I did it. It happened sooner than I expected, but it’s here. I injured myself.
Tonight’s run was supposed to only be 3 miles. 3 simple short miles. But it turned into a death march after a few steps. The pain started strong – between my lower calf and heel. The Achilles tendon. It shot deep and fast. Felt like it was in my bones. I struggled to make it to the 1 mile mark. I contemplated turning back and only doing 2, but for some stupid unknown reason I kept on going. My pace was slow, slightly faster than a speed-walk. I powered through. I would set a visual marker and tell myself, I’ll go to the corner then stop and die. Each time I arrived I went a little further. To the park, and then die. To Sonic, and then die.
Why didn’t I just stop and hobble home?! Because the pain intensified when I stopped. Stinging daggers of fire and sorrow coursed through my legs when I wasn’t moving. My legs would shake uncontrollably, there was no relief. When I did stop, for traffic lights or to contemplate the vastness of the universe and my place therein, I would hobble to get my pace going again.
Once home, I limped into the bathroom and sat in the shower as tears filled my eyes. Showers are good for hiding tears. The pain was real. I knew eventually it would dissipate, so I didn’t seek medical attention. My wife got some lidocaine cream and I popped some ibuprofen.
Is this the end? Doubtful, but I probably won’t be running this weekend.