Youch

I don't know how much longer I can continue running. I keep thinking of Dr. Andrew Weil saying "I know people who run deep into their 30s and then they can't walk at 50. Your body will tell you when it's time to stop certain activities."

My body's been sending me signals since I was 25: shin splints, bad knees, a bum hip, flat feet, blisters, callouses. I simply put more Dr. Shoal's cushions in my shoes and keep plugging away, because if I don't run I tend toward corpulence. The first third of this year I was running 25 miles per week, then I had ankle problems (a new pain!) that required a month off. Since May I've been running about 10 miles per week, mostly in three days, and walking on alternate days. I've given up road running, and walk to the rubber track at Towson High, run, then walk home. This was working well for me until yesterday.

I finished my run as usual--2.5 miles on the track in the gorgeous triple-digit Baltimore heat--walked home, showered, went to work, sat at my desk ordering books and videos for three hours, then attempted to stand and nearly keeled over in agony. At the juncture of lateral malleolus, calcaneus, and talus in my left foot is a gooey swollen spot the size of an orange, and I don't know why. I didn't turn or twist my ankle, I didn't drop anything on it. It just started hurting.

Actually, I do know why it started hurting: old age. I'm likely to take a couple weeks off and then start running again, and in November something else will fall apart.

Dr. Weil has a point. Is it time to become a swimmer or a cyclist? Maybe I should get a step-climber or one of those gazelle things the fat steroid dude with a pony tail rides on late-night TV.

But I like running. I've been doing it the better part of 20 years. Ugh. Being a pedestrian kind of necessitates preserving my musculoskeletal system, however.

UPDATE 8am Thursday: I can't touch my left foot to the ground without significant pain. WTF? Is it a sprain? A stress fracture? Fuck this. I had to slide on my ass down the basement stairs to fetch a set of crutches left here by the previous owner of the house (thanks ghost of Willard R. Bowman). Making coffee on crutches sucks.