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Illustration by Mario Noche
Approaching his senior year in high school, my son, Riley, took his first official campus visit to Ohio State University. Alumni ourselves, my husband, George, and I were pretty geeked.
As we strolled, George pointed out the spot on the Oval where he’d once seen a streaker. I shared different types of campus memories—the studious kind that didn’t involve nude strangers outdoors.
It was about the time Riley had his first look at a dorm room that, for me at least, the walking tour became a hobbling tour and I had to admit that I was again losing my ongoing skirmish with a tenacious nemesis.
Earlier this year, the gods of inadequate athletes (my particular denomination) conspired against me and I fell stricken with plantar fasciitis, a common runner’s complaint.
Every day before work, I run about three miles through the neighborhoods of Grandview. I’m not fast, don’t increase my distance or speed, never train for an event or hope to someday survive a marathon. My morning ritual fits a simple burrito-to-hip size ratio: I eat at Chipotle every single day, therefore I run.
Or at least, I did.
Plantar fasciitis is a swelling of the thick tissue on the bottom of the foot. When you put weight on your heel, it feels as if you’re stepping on a nail, making running problematic. Limping, though, becomes a necessity. I am now a world-class limper.
You might think that the first thing a person does with such a condition is stop running. Nope. Apparently, as a rule, folks like me just keep running until we’re more or less crippled. My doctor actually used the sentence, “Runners are a stupid breed.”
I purchased a nighttime brace and some shoe inserts. I also learned some stretches, took some anti-inflammatories and lived through the dig-around-till-you-hear-me-scream injection. After several months, I began to feel better.
And then there was that simple trip at the campus that plans to steal my baby and I’m a gimp again.
I headed back to the doctor’s office and discovered a surprisingly new strategy: the boot, which was one way to stop me from running.
I’ve noticed the big, black orthopedic boots on others, of course. My friend Krista gets booted so often I’ve begun to see it as an outfit accessory. And yet somehow I knew this bulky, Velcro-riddled apparatus would not be a good fit for me.
First, I drive a stick shift, and my affected foot is my left. This requires unfastening all six Velcro straps, plus the two sticky inner flaps, each time I get into my car, and reattaching the things every time I get out. Stops at the post office, bank and gas station before the morning commute equals six grappling matches.
But my real problem wasn’t the inconvenience of wearing the boot. It’s been the outright danger. In my first four days, I fell—sprawled on the ground—four times. Percentage of falls to take place on a staircase: 50. Not good.
I cannot say enough about this Velcro. Spaceship doors could be held closed with these strips. This is the bitiest material in the world, and because of it my first spill came as I walked down my carpeted basement steps. A flap grabbed, my foot held still and I made like a human log ride toward the cellar.
After working my way back to the first floor (on my knees, just to be safe), I stood to take the three linoleum-covered stairs from the landing into my kitchen. Apparently the boot was heavier than I recognized, so I didn’t give it quite enough oomph to clear the first step. But enough oomph to break my big toenail. I’d had the boot less than a day and I was bleeding already.
The likelihood of breaking a femur to heal a foot seemed high.
Fortunately, I had to wear the cumbersome helper for only four weeks. But on the first day I was free to lace up my running shoes again, I had to tackle one nagging question: Is Chipotle really worth this?
Hope Madden is a film critic for The Other Paper and a freelance writer.
