One Foot, Two Foot, Old Foot, New Foot

It's raining outside the massive plate glass windows. The foot massage (semi-torturous poking and prodding) portion of physical therapy is over. I've finished my ankle strengthening exercises, showed my (minimal) progress by standing on each foot, and have moved to the center of the room to start the ambulatory training portion of the appointment. A.k.a. relearning to walk.

I'm barefoot today and will be walking on the floor instead of on the treadmill wearing my special new super-stable running shoes. Barefoot means Crystal can see my feet and all their little movements. There are no fancy shoes to distract her or hide my missteps.

I know my toes are going to get me in trouble.
There's something about my toes. I suspect they have a superiority complex. Always trying to do more than they should. Always trying to help lift my feet, as if my ankles aren't up to the job. Always trying to grip the ground to maintain balance. During the stand-on-one-foot tests, my toes clench the floor for dear life no matter how much I tell them to relax and let my feet take the weight. Silly toes.

Apparently I'm a toe-walker, or mid-step walker, whatever you want to call it. I don't hit the ground with my heels which means the force isn't distributed properly across my feet. My doctor, who is a runner, was excited to show me how the tread on my new Saucony shoes has a faint "S" shape and how the force of each heel strike is distributed along that curve. He told me I should visualize that during therapy, but my brain is busy telling my toes to give up and let my heels take the lead.

Back and forth along the length of the room. Back and forth. Back and forth.

I'm walking like Hitler again. A modified goosestep in an attempt to lift my toes and strike with my heels on each step. It's kind of funny, kind of not. Crystal tells me to bend my knees more, but not too much. I should roll through my feet and push off with the ball of my foot at the end of each stride.

When I get to the point where I feel completely awkward - like a mime badly ice skating - she tells me it looks much better. I keep walking. Back and forth. Back and forth. Other people walk by. Other physical therapists glance at my feet while I cross the room. They look a bit puzzled (or amused) under their careful almost expressionless expressions.

My lower back starts to ache and Crystal tells me it's because I'm so focused on my legs that I'm holding my upper body rigid. I try to relax, try to swing my arms. It doesn't quite work. She suggests that I relax my hips, relax my shoulders. I try and my back feels better, but my brain suddenly panics. I'm not paying enough attention to my feet!

Fortunately, Crystal says they are still doing all right. I can't quite tell yet. I've begun to equate feeling awkward with walking correctly, so when I relax and feel comfortable I assume my walking must be falling apart. It's nice to hear that it isn't. At least not completely.

After a few more minutes, my feet are tired and we are done for the day. As I drive home, I think about toddlers learning to walk for the first time. I think about the people who have to relearn how to walk after severe skiing or car accidents.

I feel lucky that I only have to overcome bad habits and stress fractures.