I Am Not Running

If I weren't injured I'd be running the Boston Marathon today.  As I've been telling many people it's a good news, bad news proposition.  The bad news is I am not able to run the marathon due to a nagging Achilles strain.  The good news, I say in jest and to mollify my disappointment, is I don't have to push my body 26.2 miles.

As I write this entry, I have the marathon on television.  The elite runners are pushing through the head winds and behind them the throngs of other runners have begun their arduous and inspiring journey.    When I began my training this winter and was struggling up the rolling hills where I live and run I'd imagine I was trudging up Heartbreak Hill.  When I was descending the hills, I'd imagine it was the long and steady descent that marks the beginning miles of Boston.   I'd say to myself, if I can't do this how will I manage on marathon Monday.

As January became February and I increased my long run mileage from 10 to 12 to 14 to 16, I was making the steady progress required to complete 26 plus miles.  But then in mid-February, on a short easy recovery run, I felt a twinge in my left Achilles.  In the weeks that followed, I stretched, I iced, I took copious handfuls of ibuprofen.  I ran through the pain.  When all of that failed to demonstrably reduce the inflammation, I ceased running and began to do my aerobic workouts at the gym on the bicycle and elliptical trainer.  The pain was less, but still present.  I went to physical therapy and held out hope that I'd have enough time to both recover from the injury and still fit in the necessary training miles before it was too late.

The pain ebbed but not entirely until finally, with just about 6 weeks remaining before Boston, I decided that if I was going to be able to run, I needed to get back on the roads and get in the miles.  I set out on a crisp Saturday morning in early March.  I was determined to endure some discomfort, but was also mindful that too much pain might be signaling catastrophic and long term injury.  After just a few miles I felt the familiar soreness with each stride.  I tried to run lightly and gently, but after a couple more miles wisdom prevailed.  I called my wife and asked her to pick me up.

On the ride home I tried not to sulk.  I tried to focus on the correctness of my decision.  I knew I was doing the smart thing, but I also knew that the structure of my days would now fade. I know myself well enough to know that I wouldn't be exercising for a while.  I enjoyed not just the running, the being in shape, but also the commitment to training.  Because a marathon is a serious undertaking, one can't shirk the training - at least I can't.  I am not a natural athlete.  It is work for me and without fear of pain that the marathon represented, I felt certain that my commitment to running would slide.

I was right.  After that day, I have largely failed to do my ankle exercises.  With the exception of a 10K I ran a couple of weeks ago (with mild Achilles pain the whole way), I haven't done much in the way of aerobic exercise.  As I sit now, watching the marathon, I think I am beginning to understand why.  I am pouting.  Pouting, just like the pouting I witness in my two year-old, only punishes the pouter.  I've used my legitimate injury as an illegitimate excuse to wallow.  Now with the Boston Marathon here and nearly gone, it's time to put my disappointment to rest.  I was not at the start of this race and I won't be at the finish.  It is what it is - an experience to learn from.   Through the process of training, injury, sulking, and watching these runners runners today, I've come to realize that I'd rather be running.  Time to start rehabbing my ankle.

Congratulations to all the marathoners.  I sincerely appreciate your accomplishment.