I hit the trails this weekend for my long run, hoping to pull off six miles for the first time.
Well, the first time intentionally. Getting lost on the trails weeks ago netted me over seven, but most of them were walking while staring at the sky, trying to figure out why the sun was in a direction it shouldn't have been.
I'm pleased to say that I didn't get lost this time. Not once.
Halfway through my run, I reached the intersection that had so perplexed me last time, and I had to decide if I wanted to head down the extra-mile loop or simply head back to the park. Weighing my options, jogging back and forth, I decided that I was out here for a reason. I would gain nothing by cutting myself unnecessary slack.
So I turned sharply left and headed for the loop. My first step landed on the edge of a large rock and I rolled my ankle, hard. I hopped a few steps, limping and swearing. Of course.
I walked, shaking it out, determined to complete the extra mile, but after a few dozen steps, common sense won out. No run is worth risking injury. I headed back down the route that I knew would take me back to the park.
A few minutes of walking, and I tested running again. The ankle was a little sore, but the more it moved, the better it felt, and within ten minutes I was back on track.
And then I asked myself: How long had it been since I hurt myself like that?
See, I'm a first-rate klutz. I've sprained my ankles more times than I can count, falling down (or up) stairs and tripping over myself.
I tore my ACL during an ill-conceived dance break at the office. It snapped - audibly - in the middle of a series of spectacular high-kicks.
One morning, I caught my toes on the waistband of my pants while trying to get dressed and I faceplanted on my bedroom floor.
Yes, really.
I've always been exceedingly accident-prone. It's in my nature.
But none of these have happened in months. Even now, wracking my brain for my last idiotic, embarrassing injury, I can think of only one since beginning at the gym last October. One night, early on, I had a treadmill incident where I bobbled and stepped off the belt, sideways. I strained my knee and needed a few days off running.
One single injury in ten months.
I've stopped hurting myself. My muscles and joints are stronger now than they've ever been, protecting me when I step wrong or stumble, but more importantly, my improved proprioception keeps me from stumbling in the first place.
What's this 'proprioception' business? It's a sense that we all have, an unconscious self-awareness of the body and its position in space. It's the sense that allows us to close our eyes and touch our finger to our nose.
It's also what keeps my feet landing flat, helps me to compensate when they don't, and makes my body play nicely with itself. And it all happened without me ever realizing it.
Until it failed, of course. Then, I noticed its absence quite shockingly.
I always said I wanted to improve my fitness, to reduce the burden on my knee and allow myself some of the opportunities I'd lost when I tore my ACL. But I accepted that as meaning that I would lose fat and gain muscle. That's what I understood fitness to be.
But this piece of the puzzle has been enlightening. It's invaluable. I taught my body, on the treadmill, how to move more efficiently. My body figured out for itself how to apply that knowledge in the world, over terrain.
Thank goodness it worked this out on its own. I sure couldn't have.
And that's where I find myself today. Stronger, faster, with a body that's officially smarter than I am. I still have so far to go, with so much more to improve, and only time and persistence will make it happen.
On that note, I have my first 5K in nearly two months next weekend. I'll be returning to the farm where I did my first trail 5K, back in May, and I'm interested to see what the course looks like. Armed with trail experience and a lot more endurance, I hope to see my time improve significantly.
If it doesn't, at least I still get a t-shirt out of the deal.
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