It was only a little accidental that I ran my longest run of the season yesterday. But heck, it wasn’t much to brag about either way: barely thirteen klicks all in.
And barely one when it came right down to it.
My running is not doing great these days. I mean, I have always had good seasons and bad ones. I’ve been tearing up the trails for going on eighteen years now so anyone is bound to have a roller coaster of ups and downs during that time, no matter who you are. Injuries have sidelined me for as long as half a year or more. Winters have often been scaled back. And race plans always seem to set the real tone of how my summers go: any time I’ve signed up for a marathon it would be foolishness not to focus on building endurance and strength and distance with every spare waking thought.
My fatigue caught up with me in the last week, tho. I walked in our regular Thursday run because I was bagged. And then I started getting leg cramps overnight on the weekend that gave me at least one sleepless night laying awake hoping that the charlie horse in my calf didn’t startle me awake again. So, waking up Sunday morning I was barely fifty-fifty on going out for my regular run. I barely, just barely made it out for one. I ended up accidentally logging thirteen.
I lack a coherent plan, I realize.
I have written quite a bit on my own distractable nature these days.
I am trying to walk a creative path, trying to rebuild a professional self, trying to navigate a transitory phase of my parenting career, trying to stay optimistic in the normalized collapse of western democracy, trying to eat better, trying to read more, write more, be more, trying, trying, trying.
I’ve let my running take a bit role in the stage play that is my life this year.
It turns out that I am recovering from an injury to my soul that I wouldn’t have thought would crack my running agenda but somehow that is one of the plainest examples of the damage.
And oddly enough, the path back to the paths isn’t clearly one straight through forcing myself to just run more, dammit. Sure, it feels good for a bit when I do it, but there is something bigger going on in my deepest self that I haven’t quite figured out, and it seems as though might need a bit of work on those aches and pains before the deeper trails clear out for me.
We ran down into the river valley yesterday morning, down the big hill towards the footbridge under the freeway bridge, along the path budding with spring green, basking in the glow of the May sunlight and still-fresh air and the cool breeze that made it almost perfect for a morning run. We ran out to meet the other half of the crew who had started on a longer training loop an hour before us, ran to meet them and run back to home with this little cadre which after all seems like the whole point of it all lately. Ran and ran and ran, further than any of us had planned when we set out. A little accidental, and not much to brag about, but the longest run of the year for me, the longest run in a year when something is seeming to be gnawing at my feet and holding me back.
No coherent plan, after all. Distractable and accidental.
Recovering, but uncertain, unsteady. Not great.