Injuries Suck!

NOT me.

The Accidental Runner ran Monday. The Accidental Runner blew up his calf Moanday. The Accidental Runner is depressed.

Sigh.

Today, my best friends are the three "I's": ice, ibuprofen, and elevation (Ok, so it's two "I's" and "e". Sue me.)

This sucks.

It was to have been an hour+ run. The usual kinks worked themselves out over the first mile or two. Everything then loosened up and felt good. I opened my stride and picked up some speed—nothing Bolt-like, rather comfortably middle-aged. I felt good.

Decision Point

At the 30-minute mark I faced a decision: turn back (the shorter route) or keep on (a longer, more challenging route). I felt good. Not great, strong, and indestructible, but good.

I chose the longer route.

Getting home in time to make an appointment would be a challenge, but if I focused on technique, I knew I could do it.

Each stride mattered. My mission: mindful running. My feet fell into stride with a steady legato rhythm—this was not a stacatto day. Hips forward, limbs loose, I was feeling the groove.

Then, something...uncomfortable.

My right calf tightened. Then it tightened some more. It felt like someone was winching a catapult cable...in my leg.

One might have described it as a cramp. But I never cramp, which told me bad things were happening.

Something wicked this way comes...

I ran. Most kinks work themselves out with a little time and attention. I compensated, adjusting my technique as best I could, looking for that happy stride that would loosen the tension.

The pain continued.

No pop. No rip. No tear. No shocking sensations. Just...tightness. And pain.

And so I continued, for another mile. I continued until my entire calf was rigid with seizure.

Then, I gave up.

I borrowed a cell phone, called in the evacuation helicopter, and limped up the street to the extraction point.

BCB and the LAs rescued me. Pouring sweat, clenching teeth, I plopped down in the passenger seat, thankful it was over.

I. I. E.

We had no ibuprofen in the house. But we had ice. The eldest LA made a bag the size of my head that I desperately applied to my calf, within the wrap of an enormous hockey sock (sometimes being a pack rat has its benefits). Ice. Bliss.

The remainder of the day was spent in a cycle of ice and compression—managing swelling and encouraging blood flow.

"Vitamin I" acquired, I paired it with a half-dose of naproxin. More ice, then heat. Flush the area. Apply compression.

Swimming in the Nile

Tuesday morning, back to work, limping all the way to the office. Leg up on desk. Calf resting on a huge bag of ice.

Ouch.

Go to the gym to test things out. The good news? I can sit on a spin bike and pedal. I can't pull, and I certainly cannot climb. But I can spin and get up a sweat.

George, self-appointed spin class master—the Statler and Waldorf of the National Capital YMCA—declared: "Achilles!"

My medical crew...geniuses...the lot of 'em!

"No," I replied.

"Yes," he insisted.

So began the great debate.

Personal trainers, tri-athletes, and casual stoppers-by all got into the conversational act.

The summation? I should see a doctor to make sure that I didn't do any damage to the Achilles tendon. The pain and the swelling was centered on my calf just above the point where the tendon meets muscle. Rupturing my Achilles would be bad...like three+ months in a cast bad.

Paranoid and pained, I left the gym more freaked out than when I arrived.

Reluctant, but Needful

Ice. Ibu. Elevation. The cycle continued.

I made a pact with BCB. If it didn't feel significantly better in the morning, I would see my doctor.

It didn't feel better in the morning.

THIS is where I DON'T want to be...

I got an appointment early in the morning. My GP, Dr. Julie, poked and prodded, examined my bruising, and declared a muscle tear. How severe? Any impact to Achilles? What to do next? She referred me to an ortho and gave me a script for an ultrasound—to see if they could see anything.

Ultrasound showed...nothing conclusive. Not pregnant. (Not the best test to see—that would have been an MRI—but insurance protocols rule the day, and I'm sure the ultrasound is less expensive than the big, clanking tube of death.)

Off to the ortho. He poked and prodded. He stretched (holy-sweet-mother that hurt). He declared several opinions: a ruptured Plantaris; a low-grade tear of the Soleus; and no compromise to the Achilles.

So, the good news is that I have no reason to expect my achilles to rupture and roll up into my leg like a cheap window shade.

If the injury is a ruptured Plantaris, no worries. I didn't need it anyway. According to Gray's Anatomy, "This muscle is sometimes double, and at other times wanting." Apparently roughly 10% of the population doesn't have one (mutants!). And the treatment would be the same as a low-grade tear to the Soleus: rest, ice, Vitamin I until the swelling goes down. Then light stretching, ice (or heat), and more Vitamin I.

Ten days to two weeks to recover to 70%.

Poopity poop poop pooper.

Counting My Blessings, One Chip at a Time

I left the doctor and dutifully acquired a bag of kettle-cooked, mesquite-flavored potato chips. And a "party size" (whoo hoo!) bag of organic blue corn tortilla chips (one nasty binge balanced nicely by one moderately healthy binge).

Mesquite consumed, I let myself feel sorry for myself for a few hours.

Why? My training for my next three events is set back. It's a big blow. I have Pelotonia in less than three weeks. I race in Nation's Tri in less than six weeks. Half-full in eight weeks.

How the hell am I going to run a half-marathon in eight weeks?

To hell with the "Poopity poop poop pooper." nonsense. It's "SHITE!" time!

So, here I sit, riding the bus. I'm on my way to work. I'm down. I know it could be worse. I know it could have been a disaster.

But I'm lacking perspective.

Hopefully I'll learn from this. I'm still looking for the lesson.