I slept in yesterday. I had intended to rise early and attack my prescribed 20-mile run before the heat of the day really set in. A morning person I am not, but last Friday I managed to get out early in the cooler temps, and it set me up for a day of athletic success. Repeatability was on the mind, but the body disagreed. By the time I roused myself, it was already a scorcher and adjustments had to be made.
Twenty miles would be my longest run in at least a year, substantially so, since my 18-miler two weeks prior was kind of a hot, sloppy slog you’d be generous to call a “run.” I wanted better.
I’m not a fan of pavement. It’s perhaps the primary reason I’ve done so much dreaming of living out west somewhere. If I’m going to put in this many miles, (and I am) an easily accessible trail system would be ideal. Alas, a 20-mile dirt trail in Madison does not exist. But it had been so long, and I had all day to make this a good one, so I took a bit of a drive to find a 10-mile stretch of Ice Age Trail that could be done as two out-and-backs.
Four miles one way - back - six miles the other - back. The rationale being that this strategy would keep me engaged, trees would provide enough cover to prevent the sun from sapping me, and I would have my very own aid station available near the halfway mark. I love it when a plan comes together.
And come together it did. I chose the short/flat leg first to bank some miles and give myself and earlier break for adjustments. My body felt great. Ten-minute miles ticked off on crushed limestone, which was ahead of anticipated pace. A bit of sun exposure leading back to the car reinforced the importance of shade and inspired a 15-minute water and A/C break.
I have to constantly remind myself when training to not sweat the numbers. Speed isn’t paramount. It’s all about time and exertion on feet. Sure, every once in awhile, when the stars align, let’s see what I’m made of. But 90 percent of my training is just making the miles. I could’ve taken a nap. It wouldn’t change what I was doing that day.
But when I get on real, runnable trail, boy, it’s hard not to let loose. I cranked up the first hill, slowed down just long enough to take three gasping breaths, and hit the smooth, steady downhill at full bore.
For obvious reasons, trail is typically slower than asphalt. There are slopes and obstacles and, at a micro level, the landscape is literally changing with every football. But there are magic moments when you hit the right stretch of trail and can let gravity do the work. It takes deliberate practice to develop the necessary looseness to let your body flow downhill, your feet doing simple redirections.
I was in a new pair of shoes that were feeling tremendous. I was blazing past groups of hikers. I was reminding myself why running in nature is such an appealing prospect. I thought it was enough to keep me there.
Pop. “Fuck!” Uh-oh.
Pavement sucks, but grassy meadow might be worse. When I can’t see the minor undulations under foot, it puts me either in a place of imminent danger or tip-toeing trepidation that removes the joy. I had just crossed a wetland boardwalk, and my watch clicked over to 11 miles at the precise moment that my right ankle removed itself from and then replaced itself in socket for the 218th time in my life.
I’ll spare you the full historic record, but essentially there is no longer anything stopping that ankle from popping in and out at will. There was no obvious hazard, perhaps a grassy divot. My suspicion is it was simple a lapse of presence. I was thinking ahead, about what I would write, what tomorrow would look like, plans for next week. And there it all went.
The chronic nature of this problem has its perks, however pale. It it always acutely excruciating. Sprained ankles carry an outsized pain. There’s a nasty sound that I’ve learned not to fret too much. But the last dozen or so times, it hasn’t swelled. I can tighten the shoe and walk it off. A few instances, there have been no lasting effects whatsoever.
Not so this time.
In my attempt to be fully where my feet we, I had left my phone in the car - meaning I was three hilly miles from communication with a worse-than-usual lower extremity. All I could do was head back, slowly.
Funnily enough, it took trauma to ground me. This was familiar. It was real. And it was here. Everything else vanished as I assessed the pain. A deep ache near the heal was unusual and a tad concerning, but it’s not like it changed the problem at hand. Breathe it out. Adjust your gait. Get back to the car.
Fundamental.
It’s not good. Weighting it today is more painful than is typical. I don’t think anything is broken, but it’s a bad one. But this turmoil is well-tread. It doesn’t change the joy I found right up to that fateful 11-mile mark.
It’s a setback. I’m guessing a week of lost training. I’d like to be healthy for a bike event I’m participating in this coming weekend. But most of all, I’d like to use it as a reminder to feel where I am right now. Always. Good or bad. The worst thing is for my brain to be somewhere my body isn’t.
My body will be back, and the mind best be ready.