Will I ever return to long walks?
Injury Diaries, part 9. I just want to be better already.
I started walking during COVID. In 2020, when my gym was temporarily shut down and I was sick of being contained by the low ceiling of my basement apartment and the weather was getting nicer, I started wandering my neighborhood. I crossed streets I hadn’t crossed before, traveled farther north, then east, then south. I happened upon neighbors’ fairy gardens and little free libraries, marveled over beautiful houses and landscaping, took pictures of shrubs so overgrown there was a boxy path cut out of them to let people through to a house’s front door. I discovered a church’s prayer garden and columbarium, where members’ ashes were buried under flowers in various stages of bloom. I started taking my Bible there every once in a while and sitting to journal, pray, reflect.
I walked with no time limit except for the sunset, the fall of dusk on my city. There were days in the summer and fall that I walked late enough to see people’s porch lights flick on, the commotion of households hidden behind curtains and stained glass.
These walks introduced me to a city I’d known primarily through my reporting. Away from the screen, away from the news cycle, I could observe the mundane activities of life in a place. The lifecycles of plants in well-meant landscapes. The changing inhabitants of fairy gardens that, from at least one porchside conversation with a stranger, I learned were the product of pandemic-era boredom. There were days I’d walk or bike to the park, a backpack of activities loaded up, my skin lathered with sunscreen. I’d watch society rollerblade and frisbee itself through summer. But my neighborhood walks were different. They whispered to me about belonging, laying down roots, building for the long term.
I miss those walks. I’m almost four months out of surgery — the stage at which my surgeon said I should have no more activity restrictions — but my ankle’s strength and endurance is not yet to the level needed to walk comfortably for 30 minutes, much less an hour.
Last week, I traveled across the country for my little brother’s wedding. Already sore from an intense physical therapy session, I grimaced my way through the airport, onto multiple sets of escalators and moving sidewalks. I did my PT exercises on Wednesday and Thursday surrounded by my family as we chatted about nothing in particular. Wednesday night in the shower, I looked at my foot and saw purple bruises all along the outside of my ankle. Friday, I donned my ankle brace before hitting the dance floor with my nieces and nephews. Saturday, I walked around a nice neighborhood on the edge of Indianapolis with a few of my siblings, looking at the geese and ducks along the canal, hunting for a public restroom with my sister. I had to put my brace back on for the walk back from the portapotty because my ankle started screaming at me. I wore it through the Indy airport, took it off for my flight back to Denver, put it back on once I landed. But even with it on, I hobbled through the airport to the train and eventually to the curb where my roommate picked me up to bring me home.
I stayed off my feet for most of Sunday and did my PT exercises in the evening. My single-leg calf raises felt harder than a week earlier, probably because my foot was still fatigued from the day before.
There’s always a stage in recovery when you wish you’re better than you are, and that’s the stage I’m at. The weather’s nice, the plants are growing, the mountains are calling, and I am still mostly stuck on the couch. My ankle isn’t ready for pickleball or hiking or long walks.
I can garden, but don’t quite trust the ground with its unpredictable divots. I’m allowed to bike but haven’t braved that yet (maybe this weekend). The day before the wedding trip, my physical therapist told me the only things I’m officially not allowed to do are running and jumping, so I can start lifting again, but it’s not a 0 to 60 sort of thing. I’ve got to ease back into it, build up my volume in terms of reps and weight, see how my body responds.
After she told me that, I sketched out a rough plan:
This week I made my first go at the top leg workout (labeled “Start with”), except for the bike part. Tuesday evening, I did the squats, lunges, and glute bridges in my living room. I couldn’t get full depth on my squats because my ankle mobility is so bad, but I did what I could. Thursday, my inner thighs were still sore, but no major soreness in my quads, which was encouraging.
Thursday, I also got some annoying mail from my insurance company, telling me they only approved 6 more physical therapy sessions since my last approval — which means I only have two more approved sessions left. Yeah right.
I want to tell them (and maybe this will happen when I inevitably call) that I would love to be done with physical therapy by now. But I’m not there yet. My therapist has only recently introduced more challenging lateral movements and my ankle has been sore almost nonstop. I need at least four more weekly sessions, but it’s not like PT is my new hobby. I want to leave it in the dust as soon as possible, go back to running, jumping, and lifting heavy weights.
And long walks. I’d really like to return to long, leisurely walks.
Previously in Women’s Barbell Club…
The pandemic destroyed my workout routine. Here’s how I’m trying to rebuild it.
Somewhere between March and September 2020, my workout routine fell apart.
Ilona Maher Is More than Her Lipstick
Ilona Maher — the elite rugby athlete you may recognize from the United States Olympic team or Dancing with the Stars — was already a viral sensation before the 2024 Paris Olympics sent her to new heights. I remember coming across her account on Instagram in 2023 and thinking,
Recommended Reads
No articles this time around, but I recently finished reading Bonnie Tsui’s book, On Muscle: The Stuff That Moves Us an Why It Matters. It’s a thoughtful hybrid memoir that integrates her childhood introduction to different forms of exercise via her dad, some of the science of muscle, and relevant human stories, all gathered around the themes of strength, form, action, flexibility, and endurance. I especially enjoyed the strength section, which told the story of women’s physical culture historian Jan Todd, who with her late husband basically founded the field of physical culture history.
What’s coming next?
What one of the earliest feminist writers has to do with fitness