Tuesday, April 8, 2014


In December of 2012, I ran that half marathon with a buddy of mine. 2:05 is not too fast of a time, but I was in the best running shape I have ever been in. I was able to keep that condition for a few months, until one day in February.

I was hiking with Ethan and Emily and wore some shoes that I probably shouldn't have, with too high of soles and no ankle support. I carelessly landed my foot wrong at a spot about a mile up the trail and my ankle twisted like a pretzel. At least it felt that way.

My foot immediately went completely numb, like it had been squashed under my body in some weird fashion for hours, and my ankle exploded with pain all the way around. When I tried to put weight on it, it seemed more like a dead fish on the end of my leg than my foot.

Ethan immediately began to loudly brainstorm ways that his mom or Grandpa could come save us. And he kept going and going, until his sister and I finally asked him, less than politely, to refrain from speaking.

All I knew was that I was not going to call 911 for help, regardless of the injury, since they would send our Departments Search and Rescue Unit out after me. I would rather crawl down the hill than have to face them on Monday after they had dragged me off the mountain, thank you.

Fortunately, I had my "Israeli" bandage (pictured above) in my water pack. You can cinch that thing up pretty good and, doing that, I was able to hobble the rest of the way back down to the parking area.

I took a few days off work, then headed back in with my boots laced extra tight. But, it took several months before I was able to start running much any again. And even then, my right ankle was so much weaker and prone to turning than my left.

The good news is, after more than a year, they finally feel about the same and I am working on my running a little again.

The bad news is that five miles, as I rediscovered today, feels a lot different than it did in December of 2012.

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