This week, I’ve logged 9 miles. I am up to 3 mile runs.
Whoopee! You might say.
But there is cause for great rejoicing. This is the most I’ve run since January 4. Seriously. Oh, I’ve been able to run a couple of times a week for short periods over the last 2 weeks. But always at least one of my legs would act up. I would put it back down and walk instead. I have learned the hard way not to push too hard to recover.
This is week 11 since my injury. Yep. And I still hurt a little, in my left hip. But not too bad.
In the past, I would run 20ish miles per week. And when following the peak marathon training schedule, 40ish miles. This paltry amount of mileage feels like a drop in the bucket. It’s nothing to brag about. But it makes me happy.
What I’m finding is I don’t enjoy it as much anymore. I like it. Don’t get me wrong. But I have found other interests that fill me more, other pastimes to edify me. I don’t know if I need to race anymore. Maybe these months of down time have served to get me to refocus on other goals, especially writing. I’ve also relearned about myself as a human being instead of a human-doing. I suppose if the desire to race comes reappears, like an exotic, mysterious bird, then I’ll pursue it.
Spring is the season of hope and new life. This morning, I saw cherry trees finally, finally starting to blossom. The magnolia trees have buds on them. Tiny, starry forget-me-nots dot the neighbor’s lawn. Daffodils appear like miniature suns. Is it too self-centered to feel like spring has held off so long in order for me to get strong enough to run outside regularly? Probably. For now, it’s enough to be able to run. I am grateful.