The surest, quickest way to not feel like myself is not running. It has been tougher than I recall. In the time it took for me to recover a bit from tendonitis, I naturally contracted a plague that drained all sense of motivation from my bones and left me couch-bound (not to mention depression-riddled) for several days. These events, individually, would be surmountable, manageable. As I anxiously adjust back into a running routine, I’m more aware than ever, and with Marathon looming, that I’ve been almost 3 weeks away from it.
The blow to my immune system and my resolve has been significant.
The dog resents me for keeping him housebound, and my thoughts seem scrambled and distant. Focus is fleeting at best with muscles lethargic and twitchy from too much nothing. The original training plan would have me running 13 miles this weekend, and its all but debilitating to acknowledge that it is probably out of the question.
Training may be compromised, but I am not. I must remind myself of this.
The balance is precarious, I realize. Among many, many other things, running has taught me this: sometimes compromise is necessary.
Necessary in order to save your knees, your feet, your tendons. Save them to run another day so that mind and body can remain whole. It’s not the pain I’m worried about, but rather the prospect that that pain might ground me indefinitely. I must come to terms with compromise, however unpleasant, if running and I are to remain life-long partners.
With focus on regaining old strength and testing the will of aggravated tendons, I’ve promised myself to wait a while before making any decisions about whether I will realistically be in a position to run the full in 2 months.
The part of me that fractured my metatarsal wants to pursue it any cost. The new part of me that values things like bones, acknowledges it might be time for a new plan.
Time and tendons will tell.