Anyone remember this scene from "That Thing You Do"? For some reason my friends and I liked to sing it in high school... probably because we were super cool and popular.
This was one of the first things that crossed my mind this weekend when I did something I've never done before-- I QUIT. A race. In the middle of it. I stopped and walked off the course like I was Ryan Hall in the Olympics.
It started two weeks ago, 16 miles into a 19 mile run. I started having some pain in my Achilles tendon. Frustrated and concerned, I've been icing, cross training and googling like crazy. Lots of laps in the pool, lots of books read on the Elliptical. I attempted my 20 mile run this Saturday and it went well. I even bought a 16 pound bag of ice on the way home and tried to take an ice bath. I say try because my water was accidentally too warm and melted the ice a little too fast--but at least it was cold. And don't I look pretty after 20 miles? It was probably the slowest 20 I've done, so I was actually feeling pretty good. I ran conservatively to be kind to Mr. Achilles, and it worked.
I had signed up for a 10k Sunday a while ago--and I didn't want to sit out. As you may have expected, trying to run a 10k the day after you run 20 miles is probably not a great idea for a healthy person, not to mention a slightly injured person. Here you can see my bulging biceps and the cool achilles brace I've been wearing. I also think that thing helps a lot.
Three miles into the 10k my Achilles started to hurt. I slowed down and kept telling myself to stop. But the horrible competitive, slightly Type A person inside of me wouldn't let me stop. I had to do the WHOLE race. Running part of it wouldn't count. I argued with myself and kept losing (and winning, since I was on both sides of the argument). As I approached four miles the course went back by the starting line. I tried to convince myself to stop again and couldn't. And then, the Lord Himself opened the heavens, sent a downpour on me to convince me to stop. And I did. In the pouring rain. I slunk back over to the finish line to watch people finish and kind of hid behind a truck until the people I had been running with showed up--then I went and got my muffin. I kept wanting to go back to the course and finish--I swear there is a sickness in my brain. But I'm SO SO proud of myself for stopping and so glad I didn't push it and run two more slow miles and make the injury even worse.
Soooo I think I'll be trying to get an appointment for some physical therapy this week and continuing to keep my mileage low and do some cool stuff at the gym. Because I want to run Chicago and I don't want to be limping across the finish line.