For the last few weeks, I’ve been training for my very first half marathon.
I have this love/hate relationship with training. But the discipline has been good for me to notice and name a few things.
Running – I am learning to gauge speed, terrain and patterns, how healthy equipment equips one for a better run. i.e. do not use shoes that have been buried in the closet for years and are worn out.
Recovery – cooling down after a run and caring for my body requires good food, plenty of water and a shower. This time invites me to be grateful for what I have completed. Also while sweat is a friendly detox program, no friend really wants to share this intimacy with you.
Resting –days where I am not suppose to run, instead let the muscles be without strain, which seems counter-intuitive – I mean I am suppose to be running, training and some how this has become the hardest part of the training for me.
These three prongs of training go hand-in-hand. Now four weeks in, I’m becoming familiar with this training rhythm.
Then something went wrong.
I wish I knew what it was exactly, but I don’t. All I know is that, yesterday on my run, something went wildly wrong.
One minute I was trotting along (at a pretty decent pace, might I add) without any pain, and then the very next minute my ankle began to scream the worst kind of pain at me. But of course, what did I do? I did my best to silence my shouting ankle, pressing on to finish my mileage.
But once I hit my desired mile marker, I quickly realized that I could barely walk.
What?! Why could I run, but I could not walk??
I ignored the pain in the middle of the run because that is what I have so often learned to do in life – push it aside, deal with it later, maybe it will disappear.
Swallowing my pride.
Now, here I sit with a nice, fleshy, swollen ankle that properly refuses to even bare the pressure of my weight (no joke). You know the worst of it? Now I have to sit and ask for help, which pricks my pride and stirs my desires…
- “I do not want to be needy.”
- “Buck up and press through—don’t be a baby.”
Every ounce of the “resting” part of my training is being tested right now. Will I hear my body’s need in the presence of the whining voice of my pride? I look that pride in the face and not-too-kindly ask it to be quiet. But as it continues to whine, I realize that pride is a desire I have fed and responded to without any thought of what God might have to teach through asking for help.
“Oh God, let me listen and help me tame this demon so that it even may become an angel in my life.”
Until then, you can find me right here, icing and resting.