When I was young, I was, y’know, invincible. Achilles with armored boots. I didn’t have to stretch for shit. I was a runner in those years, and coaches were always saying “stretch this, stretch that, stretch now, stretch before and stretched after.” I stretched…sort of. Basically I just screwed around during the fun pre-workout time period they dubbed “stretches” for some reason.
Of course, that caught up to me a little bit even back then. Have you ever heard of Sit & Reach? Sounds like something from the local swinger’s club, but no! It was part of the government mandated youth assessment regime (how scary are those words all piled together?) where you sat on your butt, legs out in front of you, and put your feet against a milk crate. Taped onto the top of the crate was a yard stick, pointed out at you, and you leaned forward as far as you could and reached for the highest number you could do.
When it was my turn to sit and reach, I sat down (that was the easy part) and reached (the hard part). The teacher looked down at me, reaching, and said “okay, whenever you’re ready Tendick.” I wonder if I blushed when I answered “I’m already doing it.” I think his answer was “whoa. Tight hamstrings.” I presume I was found officially lacking in the flexibility department. (Good thing I kicked ass at the mile run, push-ups, and sit-ups! Wahoo! Yeah! I feel better about my sad little hamstrings already!)
Anyway, the point is that I was invincible. Yeah, I was losing that point, but it’s back. I don’t know if it was all the running, but the idea of being tired or worn out from just walking seemed…unlikely. I kind of assumed I could walk for…you know…ever.
So when we were in Scotland last week and they told us the next town was 4-5 hours walk through the highlands, we didn’t bat an eye and off we went. And it was fine. I was a little footsore, but mostly just foot-stinky.
Perhaps luckily, when I decided to do the Camino de Santiago (aka The Compostela, aka The Way of St James) I did bat an eye, just a bit, since the route I wanted to follow is 825 kilometers, with a bunch of hills and whatnot. I decided to take a training walk from the town where I have been living for two months, Booischot, in to the town where K works, Herentals. I’m not sure how far it is, but the best estimate is around…17 km? The Camino seemed to be in stages of 26-31 km, although I can’t remember where I got that idea.
I strutted off at 10:00 AM and when I limped up to her work around 3:00 PM I was frickin wrecked. Not tired of course, oh no, that would improve, as would something as easy as blisters. No, my frickin right foot felt like it had been run over by a flock of little old ladies on bicycles (which are the dominant species on the suburban Belgian Serengeti).
My right calf is sort of…crooked. (I do not recommend playing poker with it. Hardy har har.) So when I walk I sort of push off with my foot crooked (sort of like I was on ice skates). The bones and ligaments and whoever the hell else lives in there apparently didn’t care for all that pushing. A week later and I still feel like my foot is one big bruise.
So now I find myself in the frustrated and disappointed position of wondering if I can do this frickin walk. When I told one of K’s coworkers I was hoping to do the Camino she said “oh yeah, I’ve heard of that, my grandmother is doing it this summer.”
Grumble, man, grumble. Pass me an ibuprofen and make me a cup of tea.
