I didn't make it. I set out to go 15 miles, mapped a route, felt super excited. In fact, my heart was racing when I left the house. So much so, that looking back now, perhaps the racing heart was a bit of a red flag.
Let me star over. Today is my last Wednesday off until August so I was very excited to get everything in the whole world accomplished. Including much unpacking, catching up with all my internerd business and running 15 miles. The weather is gorgeous, my dog is happy, and my body feels very different with all this treatment. I brewed up a perfect cup of coffee, retrieved my mason jar of water from the fridge and set out to get everything done.
But I forgot to eat. On my way out the door I grabbed a nut bar thingy, hoping that would work out. After the first mile I wanted to hail a cab, which is often the case. I assumed the heightened desperation was a symptom of my disappointment having set out with the racing heart and the high hopes. By mile two, I was to the long steady incline up the back of Bernal Heights. HEIGHTS, people. It's a bit of a hill, but I sort of looked forward to getting though it. Sometimes after my body does a particularly difficult hunk of road, I feel invincible. Not today. I came down the hill feeling Very Strange. Wobbly. Heart still sprinting. By mile four, I noticed the pavement started to slant to the left, people seemed to be darting in front of me at every doorway, and I couldn't stay out of live crosswalks. Things didn't look good. They looked sideways actually. I felt lighter.
Am I going to pass out? Well at least let me make it through an hour. I'll just get to 16th Street and then I'll haul it home and ice my feet. Did I mention my feet yet? No. The left heel still has a pain pulling through it. A formidable pain, I might add. In addition to this, because my body has now been adjusted to call attention to previously dormant muscles, asking them to get the hell out of bed and make a difference in my world, the running feels extremely different today than it did yesterday and the day before. Each adjustment asks me to train new muscles, so every time it's a little bit like a new start. Exciting, yes, but also really difficult. So while my hip feels a lot better, my ass is killing me. But the left heel. It worries me. I feel pretty scared. 25 days out and the thing still haunts my runs.
Meanwhile, I'm at 20th Street and the slant seems as though it may begin to dance. I walk a group of 16 paces. Start to run again. Walk again. Run again. Curse myself the whole time, feeling so stupid for forgetting the fuel. Who leaves on a road trip with no gas in the tank?
Anyhow, I made it to the train and up the hill to my house. I dunked my feet in ice cold water out on the deck while I shook. 25 days out. I don't know. I just don't know.
PS: The nice part about being out of my mind is that I did do a good deal of reminiscing about Patrick Swayze. I loved him.