theSmudge.com

One week ago, I awoke well before most people do on a Saturday morning, and long before the sun rose. I forced myself to eat a little breakfast, I put on my running clothes, I grabbed my water bottle, and I set out into the cool morning air. I was going to run 20 miles, get home just in time to change into dry clothes, then go see my friend Katie finish a race, with the likelihood of taking home prize money. This would be my longest run before the New York Marathon two weeks later.

At mile 1.6, I suddenly tripped on an uneven part of the sidewalk. Tree roots have pushed it up, and I’ve actually tripped there twice before and remained on my feet. (One time I went staggering/running/leaping for half a dozen steps before regaining control.)

This time, I found myself skidding along the sidewalk, coming to rest flat on my chest. I got up and realized my knees were bloody messes, as was part of my left hand. My water bottle had protected most of my dominant right hand, thankfully.

I gathered up the various possessions that had gone flying. I walked around to see if I’d broken/damaged anything. Nothing felt out of place, so I ran home. It was a good way to test the limbs, and I certainly didn’t want to take the time to walk a mile and a half. By the time I got home, I had bloody streaks down my legs and my shoes needed to be washed. (I debated for days whether to post pictures of the carnage. I decided not to, but if you want to see the gore, I can email you a photo.) I was done for the day.

It turned out that Katie had to pull out of her race, so we met at a Starbucks and commiserated for a while. We were both bummed and in pain, and it was such a relief to see and hug a close friend. She understood. Many people say that running 20 miles is insane, but Katie runs that amount many days and doesn’t think I’m crazy. We eventually parted ways and I went off to buy the biggest band-aids I could find for my knees that were getting more painful by the minute. Of course I happened to drive down the parking lot lane where the world’s slowest, biggest customer was trudging slowly down the middle of it while I inched along behind her.

But of course that wasn’t all. On my way to meet Katie, I was minding my own business when a large turkey came flying over a sound wall. It landed ungracefully in front of my car, and I braked just in time to avoid an early Thanksgiving slaughter. So, while that was at least amusing, it clearly was not my day. I skipped going to a bowling party that evening, since I wouldn’t have actually bowled and wasn’t sure I’d survive the drive, at the rate I was going.

I did note, though, that the morning’s distrastrous run put my year’s total miles at 1,000.19. It’s the first time I’ve ever run more than 1,000 miles in a year.

Sunday morning was Take Two. I went through the same routine as Saturday, this time leaving two hours later and with hurting knees that had disrupted my sleep. I even took the same route, stopping to take pictures of the offending sidewalk. For 20 miles, I felt my knee wounds at every step. Every bend and straighten of my legs upset my wounds. I’m not following much of a training plan (see this post about my “plan,” and this one about how it worked for me — though I don’t actually advise anyone to do it). I only scheduled two runs on my calendar for New York training, and this weekend was the most crucial one. It was “do or die” for New York, and this was my only chance to do that long run. As it was, I’d lost almost two weeks of training in September due to a knee issue.

So I ran. I had told myself not to go too fast, because a long training run isn’t supposed to be fast. The purpose is to get time on your feet and train your body to keep going. Earlier in the month I’d run on hills and in humidity for 11 days in Hawaii. That really helped my training, and I’d done some rather fast runs when I returned home. This 20-miler was NOT to be run fast, and I told myself that no mile time would start with an 8. I stuck to it, having to force myself to slow down sometimes during the first 10 miles.

Part of the route was new to me, and I absolutely loved running through Danville. Then it began to get harder. At mile 13, I turned on my music to help distract myself. I reached the Iron Horse bike trail that would take me back home, took one look at it and said, “No.” I don’t really like the trail, since it just seems to go on forever (and was the scene of my stress fracture last year). So, instead of running the trail on Sunday, I took a different parallel road. That was a smart move, because it was more shady and by then I was getting hot.

By mile 16 I was taking a couple walk breaks. My wounds were hurting, I was hot, and I was cranky. Katie happened to text me to see how I was, so that was a nice pick-me-up. (She’d just come in second place in a 5k!)  Then I reached one of my favorite roads, because one side of it goes up and down along grassy hills. Across the four lanes of traffic, the sidewalk is flat. But I love the hilly side, because I want the hill workout, and I like to conquer a little hill and then zoom down the backside. That was the one mile that came in under 9 minutes — 8:57, so not too bad.

The last two miles were torture. I was so ready to be done. If I could have, I would have called someone for a ride. After all, 18 miles is still a good long run. But I had to get home, so I had to run two more miles. I wasn’t actually injured, so I had no excuse. My watch beeped 20 miles as I entered my parking lot. I. Was. Done.

The toll had been taken on my knees. I showered and slathered on Neosporin, my go-to for most skin troubles. I have sensitive skin that gets infected easily, and I was taking no chances. And then my knees felt like they were on fire. Neosporin had let me down and I was in utter agony.

Then I got chills. Oh no. This could be a sign of infection. Both knees were very red, another sign. After another night of bad sleep, this time involving a lot of tears, I got up Monday and called a doctor.

Those who know me will understand the significance of Layla calling a doctor. I don’t have good luck with doctors. At all. After all, doctors were the ones who told me years ago that I’d never be able to do much running. Four marathons later, I’m still proving them wrong.

Monday afternoon found me at a new doctor’s office. They were changing computer systems, resulting in a long line at registration — I wasn’t surprised, given my track record with doctors. I was finally called into a room where a very nice medical assistant began going over basic medical stuff. As always, my low blood pressure impressed her. Then she discovered that the staff hadn’t given me forms to fill out my medical history. She began entering the basic ones on her computer, and then realized the questions were wrong.

According to the computer system, I was a male. And they couldn’t fix it. I’d later get paperwork addressed to “Mr.” When the doctor came in to see me, she’d heard about the error, and apparently it was becoming the talk of the office.

The doctor was actually really nice. At one point she bent down and winced, then apologized because her quads were sore from a workout. In my book, that gives a doctor brownie points. (If a doctor tells me running is bad, I will never again return to that doctor.) She talked me into getting a tetanus shot, prescribed some ointment that’s given to people with second and third-degree burns, and then got a Sharpie to draw a permanent line around the damage on one of my knees. If the redness passed that line, it would mean infection had spread and I needed to be seen again.

I hobbled out of the doctor’s office to the elevators, where a very cute little girl said, “What happened to your knees?” and used the toe of her Ugg boot to point at them. She missed kicking me in the knee by about an inch. I gasped in relief, and her horrified mother apologized profusely. Since nothing actually touched my knees, everybody lived.

Then I hobbled to my car and called the pharmacy to see if my prescription was ready. Yes, it was, but they wanted to know why a “Mr.” was named Layla.