Well, That's a Bummer

The lesson of the peroneus longus.

Take 1

I’m writing this in the immediate aftermath of finding out that I tore my peroneus longus tendon in my right ankle. It’s not a career ending injury. The surgery that is required to fix it has a 94% return rate to the level of activity prior to injury. These aren’t silver linings but they are nonetheless better than potential alternatives.

At some point in my life I will look back at the year 2026 my memories of the time will be delivered to me in a quick blast. Think about 2013, what do I remember? High school graduation, first college swim practice, starting long distance with Susie. Years get compressed into highlights and when I look back at 2026, knowing myself, I will probably be able to pull out many positive highlights.

But right now, I am just going to sit in the dumps for a minute. More than race plans and opportunities for travel, I’m just looking at a summer completely devoid of mountains. That fucking sucks. To anyone who doesn’t understand, it won’t sound like much. But truly, a summer without summits, without scrambles, and without the sweet sound of my feet on the dirt as I scamper down a steep Rocky Mountain trail is a shitty summer.

It’s kind of like long distance actually. I’m starting a few months of a long distance relationship with trail running. We needed some time a part. Well, my ankle did at least. Ugh.

After the high of a successful Cocodona this is a pretty steep decline into a nice little low. There’s no point regretting it now, but I don’t think I will be limping 60 miles to a finish line in the future, regardless of how “important” that race might seem in the moment. Sure, if you rewound the clock and put me in Cocodona again rolling into Munds Park with a gimpy glute, I’d make the same decision again. That is how causality works, after all. And in the moment I felt like it needed to happen.

But prior to the race, if an oracle had told me I could either sacrifice Cocodona or freaking Tor des Geants (!!!!!!!!), there wouldn’t even have been a choice to make. Tor is my dream race, it’s in the mountains, it’s beautiful, it’s in Europe, it presumably involves very little douche grade, it plays to my strengths as a runner. Not too many of those descriptors apply to Cocodona.

So yeah, I’m bummed. My summer plans have imploded spectacularly and the instability in my ankle will inevitably be accompanied by a suitable amount of instability in my mind. Cue more meditation, ab/upper body workouts, and some significant dose of annoying Susie, who also works from home.

It’s easy to think about what I should do with all this extra free time I’ll have. I should start writing some memoir style essays I’ve been meaning to pen. I should figure out how to file quarterly taxes. I should read books and improve myself and practice stoicism and try harder to understand quantum mechanics. All of that sounds good. But it is so fucking hard to do any of those supplementary, self-improving things when you don’t feel like yourself.

And that’s what really stings here, is that I’m just looking down the barrel of 3-4 months of not feeling like myself. The demons aren’t just going to shut up on their own. I’m not getting my fix. Acceptance is key so here’s the start of mine. Better start practicing what I preach.

Take 2

It’s been a day since I wrote the first chunk of this article. I actually feel better than I would have expected. I even noticed just a tiny bit of relief when I found out I tore something because I had been sitting around for a week just thinking about all the fitness I was losing before my next race and now, there’s not a next race to be ready for in the immediate future. More notably though, there is a strange numbness about the whole situation that I fear will, at some point, collapse into despair. But who knows, maybe not. I’ve had significant injury setbacks in the past and well, practice makes perfect.

I wasn’t at all eager for more practice facing unexpected adversity. My upcoming documentary titled Forged in Failure wasn’t meant to be aspirational for my future self. But alas, you can’t change the cards you’re dealt. Cliche, cliche, platitude, platitude.

The fact is that I’m going to be fine. As ever, I’m grateful for my support system which includes people like my doctor friend Amber, who minutes after hearing the news about my torn tendon sends me a reassuring message saying, “Looking it up, 94% after surgery have full return to sports activity and no reparations, so that’s good.” That’s good. I’m also able to utilize the knowledge of my excellent physical therapist, Katie, who is making sure I know all the questions to ask when meeting with surgeons and will no doubt help guide me through the recovery process when I am post-op. That’s all before even mentioning the fact that I’m lucky enough to have access to the Steadman Clinic, one of the best hospitals in the world at dealing with a variety of sports injuries. I mean, you step into the lobby and one of the first things you see is a signed Tom Brady jersey. If it’s good enough for that guy…

So there is, objectively, lots and lots for me to be grateful for. I still find myself engaged in spiraling thought cycles where I think about the missing out I will be doing all summer while my friends enjoy their time in the mountains. I don’t begrudge them their fun of course, but there is going to be a lot of diligence on my end attempting to pay less and less attention to the types of fun I am unable to have.

I don’t even really know what my recovery will look like yet, but I’m already trying to plan potential adventures that don’t involve hours on my feet. I’m hopeful gravel biking will be an option. I can tell I’m desperate for some cardio because I’m already planning to start swimming, which is kind of like last resort station for me. Perhaps the most challenging piece of my current mental puzzle so far is the fact that I’m having to deal with all of this while a cloud of pissy moodiness floats around my poor brain that hasn’t been fed its fix of endorphins in a couple weeks. I’m sure some percentage of that negative affect will be dealt with simply by exerting some energy and getting my heart rate up, so I’m eager to get back into a routine with regular exercise.

I know I have a tendency in moments like this toward some gratuitous self-pity. It’s hard not to feel like this is so unfair and that I’m somehow this existential victim of circumstance. Why me? But that’s all bullshit. I’m an ultra runner because it’s what I love to do. I have no misconception when I start a 250 mile race that what I’m doing is somehow risk free. That would be lunacy, I’d be lying to myself. But these two sets of ideas, self-pity and the self-efficacy of being able to choose my path in life, somehow don’t cancel one another out. Recognizing the validity of both doesn’t make the conveyor belt of pity thoughts immediately stop. I wish it did, life would be easier that way.

So in some sense, I’m outside the bounds of logic here and I’m dealing with the intangible and frustrating characteristics of the human psyche. At this point, anyone who has been unfortunate to deal with real depression or anxiety is rolling their eyes, but we all are going to fall into situations like this with the experiences we have and not the ones we don’t.

I am sure my mental state will vacillate throughout this experience. I’m even sure that there will be high points on the long road back to running. When one door closes, another opens. Back to the cliches that ring true for a reason.

I don’t know how to proceed mentally and I feel quite certain there isn’t really a playbook that leads to success here. But I’ll be honest about how I’m feeling moment to moment and I’ll use my Substack to process my thoughts. Hopefully they don’t come across as too whiny (thanks to Susie in advance for letting me know if they do!) and maybe some of what I figure out in the process will be useful to another athlete in a similar situation down the line. Onward and upward.