The End Of The Tunnel
As featured in Like The Wind Magazine - Issue #20
Any aspiring athlete will have been subjected to the onslaught of the motivational slogan, the persistent instruction to ‘be your best’ whilst ‘never giving up’ and ‘embracing the pain’. Its incessance and prominence within the sports industry is difficult to avoid, and whilst one would assume they are conceived with good intention (and of course, the odd marketing ploy), the message they aim to convey can at times prove somewhat ill-suited.
Such material becomes more prevalent at specific intervals throughout the calendar, the new year bandwagon, the anticipated beach season, and for the running fraternity, the weeks preceding the London Marathon summiting the mountain of prime offenders. But what's the protocol when motivation isn’t the issue? When circumstance dictates that we are physically incapacitated to even necessitate the required encouragement for our chosen discipline, the relentless regurgitation of the cliche simply doesn't fit the bill. Injury, unfortunately, is the basis of this particular piece, an adversary with which many runners are all too familiar and, in fairness, a proverb proclaiming readers to ‘sit tight and don’t tear your hair out’ doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.
My own running-induced rap sheet makes for unpleasant reading; plantar fasciitis, medial tibial stress syndrome, patellar tendonitis, adrenal fatigue and a soleus strain, each sternly debilitating on their own merit yet fortunately overcome in relatively brief periods of time. More fortuitous was perhaps their choice not to assemble en-masse, an angry mob simultaneously wreaking internal havoc would doubtlessly hammer the final nail in the coffin. I use these cryptic terms with reluctance due to a harbouring belief that the use of a conditions’ medical title should be reserved for those plying their trade to a decent standard. Therefore I will allocate preference to the labels ‘bad foot/shin/calf/knee’ and ‘constantly knackered’.
In honesty, the majority of those aliments could probably be attributed to my own ignorance and, on occasion, arrogance. Yet in some cases, particularly my current offering, I believe the sentence to overwhelmingly outweigh the crime. Sheer imbecility, the culprit for the diagnosis of ‘Athletic Pubalgia’ which I translate to a ‘really bad groin strain’, as much to avoid a lengthy explanation to anyone foolish enough to ask, as my inability to pronounce it correctly.
Following last Spring’s Rotterdam Marathon, and a dire performance inadequately summarised without expletives, I offered to pace a friend at London just fourteen days later, a shot at redemption and an exercise that would seemingly serve to remedy a somewhat bruised ego. Given the several humblings the marathon has previously handed me, I should have known better; its unforgiving ability to debilitate forgotten in an impetuous haze. The logistics of obtaining a bib weren’t problematic, my GoodForAge slot that would otherwise have gone unfulfilled, yet the legitimate obstacle, which I chose to ignore, was the minor niggle festering in my lower abdomen.
Throw in my notable inability to hastily recover from the longer distances and a toxic mix presented itself - a cocktail which teased the palate of my inner narcissist. Of course, self-indulgence prevailed over basic common sense. The concoction was devoured and days later, it’s poison began its infiltration. If the venom held a long-term agenda then its objective has most certainly beared remarkable fruition. A force that has relented in the face of not only attempted self-rehabilitation, but also the external cavalries of physiotherapy, general practitioners, prescription narcotics, MRI scans, and consultant surgeons.
Ten months have passed since the condition was conceived, yet its grasp has only marginally regressed. An initial cortisone injection provided brief relief, long enough to re-establish a desperately desired running routine, yet its healing powers proved limited, and subsequent treatments haven't achieved an equal degree of success.
The weeks and months succeeding that initial day of damage will be of great familiarity to those unfortunate to have been dealt a similar fate. The early days are almost of novelty, a break from the norm, written off as a brief bout of recovery. Realisation then sets in as days turn to weeks and irritation comes to the fore: the feared loss of fitness, the bounty for the substantial toil and strife, helplessly slipping from grasp. The longer you’re out, the longer it’ll take to recapture that level of competence, or so internal dialogue would have you believe.
Then there's the knock-on effect. The condition’s lifespan is now observed in months, and the routines built around the cherished recreation are thrown into disarray, which it turn reverberates through diverse aspects of daily being. Some run on a morning, others at lunch, many in the evening. I sit firmly in the early hours camp, the prospect of rising at 4am far more personally preferable (and practical) than heading back out the door following a full day earning a crust.
Regardless of the session, a trot or a gallop, a positive process plays out. A pulse raised, a lung cleansed, a box ticked, and the fulfilment of a daily standard set. The shower may purify the perspiration but the gratification of a job done isn’t rinsed with the same ease. Then there’s those rare fleeting occasions when it all clicks - a goal achieved or target exceeded provokes a certainty that the day ahead will be a good one. Realistically, it has no genuine bearing whatsoever, yet the outlook is already brighter - an air of positivity and possibility, often achieved before the sun has even risen. But when the hand of injury strikes, the mere opportunity for such successes cannot even present themselves.
The time of a run is irrelevant, down to the individual and the circumstance in which they find themselves. Some may be lost without an evening outing to relinquish the tensions of the working hours behind them whilst others find sanctuary in the midday exercise, an escape from office colleagues as much an incentive as the activity itself. Regardless of the hour, a runs benefits go far beyond its physical rewards, its power to heighten a state of emotional wellbeing cannot be understated. It can function to release, to calm, to excite and to inspire. I’ve often questioned if my own running is as much to ease an unidentified insecurity as the enjoyment derived from it, an emotional crutch perhaps to compensate for an inadequacy. An aid a great deal others also adopt to address their own personal uncertainties.
I’m neither pretentious or self-significant enough to declare running to be my ‘identity’, but that feeling of ‘self’ suffers quite the battering when your platform of contentment becomes prohibited. The act has become so deeply habitually ingrained that it’s absence leaves a gaping void which can prove a struggle to fill. Some will turn to varying forms of cross-training to satisfy that itch, and whilst the benefits are certainly well documented, it simply doesn't invoke the same psychological and physiological stimulation that running affords. We have made the sport our own for a reason.
As time on the sidelines grows longer, so does the variety of feelings within. Mindset shifts, both in form and intensity: injustice, anger, despair, fear and envy to name but a few. A perverse amusement even pitches in, the incompetence of numerous medicines almost laughable, akin to firing a potato gun at a heavy artillery tank. Hope is another; days when the discomfort diminishes, the tunnel lights up, only to be snatched away as the pain reclaims command. Yet one sentiment remains constant throughout - frustration. The chagrin deepens as the injury refuses to loosen it’s grasp, an infuriating, tear inducing indignation, eventual relief within the wounded site appearing infeasible. The anticipation of that first run back becomes one of ‘if’ rather than ‘when’.
I’m under no illusions whatsoever that my running, and that of the majority who share the sport, is anything but a glorified hobby. Yet any great investment of time, energy, emotion and dedication, regardless of the endeavour, is bound to carry an understandable level of value. Regrettably, such value brings with it the vulnerability to setback and disappointment should the subject deviate from the desired design.
The perceived significance of an injury is relative. Whilst some struggle with the mere concept of a precautionary missed session, there will be others who guffaw at my self-pitying ramblings, in situations far more precarious than my own. Again, in the grand scheme of things, I’m vastly aware of the irrelevance of this entire monotonous saga, yet without cease that undercurrent of frustration continues to linger, simmering beneath the surface.
They say it’s the hope that kills you, the sense of imprisonment runs deep yet there exists a vague belief that the day of parole will soon arrive. The vision of that first run back is one of euphoria, effortlessly drifting towards your former, functional athletic self. In reality the term ‘run’ would be generous, a slog, trudge, lumber, the devastation of injury evidenced in the rusted cogs, the Tinman creaking towards the elusive utopia of Oz, every running aspiration under lock and key in the Emerald City.
It’ll be arduous, it’ll be laborious, and it may well be tedious. But it’ll be a start.
