Note: this story was published in the Seward County Independent.

Seward’s Fourth of July 10-kilometer race was probably titled the “Freedom Run” to fit with the spirit of Independence Day. However, the “freedom” that was on my mind while running the mostly unpaved course had nothing to do with the American Revolution.

I simply wanted freedom for the tiny pebble that had made itself a new home between my sock and heel.

Perhaps I would have been of a more patriotic mindset if I could have dislodged that little rock from its resting place. I was perfectly content running with the 100 or more participants, and without a stone tagging along.

Had it not decided to join me on the 6.2 mile journey, then maybe my focus would have been on more historic freedom-related topics—the Boston Tea Party, the Declaration of Independence or the Battle of Bunker Hill.

After all, this was the Freedom Run.

But my mind was on the miniscule stone buried beneath my cotton sock, a stone whose fate didn’t seem to include liberation.

With every step the parasitic rock burrowed deeper into my heel.

Ouch.

Tugging on my sock while running only made it worse. Stomping my feet to rattle it loose simply made my knees ache.

But what about stopping altogether and taking a moment just to remove the offending nugget?

No such luck. I must have laced up too tight. Who knew freedom was such a battle?

So I pressed on, with the understanding that the finish line wouldn’t necessarily mean freedom for the gravel in my shoe, but at least freedom from the pain caused by running with it rattling around in there.

The race took me about 40 minutes to complete. During the 30 minutes in which I had my pebble passenger onboard every step registered an uppercase “OUCH” in my brain.

But only after finishing the race did I realize what the consequences of running a few miles with a rock in my shoe really were.

For one, I spent the rest of the Fourth of July walking with a limp—which wasn’t all that bad until I had to explain to my friends the reason for my funny gait: because of the rock in my shoe, yes.

Nothing as glorious as a sprained ankle, a torn ACL or even a bruise, but a little ole’ rock in my shoe was the culprit.

They suggested I had never really mastered the first grade technique of emptying the sand from of my shoes.

That might be true. I’ve always been somewhat of a slow, stubborn learner, though I won’t soon forget the nasty half-dollar sized blister on the back of my right foot.

Funny thing was, after it was all over, I couldn’t seem to find the pebble.

I guess that’s OK though. The small stone found its freedom, somehow, joining other gravel and sediment at the corner of 14th and Seward Streets.

So after the sun dipped below the horizon that evening, I hobbled to the edge of my driveway and lit a few fireworks to celebrate.