I was up and in the woods by 7:15 Saturday morning, looking to stomp out 5 miles, hit my 25-mile weekly goal, and get home for breakfast and coffee while watching the USWNT quarter-final game.
That was the plan, until it wasn’t.
I have hiked well over 2,000 miles in the last two years and never had a blister of note until Friday morning when the combination of different shoes, different socks, and sandy trails rubbed a layer of skin off the back of my left heel. Yes, the same foot that I battled a corn with for over a year, and I continue to have painful plantar fasciitis in, now has a blister.
Bring out the gimp!!!
I thought I could tape over the blister and be good to go for the hike, but within a mile, it was clear that this was not working.
I pushed on a bit, thinking if I could make it to a place to sit and reapply the tape, I’d be good, but as soon as the tape came off, I knew it was never going to go back on. Shitdamnmadrefucker!
I pulled my socks up, laced my shoes, and hoped for the best as I stupidly continued on with the hike.
I went about 50 yards, and with my brain cursing the existence of sand and thinking how nearly every horrible blister I’ve ever had has been sand-related when I had a moment of mild clarity from my inner voice.
“Don’t do it, man! This isn’t a race. In fact, I don’t know what the hell this is, but don’t keep going! There’s no reason to turn your heel into a gaping flesh wound that will take weeks to heal. I know you want to; hell, I even know you can, but DON’T!”
And I was right.
So, I stopped, accepted defeat, and made the slow hobble back down the trail towards Escape II and a quiet drive home with the music and the windows down.
I ended up with a mere 2.38 miles in my feet, the familiar feeling of failure in my gut, and a worsened blister on my heel.
But as I drove down the road towards home with the morning sun bathing newly cut wheat fields in gold and orange hues as flocks of hungry geese munched away, I decided to flip the narrative.
(Back to my inner voice, which today sounded oddly like the O.G. Mindbender but way more masculine)
“You know, you did good, dude. You pushed hard this week, ran more than you have in ages ever, dealt with pain, and still managed to set some PRs. Yes, aborting today’s hike due to a blister sucks, but you did the right thing by pulling the plug. The old you would have pushed on in an attempt to prove something to yourself even though you truthfully don’t even know what the something is that you’re trying to prove. I know you struggle to allow yourself, but you showed real empathy for yourself today. Well done, kid. Now go home and get yourself some breakfast, just maybe not one of those big-as-your-head breakfast burritos you’re so keen to make on the weekends. Stick with a couple of eggs and some toast.”
There’s still an outside chance that I hit my weekly mileage goal on Sunday, but I’m not all that concerned about it. I’m looking forward to some rest, even though I hate rest because it allows me too much time to think, and that is never good.
I took the photo of the deer seconds before I sat my ass down to attempt to adjust the tape on my blister and the downy woodpecker .25-miles from the end.
Later.