On Memorial Day weekend, Dave and I were in Bethesda Naval Hospital getting his foot/ankle x-rayed and examined. We'd just started training for the Erie Marathon and were running the country roads. In Maryland country roads are paved, and a hard surface is harder on the legs than trail running, which we prefer now. Dave was feeling his oats; striding and stretching it out with an interval-like workout. As so as he told me that he'd done some interval training when out of view from me, I wondered if he'd be in trouble. Sure enough, Dave woke up the next morning with a sore foot/ankle.
I mention that because earlier in the day I'd explained to a friend, when Dave and her husband (he is running the Erie Marathon with us - his first) were not within earshot, that I would be able to go out and run that marathon today if need be. I knew I would finish the Erie Marathon regardless of what kind of training I did but was worried about whether her husband or Dave would finish. Not that I am in great shape or think my shit doesn't stink. My body, knock on wood, is like a tank. I can go and go and go. I am strong, farm strong. My performance is not pretty or fast but I get the job done and virtually never get injured. We see other high level runners quit races because they are just not hitting their time hacks and they figure it's not a good day for them. And I get it that they are saving themselves for something better in their view, that they go for the victory, for the personal bests at least. I go for the zen, and also just to gut it out and get it done if my zen runs out. I am so slow that my fear is they will close down the race and try to pull people off the course before I get done. When running the Rosaryville, MD, Veteran's Day 50K a couple years ago (my first, and only 50K, so far), I asked Dave to be a volunteer because I knew he wasn't going to try to run it. It wasn't his dream to be an ultra runner (if just for a day) like it was mine. Part of my motivation for asking Dave to volunteer was that I wanted him to make sure they let me finish, to tell them if he had to that he would wait for me, that he knew I would get the job done eventually.
As it turned out, when I slowly, stiffly, painfully made my shuffling kind of running way across the finish line, I had another 45 minutes or so before they closed down the course. And I wasn't the last one.
So I know I can get the job done. Not pretty, not fast. But Dave, now, he would/could be a lot faster than me and makes himself go slow to stay within sight of me usually. I appreciate that but yet don't always like it because it starts to mess with my head, making me feel even slower that someone has to wait on me and double back, and force themselves to go slow with me. It messes up my zen.
Along with his great talent for speed comes injuries. And my friend's husband tends to get blisters that he stubbornly refuses to treat until they are nasty, bleeding messes. I worry that these two big guys with a lot more speed than I can muster, can go the distance at Erie. I fear they will get injured.
If you think I have low standards for competing, I will answer you that I compete on a different level. Here is how I look at it. How many people never exercise at all? OK, imagine all the people you know and those you see in your daily life. Separate them into groups of those who do and those who don't exercise. See how small the group of exercisers is already. And maybe the group of exercises includes weekend golfers, people who walk their dogs, people who rent beach bikes on vacation. So let's whittle this down further. Mentally separate out how many people decide to train for and compete in a marathon - or any equivalent accomplishment in any sport. You see the group of those who do get much, much smaller. With that smaller group, now separate out who start training for a marathon and those who actually show up on race day still planning to run? The group just got smaller. And here we go again: of those who start the race, how many finish? I am still standing in that group. And it is a lot smaller.
Dave's foot/ankle got better. It wasn't broken, fortunately. And what caused it? Overuse too fast, maybe, or too much weight still, or maybe the fact that we are aging athletes. All of those, probably.
And we just got done riding our bicycles from DC to the Eastern Continental Divide. We'd meant to go on to Pittsburgh but thunderstorms and heavy downpours stopped us. We've ridden in rain before. In fact our KATY Trail ride across Missouri was done in rain everyday, to the point the trail was washed out in places. But there wasn't lightening. I respect Mother Nature. And thunderstorms were predicted for several more days. We had other life event time hacks we needed to hit. So call it quitting if you will, but we were out having an adventure and we achieved that.
But, that story is told because, low and behold, as we got back to our RV, crawled into bed that night all showered and clean, I looked down at my left leg and foot and said aloud, "Well will you look at that? What happened here?" My lower left leg, ankle and foot was swollen. Upon closer inspection, I saw I had significant bruising along both sides of my foot just above the tougher skin of my heal. The bruising ran parallel to the bottom of my foot, about two to three inches. I vaguely recall a fast start or stop on the bike where I'd put my feet down and had my left foot partially stuck in a rut or something, but I don't remember any painful injury. And I never thought of it again. We were camping in our Big Agnes tent each night and showers consisted of washing off in the Potomac River or standing beside the water pump at the hiker/biker campsites, splashing water on ourselves. So I wasn't looking in mirrors or putting moisturizers on myself like I might do if in cushy surroundings.
It's not hot so I ruled out a blood clot. I've been treating it with my favorite med: Naproxen, and keeping it elevated when possible, taking it easy. The swelling is going down now. So, OK, I guess I do get injured.
But remember, I didn't even know I was injured. I am still a Sherman Tank.
