First Race Back
I’ll be honest, in the depths of injury a few months ago, I threw a lot of my running kit away. I didn’t donate it, pop it on Vinted or just leave it where it was until I was ready. No, I actually threw it away.
It was, if I’m being kind to myself, a moment of frustration, but if I’m being truthful, it was a full-blown tantrum. The kind of tantrum where you stamp your feet because you can’t get what you want. In my case, an ankle that couldn’t weight bare, which was quite important when your livelihood and sanity depended upon it.
At 36 years old, I wouldn’t have thought too much about it, just the quiet assumption that injury is par for the course. At 46 years old, there would be the assumption I’d bounce back. But at 56 years old, there was something unexpected, a quieter, more cultural whisper of “maybe this is where you stop”.
It didn’t just feel physical, it felt symbolic. I’d watched other women do it, as though there was an unspoken script that I was meant to follow, one where women of a “certain age” quietly hang up their trainers and sensibly donate their running kit.
And yet, here I was at the start line of the Harrogate 10km, in my new running kit, surrounded by the familiar language of runners, the pumped up, slightly tinny music crackling through the tannoy, the exaggerated warm-up strides and the nervous GPS watch checking. As my daughter stood beside me, complaining about the lack of toilets and the length of the queue with only ten minutes to go, I thought to myself….
Isn’t it funny, the things that we miss?
The race was 2 laps of steady climbs, lots of mud, heavy breathing, crisp air and sunshine. It’s been 2 months to the day since I started my return to running, and 4 months since I broke my ankle. I certainly hadn’t trained for any glory, just being part of a race was enough; there’s only so many deferrals an injured runner can take.
Of course, I set off too fast, and of course I hadn’t eaten enough breakfast, but half way round the course, as the hills began to bite and I quietly chastised myself, another familiar reminder, an internal instinct saying “you need to get back to the trails and back to the hills”. And then the realisation that there would be a next time. There would be training this week, there would be things to work, on adjustments to be be made. And next time, I’d eat more breakfast.
It feel good to be back.
