Five years ago, during the month of December, I was in peak training for the Goofy race in Florida.
I was running 80+km a week during those weeks.
I was also doing some cross training, and yoga, and I ran those races with no injuries whatsoever.
Then, I just kinda', quit.
Last year at this time, I signed on to join a relay team to run the Sinister 7 race in the Crowsnest Pass.
I didn't train any where NEAR what I've trained in the past because this was a trail race, and is a totally different beast from a road race.
Everyone referred to me as a "roadie", because my previous running experiences were on pavement.
Trail is so different from road, that it's the same as the difference between swimming and football.
Anyways, I ran my leg of Sin 7. And it was not the kind of performance I'm used to. I did it, but there wasn't as much running as I'd hoped, and it was mentally the most challenging race I'd ever done. But I also didn't come out of that race with a solid resolve to get back to running. I just didn't.
I've had lingering injuries - one, an achilles injury, the other, an ankle injury that's over 9 years old. And because I don't run pain-free, I've been nervous. Apprehensive.
I've wanted to get back into my runners, but it's been a busy year. It's been an exceptionally challenging year.
Y'know when people start posting memes about how the current year can beat it? I always see these pictures, and laugh, and even during my worst years, and believe me, this year wasn't especially kind to us, I think to myself, but the whole year wasn't a total bust. Just some select parts.
Well, loads of the past year have been pretty bunk….
And I have had some low, low periods. And on Sunday, I just felt overwhelmingly grateful, and had more energy and stamina than I'd had all year long. And even though I've been working full time since May, and have felt sorry for myself that I've had to do so, I felt grateful that I've been able to spend almost every single Sunday with my family since May.
Monday came, and because it's the last Monday before my family has two weeks off, it wasn't such a bad day. And I got home from work and picked up the mail and there was a TON of mail for my oldest gal. It had been her 10th birthday, recently. Which is totally crazy, in and of itself. She had some birthday cards, a couple of Christmas cards, and the always recognizable reply from Santa...
She'd written a lengthy letter to Santa, and on her own, had mailed it to the North Pole in early November.
I wasn't expecting a reply because she'd sent it so early. Yet, here was a letter, from the big guy himself, and it was full of pure magic.
Our family dog passed away this summer. Of all of the unfortunate events we've endured this year, by far this was the hardest. And Audrey has taken it very, very hard. There have been many tears, and many memories and in early November, she asked Santa to bring her dog back.
This letter had the regular reply from Santa, and then there was a whole additional page, where he addressed her wish. He told her about how Maverick wasn't in pain anymore, and enclosed a picture of the rainbow bridge. There was a package of sunflower seeds, and instructions to plant them in Mavericks memory, and to plant some every year so she can think of him each time she plants them.
I read it with her, and she and I had a tight hug and some tears. I had an ugly cry. This letter reaffirmed for me that even though lots of things didn't go how I might've liked them to go, there is still so much good to come out of 2019.
And then I laced up my runners.
I miss running. Something fierce.
I've been wearing the runners that carried me 16.7km in the climbs and descents of Sinister 7 as going-around-town shoes, and rather than continue to disrespect them like that for one more day, I laced them onto my feet to take them for a run.
And we ran. Slowly. For 6.5km. I took a few more short breaks than I normally do, but I felt very much like I'd rekindled my relationship with running.
Those old injuries awoke, and reminded me they were there, but like my favorite physiotherapist will say, stress to progress - and so those almost 40 year old ankles of mine gently spoke to me - "be careful", but never became anything more than that.
Once upon a time I was a runner.
But actually, I will always be a runner.
I was born a runner.
I was born on the exact same day Terry Fox passed away. And I think it was put in my heart on that day, and not coincidentally.
