Hobbling with Perseverance

It has been a disappointing October for those who have come to Highlands looking for the brilliant fall foliage that we are known for.  The unseasonably warm summer and early fall have left the trees still green, and now they have begun to slowly turn brown and fall off without the brilliant, incandescent reds and oranges.

It is easy to become depressed in a season like this without the medicine of running, and my running has dwindled to almost nothing.  I will tell myself, "What I need is a good ten-miler this morning," but of course the slow recovery from an injured knee has put me in such poor condition that I am incapable of the long distances that so reliable brighten the mood and energize the body.

My two-mile run on Wednesday went well, but in the darkness on my way to the bathroom late that night I stubbed my toe very badly on a piece of furniture.  It is a sprain rather than a break, although the first couple of days it was hard to tell the difference.  I was a mess on Saturday morning when I met two visiting runners at the park for a nice long run; I explained that all I could do was walk a mile or so, and as it turned out they liked each other and enjoyed running, just the two of them.  As I hobbled up Chestnut Street, left toe stiff and red, right knee a little tight, I couldn't help laughing at my condition.  At least I was now in balance.  I amended the little inspirational verse I had put on the kitchen blackboard the week before Martha's half marathon:

And at least I can walk, and day by day I improve.  I have a renewed appreciation of the simple joy of being mobile, running or walking.  Not everybody is so fortunate, and some of that bad fortune has happened through no fault of their own.  Five of our friends are battling cancer, serious cancer.  So as I hobble along I am thankful that, as far as I know, I do not have that dread disease lurking inside of me somewhere, the kind that has no symptoms until it is too late, like pancreatic and ovarian cancer.  And so despite the slings and arrow of outrageous fortune, as Prince Hamlet says, and "the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, " I hobble thankfully.

Saturday night, a strong wind howled through Clear Creek, worse than anywhere in the area apparently, knocking down a large limb that narrowly missed our cars and scattering branches and debris all over the road; it also uprooted the umbrella from the center of the table on our deck, toppling it and the chairs over, and then flying off the deck in a broken heap.  Martha was having a great four-mile run up in Town this afternoon and stumbled on a piece of that same debris, and she fell hard, hurting once again both knees, an elbow, and a hand.  But she has become a tougher runner, toughened by the cycle of injury and recovery that every runner has experienced if they have run for a few years.

I know that she will handle her own recovery well, trusting in the miracle of healing and good health, and probably far better than I will.  And she, too, will count this great wealth of blessings that we share.