Run Like a Gazelle - Recollections of an Injured Runner
On a hot morning, I’m running along the pavement at Bronte Beach, the ocean a deep blue to my right. My arms pump, my heart rate climbs, but my breathing holds steady. I glance at my watch – 100 metres to go – and surge. Full flight.
I finish strong. Light. Fast. Untouchable. That feeling – Little did I know then that it would be taken from me.
**
What does it mean to be a runner?
It’s a question I’ve returned to repeatedly, especially when running was no longer something I could do.
Through the different stages of my life – with or without it – running has remained significant.
My first memory was sprinting down the sands of Bronte Beach during Nippers, pumping my arms like “Forest Gump” to take out the weekly 60m race. Lining up as a little girl at school cross country and then Little As marked my transition into junior competitive athletics. At the age of 13, I started training in elite squads across Sydney – sessions, splits, diaries and camps infiltrated my days, and Centennial Parklands and Homebush Athletics Track befitted regular stomping grounds.
In the early 2000s when I was in high school, running wasn’t “cool” – its popularity of today was in pre-birth form. But I came from a family of old school runners. I remember my dad taking my sister and I down to Queens Park in the morning before school. We’d do intervals on a hill. He called them “Cathy Freeman” hills and said they would make us stronger.
Unassumingly, being a runner is experiencing joy, pain, freedom and discipline simultaneously.
**
I’m on a bus to Temora with a group of sprinters. We’re travelling to compete in the Professional NSW Athletics League – handicap races and prize money. It’s early morning, but the bus is already alive.
Dan from the army. Letitia from Fiji. Louise the flight attendant. Rimon the pharmacist. Steve, who works for FedEx.
Music pulses through the speakers as laughter, banter and race-day nerves drift down the aisle. Some athletes talk loudly; others sit quietly, mentally preparing for the day ahead.
After the competition, we’re drinking beers in the stillness of a remote country town – replaying race finishes and imparting life stories.
Somewhere between the long drives, shared warm-ups, training sets and weekends away, this sprint group became far more than just running.
Later, I’m running an 8km threshold at Moore Park. I’m feeling good picking up the pace with every kilometre, and I finish strong. It’s that feeling again. Light. Fast. Untouchable.
Running is the sting of intervals on a grass oval and the summer heat rising from a tartan track. It is grinding up an honest hill, floating over an undulating road or getting lost on a long trail. It is movement, freedom, discipline and an ongoing process of improvement. It is lifestyle and friendship.
**
There wasn’t one run or moment when I first felt the injury. I’d had on-off heel pain for some time, and sprinting and racing in spikes were first to go. I’d been in denial of the pain resisting signs from my body to stop – a reflection of the stubborn athlete. The gradual decline of my left Achilles persisted until one gloomy morning at the park, the pain just got too much. The only solution – to stop running.
My initial reaction was one of hope. “It’ll just be a few days, maybe a week off running and I’ll be back. It’ll be fine”. As the days and weeks passed, this was far from the case. That felt strange, destabilising and like I was facing an unknown. My identity was so closely wrapped up in running. Who was I to be without it?
Since that day in the park, my injury has been chronic, and I’ve been unable to run in the way I always knew. That was tough as it felt like something special was taken from me and replaced with days on end limping around in pain. I had to be mentally strong and creative with my workouts, and avoid excessive concrete, sand or hills. When I took up roles in coaching, the frustration bled even more. Between all the treatment – physios, osteopaths, strength and mobility, podiatrists, shockwave therapy, a moon boot, new orthotics and cortisone injections – nothing seemed to work.
**
Some years later, the routine of Saturday morning Park Run is a distant memory and has been replaced with morning spin classes, pool swims and new endorphins. After my workout, I order a flat white and scroll my social media feed. Instantly I am exposed to photos and updates from jovial runners who have just competed in the SHM Half Marathon. My coffee now cold – my spirits deflated.
Running takes you places and lets you see the world. I have run in the extreme heat and snake swamps of Townsville, on the picturesque tracks of Phillip Island, up the peaks of the Swiss alps, and on Boulder’s rocky trails, Parisian streets and the hot flat roads of Abu Dhabi. Wherever I run, it’s that feeling of striding out – like a gazelle – that endures.
Down at Sydney Harbour on a fresh winters’ morning, the sun is out. Hundreds of runners have lined up to participate in a popular fun run event. I am on the sidelines again watching the race as runners pass me. It doesn’t matter how fast they run because they can run. Seeing friends finish with PBs made me realise how much this injury is holding me back.
**
I’m waiting in the reception of Stadium Sports Medicine Clinic for my consultation with renowned sports physician, Dr Nathan Gibbs. I’m nervous. Nothing has worked on my Achilles so far, how can this be different? “Georgina?”, calls Dr Gibbs as he appears from around the corner. He is warm and dressed well. Instantly I feel comforted. After a chat and with my MRI scans in his view, he gives me a Platelet Rich Plasma injection into my Achilles (he advised against surgery). His relaxed ease reassures me of his technical expertise. That day was a turnaround point. Not a miraculous solution but a new treatment that got me back running again, even if it was limited.
Almost 10 years on, the physical, emotional and financial challenges of my injury have been far-reaching. With all the frustration, identity loss and disappointment, the injury has taught me patience and ultimately, perspective.
Before my injury, I was always chasing improvement. After my injury, I learnt to appreciate simply being able to run.
**
Every May the Diamond League, an annual series of world class track and field competitions, rolls around. Whether I’m able to run or not, it offers me an escape into the wonderful world of athletics – watching the likes of Sydney McLaughlin-Levrone, Asafa Powell and Faith Kipyegon confirms that when done right, running is simply poetry in motion.
These days I’m building back one stride at a time. It’s that first step in the morning that still haunts me – how will my Achilles be? Will I be able to run?
And even on the days when I can, it feels borrowed.
Photo by jack atkinson on Unsplash