Flying W Things

Today I quit.

Since late May I've been training for the Long Beach Marathon, which is in two weeks. I won't be running it. Last weekend my knee started bothering me in the middle of a ten-mile run - and when I finished I could barely walk.

I did some research and it seems I have Illiotibial Band Syndrome. If you don't feel like following the link, basically my right knee feels like somebody is hitting it with a hammer if I run more than a couple miles. When I'm running downhill, they switch over to an axe. It hurts.

I bought a brace to try to mitigate the symptoms and gingerly did my training runs this week. Today I needed to do my final Big Run - 20 miles - to prep for the marathon.

I ran about eleven.

At ten miles or so - the last seven or so accompanied by my friend with the hammer - I had a little conversation with myself. It went something like this:

Me: I think I should stop. My knee hurts like a mother.
Me: No, it's not that bad. It will get better. Keep going. You can do this.
Me: Do you really think it will get better?
Me: Yes! Sure! No problem.
Me: Well, okay.

So, on we went. After another mile or so, we continued:

Me: It's not feeling better.
Me: But it's not worse!
Me: Do you remember how bad it hurt after we stopped to fill the water bottle?
Me: Isn't it nice out today?
Me: Answer the question.
Me: (it hurt)
Me: Damn it. We're stopping.
Me: (okay)
Me: It damn well is NOT okay. It sucks enormous donkey dicks. I'm tired of making the fucking Grownup Decision.

The language got worse from there.

And so I shut it down and walked home. I know I am doing the right thing, for several reasons, but that doesn't make me any happier. Frankly, I'm livid. I know that eventually that hot slug of anger will boil down to a healthy dose of resolve, but it's going to be a while.