On the road again

I usually reserve pancakes as a reward for completing a “long” run. Until recently that meant 10 miles or so. This morning, for the first time since early August, I made pancakes. They tasted great. They were my reward for running four miles without stopping.

Pathetic, you say. Cheating. No fair. Well, yeah, but since August 5 when I felt a twinge in my Achilles after one mile into a 10-mile run, that is the farthest I’ve run. I’ve walked, I’ve walked and run and walked again. I’ve biked. I’ve rested and iced and stretched and whined some though I’ve tried not to do too much of that.

Achilles problems are the bane of runners—common and painful and stubborn to heal. Even now, I wouldn’t go so far as to stay I’m done with gimping around for good. But what a kick to be able to step out the door and actually run for 40 minutes. How good it felt to work up a sweat on a cold day and feel as if I’d earned the right to a hot shower.

Surprising how habits become part of a routine and how much they’re missed when the routine is broken. I got so used to getting up in the morning, throwing on running clothes and heading out the door that it became uncomfortable when I couldn’t do that any more.  Of course I could have gone for a walk instead of a run but it is just not the same. It was way too easy to talk myself into thinking it was too cold to walk so early, that I could walk any time during the day.

I’ve learned the hard way not to count on evenly progressive recovery and to accept the ups and downs that have become the norm in this process.

Time for me to quit? Maybe. I guess I’m old enough. It has been suggested. Sorry. Not yet. I have a few more roads to explore.