Clipped Wings

The journey of a runner not running

Audio version of this essay here.

“Now I see that you’re addicted,” Julia remarked.

I stood dripping in sweat. Having just ascended the worn carpeted stairs from our basement, I continued to catch my breath while staring back at her blankly. I’d spent the past half hour attempting to exhaust myself— cobbling together a series of arm biking, pull-ups, and core movements as a poor substitute for the daily miles that I depend upon.

“What do you mean by that?” I pushed back, even though I fully understood.

“Just that, I’ve always thought of your exercise as training, like, something you do to make yourself better, not something you needed to stay sane,” she explained a distinction that made sense in her mind.

“I’m no more addicted to exercise than I am to food or water,” I snapped back. Reacting in opposition even though I knew that she wasn’t the enemy. Far from it. As my supportive spouse, she was attempting to engage her partner, who was physically wounded and emotionally flailing. She was trying to help. But a runner unable to run is unpredictable.

Scowling, I pulled the waist of my shirt up to wipe my brow in disgust at this position into which I’d run myself. The basement hour had taken an edge off yet still left me stewing. Having lived an athletic life since childhood, physical movement is as inextricable as the sunrise. Yet now I was still. Stopped. Unable to shift my weight without pain.

Because I’d run until a piece of my femur snapped.

Amid the cloud of expected sadness, I’m most surprised by the shame. I did this to myself. Without anyone else to point the blame, I keep circling back to me. Having endured a year where my knee felt awkward, uncomfortable, and “slightly off,” I continued running without significant pain until the cartilage on the distal head of my femur said, “Enough.”

Of course, I realize that blame isn’t helpful. Yet, it persists because of my need for reason. I see that it arises from my search for logic amid frustration.

As runners, we’re accustomed to building fitness on principles and cycles. We learn to listen because, as athletes, we are in constant conversation with ourselves. The task is to act and then react. As if knocking your knuckles along drywall, listening closely for the solid sound of a stud, we lean into daily efforts and then listen for the signals our body sends in response. But I’d failed. Despite my best efforts, I‘d missed my body’s loudest alerts.

So here I sat in confusion and frustration. My heart rate pulsed erratically as my chest cinched tighter by the day. I wanted to scream, needed to cry, and couldn’t decide which should come first. Mostly, I was overwhelmed by the sensation of being pinned, stuck, unable to fly. Affixed to the ground from which I was desperate to escape.

Injured is an odd word.
I’m hurt.
Harmed, damaged, impaired.
Unable.
Prevented from the precious feeling of flight.

As a runner, I thrive on the self-reliance afforded by my two feet. Typically, I can care for my body and mind through motion, which works well until I can’t even shuffle without discomfort and stress. Unable to push without pain, my mind swirls continuously because I lack the tool I typically use to make it stop.

The most primal sensation is fear. I’ve previously torn muscles and strained tendons, but this is different. As runners, we move. We hop up, sprint down the block, continue on, and keep going without a second thought. Now, even pivoting up from a chair demands a second to consider, “Will this hurt?”

Seated, peering upward at a friend, asking him to bring me something beyond my reach, is the opposite of the runner’s engrained sensation of snap. The athletic impulse to move, to accomplish, to take care. Ingrained in a runner’s ego is the understanding that, if necessary, they could run there. It sounds absurd. Running anywhere is unnecessary in a society filled with automobiles, delivery apps, and on-call assistance. But we could.

“What would happen if there was an earthquake?” My son once asked when he was young. I felt my chest swell with pride in my ability to protect. “Mom and I would come find you!” I insisted to ease his young heart. And though I knew it was unlikely, I took comfort in the confidence that little would stop me from sprinting to his side in an emergency. A distance didn’t exist that I wouldn’t attempt to cover to care for him. And now I can’t.

At first, I was on crutches, then moved with a limp, and now walk with a slight hitch; the sensation of being unable defies my identity. I am healing, yet still harmed—and future uncertainty looms. Meanwhile, my mind simmers with anger.

I’m fuming.

Steaming in frustration at everyone and no one but myself. Why, why, WHY is this happening to me?! I do the things. I eat the foods, sleep the hours, and activate my muscles in such a constant dance that my friends and family mock me. Despite knowing how common injuries are for athletes, I sit here stewing. Yet another superfluous sensation. As if constructing a toxic mix of chemicals: frustration plus sadness plus fear erupts within me in anger. Snapping at my son for some small error that I usually would navigate calmly, I’m forced to circle back.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t about you,” I say, leaning down to reconnect with him at eye level. “My knee hurts, and I shouldn’t have snapped.” I garble an explanation, hoping to use parenting failure as a life lesson. This has nothing to do with him. He’s nine. His dad's lack of a foundational piece of operating code doesn’t mean he should get yelled at. He deserves better than this. But don’t I also? If only deserve had anything to do with my equation.

My kneecap must have clashed with the edge of my femur millions of times. A runner’s stride is a rhythmic series of skeletal collisions. Hundreds of pounds of pressure transferred from feet into shins, through knees into femurs, and up through the torso.

On repeat.

A beautiful orchestra of hops that I celebrated in cities and streets around the globe. Until the music stopped.

“How much do you run?” the well-dressed surgeon asked. Having apologized for arriving late, he glanced at me and then inquired to complete my medical chart. Sitting, pressed into the light blue vinyl exam room seat, I looked upward into his eyes and swallowed a scream.

What was it to him? What about the options available for repairing my knee were dependent upon how many miles I have or hope to cover each day?

“JUST FIX MY KNEE!” I wanted to shout.
Pinned. Fixed. Unable to fly.
Prevented from moving without pain, I locked into his eyes as my blood boiled.

Mileage is tricky for me to talk about. Over 31,000 miles in the past decade was objectively a lot and relatively little. Because it never felt like enough. Not a day passed that I stopped my watch with complete satisfaction because, despite my effort and attention, someone was always running more. The weeks I ran 80, my friends ran 100. The months I covered hundreds, the men I aspired to call my peers had stacked 120. No amount of mileage was ever enough.

The point was the pressure—the gentle, endless effort for more. I think of it as a stance—a slight forward lean, pushing to see how much the coming day may offer. This inclination formed my body into the efficient movement machine it became—and was also what broke it.

I wanted to scream. To release. To exclaim my love for the athletic lifestyle I’ve allowed to define me, that now risks being taken away.

The doctor’s inquiry felt like asking me to accept blame for what I'd done, or worse. Felt like an opening to his possible main point: from now on, I must aspire for less.

Injuries don’t arrive with instructions. They appear like a screeching, shrieking multi-car collision, leaving me to pick apart a heap of tangled emotional steel. My identity as a runner smashed into my aspirations as an athlete, wrapped around the central tool I use to stay sane. What a mess. Which is why I'm left speechless when a friend kindly asks, “How are you?”

I live a blessed life – free from significant trauma. And running is my outward identity to others, but before that, it’s the level I use to balance myself each morning before taking on the world. Without it, I feel robbed of my self-reliance.

There’s no clear way to end an injury essay.

My only certainty is love. My sincere intent to do whatever possible to reunite myself with that sensation of flight. Because I’m frustrated, sad, and angry, but mostly I’m sick and tired of not being exhausted. Sure, I can work out in other ways. Cycling is intense, and swimming is tranquil, but I long for the graceful way a run scrapes me hollow—strips away my excess, and returns me to myself. I lust at the memory of the wind flowing past my face while exploring the world at an easy eight miles per hour.

Addiction is a crude word for a spectrum of obsession. Sure, it's possible to overdo a good thing, but movement has long acted as sustenance for my sanity.

I long for that briefest moment of weightlessness.

Repeated. And again.

I crave that feeling of flight. And I adore how rhythmic leaps afford my life the simplest form of hope.

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Thanks for reading.

I get that injury essays are less fun than stories of triumph and celebration.

I’ve written about achieving dreams. I’ve waxed on and on about how to race the Boston Marathon. But this story is more difficult to tell, cause I’m still in it.

My hope is that nailing down elements of this distressing journey offers some sanity to other injured athletes.

Thanks again,

Peter