Memory Jogger

I just can’t seem to break the injury cycle. I recover and then push myself too hard and then reaggravate the injury or discover a new one. I’m currently dealing with high hamstring tendinopathy, also known to runners as a pain in the butt. My hamstrings are too tight, I hate stretching, and I’m old, a perfect combination for this infliction. So I am back to laying off running and walking instead, and it’s been nice enough during this “fake” spring to get on the bike and ride outside every once in a while.

I have to admit that I miss riding a bike, that is until something reminds me how angry I can get at people on the trail for being idiots. This past week it was a guy who just had to be the guy to run on the wrong side of the trail, which means toward me on the side I am riding on. Everyone else on the trail followed the rules except this guy. I encountered him twice, and both times I had to adjust what I was doing because he was in the wrong position. It’s people like him who remind me why I use only a small portion of the trail to get to the safer roads to ride on. It’s funny that I feel safer riding on roads with traffic than I do riding on the trail. At least most people are following the rules on the roads.

The winds of “fake” spring have been blowing pretty hard lately, often influencing which type of non-running exercise I will do. Today I considered riding, but thought the winds would be too strong. My wife Kari suggested a walk instead, and we both agreed to head to the local tree-lined running path to have a buffer from the wind.

As we walked east I complained about the fact that I once again had overdressed for the day. Not a problem for someone dressed in layers, but it’s never comfortable having to deal with a bulky jacket wrapped around your waist. It wasn’t too long into the walk that I started thinking about all the miles I had put on this trail over a couple decades. I looked up ahead and could see the bridge that spans over Route 45, taking trail users to and from downtown Frankfort, Illinois. I have run and biked over it many times, but today my memory was jogged to a half marathon that I ran several years ago in which the bridge came at the end of the race, maybe about mile 12.5 or so. There’s a hill to the crest to get over the bridge, which pales in comparison to the many hills that this race route had before it, but it comes when you are spent and it is one last challenge before gliding into the race finish. I remembered that my race tactic was to pace hard to the hill, pull back a little heading up it, then hammer it downhill for the last half-mile.

Kari and I continued east turning around about 3.75 miles from where we started and walked west into the wind back toward the car. As we passed a local park we both found ourselves examining the empty field and I asked her if she was remembering all the soccer games we sat watching our youngest child Becca play there.

Arriving back at the truck, I hit the stop button on my watch at 7.5 miles and thought about how the trip down this trail had not only given my legs a workout but my mind as well. And given that I had spent two special hours with my partner in life, I think I had just created a new memory to be reminded of the next time I wander east on the OPRT in Frankfort on a windy, almost spring day.

Walking, reminiscing, and making memories.