Running on a bum knee

I’ve loved running for much of my life. Since I was 19 and took up my first two mile jog (thanks to my now father-in-law Jeff) I’ve been hooked. Before that I’d dealt with lung issues as a child and felt winded with any short sprints. Jeff taught me to go slower, go at a pace where I could still hold a conversation, and work my way up in mileage.

I love running, but it’s not always been easy. I ran my first half marathon shortly before turning 20 and felt like I could do anything. I was invincible. I ran on and off for a few years without any specific goal and enjoyed it. Then I developed an issue with my knee in my mid twenties. After 45-60 of running I’d have to limp. If I went out too far I’d hobble home.

It was discouraging. I’d found this thing I loved, enjoyed every moment of, and felt crippled. Part of it, I suspected, was due to my pronation and poor posture. But I also took risks with shoes, trying fancy zero drop shoes with no padding, a fad at the time. Barefoot running seemed like the end goal, a perfect utopia for runners. All those things combined to effectively turn an enjoyment into a pain that just stopped me. I tried to pick it up again and again, but the hurtle of limping thirty minutes into a run was incredibly discouraging.

At 26 I threw caution to the wind on a New Year’s resolution (actually started in December) and signed up for my first marathon in May. I downloaded Hal Higdon’s beginner’s marathon plan, designed my own calendar with a simplified plan that told me which days to rest, and what mileage to put in on the rest of the days. That was it.

I was nearly six months out from the marathon, so I just started putting in the mileage. Two miles, three miles, four miles. I built up as slowly as I could with the time available, pushing the distances little by little.

The limp returned.

I tried everything. Different shoes, far too much ibuprofen, knee braces and sleeves, walking between runs, and even anti-inflamatory supplements.

Somehow, a combination of all that worked, and the mileage continued to tick upward. I took my iPhone, a pair of EarPods (no bluetooth at the time), an arm holster for my phone, and got out on the road day after day. Over a decade later I can still vaguely remember what I was listening to on different streets through town. By the time I was done I’d run on nearly every street and road in a five mile radius. I really got to know the town.

All told my practice included almost 500 miles of running. I wore down my shoes and had to get another pair.

Then race day came. My son had been born 10 days earlier so obviously sleep and practice had taken a bit of a hit. I also had some issues with my stomach and nerves.

I was so unsure of my speed and ability that I started dead last in the marathon, intentionally picking a pace I thought I could maintain.

The day went from cold to warm, the crowds cheered us on and I ran. My knee acted up, I had to stop at every outhouse on the route because of stomach issues. But I kept running. My brother, ever my cheerleader, jumped out of the car and ran the last ten miles in flat shoes and jeans, pushing me forward through my pain.

I finished 30 minutes before the cutoff time. It was the greatest physical accomplishment I’d achieved up that point and I felt it. I let the emotions wash over me. I’d done it.

The next year I ran another marathon and shaved an hour off my time. It felt incredible. All of my tools were in place to keep the bad knee at bay, but it took a lot. The two years of effort wore on me, and I hadn’t kept myself in shape between training.

My running tapered off. I had the occasional jog here and there, but I didn’t have some great goal to work toward. Much of my time over the next few years was sedentary. I worked at a desk all day, then hung out with the family in the evenings. A short run or walk up a hill winded me.

I tried to run just 10 minutes a day, but even that was hard to keep up. I didn’t find any purpose in it.

A few years ago something clicked in my brain and I threw away all the goals and measurements and methods I’d had before which helped pump me up to get out the door. Instead I ran for the joy of it.

After sitting at a desk all day my brain felt like it needed a way to get energy out, running became the reward, the treat, the joy. It was less about health (though that’s important), not about goals and planning toward large events (though I’m not opposed to it), but simply running to be, to exist, as part of me.

And the running hasn’t been what might be categorized as running by others. Instead I walk where needed, go fast if I feel it, but mostly just go slow. I keep at a pace where I could talk, listen to podcasts, music, and books, and use the time for myself.

I generally keep it below an hour, to keep the knee demon at bay, but I focus less on what I can’t do and more on the fact that I’m able to spend time out in nature a little bit every week, able to move my body through the forest and watch the changing seasons. The beauty of all that outweighs the negatives.

I could train toward a marathon again. Last summer I ran a half-marathon with my friend in Austin . The humidity was so bad that we had to jump into the river multiple times to cool down. I also had to limp at times, stop for stretches, and baby my knee along the way. I even took a call for a meeting half way through. But I managed to finish and felt great.

So, events are possible. I can pull them off when I pull all my tricks out. But they’re not why I run, they’re not the reason. They’re a tiny bonus.

I run because it helps me feel alive, brings joy to my life, and makes the world seem both a little smaller and bigger at once.

My bum knee is still there, but maybe it’s helped build resilience and meaning in a way I can now start to appreciate.

I hope to run till 80.