Patience.
It's true. It's a virtue. I get it. But I don't have it. Not this time.
It's been 4 weeks and 1 day since I tore my MCL and bruised my tibia on a sweet ride down Blackcomb Mountain in a t-shirt and snowpants.
4 weeks of "resting" per doctor's orders.
Elevating per my physiotherapist's insistance.
And "avoiding strenuous activity" per the radiologist's expertise.
I've been diligent (for the most part) with doing nothing.
For ONE WHOLE MONTH.
I've been stretching and doing mobility exercises. The kind of stuff you see rehab patients doing in pools.
It's boring. But it's important.
I feel sluggish. And squishy.
I was signed up to race a 6.9k trail race at Alice Lake on Saturday.
I've been looking forward to it since I signed up in April.
Maybe I'll just do it, I thought.
I'll go slow. Take breaks...
The devil on my shoulder was egging me on.
Then I heard my doctor's voice: No running for 6-8 weeks. No intense exercise. Keep off that knee!
You can totally run this race, the devil rebutted.
I was at a crossroads.
I really wanted to run. Needed to run. HAD to run.
But I knew I shouldn't run. Couldn't run.
I was stuck.
My heart said Yes.
My knee said No.
My brain said Listen to your knee.
My heart replied Shut up, Brain.
So I did what any other girl stuck between a smart move and a heart move would do, I consulted my Magic 8 Ball.
I shook with heart and asked aloud: "Is running tomorrow a good idea?"
(I REALLY miss running, I added as a caveat to impress upon the magic.)
The 8 Ball gave it to me straight: "My reply is No".
I sighed.
The 8 Ball never steers me wrong.
It was right about that boy I met on the subway, Harley's ear infection, and the pitch I pulled an all-nighter for.
So... I went to bed.
I didn't set the alarm.
I didn't pre-juice my pre-race kale-ginger elixir.
I didn't feel nervous.
The morning came.
I got up.
I walked Harley. Leisurely.
Ate breakfast.
Did a few sit ups.
Went to work.
Literally said "Ho hum".
I thought about Alice Lake a-l-l day.
The feeling I get from the challenge of tearing up a tactical incline and blazing down the other side.
The joy of zig-zagging through roots and around mud puddle and through streams.
Patience stinks, I thought to myself.
So I decided to do something about it.
I laced up my runners and headed out for a run.
A jog really.
A trot.
It was a bad idea. And I knew it from the get-go.
My knee throbbed.
I pressed on.
It swelled.
I kept running.
It buckled.
I hobbled forward.
I put in just under 5 k.
It took me 42 minutes.
I felt miserable.
My knee was the size of a grapefruit.
The pain was persistent.
I put my knee up.
Iced it.
And shook my head at my own stupidity.
Why can't I just be patient?
The thing is this: 4 weeks is a long time to be idle.
Especially because I just crested a near 3-year hiatus from activity where I diligently embraced the P word and patiently (and arduously) waited and worked to get back to running. I worked so hard. I waited so long. I was in the dip, leaning forward, pressing on patiently for three long years.
I earned that 5k in March and the 8km trial run in April. I earned a weekend of snowboarding with my friends and biking around the seawall. I was finally on top of the world and my hard work paid off. And it felt good. Great actually. Incredible. Like Kim circa 2009. Like my heart was fulfilled.
And just as I was at my peak – feeling strong, moving faster, feeling healthy... this happened.
And I'm feeling a little sorry for myself (as these things usually go).
So I huff.
I puff.
I sigh.
I whine.
I cry a little.
I wallow.
And I'll go to bed another night, and try, try, try to be patient tomorrow...
This too shall pass.
Right?
