6/12--A 15 mile trot in 90-95 degree Tucson That Begs the Question of This Entire Endeavor

. . .why?

Nothing like a little trot in the morning to get the blood pumping, ¿Que no?

I bring a bunch of energy gel squares, a large floppy hat to cover my intractably pasty Irish skin, and a water bottle to be refilled at the numerous water fountains along the Rillito "River" park.  The alleged river in question is, like everything else, bone dry, and remains so most of the year.

On the other hand, the blood, and the sweat pump pretty readily this time of year, as the mercury shoots upwards to uncomfortable temperatures by 9 or 10 am.  An easy run at a slow heart rate turns quickly into a sweat-fest with a heart rate approaching my supposed maximum, despite my deliberately easy pace.  I try to run on the dirt next to the paved path, as I surmise that running mostly on dirt has kept my knees happy and fully functional for the last 25 years and roughly 40,000 miles.

Today this turns out to be a less than stellar idea.  As I approach the turnaround 7 miles from the car, one of the numerous prairie dog holes lining the path ambushes me.  While daydreaming about the next water fountain, I step right in it, rolling my ankle quickly out with a jarring pop that I feel in my teeth and seem to hear over my iPod Shuffle.

This is not the first time I've rolled my ankle.  One of dozens, actually.  As a collegiate lacrosse benchwarmer, I rolled it a couple of times, both disastrous to my ability to play.  As a trail runner over the last few decades, I've rolled it probably a dozen times.  The residual ligament stretch from my initial injuries has allowed me to just "run through" it every time, and go on as if it didn't happen, without breaks in my running schedule.

But this one aches more than usual, and I have to concentrate to keep my stride even instead of limping.  Temptations to walk or take a cab back to the car are held at bay by my realization that my goal is not just to do a half marathon, or a Half Ironman, as I did last weekend, but a full, 26.2 mile marathon, after a 2.4 mile swim and a 112 mile bike leg.  The only other marathon I ran--almost 12 years ago--was distinctly uncomfortable, particularly at the end, even though I trained for it appropriately.

I need to get comfortable with discomfort, I surmise.  This should be a good opportunity.

Much to my amusement, the next song on the Shuffle is "Shipping Up to Boston," by the Dropkick Murphys:  "I'm a sailor peg, and I lost my leg. . ."

Any notion to do a few extra miles evaporates as the intestinal churning I get at the beginning of heat exhaustion kicks in during the last few miles.  The air temperature in the car reads 95 degrees, which means that the blacktop on the path was likely 5-10 degrees hotter.

At home I take off my shoes and start rehydrating, as I'm lightheaded to the point of mild nausea.  This is not a stellar idea--the shoes part.  My ankle quickly begins to swell bigger and bigger, until I am limping, then on my back on the floor with pain.  I notice that I'm shaking, either with hypoglycemia, or pain.  So I down a few glasses of juice, which don't help.  I do a one-legged crab walk to the fridge and continue hydrating.  I hope, more than usual, that my pager does not go off.   I'm on backup call, and a bit of a wreck at the moment.

My parents are in town helping to care for our youngest while I'm at work, and I call them and ask them to swing by the pharmacy on the way over and pick up a cane and a pair of crutches.  It's hard to imagine I'll be walking in the next week or two, let alone training.

But experience with this sort of injury, and Rest/Ice/Compression/Elevation, pays off.  I'm walking normally the next day, swimming and working out the next, biking the day after, and running without pain 4 days later, albeit cautiously.

Crazy, by most people's standards, perhaps.

But not mine.  And only in a normative way.  The short explanation is that this sort of thing is a manifestation of what I both enjoy and value, others' opinions notwithstanding.

Welcome to being me.

The six words in the DSM that get statistically deviant but otherwise functional people like me off the diagnostic hook are as follows:

"causing clinically significant distress or impairment."

Nope, none.  Paying the bills, washing the dishes, coaching the kid's team.

Happier than a shig in pit.

More later.