I ran the other night, sprinting in my jeans and boots in the rain, weaving through traffic, to the drugstore a few blocks down. I snuck out of dinner after we ordered drinks; it was an emergency. Five minutes later, I returned in the middle of the same story, flushed and sweaty and grinning, my foot lit up and throbbing. I’d forgotten about my injury for those few free moments.
I haven’t run in two and a half months. It’s not the first time I’ve had an extended break before, but taking a pause from running has always been my choice; it has never been taken away from me before. I have a tumultuous history with running, more downs that ups, but I’d made some form of peace with it this year and had been covering some pretty good mileage with a group of ladies who had their own running struggles. I’d gotten used to icing my knees after the long runs, but when my IT band snapped audibly and I couldn’t stand on my foot, I knew I had to stop.
On that night last week, I had an extra glass of wine at dinner, tightened the orthopedic band around my foot, and called the doctor the very next day. This has to end somehow. I need to move.
