June 14th, 2014
Never mind the gravel embedded in my kneecap, the Montana beauty was astounding. Ribboning green hills cut into panoramic blue skies. Mid-morning, early summer sun sheened every boulder beautiful. As did my urine. In lunging position, knee on pavement to preserve decency should a runner catch me, I watched a waterfall of auburn-colored urine siphon from my bladder onto the rocks adjacent the road.
I was two and half hours in, seventeen miles deep, and ten minutes off my goal pace at the Governor’s Cup Marathon. For miles, I’d been suffering a slow marathon death by bonk, watching my goal pace slip from my Garmin watch. But after serenity in urination, I got a second wind for the ages. Akin to previously discussed glory, I entered dominion with all things holy, and flew on the wings of Tarahumara, making up those lagging ten minutes across the next four miles while passing dozens of runners. I ran for me. I ran for love. I ran for it.
The high was short-lived but good enough. After two more hellish miles, I crossed the ticker in a personal best three hours and fifty-four minutes, embracing my dad at the finish.
Little did I know it would be my last marathon. Little did I know it would be the last time I’d experience it for nine years. And little did I know that I’d lose running—the most spiritual thing I’d ever lived. Nor did I comprehend the lengths I’d have to go… to get it back.
August 18th, 2014 (Two months later)
Most were nervous on the first morning of medical school. New people. New syllabus. New campus. I was not; I was deal making.
Already, my life’s light was dimming. My well-rehearsed (and loved) morning routine—stretch, coffee, sit outside, read—didn’t resonate with the customary aliveness and excitement. That day, I felt dread alone. And sensed no way out. On the first morning of medical school , at a curious level of conscious and unconscious, I struck a deal:
Ryan, if you go become a doctor, you can keep your soul. It’ll work out, always does.
At the time, it was best deal I had, so I signed the dotted line. And drove to campus, thinking I’d run and bike my way through the damn thing, unscathed.
October 17th, 2015 (1 year later)
The dentists were damn good at flag football, and they had us down a touchdown at half. As our squad of would-be anesthesiologists, pathologists, orthodpedic surgeons, urologists and psychiatrists huddled, scheming plays to slice up their cover two zone, I couldn’t focus. My body hurt too damn bad.
My left hip was gnawing with every flexion, but when still, was tolerable. Yet at stillness, my left hamstring was unraveling. And my right achilles was acting like it was injected with Icy Hot. In this condition, I was a liability; so, I told our team captain (and would-be orthopedic surgeon) I was out for the second half. Would-be psychiatrist out, would-be ophthalmologist in.
I was pissed. Not at being replaced by an ophthalmologist, no, but at not being able to play at all. I was a football player for God’s sake, and I can’t even run! On the subject of running, I hadn’t jogged since the marathon. Every time I tried, the hamstring or hip inflamed. Walking to class had flared the achilles thing two weeks prior. To no avail, my two weeks of rest before this game seemed to make the growing inflammation worse.
So, there I sat, under the shadows of a maple tree, leaves falling upon me, as the would-be physicians roared back to victory over the would-be dentists.
September 16th, 2019 (Five years later)
Yes!!!! I got a no show in clinic. Freedom! For the next twenty minutes.
Having recently reinstalled running in my life, I stood in my office to stretch my quads, hoping to stay loose for a post-work run. I was feeling healthy again. No inflammation, no tendinopathy, as I returned to running in a careful titration over months. A fire of hope, the size of a match flame, lit my heart. I might be close to getting it back.
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Stretch complete, I noticed my mouth was dry. Can’t have that, I thought, planning ahead for the evening’s longer run through my neighborhood’s trail system. So, I exited my office and took a sharp left to the water cooler when something caught in my left hip flexor. Trying to breathe and remain calm, drinking my water, I told myself it was impossible to have pulled a hip flexor while walking. Watching my next patient check-in, I thought, It’s probably one of those weird aches that’ll go away.
It didn’t go away for a year.
Sometime somewhere, 2020 (Six years later)
My wife (then girlfriend) and I are doing yoga. She’s working on earning her teaching certification. I’m working on making it through her practice class, in my apartment, without reinjuring my hip or hamstring. So far, several sun salutations to the better, it’s going well.
Then, in a deep crescent lunge, in that same left hip, I feel the bite, again. Fuckkkkkkk.
My wife, intuitive as ever, asks me, “Your hip again?” I reply yes, blaming her for torquing it too much, for doing too many lunges, for not being considerate. I’m fuming.
“Just so we’re clear, I’m not doing yoga with you again”, she says, rolling up her mat.
True to her word, we didn’t practice together for three years.
September 19th, 2023 (Nine years later)
Small, powerful steps Ryan. Keep landing mid to front foot, I self-chatter until I reach the hilltop. Huh, I feel pretty good. Marking the halfway point of my four-mile loop, I concede to the soul’s will and let loose for the back half, through more hills and rocky trail greenbelts, nailing a negative split as I pause my Garmin at our mailbox. And, as I heave deep breaths, I sense, at last, I am it.
I’ve been running. First in Santa Barbara, every week or two, and now in Asheville, steadily every week. For a calling I once thought dead, that’s more than enough. Oh, and aside from soreness, the legs are holding up. I’m trying to trust my body, listen to its signals, and give it what it needs.
For a long time, I refused to believe my body needed me to be me. But with running’s resurgence as evidence, I, with confidence, believe my body is the best detector of inauthenticity or irresponsibility. Like a garbage disposal, it purrs when free of obstructions, digesting what it may and readying for what’s next. But when you stick a fork in it, it gets noisy. The motor burns out. Things only improve when you take out the fork or install a new disposal.
As I fought to make the most of my soul bargain with medical school, my body paid the price. I tried like hell to fix the injuries too with physical therapy, ice, heat, foam rolls, massage, electrical stimulation, cupping, and dry needling. Stuck between an inauthentic existence (physicianhood) and soul (running, yoga, mountain biking, surfing), my body cracked. It wouldn’t heal
When I sacrificed who I was, I lost what I loved. Running and yoga were parts of my soul, and I couldn’t keep them, as long as I was a physician. My bargain was a bad one, and eventually, I had to walk away from the deal.
Just last weekend, my wife and I did yoga again. And it was awesome. Once, during a crescent lunge, I worried about my hip, old memories resurfacing, but I took a deep breath and remembered that even if I did tweak my hip or hamstring, I know better how to take care of myself, unencumbered and doing what I love.
Because now, I can heal with no forks in the disposal, and with my life, no longer hamstrung.
From eight years of inauthenticity, I learned 32 lessons I’ll never forget. Get the whole list today by joining my weekly newsletter, HERE.
(Photo Caption: Taken in 2015 after an attempt to return in running, where I ran a 15 mile trail race. There, at the finish line with an ironic ‘Stop’ behind me, I can barely smile because I feel a sharp pain (fork) in my right knee. It would be three years before I jogged again.)
