Run Julia, Run!

Run Julia, Run!

First of all, if you haven't been in the previous post's comment box and said something smart and inspiring, get thee there!

Second of all, many of you have endured my seemingly endless recovery since June's marathon. Running, in a word, sucked. After one pitiful, highly emotional six minutes of running on a Saturday morning, I had to stop. My IT (iliotibial) band wasn't just irritated, it was sore. I had never had any IT band problems before, but I knew enough to realize that I was putting my running future in jeopardy with every continuing step. So I stopped running. After six minutes. I was so furious and frustrated, thinking of all the times I'd easily ran ten times that, just a few days after knocking off a 3 hour long run. I knew I needed to seek help.

When I first starting running with Team in Training, they set us all up on a little listserve thing. Most of the emails revolved around run locations, carpooling, and fundraising. After the marathon, they added us all to an alumni list. These emails were easier to ignore. Fundraising for people in the current season. Help needed with aid stations for their Saturday runs. Sign up to be a mentor next year. Etc. But I knew everyone I had ran with was on the other end of that email address, so one night, I went for it. My post was titled something like, "I need an IT injury support group." The replies flooded in. Many people mentioned that they usually delete all the emails that come from the listserve, but this one caught their eye. I realized that yes, my problem was indeed potentially serious, but that other people knew exactly what I was feeling. I felt idle, useless, betrayed by my own body, and most ridiculously, I felt a little flabby. Not running was depressing me.

Finally, I was advised by Coach James to seek professional help. (For the IT band, not for my mental injuries). $130 and two hour-long visits later, I was covered in bruises THAT I PAID FOR, after having the sports therapist do all sorts of deep tissue "massage" (piercing evil wounding beatings). There was also the awesome little electrostimulator tickler thing, which made me happy on the inside. After a rough assignment of cross-training (which involved buying a temporary gym membership, boo, hiss), dilligent foam-rolling (lying on top of a giant stiff cylinder of foam and well, rolling over it), extra protein consumption, and lots of stretching, I finally got the okay to run again in late September. "Ten minutes," she said, her 2% body fat arms bent at right angles, sun-damaged hands perched on her hips. "Flat surfaces, for now. Add a minute every time and see how it feels."

Everyone in the waiting room clapped for me when I answered, "No, I don't need to make another appointment at this time." It was equal parts empowering and dorky.

Yesterday, I ran about 23 minutes at lunch. I ran again today. I'm forcing myself to not run again tomorrow, even though I want nothing more. Usually, going out to lunch with John is pretty much my favorite part about my job, but there's something about being injured - being literally unable to run - that makes it so, so much better when you're whole again. Sorry, John. Nothing personal.

But, damn it, I'm running again. I'm happy again.