It's been a minute.
Ok. It's been a month. And change.
So where was I? Off in secret training for some crazy ultramarathon? Lost in the woods after my notoriously bad sense of direction led me far, FAR off trail?
Nope. Nothing so exciting. But something much harder for me as a runner, and well, just as a person: I was resting.
You can't open any running or fitness publication without hearing the importance of rest days and how often skipping rest can lead to injury. And so like any runner, I know this, intellectually. But in actual real-life practice? Notsomuch.
Part of it is how much running is a part of my mental health wellness plan. Part of it is with a very active toddler and no chilcare for the summer, running with Tiny Overlord ensconced in her stroller is literally the only way I can get exercise.
And honestly, part of it is that no matter how much Itry to live up to my mantra in starting this blog of letting go of expectations and just enjoying running for running ... I am still a Type-A person 100%, and as I was watching my mileage slowly creep up, and my times slowly creep down, I was struggling with anything that did not seem like a forward marchin my journey, especially since signing up for the Pittsburgh Half Marathon next May.
I know this is why, when I started to feel a nagging stiffness in the back of my ankle and a sharp pain under my heel -- all the hallmarks of an overuse-induced plantar fasciitis injury in the making -- I just tried to convince myself that I would do some extra stretches and push on through. Knowing that our family's typical summer nearly-month long trip to Madrid -- something that sounds much more glamorous as than it is, as we are mostly there to help with eldercare for Mr. Every-Body-Run's father, so it's mostly hanging around abuelo's apatment, not midnight wine-soaked tapas runs -- would soon seriously limit running as I took on more caretaking, I even pushed for a family 5K at my favorite park the weekend before we left, trying to disguise my increasing limp.
Until I woke up on July 2 and my foot decided for me: you're on pause.
While better than a "boot", the brace is not my BFF either.
Barely able to walk, my stubbornness meant plenty of ice-ing, frozen water bottles rolled under my feet, and back to the night brace (not to mention trying to arrange packing for the whole family while hopping around on my non-injured side.) The long plane ride made the stiffness worse, meaning that my first few days in Spain were made even more limited as I tried to keep off it.
After about a week of forced inactivity, the pain was dimming down enough that I could at least volunteer to go grab some more jamón at the corner store (because duh, it's SPAIN. Naturally, you're getting more jamón ). Cranky at the 105-degree heat (that at least Spain has the wherewithal to actually talk about as climate change) and cranky at myself for sidelining myself when I had been doing so well, I limped past a small cafe that was shutting down for the siesta time. Though it was only mid-July, they already had their vacciones sign up.
Yes. That DOES mean a whole month of vacation. MONTH!
See, one thing I have learned about my country-in-law is that they lean hard into the idea of rest. Sure, your big chains like Zara will have their stores open all day and all summer, but every smaller one makes at least two hours of lunch and siesta time closing sacred in the summer (I mean, it's 105 degrees. You don't want to be out at 2:30 either), and many take two weeks to a whole month entirely off. As in, shut down, go have some fun at the beach or up in the mountains, see you later full rest time. While Mr. EBR admits he has taken on more American attitudes and struggles to let himself off work now, he also speaks glowingly about his youth when his father's factory did the same, granting him and his family all of August to frolic in the much more mild summer up on the Cantabrian coast.
Spain edged out Japan several years ago for the longest average life expectancy, at over 85 years. This, in spite of all that jamón y queso and an awful lot of smoking. While most articles talk about the traditional Mediterranean diet, with all those healthy olive oils and produce, or it's excellent public healthcare (which, having experienced it with a Tiny Overlord need this summer, I can confirm is pretty awesome ... American, yinz all REALLY need to stop being so afraid of universal healthcare), or it's high level of social engagement, with tight-knit communities and families to ward of the lonlieness that is so often deadly.
All of those reasons are certainly important. But I have also long been convinced that the rest tradition is just as key. Here in the States, we often use how tired we are as some kind of badge of courage; we had to make up a snazzy new term of "quiet quitting" to name NOT pushing yourself to the limits and burning yourself completely out at work (because somehow -- eek! -- just doing what you are required to do instead of making work your whole identity is somehow "bad" here?).
And while I will sit in Madrid and say how wonderful month-long cerrado por vacciones signs and long coffee breaks and two hour lunches are ... and will say I will start that, for sure, this year ... I never seem to make it much past when jet lag wears off before I'm juggling work email two weeks before my contract even starts (not that THAT happened today ... sigh).
I wish I could say I achieved that Zen-like-be-here-now acceptance of where I am.
Instead, I look at the numbers on that watch and think "NOOOOOO! I was running more than two minutes a mile faster on runs more than twice as long in May!" I think about how it always annoys me how a year of working up can disappear so fast. (If a week off set me back a month, what does this mean about a MONTH off??).
But still. Today, when I put on my shoes to take Tiny Overlord on our morning jaunt, I keyed up Robin Arzon's outdoor Dolly Parton walk on my Pelotonapp, and kept myself from turning it into the sprint I wanted. Because I know rest is part of the route, a part just as hard as any other.
And, in the name of rest, I also caved to Tiny Overlord's demands for a post-exercise scone. (I mean, she DID say "please" three times")
Clearly I have succeeded as a parent, as my child shares my sense that carbs are always a good idea.
