Imiss my old friend. When the hip pain brought on by synovitis (inflammation of the lining of the joint) became too much to bear, literally, I did as the orthopedic doctor advised and stopped running.

It was not a decision I reached in an instant. I couldn’t go cold turkey on something I had pursued so steadfastly for so many years. In fact, I initially refused to accept the verdict and hobbled on, managing the pain in both hips as best I could. The discomfort worsened so I shortened my distances. I avoided asphalt, seeking wooded areas with a more forgiving surface underfoot. Glucosamine pills became a diet staple. I got new shoes and tried running only on alternate days. I searched for anything that would allow me to get the three- to five-mile fix I craved and had become so deeply accustomed to.

But sadly, it was over. I was 44 years old when I finally gave in, putting my shoes in the back of the closet for good. It had gotten to the point where, after a short run, I limped when I walked. The persistent ache exceeded any pleasure gained. It was therefore with extreme regret that I acceded to the reality of having to find another, perhaps osseously gentler, sport. Saying a reluctant good-bye to my old confrere, I went out and bought a pretty decent bicycle.

Let me be clear on this. I did not run myself into submission because I logged too many 100-mile training weeks. An elite runner I never was, a tad better than the average Joe, maybe (38:38 10K/3:43 marathon), but never even on the fringe of what the top guns turned in. Most of the distance running I did would be considered casual. I raced 30 to 40 times total. I never ran more than 60 miles in any week even when I trained for a marathon. I think my hips gave out more due to unfortunate genetic predisposition than to any case of high mileage.

I ran for a profoundly simple and selfish reason: it felt good to do so, and on any day this was a worthwhile pursuit. Running was a pick-me-up on down days, and on bright days it could enhance my position. Putting in a few miles each day

© Susan Paling

became a celebratory habit—never growing old or routine—a need I had to satisfy to feel balanced and whole. I was 18 when I caught on to it. Back then aerobic exercise was sweeping the nation, Dr. Kenneth Cooper’s 12-minute run was the acid test, and it seemed like everyone was out to find their inner Bill Rodgers. Following the masses, I bought my first pair of real running shoes and started to have at it. Two miles and then three soon became five. Occasional 10K races gave me a sense for the thrill of the hunt. And although I found I couldn’t run an entire marathon without walking some, finish the otherworldly distance I did, not once but three times. I had become, by god, a marathon man.

Running helped me find my way through a failed relationship. Depressed, the elixir of serotonin and norepinephrine released during mileage gave me the lever I needed to pry away the hopelessness. It was better than any medical prescription. It gave a daily purpose to each day when I desperately needed such and yielded a degree of curative gratification.

I ran through a faculty rank promotion I did not get, numerous writer’s blocks, and 18 percent mortgage rates. While the activity was not a cure-all per se, it did give me the needed panache to face down most obstacles. I learned that if you hung in there in a difficult situation, you would eventually get where you needed to be—just like completing a tough, long run.

▲ Whether running the Boston Marathon in years gone by (left) or cycling the back roads of New England today, the goal remains the same: a daily dose of physical challenge.

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I ran six days per week, on average, for 26 years. I ran to foster not only physical endurance but endurance of will as well. My running helped me build a house, raise three kids, and succeed in my profession. Running gave me a sense that any large or small task could be accomplished. Running made me a better husband, too, more relaxed and fun to be around, a committed partner for the duration. My wife ran, too, along woodsy trails and long stretches of road, and we enjoyed this among the list of common bonds.

My friend running gave me all of these things, and I regret having to turn away from him. I bike ride religiously now, but honestly, 10 in the saddle feels less satisfying than three on 10 toes. I get to see more scenery, I suppose. But in terms of endorphin release it’s clearly second fiddle.

When I think about running now, I imagine myself humming along, deep within the steady state that would kick in after the first mile: cruise control, babeee, the feeling that you could go on forever. The motion of running, so natural to us bipeds, made me feel strong and able and just plain glad to be in the human race.

Yet even in my mournful nonrunning state, I have found there are rewards still to be reaped from the distances I covered. As life’s exigencies have arisen, spinning in unexpectedly like dreaded curveballs thrown to a batter at home plate, I’ve had to adapt: slow down, speed up, make modifications, sometimes even change the most elaborate plan on a moment’s notice. Like the cold rain that pelts down when you are still miles from home, the hill that appears at the worst possible time, the depleted feeling that threatens to drop you short of the finish, you find a way and deal with things.

But sometimes you hit the wall. Sometimes you just can’t go any further. When every possible resource is gone, every alternative used up, you just have to learn to let go. So good-bye, my good friend running. Adieu. I’ve got to go for a bike ride.