Grateful for the burn

Friday ended up being long run day by weather default. According to the forecast (which is NEVER right, by the way. How DO those people keep their jobs?!?!) it was the only day of the weekend that didn't promise an outright or near down pour. 

I am forever changing up my long run routes to ward off the ennui of turning my legs over a billion times for a couple of hours each weekend. This week, I decided I'd do a destination run. Circle a new neighborhood and then end at happy hour! Two missions accomplished and delicious fish tacos waiting at the end.

The day was sunny and nice. 55 and low winds. I set out. I chose a route that seemed hilly but not too terrible. BOY was I wrong! The first hill I coasted down made me worry. I knew that when I turned around to go back, that hill would be a killer AND it was close to the finish which meant I'd be spent. I put that thought out of my mind and kept my focus on the road - a sort of busy one with (thankfully) wide shoulders. 

I cruised down the hilly road lined with country offices that seemed to go on forever. I finally took the left I'd calculated with the map tool and looked straight up, almost literally, at a monster climb. SIGH. I thought for sure that I'd get a break this close to the water. I continued on, picked up the main road and realized my water bottle was almost empty. I was very far from "home". I spotted a Chinese food place in the shopping center and decided to beg for water. Language barrier notwithstanding, the owner took pity on me and filled my bottle from a rickety tap. I prayed the water was potable. 

I set off again. My left toe had a blister and my legs burned. My glutes were so spent that I was shuffling along and systemically I was starting to feel the impact of the effort. I ate my last Hammergel and tried to put that last hill out of my mind. Then, before I knew it, looming in the distance there it was - a seemingly endless ribbon of pain. I tucked my head down, checked my form and kicked it up. Mid-way up the hill I could hear my labored breath above the din of 80s rock. I could feel the burning in my glutes and aching quads. I started to give in to the pain by letting the anguish seep into my mind. Then, I caught myself. I WANT THIS. I have been obsessed with getting back to my long run routine since my last bout of tendonitis. I thought about Das Boot and how that first 17 minute run was my old walking pace and how I felt like I'd never get back to normal. I decided then and there to be grateful for the burning and aching. To be grateful that I could push myself hard enough to feel this sort of pain. I smiled. The wind was picking up but I didn't care. I felt grateful. Grateful to be alive. Grateful to be running and grateful that both my feet seemed happy to oblige. 

I crested the hill and saw Parole come in to view. AH YES, happy hour was mere minutes away. I checked my watch. Right on time, I would arrive by 5p. 

I cruised up to the restaurant and stretched. Ken was just getting there and greeted me with a fresh change of clothes. I sat at the bar eating fish tacos, drinking sangria and basking in the glow of a long run, well done. I CAN. I DID and I AM GRATEFUL. 

26,000 years in the making

In late September of 2012 I received what I'd been hoping for and working toward for the better part of a year - an offer on my house! For almost a year, Ken (the better half) and I had been living in a virtual prison also known as the "show house". 

For those who may not be familiar with putting your house on the market, it requires tolerating an almost constant stream of interruptions to your regularly scheduled program when the automated scheduling system gives you 30 minutes notice of a "showing". It also means that you are on constant patrol and must maintain a Buddist-like dedication to keeping your show house spotless (see 30 minutes notice for potential buyers to come by, take what is probably a 15 minute tour and make catty comments about your choice of shower curtain colors). I dreamed about the offer, how it would come in and I would show up to sign on the dotted line and live happily ever after. SCREEECH. Stop the music. No such luck! I have never done anything harder than sell a house and move twelve years worth of collected STUFF.

For forty-five days after everyone agreed, I worked like a woman possessed hiring contractors to fix the "wish list" of shit the new buyers insisted they could not live without. OK, the skylight was legit and maybe the loose stair railing but, still. Finally, on October 26th (two days before Hurricane Sandy, thank you Mother Nature). I closed on the house, arranged the movers and watched as the moving truck slowly pulled away. 

Before I left for the last time, I walked around that empty house and remembered all of the times I'd had there. Like moving in during the summer of 2000 and throwing a paint party with my best friends. After a couple of bottles of wine, Kim spilled orange paint on the carpet and we all laughed. She was mortified. Coming home from the UK and finishing up the decorating. I would walk around the house and just marvel sometimes that I lived there. Coming home and soaking in the jetted tub after a particularly hard marathon, pissed off that I missed my goal time (I should have been grateful). Showering after my first 70.3 race with tears in my eyes at what I had accomplished. Healing from tendonitis and lamenting the loss of my fitness. The first time Ken stayed over and all the great times we had grilling on the deck, laughing with our friends and dreaming about our future. 

As I locked the door for the last time, I smiled. It was the end of an era and the beginning of something exciting and new. Just in time for 2013, a new 26,000 year cycle. Perfect timing.

With the stress of home ownership, repairs and showings behind me, I rededicated myself to getting fit. My friend Bobbi, who remembered that I'd said if my foot held up to the Grand Canyon, I would train and participate in a 70.3 race with her, sent me a link to her race of choice. So true to my word, I signed up. A local race for a great cause - fallen warriors (a cause I am a sucker for).

I created a training plan, got new shoes, Spenco covered orthotics and went to work. I set my sights on a "warm up" race in Pensacola, FL in January. A 13.1 mile race that seemed as laid back as the residents. I also signed up for a master's swim class with a swim instructor the tri club raved about. I bought a set of fins, hand paddles that look like something Hannibal Lector would wear and a new swimsuit to replace the one in the back of my drawer that looked like I fished it out of a gutter.

Then I went outside for a run. Then another. Then an indoor trainer ride and then a swim. And so it has gone. The foot is holding. I am cautiously optimistic. Here's hoping for a strong come back for this mechanically deficient, middle of the packer. Could it be that in closing an era and a slightly more significant celestial cycle that I might also have closed the book on posterior tibial tendonitis? I certainly hope so. Only time will tell.