Resting, Sort Of

I promised to take 5 days off this week to help heal some ongoing plantar fasciitis. And I did, just not in a row, and not because I’m smart.

Monday and Tuesday started well enough; I found things to occupy my time, watched football, made food, and did my duties around the Cul De Sac Shack. However, I was sort of a crank-puss without an outlet to burn calories and curtail my want to go back to the Bed of Torment and let the world (quite literally) burn down around me as I count ceiling fan dust bunnies.

So, wanting to avoid the B.o.T and not gain back 30+ pounds in 5 days, on Wednesday, I said, “fuck it,” and found myself rage-hiking 6+ miles.

Smart? No.
Fun? Iffy at best.
Done? Yes.
Foot? About the same, but it could be worse.

OK, point proved, I got out, did my hike, burned off some calories, and then spent my slack time icing and massaging my foot and ruing my decision to hike six miles when I was supposed to be resting.

As I sat on my bed, massaging my foot, I promised (again) that I would rest the remainder of the week, but first, I needed to mow the grass of our vast (not really) estate on Thursday, which is a 2+ mile walk.

Smart? No.
Fun? Not at all.
Done? Yes.
Foot? About the same, but it could be worse.

More icing that night, more massaging, and more self-medicating once again had me poo-pooing continued rest, and heading back to the woods on Friday for another 6+ mile lumber.

For most of the hike, my heel was feeling OK, and I had faint thoughts that all the massaging, stretching, icing, and hours in the night splint had actually been working!

Smart? No.
Fun? Most of the time.
Done? Yes.
Foot? It actually feels like I’m making progress.

With progress in the pain department, after a night of icing and massaging, I planned to get out super early Saturday morning to get some miles in before the meat and balls of the football matches aired.

I woke up around 6 AM on Saturday, and during my morning evac, my stomach wasn’t feeling too great. And then the stomach cramps hit me ¹.

I dealt with the issue, expelled a bit of the demon, and then around 7, I was off to the trails, still hoping to get some pre-footy miles in.

Just as I pulled into the lot, BOOM! Another round of cramps hit my stomach, and sweat broke out on my brow. Oh, for fucking fuck’s sake!!

I continued to gather my gear, hoping that I could ride it out, but with a thick layer of OFF! still in the air, I looked at the nearby porto and thought about dealing with my issues within its humid, stank walls. Umm, no.

I then looked at the three or four vehicles belonging to campers with Iowa plates in the lot covered in morning dew and parked at an angle for some reason (must be Iowa-type shit). For some reason, seeing a pickup truck with a fake set of balls and a cowbell hanging off the back reinforced my decision; I’m going home to deal with this! Fuck that stinky Portojohn and Mr. Iowa Angled Park Job Balls Truck and whatever he’s doing in the woods.

Smart? No.
Fun? Not at all. Quite the opposite, actually.
Done? Never even started.
Foot? Actually feeling pretty darn not bad compared to last week.

My stomach started feeling better as the day went on, and I spent most of a gorgeous summer Saturday watching football on TV, laying on the couch, icing my foot, massaging my foot, and eventually sitting on the deck to work on my melanoma and listen to music while cursing whatever demon is residing in my intestinal track before going to bed at 8 PM ².

I woke up to more of the same intestinal issues on Sunday morning. Still, I am content to just lay on the couch watching the now Harry Kane-less Spurs (my team), taking Imodium, and cursing stomach demons before I do more icing and massaging of my foot, which after a week with just 12.5 miles in my legs is feeling 75% better. I’m looking forward to the coming week and hopefully getting back to normal lumbering.

Smart? Yes.
Fun? Depends on whether Spurs win and if I poop the couch.
Done? Working on it.
Foot? Starting to feel a lot better, thanks to ice, massage, and wearing a night splint for at least a few hours each night.

Later.

1. Over the past few years, a couple times a year, I get hit with a bout of severe stomach cramps and pseudo-diarrhea that make me feel like my body is trying to expel a demon via my colon. I have had a colonoscopy, which was perfect, and a Doppler that showed nothing but gas and some sludge in my gallbladder which no one seems too concerned about for some reason, even though I am less than thrilled at having medical-grade sludge in a body organ. At the snail’s pace this issue is being investigated, they will probably discover something just in time to tell me, “Sorry about your gut cancer Mr. Soiled Chamois, but it’s too late; you should have said something sooner.”
2. I really can’t explain the joy I get of clicking off the TV and going to bed before the sun goes down. It’s an amazing way to know just how old you are. Apparently, I’m 52 going on 92.