RUN!

Took a great hike with Delia the dog this morning on the Winchell trail. Walking on the river road path between the 36th and 35th street parking lots, we walked under several trees lining the path. They seemed to be greeting us or maybe heralding the beginning of our walk, the opening to a ceremony or sacred ritual. I need to write more about this stretch of the path.

The marathon is on Sunday. Mostly, I’ve accepted the fact that I can’t run it, but I still can’t wait until it’s over so I can move on. Thinking about it, I composed to quick poems:

Consolation Prize

Maybe the best consolation
I can take from getting injured
and missing the marathon
is that right now,
sitting at my dining table,
a little over 24 hours before the race,
I’m not undone with anxiety,
overwhelmed with the what ifs,
unable to imagine how a human body
can run for more than 4 hours.
It’s a very small consolation
but I’ll take it.

Missing

almost 2 months ago
I misplaced my kneecap
only for a few minutes
it was gone
it came back
but not before
misplacing my marathon
I found the kneecap,
but not the marathon.

Walked with Delia the dog and decided to record my observations. Here’s a transcript of what I spoke into my iPhone memo app for our almost 20 minute walk (update: I turned it into a poem):

Sounds and Things I Pay Attention to on my Walk

The squeaking of the garage door
The glistening reflections on the wet pavement
The trickling water from the fountain in somebody’s backyard
The low, electric hum of the cicadas
An occasional chirping bird
My footfalls on the wet pavement
The trickling of the water in the sewer after the rain
The wheels of the stroller approaching me, almost feeling hostile and threatening
The whoosh of the water under the wheels
The clanging of Delia the dog’s tags on her leash
The big orange construction cone on the driveway, amidst the grayish brown wood and cement blocks
An occasional drip of water, sometimes a plop, sometimes just a drip
The traffic way in the distance
Some unspecified hums
A single yellow leaf falling off a tree already having lost most of its leaves
Burgundy and yellow flowers next to pink and light purple ones
Small puddles on the sidewalk
Darker black asphalt patches where the sidewalk has been repaired
Drips from the trees on my hat
A squirrel running quickly across the street even though there’s no danger of a car
Water rushing in the sewer
The not bright blue, not powder blue, maybe cornflower blue, Adirondack chairs
A runner running by, out in the street; fun to watch their stride—so graceful
and relaxed
The ugly purple leaves on the ground
A car just in the middle of the road for some unknown reason
Some cars approaching me with their lights on, some without
the Furry fuzz
Clanging from a truck, unloading scaffolding perhaps,
unloading some sort of equipment that I’m not turning around to see
It echoes in the otherwise calm, peaceful morning
Talk radio birthdays: T.S. Eliot, Ira Gershwin
I keep listening to hear what kind of talk radio it is
An interesting bark from a dog, deep and low and then high pitched and whiny
A gray car that’s been in an accident
Milkweed pods, some black and dead, others still green and ready to burst
A bright yellow school crossing sign
A slightly paler yellow seat, rope swing on a big tree with gnarled branches
A plane overhead
Walking through clumps of wet, dead leaves on the sidewalk
A bright red chair in front of a green house
The crunch of a walnut shell or a stick under my shoe
A squirrel running ahead of us on the path
Another bright red chair
and two red cars
A truck backing up
somewhere nearby
but not that close.
More drips.
Beautiful mums in pots on the front steps
The light from a front door still on. Was it left on by accident overnight, or is it on because it’s darker this morning?
A squirrel overhead, rustling in a tree branch
More planes and crows

Devoting my time to looking and listening to my surroundings and then describing them into my phone meant that I had no time for any broader ruminations. What would a walk where I randomly spoke what I was thinking into the phone be like?

This afternoon, I have another physical therapy appointment. I’m hoping that this will be the last one and that I can start running again. Mostly, I feel optimistic because my knee doesn’t hurt and I seem to be able to walk normally, but I’m still nervous. My knee clicks a little and sometimes aches a little. What will my physical therapist tell me?

Started a new poetry class this week. So exciting! I’m really enjoying taking writing classes. For the assignment this week, I had to write an homage poem. I chose, “13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” partly because I discovered this poem last spring and had created a writing assignment for myself using it as a model. Here’s what I posted:

13 Ways of Looking at a Tree While Running

1.
Among the veil of green
The only noticeable thing
Was the red leaf on the tree.

2.
Through the effort of running,
I was of no mind,
Absent, like the leaves on a tree
In midwinter.

3.
The tree sizzled in the hot breeze.
Mocking the already overheated runner.

4.
A runner and a path
Are one.
A runner and a path and the trees
Are one.

5.
I do not know which to prefer,
A mystery concealed
Or a mystery revealed,
The tree leaved in summer
Or bare in winter?

6.
The humidity hovered above me
With thick persistence.
The canopy of the tree
Trapped it on the running path.
The visibility
Lost in a fog
Of hazy air.

7.
O fit runners of Minneapolis,
Why do you seek inspiration from shiny PRs?
Do you not see how the tree
Releases oxygen
Making inspiration possible?

8.
I breathe out in jagged fits
And in steady, even rhythms.
I breathe, also,
Because the tree
s
Need me to.

9.
When the tree was no longer in view
The runner imagined
What it would do,
Now that she was not looking.

10.
At the sight of a towering tree
Swaying violently in the storm,
Even the most ardent nature-lover
Would reconsider hugging it.

11.
She ran below the tree
Grit crunching under her shoe.
Once, she freaked out
When she thought a falling walnut
Was a branch.

12.
The river is moving.
The trees are not.

13.
It was humid all morning.
It was hot.
And it was going to be hot.
The tree stood
Offering no shade.

Here are a few other versions that don’t quite fit Stevens’ structure:

1.
In the summer
the floodplain forest
at the bottom of the gorge
is covered with leaves—
a veil of green
almost, but not quite,
concealing my view of
the blue river as I run above it.

2.
When it rains
that same floodplain forest
glows in soft greens
and rich browns
dripping
thick
wet
mystery.

3.
Running by,
I never stop to study the trees.
If I did,
could I see them breathing,
their leaves acting as lungs
inhaling carbon dioxide
and exhaling oxygen?

4.
At a certain point
during my run,
I’m in a daze,
not seeing the trees
so much as feeling
how the shade of their leaves
cools the air.

5.
After a violent storm,
I cautiously ran under
the fallen limb
precariously propped
against another tree.

6.
Red or gold or orange leaves
are pretty on a tree
but not on the path
where they conceal
debris that lies in wait
ready to twist my ankle.

7.
Never trust
a path
without trees.

My knee is looking better, according to my physical therapist, and, “in theory,” I should be able to start running in 2 weeks. Definitely not time to prepare for the marathon, which I already knew, but time to run by the river during the fall when the leaves are yellow and orange and flaming red. I’m excited to be inspired by the colors and the smells and the crisp, electric air.

Last week, after reading several poems that talked about changing your life, I decided to make a list.

Things that cause change:

• Moving from Michigan to North Carolina to Southern Virginia to Northern Virginia to Iowa to Minnesota to California to Minnesota to Georgia and then back to Minnesota, for good.
• Getting up from a chair too quickly, twisting your knee wrong, temporarily and partially dislocating your kneecap.
• Being exposed to new ideas
• Moments of clarity, moments of wonder, moments of calm
• the seasons
• the end of something: open swim, the summer, the semester, a book
• the beginning of something: winter running, an online class, a poem
• Giving the cashier a twenty dollar bill when what you’re buying only costs $18.50.
• Breathing deeply.
• Breathing at all.
• Not breathing ever again on September 30, 2009.
• the uncontrolled division of abnormal cells
• Deciding not to cut your hair and seeing how long it can grow.
• Binge-watching Community instead of Parks and Rec
• Going to an animal shelter and adopting a dog
• New presidents
• a faulty gene in chromosome 11 (region 11q12-q13) which is also known as VMD2.
• turning 42, then 43
• new schools
• leaving the house and turning to the right instead of the left when taking the dog for a walk
• slowing down
• accidentally spitting toothpaste on your shirt when brushing your teeth
• erosion as the result of wind, water, freezing temperatures, a clogged gutter, a dangerously incompetent, narcissistic and hate-filled leader
• no longer eating meat
• switching from Avenir to Helvetica
• asking a question: the right one or the wrong one
• wetsuits, better goggles, nose plugs
• changing the water filter in the refrigerator
• choosing to laugh instead of cry
• Memorizing a poem.
• Swimming an extra loop at open swim and experiencing the glow of the sun lower in the sky.
• Paying attention to the trees and their leaves
• Cataloging the sounds and the smells and the landmarks on your run

This week I’ve been biking for 30 minutes every morning with my bike on the stand, in the front room. I’ve also been walking the dog twice a day. My knee is feeling much better. So much better that I was able to email my physical therapist yesterday and tell her I didn’t think I needed a doctor’s appointment or an MRI. Hopefully she’ll agree when she sees me tomorrow. I haven’t been as good at posting on this log, but I’ve continued to write and post on “my running stories” page. Here’s what I finished this morning: Better Words

One month ago today, I stood up too quickly and temporarily displaced my knee. I had temporarily displaced my knee several times before that without knowing it, sometimes causing injury, sometimes not. This was the first time I felt a lot of pain and knew that something had moved out of place.

This month has been very difficult. Not running. Not walking without a brace. Not knowing what was wrong or when it would stop being wrong. My current status is not quite known. I have one more day to decide if my knee is recovering enough to continue physical therapy or to schedule another doctor’s appointment and an MRI. Most of the time, my knee seems better, but then I’ll be walking and my kneecap will unexpectedly slip.

The best way for me to describe how it feels to walk around with a messed up kneecap that might suddenly, without warning, pop or pang or slide or shift, is this: Sometimes in the winter, when the sidewalks are covered with new ice, or covered with old ice that is hidden by freshly fallen snow, or covered with ice that was melted snow that refroze over night in jagged patches, I walk too carefully. My whole body is tense, waiting to fall. I ache in anticipation. My legs are tight. My movement forced, unnatural. Right now, in the first week of September, I am walking like it’s winter and there’s ice on the sidewalk.

A Recap of the Week

• Still not able to run.
• Swam on Monday.
• Biked to the State Fair and walked around it all day, then came home, not-so-smartly walked the dog without my leg brace and felt something pop again on Tuesday.
• Biked to the lake, ripped my wetsuit as I was putting it on, took it off and swam around the buoys by the big beach anyway, then went to physical therapy and was told that my knee was still pissed and that we’d give it one more week and if it wasn’t better, I’d need to see the doctor again and probably get an MRI and maybe have knee surgery on Wednesday.
• Took the dog on 2 walks, mowed the lawn, cleaned the house, went for dinner with my dad and his wife on Thursday.
• Biking to the fair and then walking around it again today.

When the physical therapist mentioned an MRI, my first response was: will I have to be fully enclosed? I’ve never had an MRI and for years it has been on my list of things I never want to do because they will freak me out. Being trapped, unable to move, in a confined space? No thanks. But not being able to run again or to walk without my knee popping out is not an option, so if I need an MRI, I’ll get an MRI. To prepare myself for this possibility, I decided to derange the MRI, to take away some of the power of the letters to haunt and terrify me by rethinking the acronym.

MRI officially stands for Magnetic Resonance Imaging. But, it might also stand for:

Must Read Incessantly
Magical Realism Included
Musty Rusty Incubators
Mile Runs Impress
Mighty Rosie Inspires
Maybe risk injures?
More restored instruments
Myopic readers irritate
Must resist incumbents
Must resist injury!
Miniature Rhinos Incite
Monster Roosters Incant
Moody Radicals Impinge
Mustard Relish Infusion
Muffin Roll Invasion
Moldy Reed Infirmary
Musk Rat Infatuation
Minneapolis Re-evaluates Infrastructure
Mississippi River Island (Rosie’s suggestion)
Massive Recalls Impending
Mauve = red + indigo (Scott’s suggestion)
miffed redneck implodes
Multiple raisins ingested
Made really irate
Mountain rappelling Idiot
Mutant rats infiltrate

A note about mutant rats: this acronym was inspired by Scott’s story about how warmer weather is allowing rats to have longer breeding seasons and to produce bigger rats that could grow to the size of infants. Rats the size of infants? This will surely haunt my dreams sometime soon.

swim: 1100 yards
bike: 8.5 miles

Swam at the lake in the afternoon while the kids were finishing up their first day of school. I’ll only be able to swim outside a few more times this year. It will start getting colder and, after next Monday (or sooner?), they’ll remove the buoys. Too soon.

Worked on turning my injury log into a non-linear story. A collage? I need to review my notes on the different forms to determine its form. I’m tentatively titling it, Subluxation, 16 Emotions. It’s a combination of lines of poetry, taken from the poems I memorized while recovering and fragments from my injury log.

swim: 1450 yards
bike: 8.5 miles

No running at all this week, so I’m biking and swimming instead. What a beautiful morning to be at the lake! Swam in my wetsuit and my knee didn’t bother me. I love swimming in the lake. I will miss it, when it’s over, which is soon.

Here’s something I’m working as part of my recovery through poetry project. It’s a Cento, combining lines from many of the poems I’ve memorized over the past few weeks. I’m using Simone Weil’s essay “Attention and Will” as a way to frame it.

UNMIXED ATTENTION IS NOT WILL


UNMIXED ATTENTION is prayer is belief is faith is love is a million unopened fountains is obedience to a mystery is sweet scented stuff when the breeze draws across it is pausing to attend to the goldfinches who have gathered in a field for a musical battle is touching the face of every blossom, not choosing this blossom or that blossom is heeding the call, harsh and exciting, of the wild geese and the world is swimming one day in August is going down to the sea for the deepening and the quieting of the spirit is walking into words that have been waiting for us to enter is listening at his heart—little, less, nothing is grieving over golden grove unleaving is counting five mountain ranges, one behind the other is thinking of a sheep knitting a sweater is not clenched jaws is not stiffening muscles is not pride is not a miracle just beyond our heavy-headed grasp is not imagining that trees just stand and look like they look when we’re looking when we’re not looking is not walking, on your knees, for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting is not telling one’s name—the livelong June, to an admiring bog is not seeing all spoiled is not praising this but not that, loving this but not that and IS NOT WILL.

And something else I liked, that I read this morning, by Wendell Berry:

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of silences, like prayers
prayed back to the ones who prayed,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

And a few words I wrote down in my journal to describe the wind, which I listened to–did I, as Mary Oliver entreats, “listen convivially”?–yesterday.

Versions of the Wind

• shimmering
• sizzling
• shshshshshshing or shushing
• whooshing
• swirling
• coming in waves, swelling up and down, rolling over the trees
• undulating in the air
• agitating the air, stirring up the dust
• a natural white noise machine
• crackling, electric
• wafting

Physical Therapy

Some things I learned today at my physical therapy appointment:

• I have a high tolerance for pain, according to my therapist.
• I am particularly proud of the fact that I have a high tolerance for pain and I’m not totally sure why or if I should be proud.
• I have an extra bony anatomy which makes me prone to subluxation of the kneecap.
• My kneecap will probably be partially and temporarily dislocated again. And maybe again after that.
• My first injury almost 2 years ago, was probably not the result of a bone spur, but a subluxation.
• I should not run for the rest of the week.
• I should not run through pain, even though my doctor told me I should.
• My doctor and physical therapist have very different approaches.
• My kneecap is pissed off at me right now. Strangely, I am not pissed at my kneecap. I’m not sure what I feel towards my kneecap. Concern? Love? Acceptance?
• It typically takes about a month to recover from a subluxation of the kneecap.
• Right now, I’m at two and a half weeks. If I have to wait a full month to run again, that would be September 4th, just four weeks before the marathon.
• I might still be able to do the marathon. I might not.

Subluxation: partial dislocation
dislocation of the patella/kneecap
sub (nearly, slightly, partly)

dislocation: disruption, disturbance, disengagement, disconnection

A new fear introduced: subluxation. It could come back, you know. It’s possible this episode was not even the first. Perhaps my injury, a year and a half ago, was two injuries, two separate instances of subluxation?

Subluxation.
A sub par performance with no
sub-8 minute miles.
A substitution: speed out, stability in.
Now subject to more delays and derailments.
Submitting to the will of an extra bony anatomy.
Subliminal arguments between my right kneecap and the running path.
Subtraction and Addition: less grip and more gripe.
A subdued soul,
A submerged spirit.

A partial and temporary dislocation.
Out of the groove. The patellofemoral groove.
The fall to leap more groove.
The let a flap or a mole groove.
The poor tall female groove.
The fall poem or tale groove.
The tell a floor map groove.
The late morale flop groove.
The poet, leaf or mall groove.
The located on your femur bone between two bumps (femoral condyles) groove.

Recovery mode.

Day Sixteen

Swim: 2750 yards
Bike: 8.5 miles

I biked to open swim and then swam 2 loops (2400 yards) with a wetsuit and then an extra 350 yards without one. I was even able to kick with my right leg! A week ago, I never would have imagined that I’d be able to swim again this summer. I feel such gratitude.

Sunday open swims are tough because you have the sun in your eyes when you’re swimming out to the little beach, where there aren’t any big landmarks. Today, I swam blind for probably 200-300 yards. By blind, I mean that I couldn’t see anything but water. No big orange buoys. No sandy shore of the little beach. Just blue-gray water and an endless tree line. But I was fine. I didn’t panic or get upset or stop and try to get my bearings. I just swam straight, like I knew that I could, and eventually I saw the orange buoy, 20 feet ahead of me.

Was able to lift my straight leg off of the ground a few times. Very hard.

Recovery mode.

Day Fourteen

Now that I know it’s okay to feel pain, I’m okay pushing myself more. I’m realizing that sometimes I’m too cautious. I was so afraid that I would injure it more that I wasn’t willing to push it at all. Pushing through the fear is such a good thing for me. I don’t mind feeling pain, pain I can handle, as long as I believe that it’s not damaging me and that it will go away. Random: I use the word “that” a lot in my writing. I’m noticing it as I memorize poems by Mary Oliver. She hardly ever uses “that” but I frequently insert it in her lines as I recite them from memory. I want to eliminate unnecessary thats.

Repeat, minus the “thats”

I know it’s okay to feel pain now, so I’m okay pushing myself more. I’m realizing sometimes I’m too cautious. So afraid to injure it more, I was unwilling to push it at all. Pushing through the fear is such a good thing for me. I don’t mind feeling pain, pain I can handle, as long as I believe it’s not damaging me and it will go away.

Repeat, more refinement

It’s okay to feel pain. I know this now. So I’ll push myself more. I’m too cautious, too afraid, too unwilling to push past what’s seems safe. Pushing through fear is good for me. Pain is good for me, as long as I believe it’s not damaging, I believe it won’t stay forever.

Repeat

Pain is okay, sometimes. Like now. My pain doesn’t signal an injury, but muscles complaining as they wake up again. I won’t be afraid of it or tiptoe around it. I’ll embrace it, work though it, live with it. Pain is a part of living; it will end eventually.

I did the straight leg raise! I did the straight leg raise! Damn, it was hard. Hard to believe, but it took all my effort. And it hurt. A lot. Not a sharp pain, but a steady, uncomfortable one. But I did it!

Did a 2 mile walk with Delia the dog—my new favorite way to write her name. Tried to walk as briskly as I could. The one mile I timed was 20 minutes, although probably slightly faster if you don’t count the stops at corners to cross and the few times I let Delia the dog sniff something. Still slow, but progress.

Did you know that elite race walkers, the women and men, can walk much faster than I can run? My best 5K time is 24:54/8 minute pace. While racing for 20K or 50K, their 5K splits are 19 (men) and 22 (women) minutes. Wow. I had no idea. I know I’m not that fast, but under 25 minutes for a 5K is not slow. Can you imagine running a race while they walked it and having them lap you? What a sight! I almost want to see that.

Pain will you return it
I’ll say it again – pain
Pain will you return it
I won’t say it again (Depeche Mode, Strangelove).

Other words for Pain:

• ache
• irritation
• discomfort
• soreness
• strain
• burn
• tenderness
• twinge
• crick
• distress
• pang
• annoyance

I like pain when it gives off a slight warmth, when your muscles ache from use. This type of pain is not irritating or unwelcome. I like it and long for it, when it’s missing. Swimming is the best way I’ve found, to achieve this sort of tender, gentle burn.

Thinking about pain and reading Eula Biss’s essay “The Pain Scale.” When I first started teaching, I’d ask my students at the beginning of class, “How are you feeling, on a scale from 1 to 10?” I stopped, after one student said, “Can we not do the 1 to 10 thing? It reminds me of when I was in the hospital and the nurse would ask me that every morning.” I can’t remember what, if anything, I did after that to gauge people’s moods. Maybe nothing. Maybe I shouldn’t have stopped.

When the doctor told me that fear of pain was preventing my brain from sending the proper signals to my quads to activate, my first reaction was “wow.” Mind blown. I never would have expected my brain, and not my knee, to be the real problem here. So much to think about in terms of the relationship between the mind, the brain and other parts of the body. At the outset of my Run! writing project, I wanted to experiment with how I imagine and experience the relationship between mind and body. I wonder where, if at all, the mind fits into my current quad problem? Is there a conscious element to the fear of pain and the brain? Or, is it unconscious? Is a lack of will the problem, at all?

“During your recovery period your brain has mapped out a new neural network for pain-free walking, which has become a habit.” Uh oh. Is that why my brain has done? Is that why I can’t lift my leg? I don’t want a new neural network, I want the old one!

“When you run your brain creates a ‘neural map’ that, through repetition, will dictate your ‘natural gait’.” There is nothing natural about my current gait, with my right leg that won’t quite bend (source).

Search words to use: “neural map running injury” “running injury body maps”
another source.

Neural map
/Body Maps (the virtual body): “When you practice a movement, the body map representing the physical body part involved grows in size. However, if you stop using a particular body part, e.g. when you are injured and/or in pain, the body map for that particular body part becomes ‘blurred’ (also referred to as ‘smudged’).”

Biked for 30 minutes in the front room then tried to lift my straight leg again. Did it, but just barely. So difficult! Not just pain, but something more. A strongly resistant body. I’m sweaty and out of breath from effort.

A few hours ago, I figured out when I swing my right leg forward, it’s not straight and the knees not locked, which is what it’s supposed to do when you walk. When you run, your knees are bent, but when you walk, they should be straight. I do not know this because I’ve noticed it when I walk. I know this because I researched the biomechanics of walking a few months ago. And because I watched a replay of the 2016 Olympics 20K race walk a few days ago and the announcers kept talking about how the swinging straight leg was critical for a legal gait. No straight leg earns you a penalty and, eventually, disqualification.

Took another walk with Delia the dog. Rosie joined us this time. Then drove over to the lake and swam half a mile. Then went shopping with Scott and Rosie and walked a lot. I’m tired and sore.

Before going to bed, tried to do raise my straight right leg off of the ground again. Almost did it once.

Knee injury.

Day Thirteen

Today is the day that I hopefully find out what is wrong with my knee and how much longer I will not be able to exercise. I’m really nervous.

To help with my nerves, decided to write a poem. Today I’m trying out a ballad. Before writing my own, started to memorize “Casey at the Bat.” Only made it through the first stanza:

“The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day.
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.”

Went to the doctor and I’m feeling much better. Got the best news I could hope for. I can start exercising right away. Swimming, biking and running. Yes, I can start running right now, as long as I can handle the pain. I begin physical therapy on Tuesday.

Decided to finish my ballad, combing stuff I wrote before and then after:

Before

She sat there in the waiting room, staring at her book,
wond’ring what would happen, when the doctor took a look.
Would he watch her as she entered, walking with her limp
and notice that her knee was swollen, blown up like a blimp?

Blimp is not quite true, I’d say, but swollen nonetheless.
Just enough to make it hard to walk without distress.
She would tell this when he asked, and others things as well
like all the times her knee gave out, and when she almost fell.

By all the times, I might add, she just means one or two
.
Sometimes when she tells a story, facts aren’t wholly true.
This happens when she’s nervous or is trying to make a rhyme.
Besides straight stories bore her, she hears them all the time.

Would he tell her to lay down and do the straight leg test?
Would she fail again and he’d say, “1 year of bed rest!”?
Oh, that dreaded straight leg test, haunter of her dreams!
Surely failing it cannot be as bad as seems?

After

She just met with the doctor, and could you even guess,
the outcome of the visit was almost pure success?
Her kneecap had slipped out, but then slipped back in place.
No lasting damage happened, she only needs a brace!

Things she heard were not all good, like the part about pain.
And how the quad’s not firing due to fear and the brain
refusing to send signals to tell the quad to move.
She’ll have to do lots of work to get it to improve.

She isn’t bothered by this news, she can take the pain.
All she cares is that the doctor told her she could train.
She won’t be running fast, or even every minute,
but, ‘bout the marathon, she still gets to be in it!

I swam a loop at open swim! I swam a loop at open swim! It was very windy and choppy. At one point, it felt like I was being lifted into the air. Pretty cool. I love swimming in rough water. Some day, I’ll have to swim in the ocean.

What I did today after finding out that my knee was okay and that any pain I felt was normal and not a warning of further injury:

• Took Delia the dog on 2 walks.
• Swam almost a mile.
• Walked up and down the steps at full speed, and without bracing myself on the railing.
• Walked over 4 miles total.

Answers to the questions I asked yesterday:

When can I start running again? NOW!
When can I start walking for more than a few blocks again? NOW!
When will I be able to swim again? NOW!
When will I be able to be outside again? NOW!
When can I walk my dog again? NOW!
When will I be able to stop reminding myself, every time that I get up from a chair or the couch: “nice and slow, Sara”? MAYBE NEVER, WELCOME TO 43 SARA.
When will I be able to write about more than injury or how stiff my leg is or how I failed the straight leg test again or about how long it’s been since I ran? NOW!
Is there any possibility, that if I walked most of it, that I could still do the marathon on Oct 1? YES!

Knee status: Much better. Feeling more pain because I’m pushing it harder.

Treatment: no RICE, just a brace and physical therapy starting next week.