One of my earliest memories is of my mother instructing me how to propel myself on a swing to soar above the then cement-covered playgrounds of New York City. “Stick your legs out and pump!” she coached three-year-old me. I didn’t know what “pump” meant and she had no understanding of aerodynamics. It didn’t go well.

Like many runners, I did not grow up athletic. In fact, I come from a family of remarkably uncoordinated couch potatoes, particularly on my mother’s side. This did nothing to stop my mother from attempting to teach me physical skills she herself did not possess, such as the afore-mentioned swinging.

One concussion and many skinned knees later, I accepted my lack of athletic prowess. After all, I was in good company. Hardly anyone in my family knew how to swim, let alone skate, ski, or play tennis. You’d think it had to do with lack of money but my father, the lone exception, grew up poorer than anyone, yet knew how to swim and skate. He learned to swim by being thrown by his buddies into New York City’s East River. I know. Amazing he was able to procreate after swimming in that toxic soup.

According to family legend, my mother sank like a stone when thrown into a local pool as a teenager and had to be pulled out ignominiously by the seat of her raggedy bathing suit. I have to assume being thrown into a body of water was a rite of passage back then. Lacking my father’s innate abilities, my mother was unfazed, and determined that I learn how to swim.

When teaching me by the side of the local pool didn’t pan out — “Kick your legs, and alternately stroke with your arms, taking a breath every other stroke!”– my mother scrimped to send me to a day camp specifically to learn to swim. I contracted a bad case of swimmer’s ear on day one and had to sit out pool time for the remaining two weeks.

Cutting her losses, my mother set her sights next on bike riding. Quickly she realized this kind of tutelage required a degree of coordination and strength far beyond her own. This was especially true when the child in question had no sense of balance. Someone was bound to get hurt.

My father finally managed to teach me how to ride without training wheels when I was eight, a feat akin to teaching Koko the gorilla American Sign Language. Soon after, I got bumped by a car when I attempted to cross the street between two parked cars. (Hey that’s how we rolled in the Bronx.) Lacking the self-preserving reflexes possessed by most humans, I failed to put my arms out to break my fall. For weeks I sported a grotesquely fat lip and lost the tooth I hit 10 years later.

Catholic school did not help me improve my athletic skills. The backs of my legs always sported welts from misadventures in jumping rope. Jumping-in eluded me and forget about Double Dutch. The dreaded dodge ball in gym was a little bit “Lord of the Flies” in terms of lax supervision and Piggy, I mean I, knowing neither how to throw nor to dodge, was often the worse for wear.

I found my people when I left the nuns and went to a “special” public high school with a concentration in science. You had to take a test to get in and it had nothing to do with physical fitness. Our most popular team was math team. My dodge ball days were over.

In college, there were two major obstacles for the non-athletic — the dreaded swim test and a gym requirement. The swim test, though well intentioned, was a source of severe anxiety to certain demographics. Namely, the poor, the foreign and the phobic. We had not learned to swim as children and could not believe we had to do so now.

There was no choice but to take the introductory swim class. Yes, it was a bit like that rite of passage my parents endured. But at least it counted toward the mandatory gym credits. I found it was a major advantage not to be phobic and to have English as a first language. I actually learned to swim the required three strokes as well as tread water after jumping off the deep end, a feat never to be repeated.

I’m drawing a blank on how I managed the remaining college gym requirements This might have something to do with repeated head trauma sustained during introductory volleyball — I couldn’t help closing my eyes when the ball was in flight.

I know I tried to be more active during those four years. Inspired by a boyfriend at the time, I even attempted “jogging” for the first time. I barely got to half a mile before I had to sit down on the curb, out of breath and half suspecting I might be having a heart attack.

Fast forward 25 years or so. My daughter joins the cross country team her first year of high school. Inspired by a not well-received wish to show solidarity, I start to run. And I like it. I took it slow and was gratified to find that my prior life of sloth left me pristine knees and hips compared to experienced runners.

I started doing some races. Controverting popular running wisdom, I began with a very hilly 10 K and finished (that alone was my goal) in a little over an hour. The vomiting at mile 3 was just an added bonus. Running became my way to relieve stress, to think, and to keep middle age weight gain under control while still eating (and drinking) what I wanted. This past summer, I toyed with the idea of a half-marathon and upped my distances, getting to 12 miles.

I felt strong and fit. Clearly I was overconfident. Ran perhaps more than I should have one weekend with friends who were marathoners. Or maybe it was the neon Easter-egg colored minimalist shoes that didn’t give enough support but were so cute. The next time I ran, I felt this searing pain in my heel about 2 miles in that would not permit me to continue my run. I hobbled home.

Plantar fasciitis (PF). Once thought to be an inflammatory condition, currently the etiology was being debated. There was no consensus on best treatments. It depended somewhat on whether you consulted a podiatrist or sports medicine orthopedist, how far you were willing to go (injections of platelet rich plasma, anyone?), and how much you were willing to pay.

As a health care provider, I tried what the literature suggested and what I in turn had suggested to my patients. Non-steroidal anti-inflammatories and prednisone, an oral steroid, didn’t help, which gave credence to the latest thinking that PF might not be an inflammatory response to injury. I did all the proscribed stretching exercises daily. I took up yoga again. (Downward dog is the perfect stretch for plantar fasciitis.) Decided to eschew steroid injections based on my research and orthotics based on prior bad experience.

I believed the cause in my case was a sprained ankle about six weeks prior that I ran on too soon. The ankle was weak and threw off my gait. So I started cross training at the gym to build up strength. Faithfully stretched, used a foam roller and massaged my foot with a frozen rubber ball daily. Wore the snazzy Strasburg sock at night (https://www.amazon.com/strassburg-sock).  Got fitted for more supportive (albeit slightly less cute) shoes at a running store.

Almost six months later, it is definitely getting better. Some days I have no pain at all. I can run four miles outdoors, five on the treadmill with minimal discomfort. I’m back, baby.

I often wonder what my mother would have made of this newfound running obsession and my recent struggles. She wouldn’t have understood it but she would have put her two cents in. “Propel yourself forward while swinging your arms,” she might have called out, undeterred as always by her lack of personal experience. “Shorten your stride and increase your cadence. And don’t forget to stretch.”

Thanks, Mom. I think I got this.

#plantarfasciitis #RunningInjuries, #unathletic, #HobbledNoMore #RockingThatStrassburg Sock