Many happy returns

Oh, my foot.

On Monday I went back to the surgeon.  He had told me, some months ago, that at four months post-surgery, my foot would be feeling good.  At six months, it would feel great.  The reality, however, is that tomorrow is seven months, and my foot still hurts.  I was holding out hope that when I went in to see the doctor he would say some version of "Well, for some people it just takes a long time...."  Instead, he did another set of x-rays, found a spot where the bone is separated a bit, and came up with no conclusions.  The bone thing might not be it.  Some peoples' bones are just like that.  So... he doesn't know.  He says that by seven months he would expect me to be pain free.  I am not.   So he advised that I get another opinion.  Or another scan.  Or both.  Ugh.

But achy foot aside, the highlight of my week has certainly been running.  Oh, how I love running.

On Wednesday evening I bought a new pair of running shoes, a purchase that was well overdue.  Then I got to running club a bit early.  My club meets at a trailhead across the street from a local cross country course, which was all marked for cross country season.  I went over to the course for 15 minutes and ran through cool, rugged, wooded trails and sunny grassy mowed paths.  And time folded in on itself.  Trail running invites a certain loss of the sense of time, partly because one must concentrate more on not falling into ruts or holes or tripping over tree roots, partly because time is always obscured under a leafy canopy, and partly because of some magical quality that is less identifiable.  And so it didn't seem like 20 years had gone by since I first ran on that course.

Yes, twenty years.  I joined my high school cross country team in the fall of 1991, thinking it would help me to get in shape for the spring soccer season.  In those twenty years, I've had a fairly comprehensive array of running injuries: achilles tendonitis, plantar fasciitis, runner's knee, hamstring pull, shin splints, a floppy leg, IT band problems, broken foot, sprained ankles, and some less identifiable issues.  I've had a miscarriage and two live births.  I've run four marathons and many more shorter races.  I've had some long lay-offs.  But through all of those ups and downs, I have remained, at heart, a runner.

Finding running, back in 1991, was discovering myself and my home all at once.  My body loves to run.  My soul loves to run.  My self loves to be a runner.

So achy foot and all, I've run 42 miles so far this week (with one day left,) and loved every step of it.  I've done a two-hour run on crushed limestone, a track workout of 200s and 400s before sunrise, a group run, a short easy run at dawn, a tempo run that started under stars and ended in daylight.  My legs have felt strong, have felt fast, have felt tired.  Running has, without doubt or even any serious competition, been the highlight of every day this week and of the week itself.

It sounds absurd that I should have been running for 20 years.  It makes me sound old.  But at the same time, it seems entirely right.  Running has been my refuge, my delight, my hobby, my sanity, my identity, my connection to the seasons, my social life, and my true friend for longer than almost anything or anyone else has been present in my life.  

Here we are at our 20 year anniversary, and I am, impossibly, even more in love with running than I was back in 1991 when I ran the regional cross country meet back in that same forest preserve.  Running has seen me through a lot of life, and I couldn't ask for a better companion.

Happy anniversary, my love.  Many many happy returns on the season.