Off and Running

[Programming Note: I am hopeful that this will be the last extended post about my Achilles tendon tear.  I think I am passing the point in my recovery where I can stop writing about the stuff I wish I was doing, and start writing about the stuff I am actually doing.  Any subsequent posts probably mean I’ve done something very, very bad.  Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.]

Today I went for my first run since tearing my Achilles tendon in March.  Come to think of it, this was my first run since November.  That’s the longest layoff between runs since I was eleven years old.  It was the most pathetic run ever – twenty minutes on a track at a 10 minute mile pace – but it was a big step in my rehabilitation.

My biggest revelation during my layoff has been how much I love running.  I haven’t thought of myself as a runner for twenty years…

[Glory days alert]

When I was a six-foot, 150 pound high school sophomore in New Hampshire, I finished sixth in the state in cros-country running.  In the state championship race, everyone ahead of me was a senior.  My running future looked bright.   I began wondering if I should focus on running as my primary sport.  But over the next few years, I added twenty-five pounds to my skinny frame, and my running only got slower from then on.

[/Glory days alert]

I quickly came to view running simply as a training method for skiing.  Sure, I enjoyed running, but I never looked forward to it the way I looked forward to skiing, or a hike, or a long bike ride.  I did it almost with thinking about it.   Like breathing.  Or eating.  Running was always there,  it was an easy fallback.  Just put on my shoes and head out the door.  I took it for granted.  I could always go running.

Until I couldn’t.

I’ve said before that I’ve dealt fairly well with the mental aspects of being injured.   I ‘ve been able to stay upbeat even when I see or hear of people skiing, biking, or hiking.  But my heart sank every time I saw someone running.  It was an unexpectedly vicious blow to my psyche that surprised me every time it happened.  I think I had subconciously decided that, until I could run again,  I was still injured.   The biking and walking were just rehab.  In my mind, I wouldn’t be healthly until I could  leap forward with both feet off the ground.

On Monday, at my physical therapist’s recommendation, I went to the track to do a jogging pre-test.  I walked ten minutes to warm up.  Then I jogged for 30 seconds, followed by a minute of walking.  I repeated that for ten minutes.  My leg was feeling great.  I had to really pay attention to my pace.  If I let my mind wander, my tempo would start to increase  too much.  For the following ten minutes, I picked it up it to one minute of running, one minute of walking.  Still everything felt good. I finished with one full lap of jogging, which I did in a barn-burning time of three minutes.  I would have jumped for joy if I could have.

So after a few days of rest, I was ready to up the ante to a full jog.  Tonight I went back to the track and ran for twenty minutes straight.  My leg felt fine, which was a huge relief.  It was mentally exhilarating and physically exhausting.  Having passed those tests, the next task is to improve my fitness.

The irony of this whole situation is that my main purpose for doing the Iditarod Inviational was to get back into shape.  Yet here I am three months later, in the worst shape of my life.   There is a long road ahead and the next month is going to be crucial.  The doctor says that in 4-6 weeks I should be back to doing “anything your wife would have let you do before the injury.”  But not only does my leg need to be healed to do that stuff, but I also have to be in shape.  So this month’s task is to regain fitness without overdoing the Achilles rehab.  It is a delicate balancing act.  I’ve already found out the hard way that rehabbing an Achilles tendon requires patience and restraint.  Overdoing it, even just a little bit, can set me back weeks.

The training year starts now.  It’s about time.