It’s always a good thing when a blog post topic comes to me in the middle of the night, but this time I mean it quite literally: I had a dream about running that was very telling to me. I dreamt I was at a running retreat with a bunch of great women, including two real ones. (Hi, JoAnn and CZ!) The high point of the weekend was racing a half marathon. Much of my dream was consumed by me debating what to wear for the race (a fastinista in my waking life; a fastinista in my dreams). I had decided on an outfit—a bold black, hot pink, and teal argyle-patterned short-sleeve tee and my de rigeur black capris. But I couldn’t find the capris anywhere. I searched high and low, but no luck. I took so much time trying to find them, my friends left for race without me. Finally, in my dream, I had an epiphany: I shouldn’t run the race. Why did I think I could run 13.1 miles when the furthest I’d run since mid-May was about an hour? It was literally an eye-opening realization for me: I woke up.
I shuffled to the bathroom to pee, and as I tried to go back to sleep, I ruminated on the dream’s significance. Not to get all woo-woo on you, but I put a fair bit of stock into dreams telling us something. (Such as, oh, to have a crush on Xander from “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”) This dream was a pretty easy one to interpret: It was my body’s way of telling me to take it easy. My plantar fasciitis-addled foot feels so close to recovered, yet it would be so easy to overdo it, setting my progress back months.
I knew what had prompted the dream, too: Two dear friends, Molly and Ellison, had asked me to join them for portions of their long weekend runs. (Oh, how I miss the pre-PF days, when I would have joined one of them for their entire long run. Sigh. One day…) Molly is training for her first marathon (she’s the pal I talked about in our most recent podcast), and Ellison is training for a fall half. After a fair bit of debate, which included considering running six miles with Molly on Saturday, then doing the same distance the next day with Ellison instead of doing my now-usual Sunday bike ride, I realized I’d be foolish to put so much stress on my foot’s inflamed fascia. I ended up running 7.5 miles with marathoning Molly--and my foot felt fine.
Okay, one Friday night dream figured out. The other one still has me puzzled: meeting Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler at a party and introducing him to my athletic trainer, who was so tongue-tied, I had to chat with the big-lipped “American Idol” judge myself for the rest of the evening. Hmmm….