Finally, good news

No more lying around. (Sorry, Lucy)

On a sheet of paper, my physical therapist asked that I jot down a number: the percentage of usability in my right foot. From 0 to 100, I was asked to assign a digit that would represent just how far I thought my right Achilles and heel had progressed.

With a few pen strokes, I put down an honest assessment: 90-95 percent.

I breezed through my routine of Achilles and plantar fascia stretches and strengthening work with no issues. I answered all of the questions that followed each drill. My PT was most impressed with the report about having no incidents in Ireland, even with a steady daily dose of walking.

And then…the good news: I was told I can run again.

Beginning tomorrow, I’m allowed to “run” 1 mile every other day until my next physical therapy appointment. (Run Thursday, rest Friday, run Saturday, and so on.) But here are the stipulations I must adhere to:

• Run 5 minutes, walk 1 minute, until I complete the 1-mile run.
• Run no more than 1 mile, under any circumstances.
• Wear the pair of my newest running shoes, to capitalize on the best arch support.
• Reduce my running gait to a slow trot, not wanting to tempt fate or experience a flare-up.
• Suck it up and accept a 12-to-15-minute pace (for now).
• Use caution and stop if I experience any pain.
• Visit my PT a week from today to discuss how the weeklong experiment went, as well as further treatment options.

Tomorrow, I’ll go for my first run since May 3, when I completed the Broad Street Run on a strained Achilles tendon.

This is a victory, albeit a small one.

For more than 2 months, since completing the Broad Street Run, I’ve been reduced to rest. And lots of it. I was told to protect that injured right foot, that any significant physical activity could reinjure a partially healed Achilles tendon, and that — without care — this could turn into a pernicious 3-to-4-month setback. So I sat on the couch, vegged out, watched a lot of LOST DVDs, and chilled with Lucy.

Along the way, I grew frustrated, impatient, and jealous. I cried. I pouted. I came up with theories that my body had betrayed me. (I know. It’s ridiculously vain.)

Now it’s time to take the next step in my rehabilitation. Is it tomorrow yet?