You don’t know how much you love doing it, until you can’t do it anymore.
By Lucy Costello
‘What in the name of God is wrong with you?’ My mother’s bemused words weren’t that surprising, seeing as I was doing my best grumpy octogenarian impression; between hobbling around on an injured leg, and doing a considerable amount of complaining due to the aforementioned limb, it’s a wonder I wasn’t stuffed into a rocking chair with a bingo book. Two 5k races into my running career, and I was down. A niggling muscle pain, which I had ignored, had turned into a painful strain, which had rooted itself firmly into my calf muscles, and was showing no signs of budging. In a way, it was my own fault. I shouldn’t have run; palming two Anadin tablets before my last 5k was no substitute for decent rest and relaxation. And I was paying for my stubbornness. My daily runs and trips to the gym had been replaced with ice-packs, chocolate bars, and a hefty dose of complaining. If moaning could have cured injures, I’d had been back into the Nike trainers in no time. I complained my way to heaven and back, made a great show of half-dragging myself into the pharmacist’s to buy a thermal muscle pack, and an even greater escapade hauling myself back onto the sofa with a bowlful of chocolate cereal and a face that would’ve curdled the milk that I’d just poured into it.
‘You never know how much you love doing it, until you can’t do it anymore,’ I ruminated aloud to my mother, probably while wearing a look of sage suffering on my face and rubbing my leg for dramatic effect.
I hated myself for slacking off, but I had convinced myself that it was inevitable. Not only was my calf muscle on strike with no signs of relenting, it was also exam time. Between a painful leg, a bad mood, cramming the entirety of the French Revolution and the Tuisil Ginideach of Irish into my skull, and pure laziness, my motivation to keep fit was disappearing fast. Sure, my leg was sore, and it was better to avoid running on it. But did that mean I couldn’t go to the gym and lift weights or use the exercise bike? Yes, my lazy self whispered. You’re injured. You have to study… Is that a Wispa Bar? *** The horror of the Boston Marathon bombings was fully realised in the facial expression of the young man, slumped in a wheelchair, covered in blood, and with the lower portion of his legs blown to pieces. Staring gobsmacked at the internet site, I convinced myself that the photographs couldn’t be real. The young man’s legs were… gone. All that was left of his calves were two splintered shards of bone, dyed bloody red, protruding downwards from his knees. His arteries were dangling out like pieces of wet string, and had to be held closed by bystanders. I gazed at the image, unable to believe what I was seeing. Because of the actions of two bombers, whose motives at this time still remain unknown, that man’s normal life, at least in any normal sense of the word, is over. More than that, his normal, day-to-day life is over. That young man, Jeff Bauman, who had been waiting at the finish line for his girlfriend to finish the race, should have been celebrating her feat. He should not have been crippled for life by the actions of two selfish men. He should not have been half-conscious and slumped like a broken doll in the wheelchair, as he was transported towards urgent medical attention. Both his legs were amputated from the knee down. The world was in shock, and so was I. I turned off the computer, unable and unwilling to comprehend what I’d just seen. I felt sick to my stomach, not just because of the chaos in Boston and the images of pain and suffering, but also because of how childish I had been regarding my own minor injury. I had spent the whole week complaining about a minor quibble, something that a bit of gentle exercise and plenty of sleep would probably clear up. While I had been bemoaning the travesty of a tiny muscle strain, that young man had lost the entire lower half of his legs and would never walk unassisted again. You never know how much you love doing it, until you can’t do it anymore. I had had no right to use that phrase. I had had no right to complain, no right to bemoan my ‘injury.’ My muscle strain feels like nothing now, as it rightly should, because it is truly nothing compared to what those runners and spectators have been forced to go through. Sure, I might not be able to run the 10km race I was aiming for in May, and that’s disappointing. But those people who died and those people who have been maimed or injured by the actions of two bombers have lost so much more than I have, and that’s not a ‘disappointment’, that’s a tragedy. For several of the injured, running will be nothing more than a memory: a memory of pounding the pavement, of feeling the wind in your hair, the feeling of crossing the finish line. *** So, I have made a decision. Tomorrow, I’m going back to the gym. If I can’t run, then I’m going to cycle. If I can’t cycle, I’m going to walk. If I can’t walk, then by damned I’ll do something. I’m going to do something to get me back to physical fitness, something to take me one step closer to running again, something to loosen up that tight muscle. Because like the rest of the running world, I’ll be running my next race for those who no longer can. With thoughts and prayers to all those affected by the Boston Marathon bombing.
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