For someone who seeks out adventure (and new life and civilizations) by foot, wheel, and water, I am shockingly hesitant at first-time experiences. I like to have a basis of expectation when going into a new situation or when trying something new. I like to meet others who have survived the Wildflower Triathlon, or who can tell me what camping in the Pismo Sand Dunes is going to entail. Not only do I want a general outline, but I want specifics. I want details. If I could crawl around in the body and mind of someone who has been there, I would do so in a heartbeat, body goo be darned.
Thus, my first ankle injury a month ago was pretty hard to deal with, emotionally and physically. I had never injured such a vital part of my running body in such a way. Yes, I’d done minor overuse damage, but nothing so traumatic. I was prepared to repeat that same feeling of loss, of devastation, this time around. And yet, here I am, day two and a half…feeling pretty good.
I rested yesterday. And I ate well. More well than usual. Heartily. Happily. I did nice things for other people. I started some summer reading. I only felt minimally sorry for myself. I even rounded out my day with a short walk with Kristin at a very un-brisk pace.
Then today, I hit the pool for water running, and have since warmed up my ankle taking walks, and have kept it compressed. Unless I am walking up stairs, it feels pretty good. I will not run until I can make it to some sand (Alameda Beach, get ready!) for some beachy rehab, but otherwise, I am quite pleased with my healing progress. And while I attribute this partly to this injury being faster in healing in general, I also firmly believe that because I knew what to expect, I was less afraid.
Maybe I do not have to be bad at being injured for the rest of my life. Maybe I too can change.