Frail, Not Fail
Sunday morning I hurt myself.
Today is Thursday. This morning was the first inkling that I’m making any progress at all toward healing. There was tenderness and soreness and stiffness, but a little less of each.
I am not well just marginally better. I am icing and elevating and compressing — I’m not running and barely walking unless I have to do so. Ibuprofen is my new friend.
But, there was discernible improvement. I’m going to cling to that.
The whole episode is humbling and a vivid reminder of how frail the body becomes when you push it toward its limits. Some limits are natural — like height, eyesight or the effects of aging. Some limits we create for ourselves — stories we tell ourselves and the decisions we make. I guess there are also natural limits that our bodies tell to us — with the vivid clarity of a daytime mugging.
You can guess, dear Internets, what kind of limit I found.
According to plan, this is supposed to be my final week of big training. The peak of more than 30 weeks of preparation. It won’t be my peak. Last week, I fit in a bit more than 15 hours of swimming, biking or running and commuted by bike. This week, there was less than an hour before I blew up on Sunday and there has been about an hour since — all of it in the pool.
I’ll have to figure out how to get better. I’ll also have to figure out how to go from that point to the start line.
Getting ready by rewriting the training plan at the last minute is not enviable, but at least I’ll be there.
That is to say, it has been four days and despite the twitchiness of not training and the lack much progress with my leg, I’m sure I’ll be back in form soon enough. I’m sure of it. And if I keep saying it and writing it, it will happen. I’ll be ready. I’ll be ready.