An ode to running
I’ve had trouble with my tailbone.
I cannot recall an incident where I injured my coccyx, nor, to the best of my knowledge, am I pregnant, two typical explanations for this kind of issue.
I had an X-ray and went over the results with my GP. He said my tailbone looked okay (the problem seems to be nerve-related). My hips, on the other hand, did not.
I all but stopped running in January. I’d usually head out at least twice a week, but something wasn’t right. Limited in movement and perenially tight through my legs, the physical drawbacks of running had, for the first time, overtaken the mental rewards.
My doctor said I’ve worked through the cartilage in my hips, which have mid-stage osteoarthritis. Bones are now rubbing together and reshaping — not an uncommon problem, particularly for runners, but if left untreated will further restrict movement and cause more pronounced pain. He advised me to pursue low-impact activities, swimming being one, cycling another. Running, he said, would make things worse.
Fortunately, I’d already made peace with cutting back on my favourite exercise, so the news wasn’t as much of a blow as it could have been. To a certain extent, we’re all on the path to osteoarthritis, so it’s far from the biggest deal. And given the steps forward in treatments, who’s to say that my best running days aren’t ahead?
But having accepted that — for the time being at least — I’ll leave the pavements be, I’ve been thinking about what running has given me, its role in my life, and all that I owe it.
***
I had just turned 15 when I started running habitually. The end of the summer break would see us move up an age group in sports and face fitness tests laid on by a notorious coach. Knowing I was in no position to pass any of them, I decided to do something about it, to stave off embarrassment as much as anything else.
I started with a short course around my mum’s village, probably no more than a mile, a mile and a half tops, past an alpaca farm and the grazing cows who shared the undulating terrain. I still remember the anguish of the first run, how the alien route felt like it would never end. I recall, too, the second run, where the previous outing’s muscle tears made themselves known.
But then it started to get easier. My times improved, I ran throughout, I was no longer as tired. I found solace in gradual progress, knowing there were rewards for the hard yards, and became addicted to the mild elation that continued long after I’d finished. Soon enough, I noticed the benefits permeate other aspects of my life: sleep, energy levels, concentration.
Before the summer of 2006, I had never thought I could run a mile without stopping. Such feats were the preserve of my more athletic friends, who found all this stuff bafflingly easy. Through running, I was confounding my expectations of what I could achieve, regardless of how small the milestones may seem. (During the pandemic, I took great joy in watching friends go through the same experience when doing the couch to 5K running plan. Many started as self-doubters, only to grow with confidence after each run).
That’s what I’m most grateful for: running gave me self-belief, an antidote to negative thoughts, a counterpoint to feelings of worthlessness. Even on my worst days, a jog was something I could point to when I felt I had achieved nothing. Running provided structure and clarity, mental armour, and—to a certain extent—an identity.
I’m not a particularly good runner, whatever one is. It’s certainly never been something that’s come naturally. But that’s beside the point; running was an outlet, a passion, a hobby. No one cares how good you are, how far you run, or what you look like doing it.
That’s not to say it’s all been plain sailing. There was the time I fell over while running in front of a freshly moored cruise ship (I could hear the laughs of the watching passengers over the music in my headphones). Or when I made the mistake of wearing a new top for an event in Amsterdam, which grated hungrily through my nipples on a cold and windy day, leaving two symmetrical red streaks of blood (which people incorrectly assumed was part of the shirt design). And that’s not to mention the number of close shaves when stomach upset presented itself miles away from home.
Then there are the minor injuries — runner’s knee, wear and tear, ligament damage — addressed by agonising sports massages. Or training during blizzards (the Beast from the East was a true swine) for whatever silly event I’d drunkenly signed up for with a friend.
Running had become such a habit that I grew irritable after a few days of not doing it. Not only did I fear losing endurance, I simply wasn’t myself if unable to run.
Things changed last winter. I’d always said that I never felt worse physically or mentally after a jog, but that was no longer true. I knew it was doing my body no favours.
I’m lucky to have found an exercise that gave me so much—more than I’ve said here. I hope to find its riches in other forms while I go through some physio and sketch out a plan. But for now, I bid running adieu, grateful for everything it’s given me—even my prematurely arthritic hips.
