STORYTIME: Why I’ll Limp For the Rest of My Life

In 2014, I was training hard for the Chicago Marathon.  My speeds were exactly where I wanted them to hit, and I felt strong from head to toe.

I was transitioning into a new job during this time, so I had picked up modeling to make ends meet.  Then, I made a huge mistake.  I picked up a trade show modeling gig a few weeks out from marathon day.  I was required to stand in high heels for one week – shifts lasted 7 hours a day with barely an hour break.

Although it hurt, I figured paying my rent was more important than the dull throbbing in my feet.  I finished up the week and ran my final 20 miles.

Two days after that long run, I woke up to do some light speed work.  Midway through, I felt and heard an audible “ZIP” in my left ankle.  I saw stars.  Before I knew it, I could barely walk.

Thankfully, I wasn’t too far from home, so I hobbled back and undid my gym shoe.  My left ankle was now twice its size.  And I was three weeks out from race day.  EFF.

For those who haven’t met my family, our obstinacy is boundless.  Therefore, I completely ignored the white-hot pain and laced up for marathon day.

I’ll let my Instagram post do the talking:

The last major moment of the marathon that I remember is turning into the aid station at mile 12.  As she wrapped and iced my bloated ankle, my nurse told me I really needed to stop.  Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to sleep that night knowing I ran the whole way.

Spoiler alert: I’m clinically insane.  The rest of the race was basically blackness.  I’ve repressed the experience because I was in so much pain.

What’s worse is that my parents were in Europe for a week, and I was in too much pain to phone a friend for help.  I spent the next week writhing in bed, gritting my teeth, and hating myself for being such a medal whore.

Eventually, I was able to get one of those fancy “boots”, and my ankle slowly returned to normal.  Or, normal-ish.  Years later, I have to warm up a bit when I get out of bed.  I have to make serious decisions when it comes to footwear (i.e. will these flats make me actually want to kill myeslf?).

On frigid days, I hobble like an old woman.  Seriously.

Take my advice: if you have injured yourself to the extent that you can’t run, don’t.

What’s the worst injury that you’ve experienced?

 

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4 thoughts on “STORYTIME: Why I’ll Limp For the Rest of My Life

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