Overtraining and Its Effects on Writing, Life

Years ago when I was just starting as an assistant professor, I had a vision that my running hobby might one day intersect my profession. In the decade-old version of the dream, I would become a successful semi-pro runner—a distinction that would help me build an author platform for writing about the psychology of running. This year my vision came true, but not in the way I had hoped. My running hobby became like a cannonball clamped to the leg of my writer-self, dragging the whole ensemble to the bottom of the lake.

Over a series of months and years, I have trained myself into the ground. Running 9-11 hours each week, I ignored all sorts of warning signs and eventually wound up on the floor of the doctor’s office, unable to sit upright. The condition is called overtraining syndrome (OTS), and it’s what happens when you tax the body without adequate rest. Eventually, over years and years of punishment, the body starts throwing every nonessential stress response overboard. I stopped producing cortisol, which led to dangerously low blood pressure and heart rate. I stopped producing serotonin, which led to a depressive funk. Etc. Etc. I stopped writing.

 

During this time, writing felt like a serious chore—and one without any upside. “Why bother writing anything?” I thought. “I’m no good. I won’t publish it. Nobody wants to read it.” And so on. I let it go.

 

Like all good addicts, I continued to try and run—each time resulting in a chaotic hormone response that would leave me either depleted or in a testosterone-fueled rage. I say now that I’m going to rest for a few months, but I’m sure I’ll cut the months to weeks soon enough. “My name is Patrick, and I’m an exercise junkie.”

 

It has been interesting to experience and observe in retrospect the influence of a running problem on the rest of my life. I pride myself on being a relatively objective and optimistic person, but pessimism has ruled my powers of perception the last few months. “You don’t like this decision I’ve made? Okay, then I will give up.” My courage has vanished.

 

But now, after months and months, I am beginning to pick up the pieces. Perhaps there is an underlying form to my writing after all. I don’t see it yet, and maybe it will amount to nothing, but it’s time to dust myself off and get back to it.