I went on my first run today: a meager one, especially compared to the potential 13.1 I might be doing this Sunday. I ran for roughly 2.5 miles at a moderate jog. I kept it easy, especially since it felt like I was turning rusty gears with my left knee (or, at least, I choose to believe it was like turning a set of rusty gears -- and not aggravating an injury). I got home, stretched like I was preparing for the Yoga Olympics (which is actually a thing, sadly enough), and took a super hot shower, praying to God I wasn't injured.
I'm a little sore, my knee certainly isn't at 100%, but I feel alright.
It's just a small run, but, for me, it's hope. I'm not too concerned with finishing the race; it's oddly reassuring that, of all the things I need to worry about, muscle fatigue really isn't on that list. Waking up old injuries and getting debilitating blisters? Yes. Fatiguing out? Nope. Especially not on this course, which ropes around Boston proper (and everyone knows that while Heartbreak Hill is heartbreaking, Boston-Boston is as flat as a pancake).
Last week, the temptation to quit was so huge. I thought about all the shit I could do. In reality, these were things I could do anyway, or at a later time; I was just zeroing in on them because it was easier than admitting how difficult this race could be for me.
I mapped out a fairly decent reintegration plan that will at least get my feet somewhat ready for the race. I'm willing to let go off running for a month or two after the race; I just want to cross that finish line next Sunday.
This might mean that the Chicago Marathon is out, which I'm less than thrilled about. The Boston Half Marathon is on the same weekend, so if I can't get my butt to Chicago, then at least I can be half-assed and run a half-marathon. This is all in the future; right now, all I need to do is make sure I'm healthy (or at least healthy enough) for next Sunday.