I took a step this morning getting out of bed and felt… something. The ankle pivoted the way it’s supposed to, rising and falling and yet… there was a moment, a searing stab, a flash. Or did I imagine it? Am I so concerned and worried that it’s a self fulfilling prophesy? Was it just the twinge of old age, the creaky, cracking aches and pains associated with years and mileage that are part and parcel of being buried by ever more sands of time in my own personal hourglass?
Or was it yet another warning that running a marathon this weekend is beyond stupid?
Yesterday I was confident I’d go to the start line on Sunday and see how it went, worst case being I’d get a ride back and earn a DNF (did not finish).
This morning I find myself thinking I may not even do that… that I may be a DNS (did not start).
I assume I’ll vacillate throughout the day. Part of me wonders if this is a case of needing to get back on the horse… but maybe it’s a lesson in giving myself ample time to recover. If I knew what caused the pain, what precipitated the ache in the ankle, if I could pinpoint the injury from a trip or fall or having a grocery cart roll over my foot or anything at all I think I’d be more willing to listen to the body. But because it feels so much of the “you’re getting old” variety I want to rage, rage against that.
But my mind is forever voyaging tonthoughts ahead, to sands not yet fallen through the narrow neck from the ever diminishing supply in the upper chamber of my hour glass. The Boston Marathon is in two weeks and that’s pretty darn important.
Perhaps I’ll leave it up to the Tar Heels – if they win tonight at the Final Four I’ll try and go. If not… well… that’s an outcome I prefer not to think about.
