I’m not one of those athletes who defines herself by the sport she plays. While cross country and track has become an integral part of who I am, a dictionary definition under my name would just as likely mention my lifelong passion for reading and writing; an infinite amount of love for my family and friends; an unironic love for the television show Survivor; and a gift (and curse) for overthinking just about everything.
But even if I don’t define myself by running, it has come to define me in many ways. Since walking onto the Weddington High School cross country team four years ago, I have transformed in a calmer, kinder, more outgoing version of myself. Running gave me a confidence in both mind and body that I never imagined I could have. I laugh more, my posture is better, and I’m not as self-conscious about the way I look.
This sport has also introduced me to some of the kindest, funniest, weirdest people I have ever met. They are the huge extended family I never had: our tan lines and gross toes are our family resemblances. During hard times, I know I can count on them for help just as though I would trust my brothers and parents. However, when those hard times keep me from running, it can be especially difficult.
Because as hard as I’ve worked to keep that sub-definition of “runner” from becoming too big a part of myself, I still feel an emptiness when I can’t run. Even the two-week recovery break between the cross country and track seasons starts to feel too long by the end of it all. At least then, you know when you’ll be back. You know that there is a slow, long run waiting for you at the end of the two-week break.
But right now, I’m injured. Which means that, unlike when track season ends, I don’t know when I’ll be back to running. I have only been injured twice in my life. Once, during my senior year of high school, I broke a bone in the bottom of my foot that then died and needed removal. It took seven months for me to be able to run again, and I had to restart my entire running career. The second time occurred this past May when I developed a cyst on my tailbone that eventually needed surgery. I am still healing. This week marks the end of the fourth month since I’ve been able to train.
The physical pain, I can deal with. It’s the emotional side effects of this injury that bother me the most. I miss runs and showers with my team. I miss complaining about hard workouts and cheering teammates on as they finish that last interval. I miss heading up to Sunday brunch after a 10-mile run, and I miss how good food tastes after an especially hard workout. I miss the strength in my legs, the tan lines on my shoulders, and even the callouses on my feet.
I’m a little more stressed, a little quicker to anger, and a little less energetic.
After two or three months of not being able to run, I have now started to settle into my new routine, and this feels even more wrong. I don’t want to be used to not running. I don’t want to have extra homework time between four and six every afternoon—I want to be running, to be procrastinating in the best kind of way.
Additionally, the questions started to pile up at the beginning of month three. Will I be able to run again? When the heck is that ever going to be? Will I be the same runner? Will I even want to be a runner? Will I want to have to start completely over for the second time in two years? But then I walk down Middle Path and a teammate waves at me, or I sit down at Peirce for dinner and fall back into the random, loud, hilarious conversation of the family I’ve found on top of this hill, and I realize that starting over won’t be as hard this time around.
That, in a way, I never really stopped being a runner.
Image credits: Taylor Hazan