
My long-awaited re-entry into long distance running has unfortunately come to an unexpected end. Or at least another long hiatus.
I used to run a lot. I'd come home covered in sweat and sunscreen, aching calves and all that, and write down all the ideas that effortlessly fell out of my head over the daily mileage on the back of an envelope or an in-progress grocery list.
It was a meditative routine as much as a healthy one. It was important for me to have at least one creative crisis and one physical crisis to overcome on the daily. The mind-body connection, as it were. I took inspiration from runner-author Haruki Murakami, and back in the twenty-tensies, I pushed it as far as I could go - 5Ks, 10ks, and eventually two marathons.
When I went around the world in 2017, I tried to run 1000 miles in a year across dozens of cities around the globe. But when I got to places like Kathmandu where the roads were still ruptured from a recent earthquake and West Bank where the streets were overseen by security wall guard towers, self-preservation took over and I let it fall by the wayside.
When I came back to the States, I bought a house. COVID happened. Career drama happened. And running became an afterthought. It showed in my new paunch and a sagging face that I'd see on every Zoom call. When I finally finished my manuscript last month, I decided to make a change and get back out on the trails as a way to celebrate.
It was hard at first. There's a wall you have to break when you start - the one where running sucks every day as your ligaments and tendons readjust to the constant pounding. But I didn't give up. I brought my technical, sweat-wicking shirts out of retirement from the back of my dresser drawer. I bought new shoes, gel packs, a dry-erase calendar to keep track of the mileage.
The first breakthrough happened after the first month. Running stopped being something I dreaded and became something I looked forward to. The meditative rhythm of feet on the ground. The ideas percolating in between the steady breaths. The one-hand wave at other runners that I didn't realize I'd missed. That first stretch and shower.
All that changed last weekend. I ran the training equivalent of a half marathon in Ohio, just outside Springfield. I must have taken a turn too hard, or pushed my legs beyond their limits. A week later, it's hard to walk without a limp. I've googled everything from tendonitis to stress fracture to ankle surgery. I've rested, iced, compressed, elevated, foam rolled, Icy Hotted. All I know is at this point I can't run, and it's got me down.
I'd lost upwards of six or seven pounds. My gut was getting flatter and my face more defined. I had the beginnings of a nice tan. Things were good, but now they're not. One of my two daily disciplines is now sidelined and I don't know where it's going from here. Do I cycle? Do I swim? Do I wait it out?
In November, I was to run first marathon in ten years. Now, the future is unwritten.
And I'm not mad, just disappointed.
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What I’m reading: Facing the other Way: The Story of 4AD (Martin Aston)
What I'm listening to: Lust for Gold (Starflyer 59)
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