Making Friends With Pain

I declared upon getting hit by a car that I would be running again by October. There has been progress in my ankle’s healing, but unfortunately any significant step forward has been followed by another step backward. I will not be running today, which means that I will not be running before October hits, and even November is looking less feasible.

I think of a quote I read recently, which can be paraphrased as “Make friends with pain and you will never be lonely” (a quote by one of the Leadville 100 Ultramarathon creators I believe). My time as a 36-year-old has been unique, as every step taken has involved pain. Pain and I have acquired something of a loyal relationship—pain just can’t leave me alone, the needy bastard—though I can’t say we mutually appreciate each other. The injury reminds me of an annoying yap dog that follows you everywhere and constantly shits on your favorite rug.

It is easy for me to think to myself, “How the mighty have fallen.” Three years ago I was climbing Eagle’s Nest hill in Vladivostok, Russia, and absorbing the breathtaking coastal panorama and the old naval bases spread over it. A year ago I was swimming with sharks in the Bahamas. Now I am staggering around my apartment building (albeit there have been good and bad hours) before an early morning virtual meeting. I have appreciation for the athletes with ACL tears who must inevitably wonder whether they will ever be the same again.

At the same time, I feel the need to make changes. I know that deep down I have the power to make them, but it will require me to leave my comfort zone, which I am now deeply entrenched in. I wonder, if I can re-learn to walk and run, can I also re-learn to think?

I look around my home and aside from my possessions that assist my hobbies of cycling and running, I see no meaning in any of them. I look outside at the brick walls of an abandoned downtown building and think that, to quote Pink Floyd, I am just another brick in the wall.

When I glance at my plush memory foam mattress, which was bought to provide the best possible sleep comfort, I now only see a heap of polyurethane, a carcinogenic substance used in all memory foam. We breathe in its toxin in our cushion-covered slumber each night. We literally kill ourselves with comfort. And I suddenly despise it.

In the rug beneath my sofa I see a heap of toxic dyes and synthetic materials with chemical adhesives. We put our feet on these plastic rugs... and whatever we touch, we inevitably absorb.

In my attempt to present grandeur to the world, I have poisoned myself.

To end on an optimistic note, it is not too late to change. The ankle injury can be leverage for a sort of rediscovery of myself.

But I have to put aside the need to impress others, as that is the core of my lie.