Last night, I carefully picked out my outfit for today, my first run since I tore my glute six months ago. It was a bit of an archeological excavation, digging deep to unearth my favorite running top, my most-comfortable jog bra, the most-compressive compression tights, and any matching socks.
I cleaned and filled my water bottle. I adjusted my running belt. I checked my sun screen’s expiration date. I checked my Garmin settings. I checked the weather. I checked everything. Twice.
I got in bed early, feeling a little bit anxious, a little bit giddy, a little bit silly for getting all worked up for what could be called an “easy run.”
But that would be at once overstating it and undervaluing it.
It was a good warm up, my usual routine of Silly Walks peppered throughout a half-mile stroll. It is my long-time running routine, and I need the familiarity, the ritual. But even as I am tip-toeing, skipping, grapevining, and lunging along, I realize this might be the most strenuous part, the highest my heart rate will get all day.
But even here, I’m cautious. I stay on the cushy grass, keeping it short, thinking about my form, staying light on my feet. I wouldn’t want to injure myself during the warm up.
Months ago, preparing to take my inaugural run so I could join in on Global Running Day, I booked my chiropractor and manual physical therapist for yesterday, June 1st. Afterwards, I felt fantastic, all aligned and adjusted.
Then, after dinner, I stood up too quickly, my joints stiffened up, and I almost dropped a plate. I lurched as the fork clattered, unsaveable, to the floor and skid under the fridge. I did save the plate — but threw out my back and subluxated a rib.
That’s right: I have Ehlers-Danlos, and I can injure myself by not dropping a plate.
I didn’t panic at first. This happens all the time. It’ll work itself out. Probably.
But right after I got in bed, I started to panic. What if this throws off my gait and I ruin my ankle? Or a knee? So I popped right back up and got on my yoga mat, permanently on call at the foot of my bed. I twisted, cat-cowed, and rock-n-rolled for 15 minutes until it no longer felt like my ninth rib was jutting out the back.
Back in bed, I’m thinking again: maybe I shouldn’t run tomorrow. Maybe I should wait. Who came up with Global Running Day, anyway? Why the first Wednesday of June? So arbitrary.
But maybe I should run. It’s just a rib. This happens all the time; I broke it last year, falling off a bike, and it’s been grumpy ever since. (But to be honest, my L9 and L10 have been disgruntled vertebrae for years.)
But I feel like I can’t wait anymore. I’ve been so eager for this, this return to running. I’ve actually been dreaming about this day, and I don’t mean day dreaming, either. I mean, while I’m asleep, I literally dream I’m walking along and suddenly realize it’s June 2nd. Startled, I start running. And it feels so good. And I wake up so, so happy.
I don’t have to decide now, I told myself. I’ll see how I feel in the morning. I’m going to be reasonable about this. Wise. Detached. Unsentimental.
But I drifted off to sleep in mid-prayer. “Dear God, please…”
After a half mile of Silly Walks, I switch my Garmin from “walk” to “run” — all preset days ago with alerts for my 20/100 seconds run/walk intervals. “We’re gonna run now,” I tell my dog. “Well then, let’s do it already,” she says. She is 12, going blind and deaf, and she is so ready for this.
After my second interval, I realize I’m about to cry. But not because I’m hurting or tired. No. It’s because I’ve started thinking about how silly I am being, putting on a hydration belt and wearing compression pants for what is going to amount to 100 seconds of running.
No, that’s not a typo. I’m doing 5 intervals of 20-second runs: 100 seconds of running, about 8 minutes of walking.
And by “run,” I don’t even mean an easy long-run pace. I mean a light shuffle-jog. Like, you know when you feel bad for the cars waiting as you cross the street, so you kind of swing your bent arms and exaggerate the lift of your feet to let them know you are hurrying in appreciation of their patience? That’s a shuffle-jog.
So why did I curate my running kit with such care? Check the weather? Bother with a warm up when it’s unlikely I’ll even break a sweat?
After my third shuffle-jog, I realize I need all that, emotionally, to understand that this is a real run. It totally counts. There’s nothing “just” about it, not when this is the best run I can offer myself today.
And that’s when the sniffling really starts, that’s when the tears start pooling.
But suddenly, my feet feel so light, lifted by this gratitude billowing inside me, gratitude that today, I can run 100 seconds.
So yes, it’s an easy run. It’s not hard to shuffle-run these 100 seconds. Even the more-strenuous warm up wasn’t hard.
What was hard was the past 6 months of not running, patiently holding back, doing the boring PT.
What was really hard 25 years ago, was trying not to cry as I listened to the doctor talk about a customized wheelchair, realizing with a slowly growing horror that he didn’t think I’d walk again. What was hard for the ten years after that was lying in bed for seemingly interminable hours, weighted by the depression and despair, the anger and anxiety, wondering if I’d ever again have a purpose in life.
What was hard 15 years ago was picking myself up again, undaunted, off the cushioning sand of the beach I had chosen to learn to walk again.
What was hard the past several years was every time I realized I had to take a break from running, again, because of a new injury — a shredded hip flexor, torn post tibial tendons, a swollen Achilles, a couple of sprained ankles, those ever dysfunctioning glutes…whatever. So many more than I can remember.
It was always hard to fight the discouragement and fear. But it was never hard to start running again.
No, today wasn’t hard. Today was my best run.
