Thumping around on the single stump of the surgical boot was not how I had anticipated greeting the New Year. The puppy opened one eye and glared at me in protest at the piratical thudding on the wood floors destroying her slumber. Too much fun attacking the downhills of Nike San Francisco had left me with a damaged Posterior Tib. Conservative management (ie no running, lots of ice, ART) had produced no benefit after two months of treatment; the attachment point was in my arch and was constantly irritated simply by standing up. My Boston countdown calendar screamed angrily at me that training was coming. The doctor and I gravely agreed it was time to don the boot of shame, increase the ice baths and invest in the night splint.
The East Coast Team of Less was on stand by, long suffering expressions prepared, bracing themselves for my usual over excited pronouncements that training was begun and for reams of training plans to start flying through their email accounts. There was a resounding silence - I had nothing to say.
Being injured is depressing at the best of times. I work with runners, so that means you can't join the off season training fun and end up hanging around, cold, bored, just waiting to give feedback on an experience you weren't able to share. You are painfully aware that so much of your twitter feed, instagram account and facebook is filled with other runners proclaiming their fabulous exploits up mountains, at night runs, PR's, great accomplishments, fabulous running parties you no longer can attend. Driving, you start to notice every runner on the road, wondering how they can perform this simple act that your tendon has ruled out for you. Most of all you miss waking up wondering - what kind of run will I have today?
My thoughts drifted back constantly to the last time I had trained for Boston way back in 2012. Q-less and I had worked our tushies off through one of the East Coast's toughest coldest winters, sometimes running thigh deep through snow. I was driven, and probably drove Q-Less crazy at me, but I had created for both of us a training plan guaranteed to drop our time by around ten minutes. Within moments in mid April we watched all our work seemingly vaporize as the temperature charts for the Boston Broilerthon, as it became to be known, predicted freak hot weather, and the 45f we hoped for headed into the high 80's low 90's. We had trained in 14f - nothing had prepared us for that race. On race day we had set off at a ten minute pace, resigned to a huge change of plan. Q-Less had toiled on and finished but with a time way off her best, I had DNF'd at mile 18 with an irritated IT band, desiccated by the scorching heat and dehydration. It had not been in line with our dreams or expectations, but it had been an experience.The evening celebration with no medal had been a true pity party for one.
Increasingly I have found however that injury is a more peaceful process for me. As I am about to turn 50, and as my 20 year old daughter points out "aren't you depressed to think that over half your life is over and its the crappy half left?' I realize that I have developed skills to deal with it that no 20 year old has. I have survived stress fractures, muscle pulls and tendonitis. You begin to finally appreciate that there is no point railing against, or wailing about your fate. Like so much in life it is not the injury that is unfair, or the timing, it is our own inflexible set of expectations. What makes us good runners is our drive, our planning our goal setting - yet running often has a way of throwing a spanner in the works. Gosh darn I had planned a 50th Birthday Party at the Boston Marathon with Merciless and Q-Less and that was set in stone, we had all trained separately and found races around the East Coast and California in our three month window and survived a variety of temperatures and weather conditions, and failure to register for races to qualify for the race. The flight was booked the hotels were reserved and paid for. The race would happen and I would not suffer an annoying injury that would drag on for months even though I had done all of the right things. However, the universe is unfair and unkind and we no longer have quixotic Greek Gods to blame, so I have adopted the Running Gods in their place. These Running Gods are every bit as random as Zeus - throwing thunder bolts at you whenever things are going too well. In April our party will be fabulous regardless of what the Running Gods have in mind, and will be a great celebration of friends who have run together for years and shared so many good bad and random experiences. The party will be the sort that lights you up inside and lasts a very long time. Its time the Running Gods knew that they have done their best to bring humility and flexibility to my soul. OK Gods I get it, let it be proclaimed publicly that great expectations and the fire of ambition have been firmly doused. This Boston might be one where I get to cheer on my favorite runners in, or hobble 26 miles at the back of the race, just delighted to survive it and to be part of this awesome occasion.
The last time I participated in this historic race training was awesome but those fickle Running Gods made sure we did not revel in glory for long and the race was painful slow and hot. Maybe, just maybe, this time my training will be in every measure, lousy, lack lustre and lame. My foot will probably remain injured for another month, then it might take another month just to get close to base training. I am also open to the fact that 2016 may see me run the race of my life. I am beginning to see that success is a very relative term and is based entirely upon our expectations. My goal is to bring my expectations towards my reality and to thoroughly enjoy everything the Running Gods hurls at me this year.
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