Once Again, It's Time For The "Cane"

I'm having a flashback to October of 2005. I was in the middle of Cork, Ireland, desperately looking for a cane. It was a couple of days after the Dublin Marathon and plantar fascitis in my right foot was the pain du jour. It had started acting up as soon as arrived in town, about a day before the race. The arch and heel started feeling a bit painful when I put weight on them, and I was concerned. But I was damned if I was going to back down after I had raised $2500, trained for 6 months and flew halfway across the world to do this.

I had also just come out of the most heart-wrenching, maddening, life changing and generally fucked up relationships of my life, and guess who my roommate was going to be for the first few nights? The ex-girlfriend in question! It was yet another example of an extremely damaging and mistake laden period in my life that I still have oh...let's say just a wee bit of bitterness about. But I digress...

So basically just I sucked it up and ran anyway. After mile 2, I knew that this was really going to suck. The pain continued with every stabbing footstep, and increased exponentially with every mile. I had decided to take ibuprofen during the run to help with the pain. I'm not sure that it helped any, although it's possible that it's the reason I finished at all. Of course, it it's also a terrible idea to take anything that thins blood and masks pain before a 26.2 mile run / walk, but what can I say, we all make stupid decisions, right? Right.

Yes, I finished, and yes I was in excruciating pain during and after the race. It did feel great to finish after all that hard work and emotional strife. And I had another week in Ireland, free to roam the countryside with only my ex-girlfriend and my horribly painful foot to slow me down. Great!

After renting a car and driving down to Cork, my first order of business was to purchase a cane to make my hobbling somewhat less...hobbly? It was already getting a little late and I didn't much feel like sightseeing, despite the fact that virtually all of Ireland is amazingly beautiful, and looks remarkably similar to all the postcards. There was still plenty more countryside to see, and unfortunately, probably mainly due to my emotional and physical state, I was thinking Cork kind of blew. I limped around the city for about an hour, trying to find what I thought would be a relatively common item. I asked several of the normally helpful Irish people where I might procure such an item, only to be confronted with a mixture of blank stares and misdirection. It was cold, wet and damp out. I was hurtin.' I needed to get a cane, get to bed, and then get the fuck out of Cork and away from my damn ex as soon as possible. Finally I made my way to the local chemist (pharmacy) and finally someone said, "oh, you mean...a walking stick?"

YES!! YES, A WALKING STICK!!! THAT'S WHAT I NEED!!!!!!

So lesson learned, in Ireland they don't call them canes. They are walking sticks, or they are Shillelaghs. And to me it was my ticket to more mobility so I could get where I needed to go. Out of CORK!! The next day I hopped on a bus for Galway and had one of the best weeks of my life "a rovin' a rovin' a rovin' I'll go" across the Irish countryside. One highlight was hobbling atop the Cliffs of Moher. Hands down the most beautiful piece of earth I've set my eyes on so far. And I wouldn't have been able to do it without my new walking stick.

So now, as I attempt to ditch these damned crutches, but still need some more mobility, I'm dusting off my old friend and calling on him once again. I just hope it's the last time I'll need him for a very long time.