Just Below the Surface.

Three nights ago I dreamed about running. It's not my first dream on the subject, but the timing and features of the dream seem worthy of examination.

I've been out of my shoes for 10 days now in an attempt to heal some tendinitis that developed in my left knee. Tendinitis is an interesting affliction, I've realized, because it mainly nagged at me when I wasn't active. Sitting in the car, on the couch, or standing for longer periods of time often led to aching and tenderness. At the time it developed, I was blending bikram yoga with some of my run training, so when the pain became persistent, I halted the extreme stretching and hoped things would resolve. Since movement didn't make things worse, I continued to run.

I bumped my mileage, varied the terrain, and killed my speed work. I even raced a 5-miler on the July 4, posting a personal record at that distance and performing well.

In developing dialog with my physical therapist, we finally pinpointed the issue. A thin racing schedule in these summer months, paired with a steadfast desire to push strong through my favorite races in the late summer and fall, helped convince me to work on healing.

Not running isn't something I've worked into my training regimen, obviously. And while I love the act of running and the peace and enjoyment it provides, I fret mostly about missing the workouts and losing my base. The gym membership expired, and with it an elliptical to supplement the cardio work. Cycling seems a nice way to cross-train, but the time and distance needed to offset efficiency of running is actually more of a chore than a blessing. It's easier on the body, but it just doesn't appeal to me in the way that it should.

Oh, and I detest swimming. It's ironic, then that I'd find the antidote to rehab anxiety in a foam belt. Every day for the last ten days, a close mate--dealing with his own tendinitis (achilles)--and I strap up our jog belts and head for the pool in his apartment complex. Once there, we bob about in the deep end of the pool, jogging along like astronauts at zero gravity. We're decked out in our running hats and glasses, and he dons his inflatable booties to aid his stability. Together, we're conquering tendinitis, laughing off summer heat waves, and burning comparable calories. Our heart rates are higher, our arms are sore, and we're evening building in speed and tempo exertion to keep ourselves sharp.

Will any of this translate once we get back on the road? Perhaps. But the point is we'll get back on the road. Maybe then, my dreams about running won't seem so noteworthy.