My little piggies

In preparation for the NYC marathon this Sunday, the NY Times has been printing a range of running- and marathon-related articles over the past several months. I can relate to many of these articles: running in bad weather, nightmares on the night before the big day, fueling strategies, and, of course, injuries. Although I've never been sidelined by a serious injury, I've had my fair share of sore knees and quads. Perhaps the most annoying recurring injury I seem to suffer, though, afflicts my little piggies.

It all began after my inaugural long distance race, the Race Around the Bay, when I removed my shoes to find that several of my toenails had gorged up with blood blisters. Not really knowing what to do about these blisters, I opted to simply lance them to relieve the pressure. The blisters shrunk and my toenails remained attached. (Hurrah!) A few weeks later, the salesperson at my local running store advised me to go up one-half size in my running shoes to prevent toe jamming. I did, and have been wearing an 8.5 running shoe ever since.

Several months later, after my first marathon (the Toronto International), I was again stricken with Bruised and Bloody Toe Syndrome. Larger running shoes had provided some relief during regular training runs but, it seemed, failed to solve the problem on the much more vigorous and demanding race day. I conceded that my anatomical defects -- my second toe is longer than my big toe -- were always going to cause me problems in races. Because popping the blisters seemed to work so well before, I conducted a second round of bathroom surgery.

All went well for a day or two, but soon my toes were hot, red, swollen, and sore. I was convinced that I had badly bruised them. This being the start of the Toronto winter, wearing flip flops to and from work was not an option, and so I made an appointment with the doctor to have my piggies checked out. And thank goodness for that! My self-performed surgery had, in fact, given me a bad case of cellulitis, a bacterial skin infection that, if not properly treated, can actually kill a person. The doctor promptly prescribed antibiotics and a topical cream and sent me on my way.

Since that day more than five years ago, I have been afflicted with cellulitis two more times (and, in the process, discovered my allergy to penicillin). I have bruised my toes in almost every race. I've lost several toenails when all was said and run (including this most recent one). (This is saying nothing of my other toe afflictions, including plantar capsitus.) My toes destroy any chance I might have for a good finish line photo. My toenails are now a bit misshapen and bumpy. They don't grow quite right. They still ache after a long run. Unfortunately, I imagine they'll be like this for the rest of my life.

But things would have to get pretty bad (or my running habits pretty insane) before I'd consider the solution highlighted by the most recent NY Times article, which filled me with both intrigue and disgust: permanent removal of one's toenails (view the photo if you dare). This was printed in the "Fashion and Style" section of the paper, and I do admit to being a bit dull in the "style" department. It's possible that I'm missing something. But the thought of permanently removing my toenails makes me love them all the more for what they have endured. My little piggies -- in their entirety -- are here to stay.