I've been injured before. I've broken bones, sprained ankles, separated a shoulder. Spent time in the emergency room. Been woken up by the agony of a blood clot. Have blank spaces in my memory from concussions. I've always healed up and gone on my merry way. Always back to running and riding as soon as possible. But this time... I hesitate.
No one can see all those old injuries. Sure, I can predict rain like an arthritic grandma, but you wouldn't know it to look at me. This time, you can see it. I see it—every day. My hand's grip isn't as strong; I drop things. My handwriting can be a little shaky. My upper lip is slightly askew. It's hard to whistle or rub my lips together. My nose runs—and I don't notice because I can't feel it. My front teeth are removable and made of resin.
I am not permanently disabled or horribly disfigured. And I'm incredibly thankful for that.
But the hardest part is not feeling at home on trail, being scared of what might happen. I look at my face, flex my hand, and think I can't go through that again.
I am running and riding. But it can be frightening, annoying, humbling, frustrating. My body is ready, but... "what if [insert melodramatic trauma] happens?" I can't easily shrug that off yet.
There are moments of joy and exhilaration. I'm venturing further afield to run more challenging trails. This week was the first time I raced home to squeeze a ride in—and enjoyed every pedal stroke. I even bunny hopped some roots for fun. I took my first post-accident wipeout and admired my beautiful bruise.
No speedy downhills or rocky singletrack anytime soon, but I'm getting there. I'm recovering.
