Two years ago, I slipped in a puddle on my bike and wrecked my ankle. There were many complications. Four surgeries later and I now have two pieces of titantium and a little slip of ultra-high molecular weight polyethelene (very strong plastic) where my ankle joint used to be.
I can never run again. Technically, at some point when I'm recovered enough from my last surgery, it should be possible. My surgeon said, "if you need to catch a flight or dodge traffic, sure". But I can't ever go out and run miles. It will just wear out the implant too quickly. The plastic can literally crack.
When I was recovering from surgery #3, my physical therapist told me to start walking regularly and keep track of distance. The first time I did, I opened Strava. All of my old runs popped up. I realized with a shock that I could scroll down and see not just the longest run I ever did, but the longest I ever will do.
I have dreams sometimes where I'm running, gliding across the ground effortlessly and painlessly. Usually, at some point I remember, "wait, you're not able to run anymore, you must be dreaming", and that tends to wake me up.
When I drive around the city, sometimes I pass places that used to be on my regular running routes. I remember what it felt like in my body to pound my way down that sidewalk, over that bridge. At first, these moments felt like a stab in my heart. Like a little part of my soul was being ripped out. Over time, that sharp stab faded to an ache, and then something more bittersweet. I lament that running is no longer part of my future, but I am at least grateful that I did run for a while. That chapter of my life is in the past, but at least I wrote the chapter.
For a long while, I was afraid I had lost much more than just running. But it seems like maybe the chronic pain is better and I will at least be able to walk and hike and dance without debilitating pain. But the running is over.
Losing a capability like this feels sort of like a fraction of death. Like a slice of my personhood has been amputated. It's made me realize that for most of us, the final chapters of our story aren't going full bore until the last page. Instead, aging means incrementally giving up more and more ability to do things, and accepting that more and more of our story is written and less and less is left to write.
It's still a struggle to accept that with any level of grace. I get where the author is coming from.
My biggest regret though is that I may never manage to play more than a few minutes of soccer at a time again. I got back to Latin America in early adolescence having missed some crucial soccer years. I was soon a couple of years younger than everyone else in my grade, and P.E. classes were not very fun, it was hard to compete and I rarely got to participate in real action on the soccer or rugby field. In my late teens I started to actually develop some soccer sense and got a bit better. But student/teacher political strikes during the dying years of a dictatorship and upcoming return of my family to the USA brought me to the USA for studies, and I didn't play much in college.
After a few years in SF Bay Area I started playing pickup soccer and eventually got to play quite well , especially during a particular two year stretch. Then marriage, busy jobs, having a kid meant I laid off the regular soccer for a while.
And now, with a bit more extra time I could maybe spend playing I no longer can. I've never been on a team, never been a specialist at a position, never trained regularly. The doctor said maybe with physical therapy and pain killers I could do it. I'll work toward that.