I’m getting behind on posting about all of the fun summer things we’re doing, probably because we’re so busy doing fun summer things.
It’s… a vicious cycle of fun!
After dinner, you can usually find us romping on the local playground/rec field
So far it’s been a wet, humid, overly disgusting summer.
I’m running the Vermont 100K in less than 3 weeks so I’ve been training in the humidity as much as I can. Oh, bother. This type of weather kills me but I’m fully expecting Vermont to be as hot and sticky as a trail runner’s toe blister guard. According to most training plans, right now I should be “peaking” in my training and beginning to taper, but there’s an 18-mile trail race I want to do next weekend. And anyway, since I’ve been unable to do hardly any elevation training, I figure Vermont’s going to be one long uphill-downhill hike anyway.
More than a week ago on my long run on the local running trail, I tripped over a rock and fell pretty hard. Perhaps I wasn’t picking up my feet high enough due to residual lower-leg fatigue from the TARC 50… but, pride compels me to instead blame the overgrown grass on the side of the trail that obscured the rock that caught my left toe. I was going slightly downhill, slightly faster than I normally go, and my legs just couldn’t catch myself before I sailed resolutely into a concentrated field of other rocks.
I landed hard. Pain screamed from my left leg, my left arm, and my left hip. I momentarily thought I broke something. I panicked — I was 5 miles from home on a very unused trail (the mountain bikers have abandoned me now that prickly summer berry bushes are crowding the thin single-track of dirt trail). I pictured myself crawling to the nearest road and flagging down a passing car. Luckily, after a few minutes of examining, jabbing, and experimenting, I was able to stand and even run home. I was very lucky on the fall — judging by the configuration of cuts and bruises, I had avoided slamming multiple vital bones on pointy rocks by mere centimeters. The worst injury was on my left shin, a deep but small cut that throbbed and gushed blood through my compression sleeves but narrowly missed gauging my tibia.
Did I mention this happened the morning of Little Boy’s 5th birthday???
Though no bones were broken, this fall was the worst of my trail running career by far. I was scared enough that I resolved never to go trail running again without a cell phone. So on last Saturday’s 13-mile trail run (16 was planned, but the oppressive humidity causes me to run short of water quite early) I was able to snap pictures of the Western Greenway Trail, my bread-and-butter training trail that I truly consider “mine” because A: it’s 1.5 miles from my front door and B: I rarely see anyone except the dog-walkers and light-hikers within a half-mile of the parking area (since the mountain bikers have abandoned me until the autumn…)
I will be the first to admit that I look pretty bad in this picture. I had no idea that running in my glasses made me look like such a huge nerd! but I rarely put in my contacts for early morning runs. I’m posting this unflattering picture to prove that, despite my beguiling pics from the TARC 50, trail running isn’t all glamor and beauty:
This is my trail. After my fall and fears of bone fracturing… after hearing my near-daily complaints about bug bites, cobwebs, mud, paranoia about strangers and poison ivy (which I don’t even seem to be allergic to, given that I’ve never had it despite all my time in the woods — if genetics are a factor, then thank you Dad!)… Mr. P wonders, why don’t I just go 100% road running? This is what he’s done. He’s decided that trail running isn’t for him, and whenever I do manage to get him on a trail, he’ll complain for weeks after that he incurred an injury from the uneven terrain and look pointedly at me whenever he gets the ice pack from the freezer.
But I can’t give up my trail. I’m convinced it makes me stronger, both physically and mentally. I will brave the humidity, the insects/ticks, the overgrown berry bushes, and all the perilous hazards of trail running for the yielding ground, the whipping leaves, the calming peace that restores me after a trail run. This is my trail, and I can only hope my body stays strong and healthy enough to be worthy of it.
My trail (at its best)
