My Fair Share of Abuse

Plantar Fasciitis (PF) and I met in June (approximately around the same time as the beginning of this blog writing hiatus). I figured no one was really that interested in hearing about my physical therapy or my visits to the podiatrist. But mostly, when it hurt to run, walk or even stand, the last thing I wanted to do was talk about it, because that made it all too real.

I could remember a time when I had enjoyed running. My closet could attest to this -- a running shoe cemetery dating back to my early marathon days and an extensive collection of white cotton t-shirts, screen-printed with goofy looking turkeys, running cacti, surf boards with faces, etc.

There may have been a time when running was fun, but now that time was a distant memory. Now, running was painful. I was slow and awkward. I lost my motivation to run because every time I went out, I felt like I was one step further from healing. Running everyday became every other, every other became once a week, once a week became only on race day. “This is dreadful,” my subconscious would remind me every time my left heel hit the ground. I found myself questioning the “love” that I ever felt for running. Is it something I ever really loved, or did those endorphins seriously cloud my judgment? I became scared of the thing I once loved, and the fear made me angry. Not only was it hard and painful and severely uncomfortable, but now I was bad at it and embarrassed.

Whether good or bad, a big part of who I am, I associate with training and racing. When people ask me what keeps me busy, it’s not boyfriends or a husband, children or a career, social lighting or traveling; it’s training, and my laundry list of upcoming races. Maybe to some that sounds unsatisfying, but it makes me happy. It is simple and I like it that way. But what happens when training and racing are out the window because of an injury? Well, by the time PF came onto the scene, I had $1000 floating around in Active.com World, dedicated to my next season of racing. I certainly couldn’t re-nig on these commitments. What a waste! Plus, I was getting bored with my current collection of event garb and I needed a fix.

So physical therapy it was. Strength training and stretching, sure. Ultrasound and electrical stimulation, alright. Steroid patches and resistance work in a box of dry pinto beans, wait what? New shoes and new inserts, old shoes and new inserts, new shoes and old inserts, tape, night splints, acupuncture, homeopathic remedies, ibuprofen, naproxen, acetaminophen, topical pain relievers, scraping, ice, rubz, podiatrists, x-rays, orthotics. FOR THE LOVE!!! Out of desperation I considered cortisone shots and plantar fascia surgery. I was lost and I would have tried anything to take the pain away and get back on the road.

For the most part I’ve managed to stay pretty injury free all my life. No broken bones, no concussions, never had any teeth knocked out. I guess ballet doesn’t carry the same risk factors as say soccer or basketball. In any case, an injury free childhood means that I am just now learning how to deal with this very real side of athletics. Our bodies are amazing, but that doesn’t mean we are immune to injury. And when I heard someone liken PF to the runner’s vampire bite, I was almost certain my number had been called.

Ironman race day quickly approached, a day that I had been my motivation for all my training over the course of the year, a day that I hoped would be perfect in every way, a day I now looked forward to with a combination of apprehension and dread. I realized that I would not be at my best come race day, that I would not feel any relief from my injury, and most sadly, I was fearful that this was the beginning of the end of my racing career, that at 28 I had literally run out of miles, that all my running dreams were slipping away . . . Kona, Leadville . . . all slowly fading from the realm of possibility.

Race day inevitably came. I limped around transition after having packed my shoes in my “morning clothes bag,” the hard ground and the cold air aggravating my injury. But now I was used to it. I would suck it up and deal with it. Maybe it was a mix of an Aleve-overdose, the topical pain relievers, and the combined energy of all 2500 athletes willing themselves to the finish, regardless of any obstacle, but 12 hours and 1 minute later I had completed all 140.6 miles. I collected my well-earned t-shirt and hat (yes, Ironman springs for finisher hats as well) – the shirt navy and the hat orange – which would definitely spice up the collection. So I guess I had gotten what I wanted, sort of.

I didn’t revel in Ironman splendor like I did after my first finish. This time I welcomed the break from training. I wanted my body to heal and I didn’t want to be reminded day in and day out that I was operating at less than 100%. Over the next weeks I walked around with a song in my head and these hackneyed lyrics on repeat:

“You can’t always get what you want,
But if you try sometimes,
You just might find,
You get what you need.”

To which I wanted to reply, "Oh really? Suck it, Stones."

I felt a little gypped honestly. A year of training, the money, the hours, the frustrations, the PAIN, the time and effort spent trying to heal my injury to no avail. Maybe in the end I still made it to the finish, but it didn't happen at all the way I wanted, and I’m not sure it’s what I needed either, Mick.

But when it came down to it, despite my current disenchanted state, I still wasn’t ready to give up on running. It had made me who I am and it had shaped my life. I owed it to running to make this right. My type A personality forces me to emphatically say yes to any run, any race, any distance, any pace. But for months now my body had been telling me to “KNOCK THE F*CK OFF!!!” and so for once I listened.

Cycling and circuits (severely boring), night splints (exceedingly lame), foot exercises (unarguably stupid), became my regimen. I read about running fundamentals, about the movement of the foot, about proper running technique. When I ran, I applied my new wisdom which initially made me even slower, hurt my ankles, calves and forefeet. Awesome. Have you ever tried to change the way you run or walk? It’s like trying to change the way your heart beats – as if running is as involuntary and uncontrollable as the blood pumping through your body. Healing was not going to happen on its own, but I was willing to try. Fine, Mr. Jagger, you got me on that one.

Well, if you know anything about me, you know where this story is going. Active.com showed up to collect in the amount of one half marathon this past weekend. I stood at the starting line feeling happy, triumphant, and ready for the first time in months. PF was on its way out. It was refreshing to be "on the road" again, except that my “anticipated finish time” required 7:40/miles and because of my injury I hadn’t done ONE sub 9:00/mile since Boston last spring. Riiiight.

Well, all I can say is that adrenaline is an amazing thing. Maybe I hadn’t trained appropriately, and maybe I hadn’t really earned my position in the second coral, but when the race started there was that old familiar feeling of flying -- the quick turnover of my legs and my arms pumping to propel me forward. I felt like I was falling in love with running all over again. And love makes you do some crazy things . . .

At the end of the day I got my 7:40’s and a PR by 12 minutes. And now I was an even bigger believer in the power of our bodies and the still greater potential of our minds. And most importantly, every mile, every step that day I saw as a gift, a blessing, because now, I knew the alternative. I had a body that would do more than I had expected, a mind that bolstered my body in the face of difficulty and discomfort, a will that wouldn't take no for an answer, and an unmarred love for all this insanity. The things I wanted, on this day and at Ironman -- the perfect body, the effects of perfect training, the perfect race plan, the confidence that comes with all these -- all those "wants" remained unmet, and in the end it really didn't matter. Because it's really never about perfection, is it? It's about taking our very real bodies and minds, with all of our shortcomings, improper techniques and hangups, confronting our deficiencies, changing, and growing beyond them. By revealing our imperfections we can, oddly enough, more closely approach perfection. So (sigh . . . eye roll . . . ), maybe The Stones had it right. Perhaps when you try you do get exactly what you need. Maybe getting what we want makes us momentarily happy and content, but getting what we need makes us whole and heals us.

Side note: Mick Jagger was 20 years old when he wrote the lyrics to You Can't Always Get What You Want . . . and on acid (so the story goes). So just because rock and roll says it's true doesn't always mean it's so. However, youth and heavy narcotics aside, they got it right this time.