Day 315 - The Mysteries of the Human Body

Yesterday, I was hobbling. Seriously.

For the first time this year I was seriously worried that I wouldn't make it to 365.

My left heal was limp-around-the-office sore. People, I took a trashcan full of ice water into my 1:00p meeting, slid it under the conference table, and put my foot in it. This was serious.

Trail running is a gloriously animalistic, natural act, but it's not for the weak. I'm pretty sure my gimphood sprung from one misstep. One that I remember. Because it hurt like hell.

I'd deftly cleared a rock that was embedded in the trail. Deftly, but insufficiently. My toes made it over, but my heel came down right on that mother. "Whack!" doesn't quite convey the sudden, shuddering shockwave that went from heel to teeth.

I've had booboos before. Lots of them. 99% of the time, they disappear by the time I get home in the evening. This one, though, was setting up camp.

This morning, I woke up to piercing, stabbing, shivving pain in that same heel. "Hokey smokes!", I said. Seriously... I really said "Hokey smokes!" Then, I doddered to the fridge and returned with an icepack.

Turns out, it may have been the IcePack of Turin.

After 20 minutes, I felt... good. Normal. Like... I could walk, and everything. How the hell did that happen? I didn't want to know... I was just goin' with it.

It lasted all day. It lasted to the point that this evening, while out on my planned minimal, tiny, just barely a mile recovery run, I looked at my Garmin and it said 0.51 miles. I just couldn't get myself to turn around. It felt too good.

I wasn't laying tracks of fire or anything, but I was moving along and loving every step.

I've spent a good portion of my life being uber-cautious, holding back, just in case. It's a safe way to live. Safe, and boring, and ... well, dull, which is the same as boring, but that's the point. How many starry evenings in November in Indiana with temperatures in the mid-fifties does a guy get? Not many. And I wasn't going to waste this one with a measly one-mile run.

Don't be foolish. But don't be timid either. Seize the opportunities that life presents you, even if your inner critic begs for reason. A life lived without a little fear and risk and excitement and daring, is a life regretted.

Good running,
Doug

Numbers: 3.0 miles under a gorgeous starry sky.