Like a caged animal...

It was about mile 16. I was somewhat disoriented and I took my electrolyte supplement; it seemed to wake up my brain, but not so much with the legs. After passing MM 4 on the trail, I ran through the Sparks water stop and I saw Laurie from CCR Events. Not sure if she recognized me, but she asked how I felt. How do I feel?! At mile 16?? My lady-like poise had long left me (I think it was about mile 14) so all I could muster up was, "I feel like shit!". Laurie responded with semi-shock, "Oh, I'm glad I asked!" I hope she wasn't offended and understood what I was going through...
It was after that I tried to focus, but I'm pretty sure I'd reached my threshold. The NCR trail has spots that are washed out, as some trail veterans know. I hit one of these spots, felt my ankle turn, and was surprised that it didn't hurt, but simply felt over-extended.
I had 3+ miles to go after that. After maintaining my goal pace of 8:30 up until mile 14, I stopped counting and dropped back to an approximate 10-minute pace. I pushed as hard as I could, but there was nothing left. It felt like a rock was in my shoe; sharp-stabbing pain.
On the last mile we finally hit road and the course took us up Ashland Road. My feet were thankful to have a different variable. Though rolling roads, it felt better to be running on a solid, predictable surface. From what I recall, there were only two hills on Ashland. It was the second hill that I experienced something I never have before--The Wall. I have been tired and I have felt my pace slow, but I have never experienced this. In prior training there was something about mile 9 that created a mental block for me, but this...this was 'The Wall'.
Pink Floyd summons up too many memories to mention, but we aren't talking laser-light shows, odd psycho ex-boyfriends, and what not. The Wall, to me, was more physical than anything. It was as if someone was using all their weight, pushing against me, and telling me that I could make progress, but just not in the forward direction.
A U-turn into the finish line, I see my beloved Dave Cooley and blow him a double kiss. I shuffle across the timing pads and see Kelly Dees, CCR race director. To be encouraging, she says, "You make it look easy." I want to kiss her for being so kind, but I know she's only saying it because I look like hell.
I don't realize the full impact at that point. There are so many people I want to talk to, so many people who I want to thank. I limp around the parking lot and assume the pain is due to the mere fact that I just tried to race 20 miles. After all, what's the big deal? There are people like Kevin Hewitt and Mike Wardian who log in 100 miles a week, or Mike Buss who has run a marathon a day for the past 90+ days.
It was a pain that just wouldn't go away. Before, any twinge or tweak I felt, I would slap some ice on it a couple times a day, maybe take a day off, and things would be as good as new. The last thing I needed was to be injured, especially after all the commitments I had made to teams, friends and family. But now, I couldn't ignore what was happening to my foot, and I WOULDN'T be stubborn enough to bull through it.
I have crossed to many runners in my recent exposure to the running world that have pushed through injury and ended up incapacitated beyond any time frame. I refused to let this be me. I know that nipping an injury in its early phases can prevent a prolonged period of metaphoric solitary confinement.
I feel like a caged animal. I am confined and limited because of an injury I have been so cautious to prevent. I am meant to run. Sure, I can cross-train with cycling, elliptical, swimming and what not, but I am meant to run.
I use the elliptical machine and drench my anger and frustration in my own pool of sweat knowing that this perspiration could be sloughed off by the mere motion of propelling my body forward along a road. It's been a week since my injury; things seem status quo, I will try again.
I set out for a modest 3 miles. I have only completed one mile when I can't ignore my foot. I stop like a good certified running coach should, and I do the walk of shame back to my car. Thank goodness it's raining so that the on coming runners can't see my tears of frustration and jealousy. I hate my foot, I hate my need.
I am a runner. I run to cope, I run to escape, I run so that I can feel the freedom of using my own two feet to accomplish what most deem impossible. If I can't run, I can't release.
Thank God for all the other runners out there. They get it. They know. They are so amazing in sending me their well-wishes and support. They seem to want me well almost as much as I do. I don't know where I would be without their support. If I didn't have it, the confinement of an injury would become suffocating. I can breathe though, knowing my running friends are out there waiting for me to join them on any amount of mileage I can summon up.
Thank you! You know who you are. You keep me sane through my most trying times. Thank you from the bottom of my heart! Thank you just for 'getting it'.