Injury. Injured. These have proved to be curious words this past week. To the casual observer, I have a limp. And a crutch...and a fracture cast brace boot thing. "What have you done?" is the question. "I'm injured" is my default response. Depending on the audience, this is met with either understanding or derision. In retrospect, I have more empathy with the latter. To the 'common man', meaning someone that lives quite happily without a sport or a hobby that forms part of their very being...normal people...
...the response of 'injury' sounds like I've sustained some kind of heroic life threatening gun shot wound or similar. But I haven't. And they know that. So I simply sound like a bit of a cock. "So you've hurt your foot a bit...you muppet." This is perfectly valid and indeed very accurate. And I do agree. But because I have a sport, something I'm desperate to keep alive, something I need, the term 'injury' expresses something more than a bit of a limp. Injured means I've fucked up.
I've done something, something I regret, something I've sought advice on, something I've investigated and have apportioned a diagnosis, something I have had to have explained to me in a desperate attempt to seek blame, treatment, closure and something that has me focussed on the concept of recovery and when I can get back to my sport. And it's always the case for us runners. We are desperate to have answers. We need to know what, why and when. Yet it matters not a jot. Injured, or indeed simply having hurt my foot a bit...it's all the same.
I can't run. Bugger.
