Walking

I wish you had all been here this morning.

For the first time in seven months, I was ready.
I dressed in the familiar clothes, the matched-to-my-foot-size-and-running-style shoes, and the iPod with music chosen especially for mornings like today.
I was out the door and on the street at 5:17, ready to

walk.

What?

In a previous life, I was a runner. I ran many 5Ks, a 10K every Thanksgiving morning, a few half-marathons, and two glorious, difficult, impossible-to-describe marathons. I was a real runner. Not a fast runner, but I always considered myself the tortoise--I ALWAYS finish. Once with a stress fracture in my foot, and once with the flu, but I always finish.

Last summer, as I was training for my third St. George marathon, I got injured. This injury bothered me for a few months, but it wasn't too debilitating. I ran through the pain. And I was doing better than I'd ever done in my training. On August 11th, I was running my long run for the week--seventeen miles. And I did it all alone. Wow, was I proud. I felt great. The injury was nagging, but the tortoise finished the run. That night, Brad and I went to see "The Dark Knight." Now, that movie is long. And I had consumed a few gallons of fluid that day, making up for running seventeen miles in the AZ heat. About halfway through the movie, I stood up to take a little potty stop. And I could barely walk down the hall to the bathroom. Now, it's not unusual to push your body to the point of pain while training for a marathon. But this was different. It was injury. And I knew it. End of dreams for a third race. Period.

Diagnosis: after five months, an MRI revealed a tear in my left hip's labrum, with some fraying and the beginnings of arthritis. His suggestion was to wait it out, blah, blah, blah.

I've been waiting, and it's never gotten better. In fact, I recently found out that I have the same injury as A-Rod, and he's going to try to be back in eight weeks, after surgery and PT.

Currently, I am weighing these options.

But I've had enough waiting.

So, today, I walked.
It's not the same. At all. But I can't express the joy I felt being outside in the dark, canvassing my neighborhood. It wasn't the same route--no canal and three miles with my friends. (Don't remind Lori that we measured the "3 miles" with GPS once and it's only 2.77. She hates technology interfering with her run.) It was a different experience. I learned that the family in the cute yellow house is an early rising family. I saw multiple dog owners with their canines, and I almost missed having Roxy there pulling my arm off. I watched the full moon in the west, and the sun begin to announce its arrival in the east. I heard the wind rustle the palm leaves. And I inhaled citrus blossoms in every yard. I saw Tim out working on the new house across the street and I talked with three ladies from my ward, also out enjoying their morning constitutional.
I didn't set any speed records. I did discover new playlists on my iPod that I never put there (but their titles--Tuck's party, Lily's music--disclosed the perpetrators). I saw the light on in Heidi's window when I returned, and heard Tucker in the shower, preparing to leave for his 6:30 piano lesson.
It is 6:15, and it's already been a glorious morning.
I am happy.

Epiphany #52--Doctors can take me out of the running, but my body will never forget.

post-script: I've had a few comments lately about my posts, and that I really can't be all that horrible, and I must be hard on myself. So I thought I better issue a disclaimer.

I don't think I'm terribly hard on myself. In fact, I would tend to think the opposite. I am quite a proud individual, one that should read President Benson's pride talk at least monthly. I know I am more than proficient at most things I try, and I think I'm good at things that others would deem me delusional. I am generally too satisfied with how my life is progressing, and rarely do I feel like I need to improve myself much.

Vain? Yes. Correct? No.

So, when I have a few things brought to my attention that can actually make it through my layer of pride, it hurts. And I probably should feel that hurt more often.

I'm not hard on myself to the point that I beat myself up about it and dwell on the problem and stew on how to fix it and ruin my days and my life wondering if I'll ever be better. Maybe I should. But I'm a realist. Address the issue, fix what you can immediately, work on the rest, then move on with the laundry.

Mostly, I am great. Sometimes, I suck. And those sometimes need to be addressed and fixed.