Run Like Hell: The Most Expensive Workout I Ever Had

I cashed a check last week.

A check that supposedly reflected what the past two years of my life were worth.

Two years ago, I was attacked by a dog. I’ve alluded to it in the past, but I've never really written about it. Writing something means reliving it, and I hadn't been particularly interested in doing that until now.

There was also a lawsuit, which is a pretty compelling reason to keep your trap shut.

But now, it's all over.
Except, of course, it really isn't.

You know...money is a weird way to compensate for something money can't buy. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

A few years ago, I got serious about fitness again. (God, I hate the term "fitness journey", so we're not calling it that.)

Instead of counting points or choking down processed diet foods, I ate real food. Instead of running to burn off as many calories as possible, I did it as meditation.

To put it charitably, my life at the time was a lot.

We'd just taken two kids in after their father died from an overdose. There was grief, a shitload of family drama, and a custody battle that became one of the most emotionally and financially taxing experiences of my life.

It dragged on. And on. And fucking on.

Running was where I got away from all of that.

I'd walk one of the kids to school every day (an odyssey in and of itself) before putting in my earbuds and taking off.

For the next few miles, there was nothing and nobody I had to worry about. There were no lawyers or doctors or teachers or family arguments or problems I had to solve.

Just the pavement and the music.

When sweat was pouring off of me, and the wind would catch my hair just right, it felt like I was flying; in reality, I was probably loping at a desperate trot, but my little release valve was working either way.

Until one morning it got cut off.

Not to sound like a Karen, but my city is riddled with irresponsible pet owners.

One morning, I was out running when a dog being walked suddenly lunged from behind with a snarl and sank its teeth deep into my thigh.

I'll never forget how it felt, that awful searing sensation, stumbling onto the grass while "Proud Mary" kept playing in my ears like nothing had just happened.

What made it worse was learning afterward that my experience with this dog wasn't exactly unique.

I ended up at the hospital. Pictures, wound cleaning, shots, the whole undignified production. The punctures and bruising were deep enough that I couldn’t sit comfortably. Walking hurt and forget running.

And yeah, I know how that sounds. A damn dog bite. You heal, you bitch a little, you move on.

Except I'd never been afraid of dogs. I own one, and she's a fairly good-sized girl.

Dogs are just part of the scenery here. I've never had to cross streets to avoid them or jump back when someone came around a corner with one.

Then one bit me.

And the problem with something ‘unthinkable’ actually happening is that your brain can't go back to believing it's unthinkable.

I learned this once before when a stranger followed me for miles in traffic before eventually trying to run me off the road. To this day, if someone stays behind me for more than a couple of turns, I definitely notice.

I don't immediately assume the worst, but let's just say they now have my full attention.

But I have to drive. Nobody has to run outside.  

After the incident, I saw every dog as a potential threat. I would change direction constantly, and every run became about keeping track about what might be coming at me where I wasn't expecting it.

My release valve was gone, so I had to find another outlet.

I tried a treadmill. Which sucks.

If you’re used to the great outdoors and the find yourself relegated to a treadmill, then you get it. I was slogging miles in a basement surrounded by storage boxes and unused furniture (that I have no way to get rid of without my husband noticing).

It’s like replacing a window with a painting of a window and being told it’s basically the same thing.

I tried the track at the gym. It was always packed, and again, the sensory experience sucked. Fluorescent lights, crammed lanes, no fresh air…blech.

None of it gave me what running outside had, and because I couldn't destress in my preferred activity, I developed insomnia.

I was stressed, tired, and pissed that one stupid morning had managed to take something I loved away from me.

Desperate and stubborn, I created a new workaround.

I started running at 4a.m.

The neighborhood was empty and quiet, which meant no people and, more imporantly, no dog walkers. It was just me and the dark and the cold and four miles around the same block, over and over.

I convinced myself this was a new level of badassery. Other people were sleeping while I was out there getting my miles it. Look at me refusing to let anything stop me.

For a while, that actually worked.

Then soon it was winter in Wisconsin, and my fifty-year-old ass is not built for subzero badassery at four in the morning.

Something had to give.

Last year, I surpassed my health goal of losing fifty pounds by age fifty. I lost 63.

And to be honest about how I achieved that, it wasn’t just the miles I walked and ran. For the first time in my life, I understood that staying healthy was mostly a mental game.

Once I started treating exercise like it was something I was doing for myself instead of to myself, everything changed.

Running was a huge part of that. Now, I'm not particularly fast or good at it (Nike is never gonna be calling me, I assure you) but after what happened happened, It felt like I'd lost part of my identity.

I wouldn't admit it though, so I adapted by running in the cold and dark. I ran the same block, around and around, telling myself it was better this way.

I was tougher for it, more disciplined. I was still running, wasn't I? Therefore I was fine.

That's what I told myself right up until I inevitably burned out from it. And even then, my first instinct was to tell myself to get over it and keep going.

Resilience, right? You keep on going.

But the day I just couldn't, I had to admit how much effort I'd been putting into proving I was fine.

Clearly, I wasn't.

And that was harder to accept than the fact I was scared in the first place.

But here I am now. Check cashed, and the settlement…well, settled. Meanwhile, the dog and his owner still walk the same neighborhood streets I do.

Like nothing ever happened; I am supposed to be at peace with this.

I am not at peace with this.

But I'm trying.

Trying to stop believing that anything less than pounding out miles before dawn is failure. I'm even trying to accept that strength training might actually be better for me now.

Some days go better than others. All-or-nothing thinking is hard to let go of when 'moving on' isn't nearly as satisfying as all the motivational crap promised.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go look up something called a "skull crusher" for tomorrow’s workout.

Sounds delightful.

Heather Papovich is the voice behind Unfinished Business. She's seen some things. She'll tell you about them.