Running is brutality and magic

It is an absurd hobby. Running, from nothing, for a fun that isn’t, exactly, fun. The mileages stack up, leading to more obscene distances and a greater minimum I must hit to achieve the same joy I had back at the start. If you’re thinking – Alli, that’s an addictive mindset, you’re not wrong.

I had my first major hiccup in my running routine since I started as a teenager. I finally got the dreaded plantar fasciitis; a dull but prominent ache in my heel that felt the worst in the middle of the night, causing me to hobble when I got up to pee.

I did what many runners do, at first: ignored it. I ran straight through a full month. The pain receded when I was actually on my feet, only to roar back at night. But at some point my self-protective instinct overrode my stubbornly and deeply embedded need to run – my habit, truly – and the unthinkable happened: I stopped running, and took to walking instead.

It is strange finding myself in the category of “injured”. Am I still a runner? What does it mean to be a runner? Can I be other things; what will happen on the other side of not running – that first week, or worse, month – longer?! Am I an “injured runner”? But if I’m not actually actively running, at all, how can I call myself that? Doesn’t it hurt more to identify as “injured runner”, because it’s a reminder of what I can’t currently do? Wouldn’t I prefer to just give up the “runner” identity; try to forge something new – if there even is something new, because what is life on the other end of not having running anymore?

This is how foundational running has been for most of my adult life. Although I chafe at “runner” as an identity, I apparently at some point let it seep pretty deeply into mine. I thought of it as a practice. …an extremely prominent, prioritized, more emotionally than physically necessary practice.

In the wake of realizing I was injured and adapting my activities accordingly, I had to mentally (and physically) reposition myself.

Have you ever fasted for multiple days? I have, at a few different points in my life, and I remember distinctly thinking about how much of my daily energy and focus goes to procuring, preparing, consuming, and cleaning up after food. It costs energy to get energy.

Well, it also costs energy to spend energy: as I transitioned from running into a mix of walking and strength, I realized that while walking took up more volume time-wise, it was much easier on me. Easier to prepare for, implement, and recover from. I could wear whatever clothing I wanted. I could double up by talking on the phone. The music or podcast didn’t always have to be “just right”; I didn’t have to moderate my pace. I wasn’t usually famished after, or hugely sweaty and requiring a shower. I didn’t have to plan my eating around it because my stomach wasn’t jostled up and down while placidly walking around; my brain space while walking could be absorbed in more than simply focusing on endurance and pace, with little flickers of other life things creeping in.

Don’t get me wrong: I missed running terribly. All of the above are part of its bizarre charm and payoff for me, coupled with excellent sleep and moderated mood swings. But I quickly found that I had more energy for other things over the course of my day when so much of my energy wasn’t consumed by running and everything around it.

I wrote more. I painted. I completed more of my daily tasks. The days went by a little more slowly, in a good way. I learned new things: hobbies, books, podcasts. My appetite moderated to something that resembled more that of a normal human, vs a gobbling, Greek yogurt and banana with peanut butter, sweat-sheened, insatiable she-beast.

Thing is, eventually I went to a Physical Therapist, who gave me excellent feedback and structure for resuming running (cautiously) even through my plantar issues. I got the hard-knock lesson I think many 40-somethings learn: this is now my new normal. I’ll heal through the plantar – hopefully. But if I want to continue running, I’m only burning time by waiting for my heel to heal completely. I need to try to balance cautiously, mindfully running with the healing and strengthening process.

So, now, that’s what I’m doing. I’m slowly building back up. I’m out there running again, at a fraction of the volume I was doing before, but my weeks still accommodate the practice. I pay attention to the pain in my heel (which, again, is now part of my new normal), and if it exceeds a certain threshold I’ll need to adapt my activity.

And what am I noticing? Well, straight off the heels – forgive the expression – of my first long run/walk in a long time, I find that from an elemental level I crave the experience again. We ran out in Red Rock NCA in Vegas; a full day and twelve miles. And the little corner of my brain dedicated to the sheer exhaustion, pain, and joy of a tour of that magnitude, on my own two (tired) feet and aching legs, taking in sun, buffeting winds, and gawking at the scenery while contemplatively chewing salty pretzels because my body is under such duress that it barely registers hunger (that will come, fiercely, later) – that part of me is lit up so bright, she wants to do it again. In a way, that’s the only place she wants to be.

It’s dangerous. It’s wonderful. Unhinged, alluring, incredible, mesmerizing and meditative, brutal. It is all these things bundled up into an exquisite presence and stripping down of myself in the world, exposed and yet a part of everything, that draws me back.

Not every run is like this. Not nearly. But the smaller runs add up to these moments. And the moments are so profound and life affirming, that it makes the effort worth it.

At some point I think my body will truly give out, and I’ll have to switch activities. Maybe it’ll be my knees that go. That’s pretty classic. The nice thing about this interlude I have now experienced from running is that I know I’ll be able to adapt and make the switch when I have to.

But I don’t. Not yet. 

Pics from the long run in Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area this past Monday. I highly recommend the Grand Circle loop, which truly is a tour of the area’s diverse topography and vegetation (read: it’s fun, and beautiful). Wes gifted me the miracle food that is a Walking Tamale. And we played around with watercolors after. A 10/10 day, and the nagging voice in the back of my head has carried the echoing refrain of wishing I was back in it this entire week. That, for me, is the dangerous allure of running at this level/volume.