Signs from Above

Having adequately recovered from my previous run—meaning the soreness had finally dropped from "can't walk down stairs" to "only hurts when I laugh"—I decided it was about time to head out again. You know, get the blood moving, pretend I'm committed to this whole "health" thing. Work against my sedentary vocation.

Running on roads is only moderately boring. Pavement is predictable, cars are predictable (mostly – the old people are concerning at times), and you can zone out to a podcast without face-planting into a root. But it's still just... straight lines. Asphalt. Same scenery on repeat. Rough on the joints. Trail running, though? That's what I've been leaning into lately. Trails are the opposite: uneven ground, surprise hills, trees that look like they're judging you, the occasional deer that bolts like it owes you money. It keeps your brain engaged. You can't fully autopilot because one wrong step and you're eating dirt. Crazy right? In a good way. That's what I intended to do—hit the trails, feel alive, maybe even outrun my own thoughts for 30 minutes.

And that's when I went to put my shoes on.

We have this shoe bench in the entryway (you know the kind—wooden seat with cubbies underneath for shoes, supposed to make life organized and adult). It's innocent enough. Usually. But today, in my rush to lace up and escape desk prison, I misjudged the angle. Knee met the sharp edge of the bench at full momentum. Not a gentle tap. A solid, bone-jarring crack that echoed through the house like I'd just kicked a gong.

The pain was immediate and spectacular. Then the ritualistic ceremony commenced: weird grunting noises (the universal language of "ow ow ow why"), hopping on one foot like a deranged flamingo, clutching the knee while trying not to fall over completely.

After a solid minute of this performance—deep breathing, gentle probing to make sure nothing was actually broken, more grunting for dramatic effect—I sat down right there on the floor. Looked at my running shoes still unlaced. Looked at the bench like it had personally betrayed me. And decided, nope. That was my sign. Universe saying, "Sit back down, buddy. You didn't really want to go running anyway. Work awaits."

So I hobbled back to my chair, knee throbbing like it had its own heartbeat, and got back to work. No heroic trail miles today. Just the quiet victory of not making the injury worse.

Part of me is annoyed—come on, body, we were so close. Part of me is relieved. Trails are great, but maybe the universe knows I needed another rest day. Or maybe it's just reminding me that enthusiasm is great until you add gravity and furniture.

Either way, the shoes are still sitting there by the bench, waiting for next time. I'll try again soon. Probably with more caution. Or maybe I'll just move the bench. Nah, who am I kidding—it's been there forever. It'll win again.

Running, man. It's supposed to be simple. Put one foot in front of the other. But sometimes the hardest part is just getting out the door without self-sabotage.