Return

 Three weeks is a long time to do anything. 

Three weeks, interestingly, is also a long time not to do anything.

Or something.

Specifically, the recent injury to my knee forced me to curtail my exercise regimen. The doctor told me that it would probably take "about three weeks" to recover from the sprain that initially had me limping about wherever I went, grabbing onto hand rails and making unfortunate sounds as I lurched from one spot to another. Having a week off school for spring break probably helped support the healing process, as well as eschewing the voice in my head that insisted that I really should be out there running. 

Somewhere. 

But clever me, I was able to show uncharacteristic restraint by restraining myself from trying to go out for a run before I was recovering from what I had initially assumed was the harbinger of my left leg being amputated at the knee. Finish it off. I'll figure it out. Just take it and I'll move on with the one good knee. 

I just did not want to have to go through the rehab.

And yet, there I was, a three weeks and a day after the initial injury, plodding along like nothing ever happened. Except for the choppy little strides I was taking and the challenge I was experiencing getting any sort of rhythm to my steps. The voice in my head that has always chimed in at the half-mile mark suggesting that I would be much better off sitting on the couch was righteous with indignation this time, but that was also right about the time that what I remembered about this running thing turned out to be true: I don't have to go fast, I just have to keep going. 

Which is what I did. 

Until I stopped. I took the brace off my left knee and didn't see any swelling or blood or bones sticking out. I was able to walk to the shower and balanced without any additional support. 

I was back.