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.
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When I added that item to the list several months ago, I had no idea I was heading into a summer of IT band issues; that I would find myself staring at the road, learning how to run two miles again.
Last weekend, I finally got back to 13 miles but I completed it with the acrid taste of fear mingling with the salt I licked from my lips.
The seizing pain from June blurred the last mile and a half. In my other knee.
I hobbled inside, took a very hot shower, and instead of cursing and cowering from the pain, I attacked it with what I've learned.
Knots all along my IT band; one deep in the middle and several small ones on the insertion point into the knee. I grimaced as I massaged around the knee; I howled as I laid into the egg in my thigh, begging it to break open. I repeated my ritual again that night. And again the next day.
And then I ran the day after. No more pain.
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Between last Sunday and today, fall formally arrived.
I'd been looking for it for the last few weeks but wouldn't have been surprised if it passed us by in this year of strange weather. It quietly started Monday with some pops of yellow and a smattering of orange. Tuesday, the yellows had deepened to golden. By Thursday, the reds had joined in.
I ran through Umstead on an unseasonably warm Halloween, on bridle trails lined with trees glowing yellow and orange, past this lake, its reflection a juxtaposition of the overcast sky to the flaming leaves.
Very nearly alone, I ran on sluggish legs, reminded myself to not get frustrated.
Runs, like life, are very seldom perfect.
So I kept scanning the trees as I passed them, let my legs have an off-day. As the light leached away and the colors faded into the twilight, I promised I would remember this on November 10th as I run along the Outer Banks.
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That night, the wind picked up, tossing around the river birch limbs outside my window. I drank a glass of wine and listened to the coming of rain.
Training for this race has meant recovery. It has meant incremental progress. I've trained with my eyes wide open and a willingness to sit with and work through pain, rather than use it as an excuse. Because, I'm lucky. My pain is not joint pain. Bone pain. My pain is knotted muscle pain - a pain that can be forced into retreat with knowing fingers and gritted teeth.
It's a dance, really, this use of our bodies to chase goals, push it places, and yet to respect it and treat it with care.
Our bodies, amazing vehicles of immeasurable pain but also of boundless joy.
And what I've learned is that I'll run that line all day, every day.
With my eyes wide open.
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