Saturday morning at the Wild Thangs Chupacabra trail run, I made the effort to make the right decision. The smart decision. The smart, prudent, wise, adulting decision that smart, prudent, wise adults make, occasionally.
It sucks. It sucked then, and it still sucks now days later. I’m still pissed off about it, even if I know it was the right decision.
I’d signed up for the half marathon. Saturday morning, I was standing at the junction of the McKay Hollow trail where it heads south-ish toward Natural Well and Arrowhead or starts the climb up Death Trail. My balky ankle, less than a week after yet another sprain, and snugly ensconsed in my Aryse iFast brace, already had tweaked twice. Tweaked meaning, a little min-roll, enough to make me catch my breath but not stop. Enough to make me wonder, at this juncture, whether I needed to head to the finish line now or after trying to complete the full 13-plus miles.
Decisions.
Ankle Sprains Suck
When I played football back in the day I’d watch my pals get their ankles taped. First the spongy pre-wrap around the foot and up the ankle, and then strips of white athletic tape around and up and around and across and under and around. Finally, they’d wiggle their toes to make sure the blood was circulating, pop off the table to proclaim coach’s efforts good, and then stiffly walk-shuffle to their lockers to finish getting ready. They could run, but the ankle was supported.
I never understood the mechanics of ankles until 40ish years later, when I badly sprained my left ankle for the first time. Years of being overweight, not training smartly, doing too much running, and probably some other factors, led to the sprains. I shook them off as just part of trail running. They almost always happened on the trails, unless I stepped off a curb weirdly while in our neighborhood.
Until January, when I stepped on a rock on the ‘hood greenway. My left ankle rolled and popped. Dammit. The rock was about the size of a golf ball. I hadn’t seen it. Of course, being a mile into a run, I wasn’t going to turn around. You keep going, right? Tough it out! Two weeks later I’m having an x-ray to make sure nothing’s broken. It wasn’t, but my specialist reiterated what I’d been told a year earlier: it might be best to consider surgery to tighten the loose ligaments and clean up the osteochondral lesion and bone chips and arthritic mess.
Eh, I shrugged. I’ll be fine. I did some therapy with Nesin and just a few weeks later decided I was OK enough to hit the trail. Signed up for a half marathon at Desoto State Park. Two miles in, rolled the left ankle again. Harder. Louder pop. Scary pop. The swelling, by the time I’d gimped to the aid station a mile away, looked like I’d stuck half a grapefruit to my ankle.
And, Guess What?
X-rays showed a break across the tip of the lateral malleolus, the knob on the outside of your ankle. Of course, the ligaments have “laxity.” That means they’re loose, like stretched-out rubber bands. Taping and bracing and doing exercises can help, but they’re just that way now. Nothing will make them better again other than surgery.
I don’t wanna have surgery. I especially don’t have to have surgery right now. I can still walk. Heck, I can still run. The ankle is sore. It’s been sore for years. I did more therapy with Nesin, which greatly helped. I skipped a handful of events I’d signed up for, and waited until Grand Viduta six weeks later to give it another try. Finished the first two days with no ankle issues. Didn’t do the third day because I’m stupid and got overheated on the second day. I did Cotton Row and Pill Hill and manage the pain, when it shows up, which thankfully is infrequent.
None of this ankle mess is new. But what’s new is I sprained it a third time in eight months, while walking on a trail. Whatever happened, whatever it was because I didn’t really go back to do a forensic exam, was just enough to cause me to roll it again. And that ticked me off, and concerned me. Making the right, smart, prudent decisions might be a factor now.
Adulting decisions suck, sometimes, and trail running is supposed to be one of the fun parts of adulting. Double suck.
The Right Decision
Mr. Tough Guy won out Saturday morning and I headed toward Natural Well and Arrowhead and about fiveish miles of rocky gnarly trails.
I was feeling good. Had enough grub and fluids and salt. Ankle felt good. I’ve been on those trails before and know them. Rocks, and a few other nasty places. It would be a grind for a couple more hours. Heck, I was still on schedule despite a couple of slow miles coming down into the hollow. Suck it up, buttercup, and get with it. You’ve done this before.
And, a few hundred yards down the trail, it hit me. This is stupid. This is the absolute worst part of the entire trail system and you’re doing this on a braced but balky ankle. One bad move, one bad twist, one stupid rock and it’s a mess. It’s a situation for the race directors, who already are strapped, and my own health.
Dammit. Dammit!
“This is stupid and you know it,” I said out loud. You’ve done this before. You have nothing to prove. Head up.
I turned around and headed back toward Death Trail. My ascent was slow. Half marathoners passed me. My ankle didn’t hurt but my pride did, a bit, to be honest. Not because anyone was passing me, but because I hadn’t completed my task: to do 13-plus miles, as I’d signed up for. I crossed the line with about 8.5 miles under my soles, my ankle intact and Death Trail behind me. I cheered the others coming across the line. Finishing anything is good, even if it stings a bit.
Making the smart decision, the right decision, the prudent decision, sometimes is easy. Sometimes it’s difficult. In hindsight, of course, it’s the wise thing to do. But dadgummit, it still sucks sometimes when you have to do it.
