The fall

I didn't run today. For those that know me, this could very well be a sign of the apocolypse. I always run; wind, rain, snow, negative temperatures, heat and injury. Nothing stops me from lacing up and running my town. Today was different.

The weather was bad with 24+ mph winds, snow and treacherous ice covering every single street and sidwalk. It wasn't the weather, though, that kept me from my morning ritual. I have shoes to combat the ice and appropriate clothes to run in the "spring" Wyoming elements. Pain kept me from my run.

About a month ago I set out for a regular 8.25 mile run. My soul was craving the solitude and I was excited to hit the streets on a day that wasn't windy, icy, snowing or overly cold. Anxious for a run in the balmy 37 degree morning, I dressed quickly in non-winter gear, threw my contacts in and laced up. Blinking quickly I realized my contacts were fuzzy, but being giddy about the weather prompted me to run without fixing them. It was 3:00 in the morning, almost everyone was asleep and although the sidewalks and streets were uneven and riddled with uplifts and potholes I had run the route hundreds of times and knew the danger zone like the back of my hand.

The morning was glorious; pockets of warm air nuzzled me, stars smiled and twinkled in the dark sky and my splits were fabulous. My foggy contacts had been a non-issue as I began the trek uphill into the danger zone. I slowed my pace slightly to accomodate 12 blocks of horrible sidewalks. Navigating the familiar terrain, I smiled when the blinking stoplight that marked the end of the danger zone was less than 20 feet away. Quietly congratulating myself on a successful foggy run, my foot caught a new uplift in the sidewalk. Caught in the euporia of thinking I'd made it caused me to react slowly. I fell. My slow response meant my knees took the full brunt of the fall. Crouching I took a minute to catch my breath and share some colorful phrases with the furry bunnies that watched from under the bushes. Getting up slowly I gingerly took a few steps and added a few more phrases to the bunny rabbits' vocabulary. I've fallen many times before, but this hurt like a son of a basket weaver. Hobbling across the intersection I glared at the blinking red and yellow of the stoplight. Walking slowly I tried valiantly to shake out my knees. I had a smidge over a 5K left so I gritted my teeth and finished.

Getting home I limped through my cool down walk and attempted some static stretches; nope, those weren't happening. Stripping down to get a look, I shook my head. My left knee was beautiful, swelled up to the size of a grapefruit, slightly colored on the sides and my right knee had two golf ball sized lumps at the top and bottom. There were really no scrapes, meaning my knees absorbed the full force and power of the fall. They hurt, something I hate admitting, but I'm a runner, stubborn and I can handle pain. The rest of the day was spent at a track meet cheering on my youngest, so I put on a happy face, scaled bleachers, walked corners and only threatened to throat punch my husband once when he accidently grabbed my left knee. 

The next day I realized I had a 30 day running streak on the line. Lacing up for a short 4.5 mile trial, my knees still swollen and hurting, I justified if I could finish the run, nothing serious was wrong. The sun was sliding down the western sky, warming the air and the birds singing brightly when I set out. Pushing the pain aside, I tried to focus on the beauty of an afternoon run, only stopping periodically to shake out my knees. Finishing, even slowly, was solid proof the knees were simply banged up. I would push through, having a strong history of running on banged up knees as well as sprained ankles, a broken ankle and a broken foot.

The runs continued, maintaining my streak, with swelling finally going down after a couple weeks. The bruising still paints my knees and the craziest lumps have become a semi-permanent feature. Each run brought additional pain and I found myself mixing my training around to avoid hills . As I set each week I would optimistically plan for a 14.5 mile run, knowing full well it wasn't happening. As stubborn as I am, I knew my knees could not withstand a long run. Every mile I would push back the pain, focusing on the fact that I was at least running. Some runs were better than others, but they all hurt to some extent. I found myself missing the beauty of the morning as I tried to manage pain. Setting out for the last couple runs I was optimistic, clinging to the good moments like a drowning man to a floating log. I accepted the slower, but consistent splits for the first 4 to 5 miles. Pain was constant, but manageable, until it wasn't. Near tears, I was forced to stop and walk with 3 miles remaining. Taking deep breaths and gently rubbing my knees I attempted to pick the pace back up only to be forced back to a limp. It was demoralizing and more than a little scarey. It hurts to walk, it hurts to have something touch my knee and it is difficult to get comfortable, none of which are good indicators of healing.

The simple and logical answer is to schedule an appointment with a doctor. Unfortunately my mind clouds simple and logical. I rarely go to the doctor unless it is serious; pnemonia, tumors, broken bones. The financial obligation weighs heavily, especially as I navigate trying to balance other obligations, but the greatest deterrant to the logical answer is the potential outcomes. By breaking down and going in, I open the door to possible diagnoses that I don't want to deal with, the greatest being the inability to run for a length of time.

Fear rides through my soul when I think about being unable to run. Running feeds my soul, while the morning grounds me and gives me solace. It is time to myself filled with music, nature, prayer and hope. When my alarm goes off, my heart leaps for the one thing that is solely mine. There are no expectations other than those that are self-imposed. and I am able to freely be just me. When I run, time stands still, giving me golden moments where I don't have to worry about someone else's schedule, what I need to plan for work, meals, what bills need paid, what the week looks like for the family, who's birthday is coming up and what volunteer activity I need to organize. Running is all about me, my thoughts, a dark, quiet, peaceful town and the rhythm of music, breathing and footsteps. I have faithfully braved the winter runs, bundled in pounds of winter running gear, sporting frosted eyelashes, cold fingers and wind-bitten cheeks to be more appreciative of the coming warm runs. As Mother Nature slowly shifts the seasons I dream of warm, unencumbered runs in shorts, a top and a ponytail. The sound of birds waking up and the sweet smell of grass, flowers and summer rain. As I sit here, my heart aches at the potential of missing those runs.

Watching the snow drift by my window I battle between logic and fear, weighing the potential impact of both decisions long and short term. An ache permeates up from my knees and a sharp pain shoots up the side. I balance the impact of doing further injury and potentially never running again against buckling down, facing the fear and simply being out for a shorter period of time. Clearly there is a logical choice shining above the illogical fear and stubborness. Biting through emotion I made the call and scheduled an appointment. Worry hounds my thoughts, and my emotions are dangerously close to the surface. I often tell people not to worry, and usually have faith that things will work out, but this time I tossed my own advice out the window. Tomorrow I face the repercussions from the fall, and pray that my age has simply reduced my pain tolerance.

Whistfully watching clouds drift in the grey sky, and listening to birds practice for the summer I feel a tear glide down my cheek. How I yearned to be lacing up and hitting the streets before "the fall."