A Milestone Run on the Beach
By: Micah Ward
Tags: Perserverance, Running, Injury, Inspiration, Life

A Milestone Run on the Beach

I stand on the walkway and wait for the satellites to acknowledge my Garmin. A wind from the south drives clouds across the sky with rare patches of blue peeking through for a few seconds at most. The choppy, slate grey ocean sends relentless ranks of waves to curl, crash and turn to foam as they chase sandpipers to higher ground. The Garmin beeps. I turn south and slowly jog into the wind.

I am back on Amelia Island, a barrier island off the coast of Florida, and the place where I sustained a pinched nerve one year ago. I recently wrote about running a mile after almost a year of recovery and rehab. The time had now come to attempt my next milestone. Two miles.

I shuffle slowly and monitor my back for pain. It’s there. But neither more nor less than most any other time. I think about the words of the many physical therapists who said to simply do what my body allowed. What does my body allow today? I glance at the Garmin and note the 13:50 pace. I’ll take it.

Speed has always been a relative thing for me. To put it bluntly, I am not fast. Occasionally, over the years, I have finished in the top 20% or so at large races and won age group medals in smaller races. But speed is not even a consideration now. The only thing that matters is to cover the distance. How fast it takes is immaterial.

I approach a rivulet of seawater draining from a tidal pool back to Mother Ocean. Maybe it is two feet wide. Certainly no more. I adjust steps. Do I lead with my left foot or my right? Will there be shooting pain when my foot lands? I steel myself and launch. A puny two feet to sail through the air. No pain on landing, so I smile and continue.

During the last year, I constantly monitored my body, especially the lower back. I had to be aware of how I sat, how I bent, how I navigated uneven ground and descended stairs. In the back of my mind, I feared that sharp stab of pain that signaled impingement on the nerve. It became the new normal for me.

I shuffle along and pass a couple walking two rambunctious dogs who jump, bark, and snap at each other. A family walks slowly, bending at their waists as they scan the beach for shells or shark teeth. On the horizon sits a cargo ship awaiting its turn to enter the port of Jacksonville. Every day a new ship. Every day a new run.

I ran this beach a lot during the four years I lived here. More days than not. I saw families, dog walkers, and ships on the horizon and took it all for granted. But not on this run. It is impossible to take a run for granted when there is the real possibility it can’t be completed. Just the day before, I stopped after a mile. My body would allow no more.

I vault over a few more rivulets and eventually approach an area where vehicles are allowed to park on the beach. It is not unusual to see one or more stuck in the sand. But today they seem to navigate the sand at least as well as I do. I glance at the Garmin and see that I approach the one-mile mark and my turn around spot. I look up, I glance down, I look up, I glance down and one mile ticks off. I turn and run back north.

There was a time earlier in the year when I questioned whether I would ever run again. I was disappointed this two-mile run didn’t feel better than I wanted it to feel. Then I was ashamed for feeling that way. After all, there was that earlier time. That time when I questioned whether I would ever run again at all.

I feel tired. I almost slow to a walk. But I don’t since I am barely moving faster than a walk in the first place. I will endure tired. It’s that pain in the back that is most important. I monitor my back. No worse. No better. I run on. Gulls stand on one leg and watch me go by. They do not fly away. I’m obviously not a threat to them.

I remember what it felt like to run a mile for the first time. I was in high school and the third lap around that gravel (yes, gravel) track was the hardest. I remember my first marathon and how those miles from 20 to 24 felt like death falling from a tree. But once the end was in reach, for the first marathon and the first mile, I endured. I knew that no matter what, I would finish.

I continue north and I see, in the distance, the walkway to my vacation rental. I glance at the Garmin. Less than a half mile to go. I know now that I will finish. Two measly miles. Two epic miles. The Garmin reads 1.97 and I run on. I quickly glance again to see 1.99 and I keep my eyes on it and I push the off button when it shows 2 miles exactly. I want to shout. I want to lift my arms as I would if I were breaking the tape at the Olympic Marathon. But I don’t want to appear the fool in front of the lady walking toward me. So, I simply ease into my cool down walk.

There was a day when I couldn’t walk from my front door to my pickup truck. A year later I ran two miles. What will the coming year bring?