a testimonial to good sense
Many years ago, I was the proud owner of a t-shirt with the words “Running is life…the rest is just details” inscribed on the front.
Though even in my hard-core marathon days I had much going on besides lacing up my shoes and hitting the pavement, there was a part of me that took the sentiment to heart.
For most of my adult life, I ran pretty much every day, rain or shine.
I ran in extremes ranging from a blizzard with a chill factor of 24 below to a sauna-like summer afternoon with a 105-degree heat index.
I ran when I was healthy.
I ran when I was sick.
I ran when I was injured.
In fact, I had this crazy notion that if I wasn’t feeling all that great and sat out a day, I’d still feel crummy, but if I took to the streets, no matter how labored my workout was, I at least gave myself a fighting chance to get better.
Though I preached the virtues of patience, good judgment, and listen-to-your-body moderation to the cross country and track athletes I coached, I was incredibly lousy at following my own advice.
Wear and tear and faulty alignment eventually took their toll.
I saw you running. You looked like you were limping, I heard more than once from concerned friends.
No, I always replied, I wasn’t limping. I’m really fine.
But I knew I was limping, and I knew I wasn’t fine.
Finally, when the discomfort began to alarm me, I consulted Dr. Jody Smith, an orthopedic surgeon.Look at your right hip, I recall the ’86 Collegiate graduate saying as we stood before the x-ray. There’s very little cartilage. I don’t think you need a hip replacement right now, and I’m not telling you to stop running because I know you will until you can’t.
Of course, I continued running until the hinge finally gave out, and for the next four years I coached from a bicycle, got my cardio fix on the elliptical machine, and, when asked, always claimed that my worsening gait and slanted posture were the result of stiffness and soreness rather than pain.
This past summer, the meter finally expired.
On June 24, Dr. Anthony Shaia, Collegiate class of ’78 and a total joint replacement specialist, switched out the ugly old arthritic hip with a titanium beauty that, he allowed, should last a good 30 years with proper care.
Proper care.
Interesting concept.
Perhaps for the first time in my life, I’d have to use caution and wisdom when I worked out.
The day I left the hospital, I received a sheet of instructions.
No. 1 was “Walking is your therapy.”
My initial venture through the neighborhood was tentative at best.
With crutches supporting me, I crept 100 meters or so down the street, returned home, and lay down for a long nap.
Soon, though, my strength began to return, and the length and duration of my walks increased.
Before long, I was covering the half-mile to the Mills Godwin High School track, circling it four times in the outside lane, and retracing my steps.
It took forever, it definitely wasn’t pretty, but it was progress.
After three weeks, I graduated to a cane and soon received clearance to walk unaided.
As my confidence grew, I even began to find enjoyment and peace in this therapeutic exercise that I probably considered beneath me back in my fanatical running days.
I should have figured this out earlier.
After all, my father has walked all his life, and he might be the healthiest 94-year-old in the world.
My wife Emily, after running for several years early in our marriage, settled back into a walking regimen long ago and remains quite fit.
And it’s a no-brainer that walking has great cardiovascular value, is relatively easy on the joints, and provides a wonderful outlet for reflective thinking.
So here I am, on the treadmill in Collegiate’s athletic center, scribbling this testimonial to good sense in longhand.
In the aftermath of major surgery, I’m grateful for excellent medical care, renewed health, and much encouragement from family and friends every step of the way.
I’m also grateful for the lessons this lyrical passage in my life has taught me.
Approach each setback as a golden opportunity.
Be thankful for what you can do rather than sweat what you can’t.
Follow your doctor’s instructions, and you’ll recover on schedule.
Never complain, and never, ever resort to self-pity.
OK, so there’re still a few kinks in my right side, especially when I stand after sitting too long in one position.
They disappear quickly as I move about (without limping, thankfully), and I understand from friends who’ve traveled this road before me that eventually they’ll disappear altogether.
The way I see it, I’m nearing the finish line of my latest race.
When I reach it, I’ll blow through it and begin preparing for the next.
And I’ll be smarter this time.
You can trust me on that.
