooting pain piercing my nerves each time I took a step or put pressure on the side of my foot. It persisted, grew stronger, penetrated me.
Two days of rest passed with no change. I continued to limp around the house. I started to fear it was a stress fracture.
I resorted, of course, to the internet. When I looked up the anatomy of the foot, I instantly knew what hurt. The peroneal tendons. The prognosis didn’t look promising on my smartphone web browser. Rest. Rest. And rest.
I don’t have time for rest.
I wanted to go to a doctor. Unfortunately, with my company mid-transition between carriers, it turned into a cluster fuck that lost my enrollment information and left me with no coverage until they figure it out.
Instead, I turned to my network of running addicts and experts and their connections. Their helpful advice and support calmed my sheer panic. A little. They, at the least, armed me with a multistep plan that still ends with me running my half marathon. And maybe even the 10 miler I’m registered for on Saturday.
I have to be patient, which is not in my nature. And I have to break my running routine, which is also not in my nature. If I don’t run in three days, it affects me mentally, robs me of my precarious little balance. But if I push through, I risk real damage; I risk even less running for longer.
I hate this. After so many years and miles of running, after so much waiting and planning, after the money to register and get there, why now? Why so close? Derailed by a bullshit little injury.
I’m still trying not to panic, trying not to assume that the dream is dead. Calm, self-care, slowly back on track.
We’ll see what happens…