The Beard of My Discontent

Things are getting hairy.

"Now is the winter of our discontent..." begins Shakespeare's Richard III.  But for my own purposes, "Now grows the beard of my discontent!"  You see, in my effort to back off, to be fresh for my Boston training, I somehow managed to get injured playing floor hockey.  I've decided to wear my anguish and frustration on my face in one grizzly, coarse, black beard.

Floor hockey has been my sanctuary, not my detractor for the last two years.  Whenever something running -related has hurt, floor hockey somehow managed to use those muscles differently and soothe whatever had been ailing me.  

Floor hockey has betrayed me.  

During my last two games, I've felt a slight tweak on the inside of my right knee.  So I backed off even more.  No running.  At all.  As my friend Rohan says, "Ice, rest, and stretch.  Ice, rest, and stretch."  And so I did.  

When my wife and I went down to Florida for Christmas, I brought running clothes that never saw the light of day.  Every time I tried to move laterally, I felt that twinge that was enough to say, "Not yet."  

Christmas came and went.  Then last Wednesday, I figured I could get a mile in.  See how it felt, then ramp up from there.  I'd already sacrificed three days of Boston workouts.  I rationalized that I could still get three workouts out in and even my 14 mile long run on Saturday.  Fail.

Two hundred meters into the run, the pain was on the outside.  Then it spread to the inside.  I felt like I had undone all of the "ice, rest and stretch" I'd done.  I got to the house and dialed up my ortho.  Now I'm waiting until Wednesday morning at 9:20 for the diagnosis.

And while time passes, the beard grows thicker as my mood becomes broodier.  

"What is this?" my wife asked over the weekend.  There was a sour look on her face as if she already knew.  I ran fingernails over rough cheeks and fire roared over my face.

"This is the beard of my discontent," I said.  She laughed.

"And what does that mean?"

"It means I'm not shaving it until I can run again.  It will symbolize a fresh start."  She wasn't laughing now.

"Hummph.  Fine.  I hope the doctor has good news on Wednesday."

You and me both, I thought...this thing is itchy.

Admittedly, things are feeling better today.  Not enough to want to try and run on.  Not enough to cancel my appointment on Wednesday.  But enough to raise a spark of hope.  Perhaps training can resume on Monday.  Perhaps my Boston dreams aren't dashed just yet.  Just maybe I will get to run again.  

A bit dramatic?   I hope.

But until then, the beard grows on.