Content Warnings: a mention of needles used in infusion therapy and blood related a non-violent injury
Run like water.
That’s what I tell myself as I’m swept along in the crowd. It’s a piece of advice that has stuck with me in my eight years of running—the idea of flowing with the terrain instead of fighting against it. I keep my footsteps light and shoulders loose, holding my place in this frenzied flood of runners.
I’m racing at Canyons, a trail running festival in Auburn, California. Set in the Sierra Nevada foothills, the town is called the “endurance capital of the world.” I’m in the 25K, which is the shortest event of the weekend. It’s a “fun run” in Auburn terms, but for me, it’s my first big destination race.
The course plunges into the first descent, and the paved roads give way to soft, earthen trails. My cadence is swift and smooth, like a stream trickling downhill. Far below, the river is a smudge of cold, foaming blue carving through the cliffs. Never mind that it’s forty degrees and drizzling. This month, I celebrate one year of treatment for Crohn’s disease, and a little rain is nothing compared to the joy of finally running in this wild, beautiful place.
I never realized how much running mattered to me until the day I was diagnosed. I spent months—in retrospect, years—dealing with an upset stomach that I blamed on anxiety. The wicked cramps in my belly were really my immune system attacking my own body. Even before the test results came back, all signs pointed to Crohn’s. Yet, I still flinched when the doctor told me I had “erosion of the colon.” Erosion: gradually wearing away, deteriorating into dust. It had never crossed my mind that my body could crumble away on itself, especially not at twenty-six years old.
The nurse asked if I had any questions. There were so many logical things I should have asked, like whether I needed surgery or what kinds of medications I would take or what foods I should avoid. But the first fear that popped into my mind was whether I’d still be able to run. Not just jogging on the weekends but going far and fast. It felt too petty to ask, but my worries grasped at something much deeper. The real question was, would this disease take away my joy? Running let me get dirty, push my body, and ignite my competitive spirit in a way that most women don’t get to enjoy beyond grade school. Putting on my sneakers was an act of power, and I couldn’t bear to give that up. But then, my fifteen-minute time slot was over, and the nurse sent me on my way with my new lifelong illness and a prescription for prednisone.
At the bottom of the canyon, I cross a bridge that arches over the river. Down here, the water looks much more fierce with whitewater frothing from the spring snowmelt. The trail weaves up a cliff on the other side, and the dirt path turns to jagged slabs of rock. This is the toughest climb of the race– about a thousand feet up with no breaks. My body feels feverish between the cold mist and my sticky, plastic raincoat. I hike with my head down, focusing on my feet, so I don’t have to see the long climb that’s waiting. My flow state ebbs to detachment, a skill I’ve learned as both a runner and a patient. Instead of concentrating on the task at hand, it’s easier to think about anything but the discomfort.
Early in my diagnosis, I drove to the hospital every month for infusion therapy. The infusion unit was just past telemetry on a floor where no one was violently sick. Just quietly sick. I asked my mother to come with me for the first time. She sat across from me, smiling and chatting about the weather and her dog and just about anything to distract me as the nurse struggled with the IV. She finally found a decent vein and started the drip, but the idea of something under my skin made me squirmy. Mom and I started talking about weekend plans, but within ten minutes, little dots began dancing in front of my eyes. I stopped mid-sentence. Was I…?
“I’m gonna faint,” I blurted out, grasping blindly for the call button. “Get a nurse!” I felt like I was shouting over my ringing ears.
The nurse rushed in and reclined my chair before I fully passed out. My brain grew less fuzzy, and I felt my face flush, probably more from embarrassment than the lightheadedness. Would I even get through this first round of medication? Remission seemed impossible if I couldn’t even stomach a needle.
“It’s okay. We’ll just slow the drip down,” the nurse explained. “Now, how about we order you some lunch?”
From that day forward, the nurses would always fuss over me with extra pillows and snacks. I actually started looking forward to infusion day. After months of doctors appointments and endless decisions, it was a relief to simply rest and allow someone to care for me. During my last loading dose, they explained how to do my own self-injections at home. Somehow, doing it myself felt less daunting than getting the IV, like I still had some sort of control over my body.
Finally, I reach the crest of the hill, and the hardest climb is behind me. I cross through meadows where the trail unfurls like a golden ribbon through knee-high grass. An aid station waits at mile eight, and I stop to grab a few slices of watermelon. Sports drinks or gels would give me more energy, but fruit is the only thing that won’t make me sick. As I stand there in the rain, trying to eat as much watermelon as possible, it hits me that I’m soaking wet, I’m cold and crampy, and I am barely halfway done with this race. My legs grow heavier, and my skin prickles with goosebumps. I know I have to keep moving and stay warm, yet it takes every ounce of resolve to jog back onto the trail and keep going.
The course cuts into the forest, and I let my thoughts wander beyond my discomfort. As the trees close in around me, it almost reminds me of the trails in Pennsylvania. Back home, runners affectionately call our state Rocksylvania because the terrain is so rough. I’ve raced on trails that look more like a streambed than a legitimate path. There’s a name for the trails out West too; it’s called California carpet because it’s so smooth.
At least, it’s supposed to be smooth. As my mind drifts, my toe catches on a rock. My right hand and right knee jut out to catch myself, but it’s too late. I land flat on my stomach in the mud.
I haven’t even registered what happened when a young man crouches down next to me. “Are you okay?” he asks.
Am I? How did I even get down here? Wasn’t I holding a water bottle? Wait, it’s over in those weeds.
“I…I guess,” I stammer.
We’re both in the middle of a race and don’t have time for guessing. He grabs my arm and yanks me to my feet before I even have time to feel sorry for myself. I mutter an embarrassed thank you, and he takes off down the trail. The entire incident lasts maybe fifteen seconds, but it’s enough to turn my entire race upside down. The front of my raincoat is streaked with mud, and my knee is battered and caked in dirt. My hand throbs, and blood wells up from a cut at the base my palm. A piece of ghostly pale skin hangs like a limp little flag. My stomach churns. Best to not look at it.
I’ve been surrounded by other runners throughout the whole race, but no one passes me as I take a moment to recover. It’s almost serene, as if someone has paused the race while I figure out what to do. I weigh my options in the quiet, cold woods. This is the most remote part of the course, the furthest from any other trails or access roads. There’s nowhere to find help or drop out, even if I wanted to. The thought of quitting after all these miles makes me ache more than the physical pain. Besides, I tell myself, you did not fly here to quit over a cut hand and a skinned knee.
I slowly work my way down through the forest. My knee loosens up, but my hand stings so deeply, it almost takes my breath away. The trail finally spits me out by the river again, where volunteers linger at an aid station. They startle when I duck under the tent, but there’s one man who doesn’t flinch at all the blood and mud. He’s in his fifties and is not much taller than me. He peers at my injuries through wire-rimmed glasses.
“Ouch! Poor knee!” he remarks, calm and unhurried.
“I fell a while back,” I explain. “But my hand is killing me. I think there’s some gravel in it.”
“Here, let’s rinse it out.” He leads me to the water jugs and holds the spigot while I gingerly rub away the grit. “That’s how you know you’re the real deal.” He nods at the cut. “True runners always leave a little blood on the trail.”
I muster a laugh. If he can crack a joke, maybe it’s not as serious as I thought. I just need someone to brush me off and tell me I’m okay, like a little kid who fell on the playground. He hands me a wad of baby wipes to take on the road, and my spirit lifts. I only have three more miles to go. I leave the aid station and head up the trail re-energized, albeit a little slower.
The adrenaline carries me until the last mile, where the course veers up a steep hill before dropping back into town. There’s simply no way to flow with the land anymore. As I stagger up the hill, I wonder if I’m actually making progress or if I’m sliding backward with every step. My wobbly legs feel like they could slide out from under me and send me trickling back down the canyon walls. Any dreams of a triumphant finish or a fast time are long behind me. This is purely physical, just myself and my body fighting to reach the top. Exhausted, I reach the tipping point where the course dips away from the canyon and whisks me down toward the city.
In the photos from the finish line, my hands are raised, and a shy, grateful smile lights up my face. I’m looking down, watching my feet hit the timing mat. Exhilaration glimmers in my eyes, but I know it’s not from finishing. Finishes always feel anticlimactic, like the end of a party when it’s finally time to clean up and go home. You train for months, collect your participation medal, and then move on to the next race. But this time, the real thrill comes from the story and scars that I’ll take home.
After that day, I will wait five more months to finally hear that I’ve reached remission from Crohn’s disease. In the meantime, I’ll post my sweaty, gross photos on social media to show everyone how cool I am. I’ll tell my friends and family about the race until they are sick of hearing about it. I’ll look back at Canyons and tell myself, If I could get through that, I can do anything.
I will let my pain drift away in the current.
Notes From the Judge
I think I was really drawn to this piece as a runner myself firstly, but also, this piece was unlike any of the other pieces I received. It was executed very well, and I particularly loved how Jill weaved in flashbacks of her medical experience to the present moment of her running in a race. Running in itself is something one has to work toward and work hard at, and I loved the comparison to dealing with her Crohn’s disease. Both led to a strong message that carried through the end.
Jill L. Robinson (she/her) is a writer and runner living with Crohn’s disease. She lives in northeastern Pennsylvania and enjoys writing creative nonfiction and poetry. Her work has been published in Gyroscope Review, The Scop, Luzerne County’s Poetry in Transit program, and others.