Historically speaking, I am not good with change.
I wore the same pink and black striped shirt to pre-school for an entire year and I packed a cheese sandwich, Pringles and a Twix bar for lunch every day of my middle school career.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve become a bit more adventurous, and I’ll certainly never be as bad as my brother, who at almost 30 years of age, is still mercilessly angry with my mom for giving away his childhood rocking horse when he moved out of the house four years ago. (Yes, do the math, friends). But when it comes to my running I am vehemently opposed to change.
Atrocious race photos? I wouldn't have it any other way.
This curmudgeonly attitude certainly has its benefits: If I’m scheduled to run, I make the time to do it. If I’m supposed to cover 18 miles, I cover 18 miles. But it also has its drawbacks: I run until I’m burnt out and never want to think about my Saucony’s or my Garmin again. I run through injuries. I run through injuries until they manifest themselves in searing groin pain that makes me feel as though something is trying to tear my thigh off and fry it up like a Midwestern state fair delicacy. Which is precisely what landed me on the table in my physical therapist’s office this afternoon.
The dull groin pain started a long time ago. I ignored it. Just like I have every ache, pain, or legitimate injury that I’ve experienced in almost nine years of running. I ran Yasso 800′s last Thursday. The radiating pain started around my fourth repeat. I ran two more and then a mile home. Yes, I am stupid.
I had 14-16 miles on the schedule for Saturday, but I knew three steps in that it wasn’t happening. There was pain in my groin, butt cheek crease (where the butt cheek meets the thigh, duh), and hip unless I dragged my leg like a zebra who had barely survived a harrowing battle with the neighborhood lion. And it wasn’t just your standard running pain, it was pain that said, “You don’t want to fuck with me.” I have Chicago in six weeks good sir, fuck with you, I will not.
I fully expected to leave today’s appointment with my PT with the standard, “Your hips are weak. So are your glutes, and your core, which is why you get all butthurt every time you run higher mileage.” But instead I got this:
PT: “You’ve definitely inflamed your labrum.
Me: “Inflamed but not torn, right?”
PT: “Well, you’re presenting pretty classic symptoms of a labral tear, but I can’t be sure.”
Me: “I’m running Chicago in six weeks.”
PT: “I would think you’ll be able to do that, but you’ll need to see someone right after the race.”
Not exactly what I wanted to hear.
I’m thrilled that I’ll, most likely, be able to run Chicago, but based on the degree of pain that I’m in, and knowing that it’s not just weak, whiny hip flexor pain, I’m going to have to change my training schedule. Change. The horro. Seriously. But honestly? As much as I depend on impossibly horrific race photos for a sense of consistency in my life, I’d prefer to not to look like a wounded animal gimping its way through the African countryside.
Have you ever torn your labrum? Did it feel like someone was stabbing you in your butt cheek crease? Please share! I want to know about all the fun things I have to look forward to!
Yuck. Anything that is “torn” sounds just horrific.
But, on another note, I’m really gonna have to chat with you about a celebratory drink after the run? Maybe? I won’t be doing it of course, but would love to drink in your honor.
Yeah! I would love to get a celebratory drink or two. Maybe even a large meal! Please feel free to live vicariously through my marathon to justify your need for greasy burgers and beers.