By Amie Dahnke
In the truest sense of the word, I am a runner. Sure, I define myself by other terms as well-daughter, girlfriend, student, writer-but if I were an entry in Webster's dictionary, my first definition would be: Amie (noun); 1. Runner.
My parents tell me that I ran almost as soon as I could walk. I can't even say what it is about running that's just so me, because it's such an integral part of who I am.
I know it better than I know my best friends. I love the crunch-crunch of leaves beneath my shoes in the depths of Forest Park.
I love how the crisp, cool fall air dances through my lungs when I inhale.
I love the burning muscles and sense of accomplishment after pushing up a half-mile hill. Running is my sanctuary, the place where I contemplate, pray and thrive.
But running hasn't always been easy. It hasn't always been kind to me. I've been injured more times than I'd like to recount.
The culture of competitive running, with its emphasis on speed and endurance often reflected in emaciated waifish athletes, acted as fertile soil for the development of an eating disorder.
I'm not quite 23 and already I've had two hip surgeries. When it comes to running, I have shed tears and tasted the bitterness of disappointment more often than I have savored success.
Currently, I am 12 weeks past my second hip surgery, which prematurely-and heart breakingly-ended my final cross country season as a University of Portland Pilot. Although I am up and walking like a normal human being, I have to say that my broken heart is healing faster than my broken body, a concept that is still hard to admit.
Even though my body still aches from time to time, my heart and mind have had enough time to recover from disappointment. Because of this, I have decided to put my identity as a runner on hold and, like the injuries that have shortened my seasons, prematurely end my collegiate racing career.
Deciding not to come back for my fifth and final shot at track season was not an easy decision to make. On the surface, my decision seems collected and reasonable:
I need to be able to live normally for a change. I need to be able to go a week without physical therapy and acupuncture appointments. I need to go a day without having my worry-prone mother ask me how intolerable the pain is. I need to be able to sit at a coffee shop for an hour, gabbing with my girlfriends without feeling tightness in my back and hip settle in.
I need to be able to live a normal life for the first time in over a year.
Beneath the surface, however, behind my smiles and my confident nodding that, yes, this is the right and smart decision, I am an absolute mess, and I think that maybe not vying for a final track season is a terrible idea.
For one thing, I've never really been a quitter. I don't like to admit defeat. More importantly, I've never not been a runner for the last 12 of 22 years that my feet have been leaving tracks this earth. In other words, I'm not sure what to do with myself now.
Every time I see a runner on Willamette Boulevard or pass a teammate on campus, the same questions go through my head: What am I supposed to do without running? Who am I if I am not a runner? What does my past as a competitive harrier mean now that I'm giving it up? What does my future as a runner hold?
I feel so much shame, embarrassment and frustration over not being able to finish that in my mind I sometimes hold out hope for track-in case, by freak chance, I am able to compete without doing harm to myself.
But mostly, these days, competitive running is an ash heap for me. Once a pillar in my life, it crumbled silently. Without warning, without swaying or groaning, it just gave way. Now it lay in ruins. And sometimes, I feel ruined too.
But every time these thoughts of doubt, shame, self-pity and frustration set up camp in my mind, I force myself to stare down my doubts and fears. It's then that I realize two things.
First, by choosing to not compete this track season, I am setting myself up for a healthy future.
I'll be able to gallivant off to New York City for graduate school without worrying about needing physical therapy.
I'll be able to have children and run around with them without pain.
More importantly, by placing running on that proverbial backburner, I am allowing for one of my other definitions-student, writer, girlfriend, or daughter-to have a chance to shine as number one. While the thought of being someone who "used to be fast" is down-right frightening, I relish in the prospect of getting to discover what and who else I can really be. I'm giving myself an opportunity to explore other activities and passions that I enjoy.
I get to be a phoenix, rising from the ashes.
I can go hiking, and pick up rock climbing again. I can pull out my scrapbooking materials and finally finish the three pending projects. I can work more in my community, and continue to develop my artistic ability as a photographer.
I can do ... anything.
I guess this decision really is one of those cup half full or half empty situations-and I'm not about to let my cup get empty.
Although running will always be a facet of my life, I think I am finally ready to let something else shine. And when I'm ready to run again, I can always enter into a road race:
Lucky for me, Portland offers some of the best-and I hear there are road races in New York too.
When I am ready to run again, it'll be for me; I may not be hitting the trails of Forest Park with my university teammates, but I will be able to return to my sanctuary, my peace.
?Amie Dahnke is Copy Editor for The Beacon. She can be ?contacted at adahnke@up.edu.
