Posted: October 4, 2004

Athletics: The Endorphinless Runner's Low

From I Run, Therefore I am--Nuts! by Bob Schwartz

I’ve been fairly lucky throughout my running years (knock on the bottle of anti-inflammatories) that I’ve been able to avoid a major injury. You know, the one that turns a suddenly sidelined runner into a foaming Neanderthal because he can’t get his daily dosage of endorphins.

Unfortunately, I recently became part of that contemptible club, with the required entry being one or more consecutive months off from running because of an injury. I wish I had some battle-produced reason like having suffered a stress fracture in my foot after running 180 miles per week for 10 consecutive weeks, or having injured my Achilles tendon on my 74th consecutive 400-meter repeat. That would have gotten a "Whoa, Nellie!" but, alas, my reason gets a "Yo, idiot."

My less-than-awe-invoking excuse was to pull a hamstring playing basketball. I know. What’s a runner doing playing with those weekend warriors who are otherwise known as the gang of anterior-cruciate-ligament-tears-waiting-to-happen?

The truth is that I’ve always played basketball, despite the fact long-distance runners usually can’t jump up to the curb even with a sprinting start. I’m lucky if when I "sky," someone is able to insert a 3 x 5 card under my Air Jordans. I mean the flat way. Not vertical. Just like me. My scouting report would read, Great stamina, no spring.

I’d been able to avoid a basketball-related injury, other than having my shot ferociously blocked and the word Spalding tattooed across my forehead, while my opponent cried out, "Take that, Marathon Boy!"

The problem with being wounded was that I quickly realized I’m not the Joan-Benoit-Samuelson-type of injured runner. She underwent knee surgery shortly before the 1984 Olympic Trials and had a stationary bicycle rolled into her hospital room to maintain her conditioning.

On the other side of the cross-training room, I wheeled the refrigerator into my bedroom, made sure new batteries were in the television remote control, programmed the number of the pizza delivery store into my speed dial, and began to do my best Brian Wilson imitation while I perfected my sulking. It felt like I doubled my weight within the first six hours of the conclusion that a sedentary lifestyle was on my agenda for the next few weeks.

Despite watching all of Leslie Nielsen’s movies, I was able to keep my mental abilities attuned enough to reach some halfway intelligent observations about being on the injured list. Specifically, not being able to run produces Injured Runners Saving Time, wherein days seem to triple in length. This did allow me to watch ESPN’s Running and Racing without having to set my VCR to 1:00 A.M., and those 3:00 A.M. infomercials can actually be interesting when the only other thing on is the gripping account of the history of the American fruit fly on the educational channel.

Also, your laundry is cut in half, but showers don’t feel nearly as rewarding when they’re post-repose as opposed to post-run.

Having recently resumed my running, I’ve discovered a critical piece of information. It’s best to refine your I can run across the street before that car comes internal tracking system. Not being in as great a condition as pre-injury tends to make the cars appear to come toward you a heck of a lot quicker. Discretion is the better part of becoming a hood ornament.

I also discovered that, in addition to the funny bone, there is a funny muscle. Otherwise known as the famous comedic trio of Misters Semitendinosus, Semimembranosus, and Biceps Femoris. The Three Stooges of the fibrous tissue world. These hamstring muscles come with their own warped sense of humor by providing absolutely no pain until I was three miles away from home during my first post-injury run. As I hobbled home, they sent me the not-so-subtle message that one more week of coconut cream candies on the couch would have been a better idea.

As I walked home looking like the poster child for impetuous re-injured runners, I realized my lack of fresh oxygen over the prior month was also producing certain demented delusions. My hallucinogenic state, produced by a lack of exercise, enabled me to believe I was actually hearing a little mocking laughter coming from the back of my left leg. The haranguing snicker of the hamstring that was presently in complete control of every aspect of my life. My theory is that these flights of phantasms were the direct product of a lack of perspiration. Kind of a reverse runner’s high.

Ultimately, I healed and did make it back onto the roads. I realized there’s life post-injury and post-Naked Gun movies. For Leslie Nielsen and me.

Posted with permission from Human Kinetics Publishers, Inc.