I know I messed up.
I know I ran around the streets of New York with unsupportive shoes on in the winter of 2009.
I know I did too many “jumpy” cardio classes at the YWCA.
I know I shouldn’t have trained twice a day that one summer.
I know I probably should have stretched more.
I know I overdid it.
I know.
But you.
You took away a year of my life.
You took away the Frozen Half Marathon, the first race of its length I ever completed, the first and only race in which I peed my pants at the finish line.
You took away the Twin Cities Marathon, the first marathon I ever completed.
You took away Grandma’s, City of Lakes, Monster Dash and countless others.
You took away the 18 weeks of long training runs, the runs that make sweat turn white and lungs turn to iron.
You took away the gun belt of fluids strapped around my waist.
You took away the knowing glances from trail compatriots; soldiers on the mission not to win - but to finish.
You took away the final stretch of every training run - the moment when I lost all sanity and convinced myself that I could really win this thing. (Well, maybe my age group.)
You took away the Brisk Fall, the feeling of the leaves under my feet as I swished through them.
You took away the strangers who clapped for me even though they didn’t know my name.
You took away a good idea when I had an hour to kill and running shoes in my backpack.
You took away Minehaha Parkway - the never-ending parkway that is as beautiful as it is demonic.
You took away packet pick-up.
You took away waterstops.
You took away deodorant under my arms, between my legs, and around my back.
You took away the 5:30 AM warm-up inside the Metrodome.
You took away the noon beer at the Capitol.
You took away the deliciousness of a lime popsicle after 18 miles in 90 degree weather.
You took away the safety pin holes in my Dri Fit shirts.
You took away Lemondrop Hill.
You took away the Blue Angels in Two Harbors.
You took away the Port-a-Potty negotiation.
You took away the iTunes playlist titled “26.2.”
You took away Summit Avenue; oh, Summit Avenue, you deceptively flat bastard, I miss you.
You took away any excuse for carbo-loading.
You took away a special trip up North from my parents.
You took away the “You’re nuts!” poster that Aunt Sue would hold in the crowd.
You took away early mornings around Lake of the Isles.
You took away the 20 milers on Milwaukee’s Lakefront, where Dad would be waiting at the car every 5 or so miles with a towel and a water bottle.
You took the “Polly Positive” reminders from Coach Mary.
You took away the rage I’d feel when someone would ask if I’m about to “go jogging.”
You took away the awesome feeling of annihilating someone in the final stretch.
You took away any reason to pound my fists on my thighs.
You took away my time with God under the sunshine.
You took away the feeling of cold rain against my warm cheek.
You took away the smell of gross compression tights inside the clothes hamper.
You took away frosted eyelashes and frozen nose hairs.
You took away my silent pre-race dedications to loved ones passed.
You took away the 20,000 strangers with whom I could have befriended on a road.
One day, about 15 years ago, I realized something.
I realized that if I could run a 5k, that I could run a 10k.
And if I could run a 10k, I could run a half marathon.
And if I could run a half marathon, I could run a marathon.
And if I could run a marathon, I could accomplish anything in life.
Plantar Fasciitis, you took away my first love.
Well, fuck you, Plantar Fasciitis.
I’m going to win her back.
