Me and Running

My long, winding, broken - but healing - relationship with running

Early Miles - My first encounter with “good pain” and “bad pain.”

My relationship with running started in 2002. At 30, I was a new mom looking for the best way to squeeze exercise into a busy schedule. I’d always defaulted to cycling, but I knew that jumping on the bike involved a bit more planning and equipment, i.e., more time than just throwing on shoes and running out the front door. Running was the obvious choice, and it also gave a bigger bang for the buck, so to speak.

Like most runners, I became hooked. I longed to get strong enough to run for hours and get lost in my thoughts (or completely out of my mind - lol). I had doubts my body could ever take me there, but I gave it my best shot. I faced the muscle aches and pains, overcame shin splints, and learned about relative perceived effort. I forced myself up hills, conditioning my burning lungs and pounding heart to get to the next level - the one I called "run without dying".

I learned a lot about good and bad pain during those first few years, but I still managed to get slowed down by injury. Two miles from the finish line at the New Haven Road Race 20K, I was introduced to IT band friction pain, which presented itself as a piercing electrical shock between my right hip and knee. I was different than the aches and pains I'd managed before; this was a something-is-wrong kind of pain. After that race, I felt like I would never recover. I went to PT, I stretched and strengthened, but IT band pain lingered for years, limiting my long-distance running dreams.

I returned to the comfort of my bike, dedicating myself to MTB races and big road cycling miles. I pedaled anytime I could and snuck in some short trail runs during the colder and snowy months. Any attempt at a running comeback looked the same: as soon as I tried to push the distance, the ITB pain returned. Over the years, I biked more and more; running was pushed to the back burner.

2020 - My unrequited love with running turns into a serious relationship

By 2020, I’d logged thousands of miles cycling. I led group rides in town and biked all over the country with friends. I didn't completely stop running; I had my fair share of turkey trots, trail 5Ks, and leisurely jogs with friends. Enter Shan, an ultrarunner who, to my delight, equated quality time to hours on our feet. We met while he was in the midst of intense training for a 100-mile race at the Jackpot Ultras, where he not only won outright, but also set a personal record. After that race, he was happy to slow down - we walked and talked for miles together, getting to know each other.

Once the pandemic hit, we had even more time for big miles, including the Great Virtual Race Across Tennessee, an online challenge that consisted of covering 600+ miles in four months. Without realizing it, I was conditioning my legs (and the pesky IT band) to endure long days and big miles. With encouragement from my friends (and Shan agreeing to join me), I signed up for my first ultra, the Bel Monte Endurance Race 50k in Shenandoah National Park. Shan planned to race as well and wait for me at the finish line.

Race weekend arrived, and Shan and I drove to Virginia with our little teardrop trailer to participate in the race. What an amazing experience. I never stopped smiling, even when it hurt. Since the race was out-and-back, Shan and I passed each other a few miles from the turnaround point. In the later miles, when I didn't feel like running anymore, I played mental games: “Run 100 steps before walking again.” Counting to 100 was harder than I expected, but once I broke it down into tens, counted out loud, and used my fingers to keep track of which 10-count I was on, I was able to do it (I think).

The most beautiful part of the experience was that, even as I hung out at the very, very back of the pack, I never once questioned why I thought I could be an ultrarunner. I knew my body could do anything I wanted it to do. The pain was mostly in my head. If I could make it through that mental struggle, I had the physical strength to push my body ten or 100 more steps.

During the post-run recovery high, I was so excited to see that my body could endure those long, quiet miles in the woods.

When pain wins, and I learn grit has limits

After my first ultramarathon, I ran a few more and then set my sights on a 50-miler.

And then I broke my leg. I wiped out water skiing and ended up on crutches, in a cast, with a spiral comminuted tibial fracture. Surgery wasn't needed, so the recovery looked to be somewhat straightforward - or so we thought.

I was on crutches all summer and afraid to go anywhere. It was a long 3 months watching my muscle tone melt into a soft, smooth, wiggly blob. As I started becoming more mobile (being on crutches is hard), there were some bright spots. I drove with mom and Isaac to visit Cooper in Georgia, where we did some sightseeing and Isaac and mom took to the sky on tandem hang-gliding flights. And then I traveled across the country (solo!) to meet Shan and Kelsey at Burning Man. I was making do and making some pretty awesome memories, too. Felt positive and encouraged.

In September, the cast came off, and I used a walking boot through October. At the end of October, they took me out of the boot. I was walking, uncomfortably, as the time in a cast weakened my ankle muscles, but I was able to ride my bike, and it felt great! But then, I woke up Thanksgiving weekend with terrible pain in my right hip. Over the next 6-8 weeks, the pain grew worse. I was unable to stand, move, or walk without crying from the pain.

After months of PT, 2 steroid injections, and numerous doctors' visits, we finally found the culprit - a synovial cyst the size of a jelly bean pressing on the nerve root between my L4/L5 vertebrae. The nerve fired constantly, sending electric shockwaves from my hip to my toes; my muscles spasmed 24/7. Everyday movements - getting out of bed, walking, taking a shower, sitting down, standing up - caused excruciating pain that stopped me in my tracks. The remedy? Surgery. Get in there and take that fucker out.

Before surgery was even on the table, I told Shan. "I wish I could just go back to having a broken leg. That was something I knew I could cope with. With this whole nerve pain situation, it didn’t matter how trained my legs were, how strong my heart and lungs were, or how ready my mind was to fight. It just could not happen. No matter how much I wanted it. From Thanksgiving 2024 until mid-summer 2025, our lives - mine and Shan's - revolved around my struggle.

A few weeks ago, I had surgery to remove the cyst. The pain stopped immediately. It was like magic. I’ve been moving more freely since then, walking without pain, and feeling progress. I’m moving forward cautiously, but for the first time in months, I’m not consumed by that pain.

Recently, I was listening to a running podcast where the host talked about how tough it can be to start running, how it might take weeks, sometimes months, before it stops “totally sucking.” And I thought: I can’t wait for running to suck again.

I can’t wait to get to the point where my lungs complain, or my legs start burning or getting wobbly. I can’t wait for the point where everything feels like it’s breaking down and the only way through is mental fortitude. Because the pain from the cyst wasn’t something I could overcome. Now that it’s behind me (hopefully forever), I’m ready to get back in the ring. And this time, I know exactly which pain I’m chasing and which one I'm dodging.