Doug videotaped us before and after and played back the recordings to compare. I’d known my exercise bra was old, and looser since I’d lost weight, but until I watched a video showing my flopping breasts, I hadn’t fully appreciated a good sports bra.
I asked the women Penguins and my running friends for recommendations and researched online. At the store, I tried the brand most recommended, but it had so many hooks and eyes in front that I lost track when I tried to count. I wanted to love it but couldn’t get it on. I bought a different one with adjustable straps. It allowed me to breathe but held things in place.
I immediately implemented Doug’s suggestion that each run have a “form focus.” I often chose “pelvic tilt” because I needed so much improvement in that area. Having a “focus” reminded me of the “object of meditation” one chooses in sitting practice. Each time I ran, if my mind wandered, I brought it back to whatever focus I had chosen for that run, the same way I did while meditating.
***
As I completed weeks five and six of the interval training, my left ankle, the same ankle that swelled in 2008 when I’d tried to run in sandals, grew stiff and swollen around the bone. Back then, I’d attributed it to weight and bad shoes. I now had good shoes and was ten pounds lighter. I shouldn’t be jogging at all.
This left ankle never bent the way the right one did. It was larger, and my left toes often cramped. I rested two days and the swelling subsided. But after the next workout, it swelled again. I massaged, iced, and elevated. A normal person might have called a doctor, but I come from a long line of folks who distrust traditional medicine.
In July, on a trip to San Antonio for a convention, Ed and I walked the downtown and River Walk. My ankle had swollen on the plane. The next morning, it was still swollen. I went to the gym to walk on the treadmill. Despite my usual aversion to them, I climbed aboard one and lost myself in the expansive view of the city from the windows. Sturdy and quiet, the treadmill whirred as I ran much further and faster than the training plan said. I climbed off, dizzy and in pain. My ankle throbbed. When we flew on to Cancun a few days later, it swelled more. A massage and a wrap at the spa reduced the swelling, but it didn’t go down completely until, back home, I’d rested for a few days. I took an entire week off to ice and elevate it. Again, I worried my jogging days were over.
With the swelling gone, I restarted the training plan at week two, alternating ninety seconds of running with two minutes of walking for twenty minutes. The next day, manic, I ran thirty minutes straight. My ankle ballooned.
***
During July and into early August, when my ankle continued to swell, I called the doctor. Sitting on her examining table, I proclaimed how much I loved “running.” The Penguins suggested I call it that instead of “jogging.”
I hoped my enthusiasm would spill over to my doctor, but she frowned at my swollen ankle. It wasn’t that swollen, the size of a tennis ball instead of a softball. But it was tender near the ankle bone. I worried I’d go home in the boot of shame.
I asked the doctor about gout. People from the farmlands of rural Ohio, where I grew up, blamed gout when their ankles swelled. Maybe a dietary change would ward off the swelling. Gout seemed preferable to an injury, but the doctor shook her head and ordered blood tests. It took the nurse three stabs.
The doctor returned and said she would test for autoimmune issues. An alarm went off in my head.
“Autoimmune issues?” I asked, feeling even more lightheaded than I had when the nurse was drawing blood.
“Yes, RA.”
“Like arthritis?”
“Yes. You haven’t fallen, tripped, or done anything else to sprain it.”
I had not.
A woman I knew in college had rheumatoid arthritis. I remembered her swollen joints, low energy level, and pain. Tears stung my eyes.
“It might explain your tiredness and depression too.”
No one else had tested me for RA. Maybe there were treatments. Maybe she was wrong. I left the office with an upset stomach and a still-swollen ankle.
***
After that visit to my primary care physician, I modified the training plan to my ability and continued running intervals: run for ten, walk for one, run for ten again. I still hadn’t signed up for the 5k.
When my ankle swelled, I assumed I would never run again and grew despondent. After a few days of rest, gentle massage, icing and elevating, the swelling went down and hope returned. Then I would run again. This was the cycle. Run. Swell. Sulk. Ice. Walk. Run. Swell. Sulk. Ice. Walk. Mood swings were my norm, but now they were tied to exercise.
I doubted running would permanently heal my depression, but I craved the runner’s rush. In the hours following a run, my arms and legs tingled. My chest and throat opened. The dark heaviness lifted, and my body felt light and warm like an afterglow.
According to a study in the British Journal of Sports Medicine, running triggers endocannabinoids, the neurotransmitters stimulated by marijuana. A later study in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences confirmed this. With runner’s high, the world is fine. Everybody loves me. I understand everything. My heart is full. Sound like any drugs you’ve ever taken? Exactly! That’s how I felt, even if I only ran a mile.
I didn’t know this science then. Only later would I discover additional science to explain why I was happy when I did my workout and sad when I didn’t. My tricky mind continued to tell me I would fail. Each time I achieved a goal, I reminded it that, once again, it didn’t know what it was talking about. I began to keep an online running journal and felt another rush when I wrote it down.
Meanwhile, my sister continued to ask me about the 5k.
The next time Mr. Dawg and I ran, when I asked him about the 5k, he perked his copper-colored ears. It’s possible he mistook the word “race” for “treat,” but I took it as another sign. So what if I came in last? So what if people laughed? So what!
I went home to sign up, but found the website difficult to navigate. Now that I’d changed my mind about racing and the dog had given his approval, the Universe wasn’t letting me. Apparently, the dog had been wrong.
I went into the bedroom Ed uses as an office and told him I couldn’t sign up. He hugged me and said, “You’ll figure it out.” After twenty years of my mental trials, he’d learned not to fix me. He asked if I’d emailed the race director. I had.
The next day, the race director and I exchanged more emails. Hours passed. When I finally received a confirmation email, I wrapped my arms around Mr. Dawg and thanked Jamey.
***
In August, I graduated from my trusty kitchen timer to a Timex sports watch. At the running store, a young man showed me the options. There were also GPS watches that track pace, route, and heart rate. I didn’t think I needed that much information. He asked about my running and I was embarrassed because of my short mileage, assuming everyone there ran marathons. But he said it was great that I ran at all. I left the store with the watch and another pair of socks because, well, I love socks. And I felt fabulous, like an athlete.
I timed my runs and included the data online, after changing the training schedule to make the intervals easier to track. I’d had a similar watch years before but had killed it in salt water. I’d not replaced it because I wasn’t an athlete anymore, and only athletes wore watches like that. Replacing