Attack of the Runner's Knee!

It's 7:05 am. Your alarm chirps in your ear and you reluctantly throw the blankets toward the window, swinging your legs off the edge of your bed waiting here for a moment of internal debate:

To run or not to run? How sweet an hour more of sleep would be, but you know you'll feel like shit for cheating yourself in this way. To run wins. You pad to the bathroom and change quickly while still half asleep so your mind can't find some other way to turn on itself and create a better excuse. One worth not running for. 

You tie your laces haphazardly and head downstairs while shoving headphones into each ear. 50 jumping jacks. 1 minute wall sit. 15 push ups. 1 minute wall sit. Stretch your calves. Stretch your hamstrings. Stretch your back. Stretch your arms. Stretch until you can no longer postpone it. The time is upon you. Program Pandora. Grab keys, lock door, take the stairs two at a time down the street, sweep your hair into a low ponytail. You refuse to be that perky bitch whose hair just sways two and fro with ease. 

With the first step, your knees scream. If there's a reason to turn back now, this is it. You grit your teeth and bare down for the first three blocks, hoping that with warmth the pain will subside. It does, enough to keep going. 

Wait for the light to change. Wait for the light to change. Start jogging. The screaming is back, louder now than before. You squeeze your eyes shut, pushing into the cold wind hoping no one will notice the pain including yourself. 

You're half a mile in. Your eyes trained carefully on the familiar cracks and lines spider webbed along the cement before you. You can't think about your knees, if you do you'll stop. If you stop, this will have been a waste. You pass the dog park that already wreaks of urine. You pass the 24 entrance. You pass the turn off for Trader Joes and bank right. 

Push, Push, Push. Make it to the end of the street and you can rest. Your phone announces you've reached your 1 mile. You slow to a brisk walk, gathering the spit seeping in your mouth to spray the street. Rest time is up. You begin again and not without protest. Your ribs have joined in this time. 

You can't look forward for fear the distance may seem too unbearable. You think: feet straight, back straight, arms up, fingers loose, soft landing, breath.

You make it to the top of college and bank right again, sprinting to make the cross walk sign. You stop, bending at the waist this time, fighting the urge to vomit. That might be worth taking a picture of.

It passes. 

Push, Push, Push. Mile two down, your phone announces. 

One more. Make it a 5k. 

You head down 51st and turn left into some unfamiliar neighborhood, zigzagging through street-swept ticketed cars and uniformed children on their way to school who stop to gawk at your red face. You watch for any uneven surface that might give your weakness away. You pause at each intersection, making eye contact with every driver. Push, push, push. Your attention has been directed now from your knees to the lack of oxygen making it through to your brain. You want to stop, you want to keep going. 

You bite the inside of your lip. A tear swells quickly in response and slips down a cheek. 

Push, push, push.

3 miles completed, your phone says. You throw your hands up like rocky at the top of the stairs, giving a one-two punch for good measure. 

You walk the rest of the way back to 48th, open the door to your apartment and throw yourself onto the couch. Your sweat seeping into every surface.

You did it, you survived. Your knees thank you. 

Tomorrow, the pain begins again.