Yesterday I embraced the pain of a foam roller. I sat on the floor, put my leg on top of the foam roller, lifted myself off the ground and rolled the instrument of torture along my calf. It almost made me cry. It felt like a massage gone terribly rough. Afterwards, I stood up slowly and curiously, poking and prodding the muscle that so often feels rock hard when it shouldn’t.
It wasn’t horribly tight. I could walk on it easily. Heck, I could have gone for a run! (Not that I did – that would be silly when my leg has caused so much grief the last week or so.)
With a newfound resolve, I put my favourite faithful tights on, and did a fairly slow paced bodyweight workout on my Mudder Orange mat (not its real name, but I think it should be). I felt good at the end, and most of the way through. What I’m learning through these frustrating moments is that the base of fitness I’ve built over the last few years means that even when I’m struggling, it’s not back to the beginning. I’m back to a familiar level of fitness where 500m running is pretty decent, push ups aren’t so bad, and burpees still hurt like hell.
Compression sleeves and a foam roller are my new best friends from now on. My body can’t break, because then my mind might break too because it wouldn’t have a way to let out the swirling knots of stress that build up in it. I better take care of my body then, hey?