What can I get away with?

On trying out a new question.

My feet crunched into packed gravel, carrying me past scraggly oaks and the first buds of spring. I was running, but I was only half on the trail.

The other half of me was stuck in my head.

My friends were chattering away in front of me. I caught snippets of their conversation. But the questions racing through my mind were louder:

Is anything wrong? Am I being dumb? How many steps is too many steps?

***

A few weeks ago, I started to notice that something was off with my left knee.

The first whisper of it hit during yoga. Nothing hurt, but my left side seemed weaker than my right. I felt it again while doing single leg step-ups on a kitchen chair. A distinct difference between left and right. And then, it was tight and a little cranky after a long run.

I wasn’t feeling any pain while running but something wasn’t quite right. So, I went to see my trusty PT and he worked on various things that could be affecting the mobility of my left leg.

It didn’t immediately clear up. But since I was still running completely pain free, I kept logging a pretty standard volume.

Even as things escalated.

One night, I woke myself up crying, “OH FUCK,” from simply straightening my leg beneath the sheets, a move that shot a bolt of pain through my limb. In the morning, I shuffled down the hall with my knee locked, afraid of what might happen when I bent it.

More and more, my knee would stiffen while sitting or sleeping. But then it would loosen up and feel fine, especially when I was running.

So, I kept running, because I didn’t want to stop.

***

We broke through the forest and my friend announced it was time for her to do another 10 minutes of faster running. I knew speed work wasn’t a good idea so I hung back and watched my friends take off.

I was running. But I was stuck in the purgatory of knowing I shouldn’t do too much. And of not knowing where the line was – or how close I was to crossing it.

I kept my eyes on my friends as they raced away. They were a pair of gazelles, darting through the open oak savanna with ease and freedom.

My internal gaze stayed fixed on my knee – hawking my leg for warning signs. Wondering if this run would be the one that ignited alarm bells.

My friends disappeared around a bend. Their legs reaching into the distance.

I watched them with envy. All I wanted was to open my stride and feel free in my body.

***

I got my first running injury when I was training for my first marathon and following every word of Hal Higdon’s training plan like he was my god and it was my bible.

It wasn’t Hal’s fault that I ended up with a stress fracture in my tibia. It was me, who followed him off a cliff instead of paying attention to the warning signs that my body was flaring at me.

When I finally went to see a doctor, I told him, “I’m training for my first marathon,” before he finished walking into the room.

“I have some shin pain I’d like to clear up,” I went on and pointed at my left lower leg.

He pressed on the spot that hurt and I flinched.

“It’s probably a stress fracture,” he said.

I’d never had a stress fracture before but I was pretty sure that no diagnosis with the word “fracture” in it was good news for my marathon plans.

“Okay,” I said through a long exhale. My shin throbbed from the imprint of his thumb.

“But can I still run?”

***

That’s remained my go-to question whenever I’m dealing with something that could sideline me from running.

See also: “When can I run again?” “How much can I do?” “Is (insert alternative activity here) okay?”

I’ve been most interested in how I can stay active through an injury, or expedite my return, and less interested in the cost of that insistence and urgency.

That impulse was once driven by an unhealthy relationship with running. At times, it’s been fueled by how deeply I care about a goal I’m chasing. And these days, it’s most often tethered to all of the life-giving things I get from running – the joy; the release; the exploration of myself, my strength, and wild places; the mind-roaming-soothing-flowing-and-unlocking; the connection – with friends, nature, Dilly.

Running is a big part of how I define a good and fulfilling life and I never want to have it taken away from me.

I understand why I’m attached to it, but it’s hard to look back on some of the things I’ve done to tighten my grip when I’ve felt the threat of losing it.

I’ve limped along on fumes of health. Googled every combination of “injury” + “can I still run?”. Patched parts of myself in tape like a car with a bumper hanging on by a shoelace. Numbed rolled ankles in icy creeks and snow-packed socks.

In a sport that conditions us to push through a lot – and celebrates it, deciding when to push through something and when to ease off can be a murky matter. I’ve ever made calculated decisions about when to keep going that made sense. And I’ve also made some pretty questionable decisions when my guiding force has been –

What can I get away with doing?

***

I slid into my car after my run and drove home, wondering when the inevitable discomfort would settle in. Would it hurt to cover the five steps to the front door? Would my knee stiffen while I was stretched out on the couch with Dilly? Would I yell in the night again when pain shocked me awake?

I knew I was flirting with a bigger problem, but I embraced my pain-free miles as a green light to keep going. My tunnel vision was fixed on the thing that was working as proof that everything was fine. Like celebrating that the lights were still on as a ship sunk into the ocean, salt water streaming through cracked windows.

I went back to my PT and he did another round of manual treatments, working on anything that might be contributing to my angry knee situation – my ribs, hips, ankle, quadricep. It seemed like something was locked up and restricting the movement of my leg. Possibly remnants from a bad fall last summer when I full-throttle superman faceplanted into the trail and battered my rib cage against some poorly situated rocks.

He was hopeful his adjustments would clear it up, but he warned me, “You might need to cut back until it calms down. See how it feels after your next run.”

I ran six miles that night. And it wasn’t the nothing I wanted it to be after getting more work done.

Every step of the run felt fine, but after my body cooled down, I could trigger discomfort when I moved my leg in certain ways.

I texted my PT, “I did feel things after my run.”

He texted back, “Well, we talked about reducing volume. Sounds like it’s time to do that.”

There it was, the permission slip I always want. The: “You can still run some.”

I thought about the idea of running more miles through this injury. Half jogging along the trail and half swimming through the stress of it. Always questioning whether I was doing something that would hurt me or thrust me into a deeper hole.

I didn’t want to stay trapped in the purgatory of restricted movement.

I wanted freedom from the stress and pain and limitations. I wanted to open up my legs and chase my friends with abandon. I wanted to feel like my steps were gifts, not threats.

I didn’t want to get away with more running if the cost was a slower and bumpier path back to good health and the kind of running I love.

I looked at my phone and decided to try out a new question.

I texted back, “Will I help my body heal faster if I just stop running?”

His answer was immediate, “💯.”

---

So, I stopped running. And found that I was uncharacteristically calm and patient with the unwanted rest. I’m sure that patience will be challenged if this stretches on for too long. But for now, I know I’m doing the best thing for my body. And it feels pretty good to sit with that.