Stage fright

Every time I come back from an extended stretch of involuntary cross training, I must pass through the same series of stages. Experience doesn’t make the transition any easier; in fact, it’s almost worse to know what’s coming.

So consider this your warning. If you’ve never been injured (you lucky bastard), you might want to stop reading here. If you’re like me and have survived virtually every running injury ever, then you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.

Stage 1: It’s your first day back on the roads. The cold, gusty air is full of sharp bits of freezing rain that are stabbing you in the eyes. But you’ve never felt better. Your legs are fresh and pain-free. You are so happy to be breathing in fresh air that you don’t even notice the thin stream of half-frozen snot sliding down your face. You find yourself running to the rhythm of songs like “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” and “Celebration.” You would probably smile if you had remembered to brush with Sensodyne this morning.

Stage 2: Approximately 2.5 miles into that first run, you notice that your legs are feeling remarkably less springy. Your stomach hurts, your lungs are burning, and that happy-go-lucky soundtrack in your head has faded into a playlist of Rage Against the Machine and Nirvana songs.

Stage 3: You return home exhausted and unsure of how you ever did this on a daily basis. You stumble into the shower, where you stand motionless for five straight minutes, letting the hot water run over your cold, achy body. You momentarily consider going back to pool running—permanently. Then you slap yourself in the face for being so stupid.

Stage 4: You wake up the next morning feeling like you spent the entire previous day at a Jackass tryout. Getting out of bed hurts. Going down the stairs hurts. That box of Apple Jacks on the top shelf of the pantry? Fugetaboutit.

Stage 5: Against your better judgment, you somehow force yourself out the door for another run. You proceed to slog through four miles of pure hell. You’re pretty sure Paula Deen will start cooking with olive oil before you’re back in shape again.

Stage 6: The next day, you are able to put on your socks without audibly groaning. You are flexible enough to reach the peanut butter on the second-highest shelf in the pantry. You experience the vaguely familiar desire to hit the road. Instead of focusing on not vomiting, you are able to shift your concentration to your usual mid-run topics of thought: What should I make for dinner tonight? Is it “gray” or “grey?” Is Mitt Romney’s first name short for something? What is Tang made of? Before you know it, you’re back at your front doorstep, feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. After a quick swig of water, you are inspired enough to bust out a few sets of planks.

Stage 7: Over the next few days, you gradually begin to incorporate other elements of your normal fitness routine—weightlifting, plyometrics, hot yoga. (Note: I’ve never actually tried hot yoga, and it sounds pretty disgusting if you ask me. But I’ve heard that lots of people enjoy it, so I thought I’d throw it in to show how culturally tolerant I am.)

Stage 8: Your injury is now a distant memory of a very dark time in your life. Unfortunately, since the sun now sets at approximately 4:30 p.m. and rises at 8:30 a.m., most of your life these days is, in fact, dark. So in the grand scheme of things, you’ve really only broken even.

Pining for shining

Dear Mr. Sun,

It has been months since we last saw each other, and I miss you dearly. We spent so many warm, wonderful days together last summer—jogging along the river, jet skiing on the lake, having lunch on the deck.

As the leaves began to turn, you visited less and less often. My once-conspicuous watch tan slowly faded away. Then one day out of the blue, you completely disappeared. You didn’t write. You didn’t call. I cried for months, feeling cold, lonely and abandoned.

Those were the darkest days of my life. The romantic fool in me held onto hope that you might come back, but every time I turned my gaze to the sky, it was in vain. Each cloudy day was grayer and gloomier than the last.

When the snow finally began to melt, my hope of your return was replenished. Whenever I saw you peeking your beautiful golden face through the clouds, I rushed to lace up my trainers so I could meet you for a run. But you always retreated into your vaporous hiding place, leaving me brokenhearted again and again.

At first, I thought it was because you didn’t like me anymore. My friends called you a jerk and told me to get over you. But soon, I started to understand why you were hiding.

People are cruel, and they blame you for all sorts of terrible things, from drought to sunburns to melted ice cream cones. You are tired of their insults, and you resent being cursed for every weather-related problem in the world when all you ever wanted to do was aid in photosynthesis and vitamin D production.

Mr. Sun, I’m begging you: please come back. I can’t stop thinking about you, and I can’t spend another day without you. Forget about everyone else—none of them understand or appreciate you like I do.

I yearn to feel the warmth of your touch and see the brightness in your eyes. I need you to shine down on me.

Love always,

Brooke