Maybe it’s third time unlucky. I’ve injured my left leg again while jogging. Or, at least, it started with a jog. I exasperated matters during a hike a week later. I know the difference between sore quads, a hamstring cramp and something that’s going to take a while to heal. Yes, this one’s going to be a long haul. Something feels torn in the back of my knee. I’m in the U.S. right now, spending a month with Evan so I haven’t had things checked out by a doctor. I’m told my Canadian health insurance will cover costs if I get things pre-approved, but I don’t want to take chances with an exorbitant bill . Travel costs have been heavy this year and I can’t afford anything else.
Last time this happened, I got some crutches to help me move around for the first few days. They would have helped this round too, but I hobbled through the early days and tried to stay off my feet as much as possible. It’s been a week since the hiking incident that made everything worse—one misstep on a rock and I shrieked from both the pain and from knowing I still had two kilometres left to inch my way back to the car as my sister’s deaf dog tugged harder and harder on her leash. My desperate words, “Heel” and “Hold on” had no effect.
I can feel an improvement with each day and slightly less discomfort as I try to sleep each night. My hobble has turned to a slight limp. In a few days, no one will detect any difference in my legs.
But the strain will remain. I know this from the other two times I went through this. The first time it happened, I thought my jogging days were over. But five months later, I gave it another try, tentatively running along the seawall, one kilometre, then another. Tears streaked my face as I continued on, pain-free, the grind of a long jog feeling like a gift. I was able to complete what had been my normal ten-kilometre run. Instead of returning to running once every three or four days, I waited at least five days between outings. For two more years, I stuck to this new schedule. All good…a runner again.
The second time it happened, I had to take three months off before trying to run once a week. That granted me another two years of being a runner.
Maybe this latest incident just means another break before I’m back on track again. A month? Two? Six? But each time it has happened, I’ve wondered if my running days are indeed over. I was in my mid-fifties the first time. I knew the reality. I was getting older and the body neither heals the same nor recovers fully from some incidents of wear and tear. I was almost sixty the second time. And this month I turned sixty-two. I now qualify for the seniors’ discount rate at the rec centre in the town where Evan lives. I read with great interest the special “Longevity” section in Sunday’s New York Times, hoping for hot tips to halt flabby skin, hair loss and the overall aging process. Alas, no big takeaways. “Getting older” only continues.
But I’m holding out hope that I’ll be one of those seventy-somethings who complete half marathons or maybe just my regular 10Ks, no runner’s bib required.
I felt encouraged yesterday when I was able to do a pain-free ninety-minute bike ride with Evan, not going at as great a speed as usual but staying in the highest gear the whole way. Today’s swim did not go as well. I felt the leg strain as I swam my first length and thought I’d have to get out of the pool. Instead, I took a few extra breaks at the wall but managed to swim four kilometres without kicking my legs. (My freestyle kick doesn’t do much in the best of times so the adjustment wasn’t so radical.)
For now, running is on hold. Hiking, too. I won’t be doing leg weights at the gym. My options are fewer—other gym weights, biking, swimming—but I’m grateful I still have some choice. I don’t see knee surgery in my future. I remain hopeful that I can get back to hiking in a month’s time and jogging a few months after that.
Let me push aside the aches, pains and limitations of aging another year or, better yet, a couple more decades. I’m neither ready nor willing to slow down yet.
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