Originally posted 03.01.2006

Six weeks after I stopped running, five weeks after a bone scan inconclusively revealed a stress fracture in my right tibia, nothing seems to have changed. The physiatrist who diagnosed the break told me to get physical therapy and come back in another six weeks. That I’m not ready to run yet. That if I run the way I used to, I’ll just break myself again.

I have pretty mixed feelings about that. Running stopped being a reward in itself, if it ever was one, some time ago. Really, from the get go, I started running not because I loved to run but because I didn’t like being so woefully non-physical. A stick, not a carrot. It was, probably at some level, a way to gain a tiny bit of respect from my peers. Also, running was what my father did. When I started running, the summer before 8th grade, I would sneak out in the morning before my parents or brother were up because I didn’t want anyone to know I was doing it. It’s possible that I was afraid I would quit and be held accountable for that failure, but mostly I remember a deep adolescent embarrassment over this deliberate attempt to become fit. Throughout childhood I’d been rebelliously reluctant to move. Running changed everything.

The shift from casual runner/hasher to local elite athlete was sort of like the first shift, from bookworm/sloth to active kid. About one-third of my acquaintances know me only as a runner, and as a formidable one. I’m as strongly identified with my running as I am with my hair; the thought of giving up competition is as identity-threatening as the notion of shaving my head. But everything changes, everyone shifts (or they should. Right?). It’s really little more than pride, when you think of it, clinging to the 8-mile average.

But I’ve certainly enjoyed the approval.