It’s been 42 days since I last laced up my sneakers and hit the pavement.
I miss it.
I miss the breeze dusting my face, the music filling my ears, the seemingly natural flow of my body, stride after stride after stride. I miss the ease of sorting through work issues as the cars speed past me; the nostalgia of running through my old neighbourhood; the endorphins that flush through me with every gusting breath.
Every time I walk up the stairs of my loft, the first thing I see is my Asics sitting under my desk; maybe it’s torture I put them there, maybe it’s motivation. My Garmin and Road ID lie side by side on the top of my desk; the Garmin hasn’t been plugged in since Feb. 7.
It was the day of our pre-run for the Historic Half, just two weeks before race day. My favourite running gals and I met early in the Fort and set out on the 20 km romp.
I was both nervous and excited – excited because it was a hilly route, I love hills, love going up them, I even nicknamed myself “The Contador of Running” after Tour de France winner (and Spanish hottie) Alberto Contador. But I was also nervous for the same reason. As much as I love going up, going down has long been my Achilles heel, especially for the prior two months, of which I’d been dogging pain in my piriformis (otherwise known as tight butt) that would get worse with every stomp downhill I made.
At 3 km, I felt pain in my right knee, but just a dull pain, I could keep going. At 10 km, I tried stretching the pain out on a walk break. It didn’t work. At 12 km, pressure started building in my left knee. At 15 km, I tried walking it off. At 18 km, fighting the tears that were stinging my eyes and the F bombs that were thrashing around in my head, I was done. I walked the remaining two kilometres with tears of defeat soaking my cheeks.
Today, Day 1 of PrincessofPavement, is the first day of my recovery; the first day of my journey back to the road.