“The waiting in the hardest part,” sang Tom Petty in his 1981 hit, a song written as he recovered from a hand injury which limited his guitar playing. (Or so I once heard.)
At least Petty got back to the fretboard. My own experience with injury of late has been more along the lines of The Long and Winding Road, most of which has been pedalled.
The result as witnessed a collapse in my mileage, from around 50k a week in 2013 to a pitiful five (10 if I push it) at present.
A programme of physiotherapy, along with exercises, x-rays and shoe inserts, was followed by a medical consultation and, finally, an appointment to an orthopaedic surgeon next month. While I wait on the latter my exercise regime has been confined to static, dull hours on a stationary bike, broken up by long walks (tantilisingly along the same route I run).
The ongoing big toe saga also led me to google ‘how to cope with running injuries’, which brought me in turn to a Runner’s World article documenting five stages of ‘runner’s grief’.
First off, I’m aware that there are bigger problems in the world that a painful toe. But anyone who runs will have encountered one or more of the five stages – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and (the fabled holy grail) acceptance.
In my case the first two, denial and anger, were one and the same, signifiers of a period when I’d continue to run 40 and 50 kilometres and then lose my temper when I could barely walk for three days afterwards. Given that I’m as stubborn as most runners this pattern of jog-wobble-hobble repeated itself for a year.
Then, with the onset of physiotherapy, I shifted into the third stage. I’d trade-off a dull, 45 minutes on the exercise bike for a 5k run. Then it became an hour for 2.5k and a handful of Vitamin I.
Was I depressed at this point? If I was I buried it in sweat and episodes of Deadliest Catch – still my stationary bike show of choice, mainly because the Bering Sea looks like the only place less enjoyable the tedious pedalzone I now set up in our living room.
Then, one afternoon last December I walked into a radiology department at a Dublin hospital and, at long last and by way of my doctor, received a diagnosis. And now I’m awaiting the surgeon’s appointment.
But not so fast (a bit like my 5k times). While I convince myself that I’m at ease with my injury and assure myself that I’ve learned lessons of limitation, ageing and common sense as a result of it, the first question I’ll pleadingly ask the surgeon is “can you help me run 50k a week again?”
To which he’ll likely laugh – and then recommend a stationary bike. Petty was wrong. The waiting’s been easy – the accepting’s the hard part