Little m Long a

The other half is physical.   Yogi Bear said that.

Wait, Berra.  The ball player, not the cartoon.  Anyway, he was talking about baseball – not running – but I think it applies.

Things I realized in no particular order on this morning’s run:  (And I’m using the term run very loosely.)

5 weeks is an awfully long time for a layoff.  Injury or not.  The doc said I ruptured the plantar fascia.  He then smiled and said with all manner of assuredness, “The good news is it will get better.”  There was little offer of a solid time frame for my recovery or how to gauge progress.  I believe the terms increase activity to tolerance may have been used.  He set a follow-up appointment for a month and I’m sure he fully expected that he would not be seeing me again.

Four weeks out and I was still in what I could only describe to him as constant pain.  Not overwhelming, mind you, just ever present.  And certainly significant enough that I was unable to run.  I suppose Motrin may have helped but I pretty much suck when it comes to taking medicine so after the first week of no improvement I quit that course.  He suggested an injection of corticosteriods intimating with the disdain in his eyes that I had brought it on myself.  I’m familiar with the look.  Again he smiled and said, “It’ll get better.”

I suppose the better part of prudence would have had me engaged in alternative forms of exercise over the past five weeks.  Self-pity and ice cream are very poor substitutes for cardiovascular conditioning.  After knee surgery for a torn meniscus this past December I asked my orthopedist when I could resume running.  He looked at me (with disdain) smiled and said, “Get a bike.”

I’ve got a bike.  I don’t like it.  It hurts my ass and makes me numb in places I’d rather not be.  The bike would have at the very least lessened the severity of what was surely a massive coronary suffered after the first 10 minutes of easy running this morning.

I have to listen to music while I’m running.  Must.  The noise of my breathing literally scares me!  A close second on the totally annoying scale is when there’s a tiny, yet ever so perceptible rattle in my ear buds.  The rattle of the cord on my shirt drives me nuts so I tuck the cord under a hat to keep it from flopping.  This morning the actual ear bud developed a rattle and I became so discombobulated messing with the thing that I nearly ran into a tree.  To my great fortune I had the park to myself so that at least some shreds of my dignity were salvaged.

It takes in inordinate amount of time to achieve a comfortable level of fitness.  It takes exponentially less to lose it all.

I ran this morning for the first time in 5 weeks.  It felt more like the first time ever.

It felt good.

Every once in a while, from the least likely of the bunch….

We stopped for dinner last night in your typical, dive B-dubs.  Don’t judge!  I’ve a fickle dining ensemble and this is one of the few places where they’ll at least eat.  It had been a long day and the last thing I wanted or needed was to go home and prepare dinner.

On one of the many tv screens that fill the place was the movie Tin Cup.  No volume, of course, but the kids somehow found themselves following along with at least parts of the story.  Cut to the scene where Costner takes a 13 after putting 5 balls in the drink.  The kids seemed completely caught up in the story.

Finally, Zoë turns around and says, “What movie is this?”

“It’s called Tin Cup,” I tell her.

“We should watch this sometime.”

And then without missing a beat Zander responds, “We are watching it!”

Zane bounced into the school office with confidence, a smile on his face.  He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me standing there, red-faced and winded.  Immediately he asked, “What’s wrong?” And taking a step backward added, “What did I do?”

“This is your future, son.  Get used to it,” I thought to myself but only smiled and reassured him that he had done nothing wrong.

You see, I went for a run yesterday.  That in and of itself is no great revelation for I run often.  I had about an hour maybe a tad more before I needed to pick the kids up from school so I figured I could get in a few easy miles.  It was a beautiful day and the change in scenery from by usual route would be refreshing.  I parked the car at a nearby park, stowed my wallet and keys in the center console, gathered by iPod and earbuds, stepped out of the car and locked it.  Our car has one of those coded keypads on the door that enables you to leave your keys and other cumbersome items behind when carrying them — like say, on a run — would be inconvenient.

It’s a nice feature and I use it constantly.

The run was pretty much what I was hoping for on such a gorgeous day.  Pleasant.  Warm.  Scenic.  Refreshing.

Yet, deep down, I had a nagging feeling that something was not right.  Something was off and I couldn’t quite shake it.  Still, I ran on. When I made it back to my car I realized what was wrong.  I had absolutely no idea what the code was to unlock the door.  The code I’ve used thousands of times to gain entry into my car had completely escaped me.  I tried every combination I could think of.  There’s a 3 in it, I just know it.  Yet after each attempt to unlock door the little plunger just lay there.  Inanimate.  Unresponsive.  I was shut out!

Fortunately, the kids’ school was only about a mile away so I started off in that direction.  Zane would know the code.

The school secretary did an admirable job keeping a straight face as I explained my situation to her.  I also thanked her for not announcing over the school’s intercom speakers that reason Zane was being called to the office was because his lunatic dad had forgotten the code to get into the car.

“Dude, seriously!!”

“Yes, Zane.  I know there’s a 3 in it but I honestly have no idea what the code is.  I tried several times but I just can’t remember.”

“Dad!  There’s no 3 in the code!”

He then proceeded to write down the correct code for me.

I’m not sure but I think I may have heard him apologizing to the school secretary and principal as I left the office.  I smiled to myself at the thought that this will probably not be the last time one of my kids will be called from whatever task they may be engaged to help out their increasingly forgetful dad.

My right eye has been twitching for the last three days.  Like an itchy trigger finger only I don’t have a gun and the eye thing is a bit more creepy.  Maybe its’ some sort of deficiency.  I ate a banana but it didn’t stop.  Understand it’s out of my control should we happen to cross paths.  I’m not being coquettish.

The  fleur de lis is lonely.  Want is there — design is not.  Permanence makes it matter.

My summer is taking shape and yet, two days ago I had to turn the heater back on.  That’s just not right.  And the grass needs mowed.  Again.  It’s not even April.  The business of springtime has me yearning for the summer I’ve got planned.  Busy in it’s own right but immensely more enjoyable.  Not that cheering my kids in their respective athletic endeavors this spring will not bring me utmost satisfaction, it certainly will.

I just happen to feel that watching my kids frolic along the sandy beaches of a Caribbean island as Maura and I sip mai tai’s is going to rank slightly higher on the pleasure scale.

I’m that guy.  Hate me if you must.

The twitchy eye could mean that I just don’t care.