Year one hurts
A year ago next week I began running. Charlottesville is lucky enough not only to have a couple of Mom and Pop running stores and a track club, but also several running training programs throughout the year. A friend of mine graduated from the Women’s 4-miler training program last summer, and decided to join the 10-miler training program. Subscribing to the idea that a true friend is also a true sadist, she dragged a group of us along.
I ended up being plagued all winter long: I ended up with a sprained ankle during the third week of training, I got the flu and bronchitis at the same time, and a broken rib from said bronchitis, and some odd knee pain that came and went, without anyone ever pinning down what was wrong or how to remedy it. All of those complaints aside, it was a fantastic experience. We ran short races during the winter, ran together at lunchtime, and talked all week long about our upcoming long runs slated for Saturday. Right after our Saturday runs, still sweaty and beet-red and chilly, we’d head down to the coffee shop and have breakfast in all our unshowered glory. In April, we ran the Charlottesville 10-miler, which was a really great experience, down to the neighborhood kids handing out water and bands playing at every mile.
Still, I never really felt like a runner, and thought it was odd when someone referred to me that way. I’d no sooner call myself a runner than a nuclear physicist. Real runners, I thought, were petite 20-year-olds with nothing but legs and heads. They never dreaded a run, or made excuses not to get up and go, or worried about their aches. They bounded around like antelopes in a game preserve.
I’ve been having leg pain for the last couple of days, so this morning I headed over to my favorite running shop. The owners’ first child is getting married today, but they were both there bustling around the store, helping people until it was time for them to go.
Sure enough, I have shin splints. They doctored my insoles, instructed me to stay off of my feet for a few days, and sent me on my merry way, with directions to report back next week. I stepped out the door and marched right across the street to buy a bottle of wine, though it was only 11 am.
The wine is still sitting in its bag, but all of my copies of Runner’s World are sitting next to me on the couch, and my fixed-up shoes are sitting on top of their box, toes facing the door. Facing outside, which is where I will be running soon. This year, you can call me a runner.