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It’s about four in the afternoon. I’m off work early today. It’s odd. I’m okay with it, but it’s odd. I missed my run this morning so I figure I might as well take advantage of my free afternoon.

I change into my running garb, don my Skoras (my favorite shoes), hydrate a little, and begin with a few core exercises: a minute or two of planks followed by some squats and pushups.

I’m feeling more energized already. I throw on some shades as I head out the door. It’s a beautifully sunny afternoon. I play an album by The Strokes on my phone; it’s the perfect accompaniment to such a lovely spring day.

I begin down the sidewalk at a nice, easy pace. My hope is to cross the Narrows Bridge as an out and back. I’m not exactly sure how many miles that is, but I feel like it will take the proper amount of time for my purposes this afternoon.

I crest the top of a tiny, tiny hill less than a mile into my run. As my gravity shifts to adjust to the declining sidewalk before me, a taut sensation appears, seizing my right shin. It’s far from pain, but it’s quite unpleasant. I’ve certainly pushed through worse, but something feels off. I explore hopeful fixes for this sensation.

I stop at a telephone pole and do a few stretches. They seem to help a little at first, but ultimately, they fail me. Next, I attempt several adjustments in form, as well as in speed. I monitor the symmetry of my cadence, evening it out as much as I am able. I discover that holding my gaze as forward and unbroken as possible goes a long way toward lessening my lower extremities’ muscular inhibitions.

Everything I do, however, leads only to another dead end. Each time I get a leg up (no pun) on that tension, it re-manifests itself as soon as I encounter a disruption, like a stoplight or a sharp corner.

“It’s not a problem,” I tell myself, in accordance with one of my mantras, “it’s an opportunity.” This is how I handle all my running pains. Every unpleasant aspect to a run, even every unpleasant run, is a story unto itself. It has lessons and triumphs whether or not it earns the overly emotional moniker of “a good run.” Bad runs are good runs, too, I contend.

The seizing up in my shins is not a problem to be feared, but a lesson to be embraced. I quickly understand this is not something I should push through. I call an audible. I’m not going to make it to the Narrows this time around.

I focus my mental energies on finding a temporary gait solution to get me home as painlessly as possible. I’m frustrated, naturally, but mostly grateful for the resilience of the human animal. I’ve encountered setbacks before and I will again. Par for the course.

I return home. This run was shorter than I wanted, but it is not a failure. It is simply a run for which I had unrealistic expectations. I’ll stretch and massage my calves, take a few days off, and be better prepared for next time. Deterred, but decidedly not defeated.