OBX: Attempt at #19

Saturday night I fell asleep quickly and stayed there soundly with the help of the ocean waves. 

I woke before my alarm, before even the predawn light, to shuffle around the room as my thoughts rolled through the early morning brain fog.

Prerace thoughts play out in their own tune but follow a similar chord progression, alongside ritualistic activities: Drink a glass of water (Maybe I shouldn't have had that third beer last night). Start chewing on that bagel (How does this have no taste? Maybe because I have no saliva in my mouth). Drink a cup of coffee (Ohhh, yeah. Okay. I'm waking up now. Hello saliva). Visit the restroom. Check: race bib - secure? Gu's - in pockets? Camelbak - not leaking? Garmin - on wrist? Drink another glass of water. 

There is a familiar math to it. There is often pacing. In the presence of other runners, there is idle chit-chat of sometimes unfinished sentences. 

And there is always the question: how will today go?

That question pops up again and again in those hours before the race, but evaporates as soon as the race starts.

Then a different kind of math begins to unfold. And a different question:

What will I learn today?

OBX: Saturday in Pictures

I sat in bed last Saturday morning, writing my previous post, thinking about the string of sunrise photographers I saw on the beach. How wonderful to be sharing a moment of silence with perfect strangers. 

I sat, scrolling through the photos, trying to write words, thinking about the pourover coffee I would make with David and Glenna when they roused themselves. 

When the text came through, I headed up and entered a room already smelling of freshly ground No. 46.

I love the ritual of pourover coffee. I love it more when I get to share it with friends. It becomes a sublime experience when you get to sit out on a balcony and look to the left and see this:

The best kind of struggle

Yesterday, as the sun slipped away, David, Glenna, and I tucked into their car and headed east. Their car took me on roads I'd not traveled yet in my time in NC. We sped along in the dark on Highway 64, through a near empty swath of land, towards the Abermarle Sound. 

After stopping for supper in Williamston, we all settled back into our seats for the last hour under a very dark sky saturated with stars.

In this warm space devoid of colors, snapshots from the week came filtering back.

#19: One Week to Go, Eyes Wide Open

One week from today, I will be sitting in a car, heading back from a part of the Atlantic Shore to which I've never been.

Heading back after completing my 13th half marathon, lolling in a post-race glow; heading back with one more finisher's medal and - or so my plan calls for - a new PR, something that starts with a 1:4.

----

The Box

Tonight, I took it out for the first time since the spring.

I'm pretty sure I've had it since the first time I moved away from St. Louis.

I want to say that's when my grandmother gave it to me. The "Erin" written in marker on the faded fabric looks to be from around that time - when I was seven years old - moving with my family from St. Louis to Carmel, a suburb outside of Indianapolis.  

The first things stored in there were no doubt treasures at the time - and I still have some of them, random as they are - a brass pill box and small porcelain pig purchased for a quarter apiece from a garage sale (these survived, the feather "fountain" pen did not); a ribbon for swimming the most laps for a cancer benefit; one of the rosaries and the picture book of saints I was given for my First Communion.

The Tale of Two Margarets: Part II

Sometimes you meet people and your heart instantaneously lights up. 

And when that happens, you do everything in your power to not let them go. 

A little over twelve years ago, that happened in Chicago for me, when I met Meg. 

The Tale of Two Margarets: Interlude - Pictured, Not Pictured

It's hard for me to believe that one week ago, my Sunday morning looked like this. The theme of these pictures?

Blue skies. Every day. 

Heading from San Francisco to Napa.

The Tale of Two Margarets: Part I

Flying into San Jose last Friday night, I saw the sun set over the Pacific Ocean.

I had been travelling for seven hours, awake for sixteen, having worked a half a day and only snacked on two bags of peanuts and some pretzels, slurped down two screwdrivers; by all accounts I should have been pretty bleary-eyed, weary and beyond noticing.

But as the plane turned, I stared out the window to my left in silence and watched as the sun slunk to the sea. The sea, the only thing visible; the land, but a curtain holding back the sea. The sea, the sky, a riot of colors, blurred and morphed by their meeting.

As it turned out, that first glimpse of the Pacific along California would be echoed throughout my five days there.

Northern California in Panorama

Today was my third full day in California and the second day in a row that I've killed my phone's battery before the day was done. I have a post brewing in my brain - something akin to Kate's Pictured, Not Pictured - but for the moment, I just wanted to share my attempt at capturing the sweeping panoramic views that this trip has afforded me.

#19: One month to go

Y'all, tomorrow is one month to the Outerbanks Half Marathon, where I will attempt to break 1:50:00, so I can cross #19 off my list.

Settling In

Whew.

Between moving, working, and running, this chick has temporarily run out of words.

No longer the eldest

As I write, the white noise of a large band of rain is cocooning me in my bed. It is a lovely sound, for sleeping; not so lovely for a scheduled long run and a planned move day. They say it's good luck for rain on your wedding day; I'm not necessarily of the opinion the same applies to moving day.

Nevertheless, the run will happen, the move will happen, as all things happen, regardless of the weather. Today, as I prepare to head from the Sandflats to the Piedmont, I need to pause and pay tribute to two special people.

I'mma Hoping for Raleigh

For nearly five months I have been commuting from Wayne County to the Raleigh area for work. I have largely enjoyed this 100 mile round trip commute because it is often quiet and full of interesting things to see.

#19: Halfway there

Ah, September.

The month that says good-bye to summer and our full weekends; shuffles kids back to school, businesses back on the track of finishing the year strong.

The month that heralds the beginning of autumn, as the days tip past equilibrium into the realm of more dark than light.

The month that makes me both wishful and wistful.

Love of Life

"So here's what Coach Vigil was trying to figure out: was Zatopek a great man because he ran? Vigil couldn't quite put his finger on it, but his gut kept telling him that there was some kind of connection between the capacity to love and the capacity to love running. The engineering was certainly the same: both depended on loosening your grip on your own desires, putting aside what you wanted and appreciating what you got, being patient and forgiving and undemanding. Sex and speed - haven't they always been symbiotic for most of our existence, as intertwined as the strands of our DNA? We wouldn't be alive without love; we wouldn't have survived without running; maybe we shouldn't be surprised that getting better at one could make you better at the other.

Courtesy of Chris McDougall

There's something so universal about that sensation, the way running unites our two most primal impulses: fear and pleasure. We run when we're scared, we run when we're ecstatic, we run away from our problems and run around for a good time.

It's the time of year where I reread Chris McDougall's Born to Run. I bought it in December 2009 after running my first half marathon that November in Richmond and have read it once a year since.

I find something different in its pages every time.

Also, this:

Day 10 (and 11): Farewell to Summer

Saturday morning, I looked out into a hushed, misty world and (at 8:22) headed down through fog towards the beach for Day 10.

Day 10 can only be described as a perfect 10.

Day 9: Atlantic Beach, Part 2

Today is my mother Janet's birthday. Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you to the moon and back.

So y'all know that I'm Erin. I'm a brown-eyed lady from the Midwest, of mixed Northern European heritage, and thus fair skinned. Time in sun = pink-cheeked lady.

Day 9: Atlantic Beach, Part I

Friday, my ninth day at the beach started bright and early, at dawn. My eyes opened into total darkness at 6 and I slipped past my sleeping parents and into the clothes I had laid out the night before. 

#19: Feeling Groovy

On marches the summer of #crazyclouds...and with it the return of cooler, rainy weather.

(Seriously. Strangest. Summer. Ever.)

Tonight under the threat of another thunderstorm I scooted out the door.

And I busted out my first negative split 5K in....what for all intents and purposes has felt like forever.

Much like that first sweet kiss of the absence of pain, this first strong run is a heady, powerful thing.

And the promise of fall - and cooler weather yet - makes me fairly tingle with joy.

But first, I'm heading to the beach a few more times. First, with my folks this Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. And while the forecast has been dicey thus far, I'm still holding out for lots of sun.

I've got a sunrise to catch....

#19: Week 3

From Sunday to Sunday, I ran four times.

Pain-free. 

The runs were not without their unpleasant moments. Last Sunday, swarms of flying ants plagued every turn. Tuesday, I struggled to breathe through the damp cotton of pre-thunderstorm humidity. Today, my gut churned and my head ached from last night's endless celebration sangria. 

But oh, my heart soared after every run. Kind of like that moment at 3:40.

I ran 4 miles today. 

#19: Days 4 and 5

“Run when you can, walk if you have to, crawl if you must; just never give up.” ― Dean Karnazes

Last Monday morning dawned cool, the grass heavy with dew, the air quiet with the arrival of the new week. Driving to work, I followed the clouds and then the sun, as it shined through.

I hoped these happy rays promised good things for that night's run.

-------

Later, I stood on the driveway, hands on my hips, and did some walking lunges, trying to shake off my nerves, trying to just focus on my strides and not anticipate the possibility of pain.

Over the years, as my yoga practice has deepened, I've been able to hone in on spots that are tight or sore. To breathe into those spaces, coaxing them to broaden as I exhale. As I set out, I turned my inward gaze to the outside of my knee, scanning it for any changes as my feet took me over the pavement.

One mile. One mile and a quarter. One and a half miles.

There, it flared. I felt the tendons and muscles spasm, protesting. I breathed. Without stopping, I gently rotated my leg externally, thinking about pressing the entirety of the pad of my right foot into the ground.

I breathed and the pain was gone.

In the space where the pain had been was a strange tenderness. Light warning bells continue to sound, but I just kept breathing. One and three quarter miles. Two miles.

I walked it out.

------

Wednesday I brought Morgan up to speed as she worked over my leg, yet again teasing out knots and adhesions in my IT band, my quad, and my hamstring. I had initially emailed her the previous week, panicked about the state of my leg, wondering if I should schedule an MRI.

"Sometimes, Erin, the good things take a little longer to come around. Normally you control your knee, but this time, it's got the reins."

I left bruised. "Are you running tonight?"

I looked down at the bloom along my thigh.

"I guess I'll wait until tomorrow."

She nodded in quiet approval.

------

Thursday when I set out, I tried not to be overly optimistic. But, there it was: the feeling that the tide was receding, draining away the last two months of frustration. I ran two miles and stopped.

No pain.

In that moment, as I walked the rest of the way home, I looked around in a bit of a daze. I laughed at myself.

Sometimes the good things take a little longer to come around.

But come around they do.

Day 8: Wilmington & Wrightsville

It's Friday night in a coastal town in August. Warm enough for short dresses that flutter around thighs and cold beer that sweats into hands.

A perfect evening for wandering, following the music of pop-up street bands. 

Feet tapping until dancing is no longer an option but a requirement.

Sweating profusely in a windless alley to a band with a tuba. 

Buying pizza from a tiny joint at 2:30 am to soak up the assortment of beers consumed over the balmy evening. 

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The beach is an oven the next day. It's a hazy, lazy day; but the ocean is cold and clears my heads as I swim back and forth along the shore and I grin into the salty waves. 

Wish You Were Here

Though tinged with the toiled remnants of a thunderstorm, the waves lapping Surf City's shores were calm yesterday morning under cloud-dappled skies.

Two weeks had slipped by since my last visit; in that span, July turned to August. August, the month when summer slows, each day's minutes rolling past slowly in the thick summer heat. The dog days of summer, when the slow bake of the South has usually dried everything to a husk. This year, though, the trees, the fields, the grass are all still green. Still lush. Still giving off the smell of verdant life.

I dug my toes into the sand and looked out at the lazy waves. I would not use my board this day; I lolled in the sweet breeze, chatting with my friend Jessica. Later we bobbed in the storm-chilled water, and later still wandered far south down Topsail.

Normally I wander north, towards the pier. But yesterday we trod south, towards and past this little gem.

I wondered what it would be like to drink coffee on that deck in the damp summer morning light. Wondered more what it would be like in winter, with the tang of salt carried on the chill.

A slow day at the beach but still passing all too swiftly, Jess and I agreed.

We headed back north to the sandflats, driving through rain.
-------
We both did not want the day to end; so we stretched it into the evening, headed back south to Kinston. Enjoying some beer at Mother Earth Brewing with pizza from Chef and the Farmer. We made a friend and, when the MEB's tap room lights turned out for the night, headed over to The Red Room. Paid our $1 to become a member and settled into a wooden booth under a wall of album art.

The rain came and went. The smokers huddling under an umbrella fit for an elephant.

And we drank from mason jars and over-sized wine glasses and conversated. Golden from the beach, pink cheeked from the laughter.

-----

Some days are heart-breakingly wonderful in their simplicity; in the midst of it, the thought constantly runs across my mind:

I wish you were here.

Wherein

... I dance in my car on the way home from work when I see the post go up on The Wilder Coast. I, along with eight others, had our Instagram photos selected for the first #wildercoast round-up. Scroll to the bottom of Melina's most recent post to find me there (@erinwouldratherwalk).

Tomorrow I head back to the beach featured in my photo to soak up some more sun and dig my toes into the sand.

Day 7 of 10 for Summer 2013.

It's #25 on the List.

---------

Speaking of which.

2013, the year in which I turned 30, has spawned this:

Heading into this year, I had a number of things which I required to occur, one way or another. Things that, perhaps, you would think did not need to be on any list because they were going - they needed - to happen.

So would I have said before the year turned over.

But, heading into January, something strange happened. I felt compelled to start this list as a way of sending it out into the universe that these things were going to happen and by the very act of writing them down, I was writing my own prophecy. And the universe saw fit to help me cross those items off the list.

As you can see, there have been adjustments. So, perhaps you think I am cheating. But, in much the same way as the original idea surfaced, my editing has been deliberate.

Maybe it seems silly to write "Eat from a food truck in Raleigh." Something so simple. But how many times do we get distracted by the everyday tedium of what we normally do and forget that, just around the corner, is something startlingly fresh that we can try, that will make us laugh with childlike joy?

Some of the other items are bold. "Run (which became Walk/Run with the onset of my summer challenges) 1000 miles." This will be my second attempt at covering 1000 miles in a year. In 2011, I came up quite short at 600. Last year, I managed to set and achieve the moderately increased goal of 750.

I didn't write this all in one sitting; I've been adding to it all year.

#30 is still blank.

Thoughts, my friends?

#19: Days 2 and 3

Lord knows I'm trying. 

Both Tuesday and tonight I set out to run my paltry two miles called for by my ramp up plan.

Tuesday, I made it to 1.65 before I stopped. Tonight I ran all the way through.

But.

Not without pain.

I described what I was feeling to a close friend, who had to have a meniscal tear repaired, and asked what he would do. 

I would want to know exactly what's wrong. And, then how to fix it. 

Yes....

The only way to know exactly what's wrong is an MRI. 

I have another PT appointment scheduled for next Wednesday. I'll be slated to run this Saturday and Monday; if the pain doesn't subside, I suppose I'll have to start moving toward a more comprehensive diagnosis. 

But I'm really hoping, wishing, praying that I won't have to. That Saturday morning when I head out that door my right knee will feel exactly like my left knee.

And I can get back to the business of running without distraction. 

#19: Day One

First of all, as a follow-up to Thursday's post, I'd like to offer this list from Shane Nickerson's blog, which I found by way of Heather's weekly internet roundup.

Some of my favorites (which is to say, those that resonated most with me) are:

2. Trust your instinct.

If you’re miserable in your job, quit. If you’ve chosen the wrong career, make a plan to switch. If something feels wrong, you’re right. Fix it, and don’t look back. This applies to work, relationships, friendships, and life choices. Wake up in the morning the person you want to be instead of the person you’re constantly trying to change. Sometimes it’s hard work to stay true to the person you know you are. It’s always worth it.

4. Open your eyes to the right person.

The right person is so rarely the one you’ve imagined since you were young. The right person is someone you love to be around; someone who makes you laugh, makes you happy, makes you feel strong. Lots of times, they're so obviously in front of you that you look right past them. If you find someone like that, latch on and never look back. If your current person doesn’t do those things for you, move on. Seriously, today.

10. If you find the sweet spot, everything falls into place.

Get yourself to where you’re happiest in work, relationship, hobbies, social activities...and the world will open up to you. If you’re happy, people will want to be around you. If you’re miserable, you become a chore. 

----

Today around 4:30 I went for my first run in four weeks. I deliberately chose to go during the heat of the day so that, should it feel wonderful, I would be too hot to go for more than the planned two miles. 

Good news? The first mile felt great. Bad news? The same symptoms flared up almost immediately after my watch beeped off that mile. I ran to the end of the street and, at the 1.5 mile marker, finished by walking home.

When I got inside, I immediately began foam-rolling. And there, nestled deep in my IT band, I once again unearthed an egg of a knot that stubbornly refuses to crack. The pain rolling on it and then kneading deep into it burns along the muscle fibers and blooms in my outer knee.

I'm telling myself to trust this process, too; trust the plan I've set out for myself and keep working at my knotted muscles. Keep coaxing them to let go.

I'll get them back to their sweet spot, yet.

-----

After dinner I ran some errands and got caught in a pop-up storm on the way home. 

Oh, 2013, your summer of crazy clouds will be forever remembered.

A sweet spot, indeed. 

Here Goes Nothing: Plan of Attack for #19

Tomorrow, after four weeks off, I will attempt to return to running. Tomorrow, my goal is two miles, pain-free.

I had my third PT session this past Thursday and when I told Morgan I planned to start back she wished me luck but cautioned, "Erin, don't think that just because two miles feels great that five will feel better."

Armed with her warning, I've come up with a plan:

The past three weeks, I've walked 12.5 miles per week over 4-5 separate walks. It's been a great way to keep me acclimated to the summer humidity and to warm up my muscles before beating them up on the foam roller. (So many knots. Every single time.)

"Well," Morgan said, "Running is hard on the body. You're lucky to have gone this long without any major challenges."

Ramping up slowly will be difficult, but by continuing to incorporate the walks, the muscle kneading sessions, and the yoga, I hope I can come back stronger and faster than before.

I'll need to to achieve the goal for the yellow box. It's #19 on my list and I very badly desire to cross it off this year.

But the full story of the list is for another time.

On Not Running Away

I have referenced a large transition in my life as of late but I have been cautious about detailing this transition because it involves someone else. At this point, however, there is no avoiding it.

This month, I have become a divorcee.

When I first told my family about what was going on, I was often asked, "Oh! So you'll be moving back to St. Louis then?"

The product of a large, unusually stable family, with dozens of cousins, aunts, uncles, and great-relatives of all kinds, I initially found myself turning to the most clearly explainable reason for my Midwestern family to understand my disagreement with their suggestion:

How can I give up the ocean being only a few hours away?

I have always been somewhat of a black (though beloved) sheep in my family. I remember a Christmas when it was suggested we all show up in pajamas...and I was the only one who actually did. I remember riding on a (broken) ten speed bike 15 miles from Frisco to Copper Mountain and back by myself while on a family vacation in Colorado. I lived with my boyfriend (who I didn't marry), a taboo in my Catholic family. I then moved a thousand miles away to be with my fiance, who I did marry, but have now divorced.

But, I have very seldom tried to apologize for who I am and what I've done. I like to tell myself that this - that I have tried very hard to be genuine, even if it shines through very late in the game - makes a difference.

Nevertheless, undertaking a huge change like I have was one I met with trepidation and fear. My sense of self was so wrapped up with this relationship and my fears of everyone perceiving that I had failed, that I had given up, that I was evil for walking away, nearly stopped me from doing it.

And after fighting that internal war and resolving what steps I would take, I was left with what was I to do. But that paled in comparison to the alternative.

Because, even though it sounded trite, my overly simple statement to my family was true: how can I give up what I have right now?

How could I give up a place that has, for the moment, become home?

A place that has sandblasted me, refined me into who I am?

And how could I believe that going back, that changing my location, would make it any easier?

I don't believe that people change. To (loosely) quote a fellow attendee from the writing conference I attended in April, I believe that we are all born into this world fully formed souls. Our experiences certainly shape us - chisel off some of our naivete here, smooth out some of our egocentricness there, burn off more of our innocence deep in there - but truly, we are who we are  from the moment we burst into this world.

I've met and listened to countless parents in the past few years who reaffirm this belief. How startled they are that their child, at three, knows so decisively what they want, asserts so clearly how they want to be presented to the world.

Last weekend, when I was at the beach, a young mother was there with her sister and her daughter, aged 18 months. I overheard her tell another mother, whose son was 3 years old, how last time they came they struggled because the daughter did not like the beach, did not like the feeling of her sand on her feet. Barely a year old, and already knowing what she did and did not like.

As I took my walk, I thought about this exchange. I thought about all of the things that my parents, my family, my friends, have done for me through the years. How they have all contributed in some way to my experiences (fate) but ultimately, I still made and will continue to make the choices (free will) that decide the path I take, the joy I will create.

So many people today want to link their experiences, the current state of their feelings, the quality of their life, to other people, the weather, the government. The problem is - there is only so much in our control.

I came into this life (mostly) intuiting that life is this glass of half fate and half free will - that things will be placed in my life and I will have a choice what to do with them. I am not promised anything except these two things. And my free will does not extend to other people. This - that I am the only person in my life that I can control - is a lesson we all speak easily but practice with difficulty.

The hardest is recognizing that I cannot control what other people think or feel about the things I choose to do or not do. That, if I spend my life worrying about that, I'll be cultivating a tangled mess of fear and stress instead of a garden of love and joy. And I believe I do more good growing my love, my trust, and my wonder and pushing it out into the universe.

I am not perfect. But I am in love with living, with this messy process that we call life. And I can't imagine running back to the Midwest, though it would probably be easier.

There are days when I wonder if I am making the right decision. Doubt is normal, natural, good. It reminds me that I don't know everything. But most days, if I sit quietly long enough, I feel the string from my heart tugging me forward down the road. And most days, it's enough.

Art in the Evenings

"A good snapshot stops a moment from running away." - Eudora Welty

On Friday evenings, the North Carolina Museum of Art puts on Art in the Evening, where the doors are kept open until 9, they crack bottles of wine and beer and offer small plates to nosh on, and bands catering to small audiences get a chance to bring down the house.

Last Friday, I was alone and had nowhere to be. So I went.

I stood on line for a drink and listened to Sidecar Social Club, their sassy vocalist shaking it in her backless dress. I had arrived halfway through their set and the audience was pleasantly buzzed - on drinks and on company.

"This is my first time here," I told the lady standing behind me. "What's the nametag you are wearing for?"

"There's a big group of us here for a meet-up - 40s and 50s singles group," she smiled, snapping her fingers to the beat, and gave me a quick glance over. "But there are younger groups here, too!"

I had no idea it was obvious I was here alone. 

I tossed back the rest of my shiraz and wandered into the galleries.

------------------------

The NCMA's West Building is wondrous, a delight in form, function, and beauty.

The music reached the back galleries rich and muted. I stepped around carefully, painfully aware of my heels clicking on the hardwood.

As I moved in to study a painting, I heard a stifled laugh and saw a flash of curls around a partition to my left. I leaned forward carefully and watched as a man dipped the woman in his arms back again, her long hair tumbling towards the floor and another squealing laugh tumbling from her lips.

It was one of the most beautiful things I saw all evening, that couple, dancing in the most remote corner of the museum. For a split second, I wished that I could have captured it with a picture - that moment when she appeared around the partition, her eyes closed, eyebrows arched, and smile joyfully big in the skylight's quickly dwindling sun.

But instead, as I quietly exited, I was just thankful for the small pleasure of having witnessed it.

Some art is better left unphotographed.

Raleigh on a Monday Night.

I took these pictures after dinner at Sitti on Monday night.

I've been trying to find the words to go with these pictures all week, but they are slow coming.

The meal was fantastic - far too many plates laden with concoctions of chickpeas, olives, tomatoes, cucumbers, cheese, honey, dates, assorted pickled vegetables, chicken, and yogurt sauces that we sopped up with endless warm pita. The red Lebanese wine blend was delightful; the baklava dense with pistachios; the glasses of madeira we passed around the table, the perfect lingering finish.

I was sated beyond belief, walking out, taking these pictures. Raleigh's streets at night are beautiful in an entirely different way than the sleepy neighborhood I currently call home. And yet, I love it just as much.

I drove home and went for a walk when I got there, my head still fuzzy with the madeira, my belly still stretched from the meal. One mile, two miles. My body hummed from the day, from the dinner, from the heat, and my mind wandered as my legs carried me over the familiar pavement.

It sang soulfully, like the city.

Numbers

First of all, today is my father Michael's birthday; to me, birthdays are best celebrated by coming together with people you love to remember the past years and to look down the road at what's to come, but mostly to just enjoy the moment and create some new memories.

And while I hate I can't be there today to raise my glass to him, he and my mother Janet will be coming down in five weeks to celebrate her birthday, so I will get the chance to toast them both then.

Part of our agenda? Going to the beach.

--------

I have a running list of things to do this year and a few weeks ago, I added Spend at least 10 days at the beach.

Today I crossed off day number five.

Surf City on Topsail Island has become my go-to spot. Eighty-five miles of country driving down blue highways 111 South and 50 South started no later than 9 a.m. guarantees my toes are in the sand 90 minutes later.

Last week, on the Fourth of July, I noticed this sign in a different light. My birthday is 4/22 (4=2+2) and these days number 22 is coming up everywhere.

I glance at the clock and inexplicably it's 3:22 or 9:22 or 11:11 (11+11=22).

I look down at my Garmin and I've walked 1.22 miles.

It may just be the psychological principal of the recency illusion and it's only these moments that are registering because I've attributed significance to the number. Maybe it's merely an OCD tic that's kicking in. It is most certainly profoundly egocentric. Nevertheless, these sightings of 22 have become a touchstone. A moment to remind me to breathe. To smile.

...as has the return of the sun!

Today's waves were fairly large and more consistent than they have been in my recent visits; the surfers were out in full force. After doing my fair share of playing hard, I took my walk.

One mile up the beach, one mile back. Hundreds of footsteps on infinite grains of sand.

Progress

Take care of your body. It's the only place you have to live. - Jim Rohn

Not in the way of the storms moving out. No way, no how.

Driving home under these skies last night, though, I was thinking not about the weather but rather about my first PT session with Morgan from Raleigh Orthopaedic.

I found myself saying hello to a brunette sprite with warm eyes. She listened as I babbled on about my experiences these last several weeks. After an assessment, she determined that my strength and flexibility were pretty high, but that perhaps I could benefit from some manipulation with some implements.

She brought over a piece of metal and had me lay on my side and she began running this tool down my IT band. At first, I felt nothing, but I could tell by her face that she did. After a moment, I began to sense something bubbling from my muscles to the surface.  "You have pebbles in your legs!" She then moved the tool down to my calf. "See how that runs down smooth?" She went back to the right IT band and then I could feel it, as the tool caught on dozens of micro-knots.

She continued to work it, plying the tool in smooth motions down my leg and gradually, they went away.

"Now, it's going to hurt tomorrow, and, depending on how easily you bruise..."

The tool she used is part of a modality called the Graston Technique. I've extolled the virtues of my foam roller here many times before and the Graston Technique works in the same way, but allows for maneuvering around tighter areas. It hurts...but it's the pain of healing.

And that, that is progress.

Would Rather Walk

The clinic waiting room was spacious, well-lit and clean. While I waited, I absentmindedly scanned my phone, idly ripped at the skin around my nails, crossed and uncrossed my legs, chewed my gum a little too loudly.

"Erin?"

The staff were efficient; my x-rays taken in no time. All too suddenly, Dr. Barker was there in his white coat holding his laptop, my x-rays a ready file on his desktop, asking me what the trouble with my right knee was.

I had been thinking about this for so long - I wanted to be specific and precise - but, of course, my nature took over and the words came tumbling out.

He gestured to the table, "I have a good idea of what it might be, but lets check a couple of things."

He pressed, flexed, stretched my right leg, then my left for comparison. Everything felt fine but - "There, that hurts?"

I winced. Indeed, it did. He did it again, again, and again. 

"That pain you were feeling, that is actually a small knot there where the muscle connects to the leg bone. So, the good news is I suspect it is IT band friction syndrome," Dr. Barker said cheerfully. "Bad news is...I suspect it is IT band syndrome."

"Better news is, your knees look beautiful." He opened his laptop, my femurs, patellas, tibias and fibulas glowing white in the gray darkness of skin and muscle and blood. 

No running for two to four more weeks, take NSAIDs regularly, ice and stretch, and "Sure, you can walk. And I know you're probably itching to get back, so come see me in a month if you want to try a cortizone injection."

(No thanks, doc.)

I would rather walk my way through this hiccup. I am so glad I can. 

Walking

Yesterday I went back to the beach.

Once again, it was a sun-drenched day. Once again, I walked. But this time with friends.

Tomorrow I go see an orthopedic specialist about my knee. I've gone from running between 20-25 miles a week to walking between 8-10. I'm not sure what I'm going to say if he says I have to stop any kind of activity all together. Or, if he tells me no amount of rest is going to fix it, only surgery will.

But yesterday I tried not to focus on that. Yesterday I went to the beach with two lovely ladies and we sunbathed, talked, played in the surf. We walked.

And then, we took ourselves out for a late summer supper, complete with watermelon cocktails.

This summer has contained so many unexpected things that have left me unsettled, particularly the rain and the pain.

But the surprise of new friendships is a grounding experience and pretty awesome.

They Were Right

The sandflats are waterlogged right now, after a week? ten days? two weeks? of almost nonstop rain. Finding a moment to turn my face up towards the sky and catch the sun has demanded a bit of prophecy, a dash of good luck, and an unhealthy attachment to watching the radar. 

But last night I went for a walk under the first starry sky I'd seen in a long, long time. And seeing those pinpricks of light in the inky black sky flooded me with hope for a similarly clear sky in the morning. 

The night was thick with humidity, my hair curled against my neck. The air hung heavy with water vapor and sulfurous smoke from neighborhood fireworks. The frogs sounded out their symphony. Some screamed, some actually said "Ribbit." 

I kept looking up at the sky, at the stars. I thought about how one individual star doesn't mean much, in the massive firmament. We have assigned places in constellations to find them. Patterns we have found in the sky. Above all, I kept hoping this clear night sky meant a clear morning.

I have so missed the sun.

----------

Today's holiday dawned shrouded in mist. I made coffee, packed my car, and headed to the beach.

To Surf City.

To sand dunes.

To waves.

To sun.

------

For nearly four hours, I basked, I walked, I swam, I surfed, I read, I watched, and I loved.

The waves pounded the beach - churning up sand, turning the ocean at the shore brown. 

Walking alone down the beach, I looked at people - on the shore, at the water's edge, in the ocean. The towheaded ten year old boy surfing with grace; the chubby two year girl flopping around and squealing with delight; the leather-skinned couple holding hands as the shuffled along. I thought about these people - these individual stars - and wondered, if I stared long enough, if I would be able to see the constellations they formed. If I could divine their connections to the bodies around them. 

And I was reminded that I had a place, whether I can see it or not. 

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(I am so glad they were right about the sun coming back.)