Death by Auto-Pilot

The magical day finally came.  It took 10.5 months, which is 40.5 weeks, which is 282 days.  Within those 10.5 months there were two trips to an endocrinologist; two bone density scans; several emotionally exhausting discussions/breakdowns about the future, life, and health; and countless tears.  Point being? It took a long freaking time for the day with the golden halo shimmering above it to arrive! And just what was so special about this day? To be plain: it was the first day that I was allowed to run! I know: you’re probably jumping on the furniture in your excitement; I mean, who doesn’t feel the need to leap and frolic when given the opportunity to run a mile? It’s probably the most exciting thing ever…

Anyway, three weeks ago my coach and I decided I was finally ready to take those first few steps.  My stress fractures had healed; the bone scans showed improvements as well as a trend towards the better. It was now or never, and so after nearly an entire year off, I laced up my trainers, pulled on my favorite pair of spandex, and approached the opening of the indoor track.

The first few steps? I floated. That first mile? Bliss; a pure transport to heaven or some other Utopia.  As my body instinctively curved around the indoor track, a self-created wind combed my hair and my steps fell firm and sure. I felt effortless and natural. “Wow,” I thought, “I didn’t think I’d feel like this.”

The remainder of that week, and the next, in which I bumped my one mile up to two (!), continued in much the same fashion. Each mile was amazing, and I was in my element. Running felt so GOOD, so cleansing. I imagine it’s sort of the way a musician feels the first time he picks up his guitar after a long hiatus; innately comfortable and as though no time lapsed between his first and last songs.  Each note savored, as it resounded through his entire body.  The world stills, and like the musician, I savor each step, each breath, the combination creating its own special melody and cadence that plays in perfect unison.

With those experiences dancing across my mind, I eagerly awaited the arrival of this past Monday. Monday marked week three of my slow and steady comeback (I’m actually aiming to be the tortoise, and NOT the hare for once, during this recovery), and an increase from two to three miles! I know, you’re thinking what I’m thinking; “Three miles?! That’s almost legitimate! I’m nearly back! Holler!”

That entire day I counted down the minutes until my run. Each moment I wasn’t counting I was planning, a favorite activity as we know. Where would I run? Should I try a new loop? Coolidge Corner? The river? You can go nearly ANYWHERE in twenty odd minutes! After an arduous internal debate I opted to run along the river. Ironically I normally despise river runs because: a. the river is one ginormous wind tunnel, b. boring, and c. unnecessarily crowded.  However, I am pleased to report that running along the river during a “comeback run” as opposed to a “training run” is incredibly enjoyable.  The view is fantastic, and the joggers and bikers create a community feeling, while the river creates conjures its tranquil aura.

Sailing out the door I bounded down Commonwealth Avenue, thriving off the energy from the herd of surrounding students, instead of loathing it in my usual fashion. The plan: out for 12 minutes, back in 12 minutes.  Six minutes in I glanced at my watch, sure the turn-around point would be in seconds… umm NOT THE CASE WHATSOEVER!!  As my breaths grew shorter and shorter, eventually turning to gasps, and my legs felt more and more like lead, I began to wish, for the first time in my life, that I could just stop. Suddenly I felt transported to another person’s body, a body foreign to running, and perhaps even the concept of an increased heart rate.

The remainder of the run passed in much the same manner, although it grew particularly worse as I hit the slight grade going back up Comm. Ave. And for the record, it is incredibly embarrassing to admit that as that grade does not even come close to resembling a hill so never laugh in a person’s face if they tell you that, behind closed doors is an entirely different story.

Upon finishing the run I moped my way back to my apartment.  Not angry, not hurt, just sad and confused. The fitness I thought I had seemed, in the words of Shakespeare, “the child of an idle brain,” a manifestation my mind cruelly created. However, as I continued to agonize and lament over the past 24 minutes, a small act of divine intervention occurred. And to change the subject for a moment, I use the words “divine intervention” very loosely, and along the same vein as my belief that everything happens for a reason. I think each situation and event has its purpose, and thus certain things can be taken as signs, which is exactly how I interpreted the next event.

As I perused the various blogs I check fairly regularly (and by that I mean daily, and most of which are baking) I saw, thanks to my nifty RSS feed (!), that professional distance runner Lauren Fleshman had just posted a new entry to her Dyestat blog. I don’t generally read running blogs, but I really enjoy Lauren’s because it’s not only very relatable in that you don’t have to be an Olympian to connect with her stories and advice, all you need is a love for the sport and a desire to compete. Each post she has written contains an aura of perspective and an unusually heightened awareness of the future as well as an appreciation for the present. To her time frames are fluid while to the majority of the distance running community timelines are harder to break than diamonds, which is exactly what that post discussed.  After a year of injuries, setbacks, and the inability to compete in several key races Ms. Fleshman reached a brilliant conclusion: it was time to turn off the auto-pilot and grab hold of the steering wheel, because if not the plane was going to crash.

We train nearly 365 days a year, we plan workouts, we plan races. Then we get injured, and our timeline gets a little tangled, but because plan A foiled, we attempt to make a plan B: the injury plan. Doctors say it GENERALLY takes six to eight weeks for a stress fracture to heal; well most of us interpret that general statement as a law more tightly enforced than current airport security measures rather than a loose guideline.  When I actually stop and think about it I laugh out loud. It seems absurd that I would actually try and hold such a trivial statement to incredibly high and immobile standards, especially considering the extremely individual nature of the human body. But I do. We all do. We try running, we try workouts, and when aches linger and muscles continue to strain we sit down in utter disbelief, and in my case tears, thinking, “The doctor SAID I would be ready!”

No, in actuality the doctor offered me a general timeframe based upon medical school and previous experience, whatever that may be. My body will completely disregard this arbitrary opinion if it needs to.  This is auto-pilot, and this is dangerous. It creates tensions and pressures, extreme elation and depression.

What we need to do is breathe. Just breathe. The human body can heal itself, all it desires is the gift of time. And this is amazing because it is such a simple, easy request, yet we forget it or we ignore it.

Thinking back upon my three runs this week, none of which were anything stellar, and I shrug my shoulders in defiance. It is what it is. This is my journey, and if the destination has yet to be determined, how can I expect to know which turns I will take and which obstacles I will encounter? I can’t, and for peace of mind as well as future successes, I need to learn to turn off the auto-pilot. Days of flawless training will come, but until then I can bask in the simple joy of just being able to run. Thank you Lauren Fleshman for providing the first lantern along the sometimes twisty and dim road of recovery.

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