Wrestling With Rest

They say running is cheaper than therapy...

They say running is cheaper than going to therapy. And by “they”, I mean me and my friends, who joke about it often (…are we joking?).

Recently, though, my physical therapy bills have been adding up. I’ve got a PT office within walking distance of my house that I’ve visited many times over the last year: for my persistent climber’s elbow, my ankle sprain from a clumsy day of trail running last June, my knee overextension from busting through a sun crust backcountry skiing in February, my climber’s elbow again, and my lower back and shin from ski jump impacts (probably).

Just this morning, I went to get my Achilles tendon checked out, which has generated brutal pain whenever I put on ski boots for the past three weeks. It was tendonitis (again).

Once, during one of my climber’s elbow sessions, of the physical therapists took a long look at me while I was being dry needled. I was laid out on a table with eight needles sticking out of my elbow, electronic shocks sending the muscles in my forearm into wild spasms, my face grimacing. Shaking her head, she said to me with exasperation in her voice: “I’d tell you to just rest, but I know you won’t.”

At that, my grimace turned into a laugh. She was right. I probed her about how she knew that our definitions of “active rest” were different, and she remarked how “your type is all the same” regarding rest. Alright then, yeah. Guilty.

If it were possible, I’d never take a rest day. Mentally, I don’t feel like I need down time—in fact, sitting around, if I don’t have a book that I’m into or something that I want to write about, induces stress, and I prefer to read at night anyway. I don’t like watching TV and rarely watch movies. Video games have lost their shine for me. Exercising and doing stuff outside are what make me happy.

Physically, though, I apparently need rest days. Two weeks ago, for a friend’s birthday I went backcountry skiing in Rocky Mountain National Park after sleeping for three hours.

I haven’t felt okay since. I’ve been totally exhausted. Run-down. Cooked.

Old injuries have flared up. I’m tired at work. It doesn’t help that my annual mega camping trip to Moab, M.O.A.B. (Michael’s Outdoor Activities Bonanza) was last weekend, where I went to the desert with ~45 people and skied, climbed, and biked for five days, with a little bit of partying sprinkled in.

A few days ago, I hit a breaking point after a five-mile run that I probably shouldn’t have gone on in the first place. Feeling like garbage, getting a little sick, and with more activity-based obligations coming up, I sent this text as I bailed on dinner plans:

I don’t understand why it’s such a challenge to listen to my body when it’s clearly calling out—oftentimes desperately—for a break. To date, I’ve had to reach a nadir of sickness, or injury, or both before I take the rest I obviously need.

I’m almost 27. I’ve got plenty more years of pushing it hard left in me, but I’ve got to be more deliberate and sustainable about it.

… After this weekend, of course.

I’m getting on a plane now to meet up with some high school and college friends in Austin, TX for a Your Neighbors concert. It promises to be a packed and not-exactly-restful weekend. I’m even planning to link up with friend of the blog

rish

. But after THAT, I promise I’ll rest.

Well, unless…