What We Can Learn from an Injury (or any obstacle life throws our way)

We have all heard the phrase “what doesn’t kill you will make you stronger”. While I am no longer a fan of such a hard nosed approach to life or to learning, I would venture the following: “what doesn’t kill us can always teach us”. We are all capable of surviving difficult situations, both mental and physical, but I think that boiling it down to coming out of such a situation stronger over simplifies it. If you fall down a mountain while on a solo expedition and have to survive on your own for a week in the wild with no supplies, does it make you stronger? Sure, in some ways it might. But I would propose that what you learn about yourself during that week and how you view life as a whole is what might really experience a significant shift. While I have been fortunate to avoid having an experience quite like that, I have realized that there is much to be learned from something that when viewed from the surface is a purely negative situation. In my case, or at least the one I am going to talk about, it relates to an injury. I’m hoping that by reading what follows you might be able view whatever setbacks or obstacles you face in life through a different lens, as I am learning to do. 

It was just over a year ago, the middle of November 2019, and I set out on a run from my home in Truckee. It was a beautiful Fall morning, shoulder season in the mountains had arrived, or “locals summer” as we like to call it here. There is a calmness that seems to descend on the mountains as summer winds down and I was looking to tap into it by getting outside. I was still sore from a stunning run from Donner Summit to Squaw Valley along the PCT a week prior, but I felt like I needed to move. The end of October had marked the end of my professional athletic career and the only thing keeping me grounded was continuing to train (although I told myself I was just doing it for “fun”), as I really didn’t know what else to do at the time. So, I headed out the door for a quick jaunt on the trails behind our house. As I stepped out the door, I could feel I was tense, stressed, and I was hoping that the run would help me unwind. While my prior blog post addressed a lot of what I experienced after leaving pro sport in the broader sense, in the immediate few weeks that followed making the decision I felt very uncomfortable in my own skin and exercise was the only thing that seemed to help calm me down. 

Less than a mile from my house, on a very bland, non technical, gradual downhill, I suffered the worst injury of my life. Since taking up Triathlon I had experienced a little ankle roll here and there and I knew immediately this was different. I rolled my left ankle completely underneath me while hopping over a rock, I could feel things tearing as my body weight crashed down on it. As I hit the ground, instinct took over and I popped back up, or at least tried to. I couldn’t put any weight on it and a few moments later I was back on the ground as the pain began to set in. I’ve experienced a lot of pain throughout my life and I would consider myself pretty tough. I could get up from a bike crash after sliding along the ground at thirty miles per hour and continue riding. I could break a bone on a training ride and remain calm while I called for help. But there was no controlling this pain. The way I started screaming I was sure someone would think I had been attacked by a bear and come running out to help. But, as I had mentioned, shoulder season had arrived and all the houses along the trail were deserted. Despite being in immense pain the irony was not lost on me that this happened within weeks of leaving pro sport, at a time when I was doing all I could to avoid slowing down, to avoid addressing the changes that were happening in my life. I was running away from them and had literally been stopped in my tracks! 

Of course since I had been planning on a short run on familiar trails I had left my phone at home. I crawled to the nearest road about one hundred feet up a hill while I continued yelling for help, trying to make progress towards a main road where I was hoping I could flag someone down. Thankfully, after what felt like ages, a frazzled looking man with a cup of coffee popped out onto his back balcony, saw me laying on the side of the road, and sprung into action. I felt so bad for the guy, it was a Sunday morning, he was probably trying to relax, and here I was screaming like a mad man. Moments later he pulled his truck around and helped me into it. He offered to take me to the hospital but I asked him to just take me home, hoping to avoid a trip to the ER.  Trying to hold back the tears and keep calm while in his truck, I felt like I was going to pass out. He got me back to my house and more or less carried me to my door. I’m not sure if I even said thank you (although I’m certain my shocked wife did). I am not a religious person but I think that man must have been an angel. Not a single other soul emerged to help me that morning and if he hadn’t show up, I truly don’t know what I would have done. The moment I got into my house I couldn’t contain it any longer, crying in pain I laid on the ground of our entry way, asking myself “why” over and over.

I had made it through my entire cycling career without a single major injury. I had never been off the bike for more than a week due to an injury or a crash. The longest break I took from exercise since I was seventeen was each off season when I embraced four weeks of inactivity to let my mind and body heal from the other eleven months of abuse. And here I was, supposedly out on a “fun” run, and this is what happened, within two weeks of deciding to leave pro sport? There had to be a reason. I refused to believe that the universe would be so cruel as to simply throw something like this my way. Over the coming months I would begin to understand that reason and now, over a year later, it is crystal clear to me, but let’s not jump too far ahead. 

A week later scans would show that I had, to put it kindly, destroyed my left ankle. I had torn everything just about as badly as you could possibly tear it without snapping it completely. I was borderline on needing surgery, thankfully being relatively young and healthy I was able to avoid it. I was relegated to crutches for seven weeks, which I had never used in my entire life. I thought back to my youth: surfing, snowboarding, skating, wakeboarding, bike racing, and I had never used crutches. It made no sense. At a time when I was already frustrated and lost, the overwhelming anger I felt at the situation was intense. This was the year I was supposed to be able to enjoy the Holidays with my family, to go into the mountains, to not have to obsessively focus on training, to have fun for crying out loud! Instead, I spent the weeks that followed sitting, moving my ankle a few millimeters at a time, absolutely convinced that I would never be able to fully use it again. In the state I was in I simply could not see how things would ever function as they once had. Black, blue and swollen, three weeks after the injury it almost felt worse than when I first did it. 

When I crutched my way into the Physical Therapy office for the first time I was greeted by Sabina, the most wonderful, kind hearted, fierce, take no bullshit, older German woman who would kick my ass into gear twice a week. She looked at my scans and said, I kid you not, “Wow, I’ve never seen anything like this before, are you sure you were on a run? I’ve been doing this a long time but this is a first”, and then called over a couple of the other therapists in there to look at the scans with her. 

That’s when I knew things were bad. And they were, she didn’t sugarcoat it. My hopes to be up and moving a few weeks later were pipe dreams. But she did tell me I would get back to normal, my normal, it would just take a while. That’s an important caveat that Sabina and I discussed. My own normal, my own requirements of my body and my ankle were different than most. What I wanted to be able to do wasn’t walk around the house and go about my day to day life, it was to surf, snowboard, trail run, bike, hike, jump, to do everything and anything that I could think of. It made me impatient that it wasn’t on the timeline I wanted but the desire to get back to doing those things was ultimately what helped me make a full recovery over the months that followed.

I’m certain that if someone, outside of my own family, would have spent any significant time with me during this period they would say I became depressed. Unable to move, unable to do the one thing (physical activity) that had kept me grounded since childhood, unable to connect with nature, at least in the only way I knew how at the time, I became miserable. The Holidays passed, friends came over, meals were shared, but I wasn’t really there. I was in my own world: hurt, angry, and bitter. In my own world full of self pity, thinking why oh why did this have to happen to me, why did this happen at all? I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. There had to be a lesson to learn. And of course, there was. Over the coming weeks, I kept going to see Sabina. On day one, I could not move my ankle more than a few millimeters in any direction. The next week I could do a little more, and by the time we left for Maui, two months after my injury, I could walk, albeit very timidly, without crutches. Little by little I had made progress. Those words, little by little, and that slow, almost imperceptible progress that often goes unrecognized, are what this entire post is about. 

The dominant Kenyan runners have a phrase they love when it comes to training and their approach to sport, and no one embodies it more than Eliud Kipchoge, the world’s fastest marathoner. The phrase is, “slowly by slowly”. It is how they approach training and how they live their lives. Many might find it odd that “slowly by slowly” is the motto of the world’s fastest runners, but it’s true. As I progressed through my recovery I began to understand that what I was going through was about much more than just the physical side of things. I believe that this injury came to me precisely because I was so unsettled. I was so unwilling to confront my departure from pro sport, to address the emotions that came with it, to examine what my life might look like without training and racing as the sole purpose. This injury quite literally forced me to stop dead in my tracks and without it, I am almost certain I never would have slowed down. I would have used sport to self medicate, to distract myself endlessly, and who knows where I would be right now. Certainly not here, writing, doing something that I have loved since I was a child that got pushed to the side during my athletic career.

It was a chilling experience to be stripped of my ability to do what I had always taken for granted, my ability to move. My ability to do what I wanted when I wanted physically has always been a point of pride. Taking care of my body has always been directly correlated with my self worth. It made me question a lot of things, namely just how healthy my relationship with sport had been over the past decade. What had I been running (or riding, or swimming) from? What was I using the next race or training session to cover up, or avoid? A lot of emotional discomfort accompanied this period of intense physical discomfort. The endless time to think led me to a few interesting observations, namely this one: While I was good at bike racing, I am not sure that I ever fully belonged in it. Unbeknownst to most people, during my cycling career I often had thoughts of leaving it all behind, of walking away and living peacefully somewhere, maybe in Haiku on Maui, maybe in a little no name town in the Swiss Alps, where no one knew, or cared, who I was or what sport I used to be a part of. I often wonder what would have happened if I had voiced that to someone. I never worked with a sports psychologist during my career but I’m sure they would have had a field day with some of what ran through my head.

It wasn’t till just over a month ago, over one year after that trail run, that I truly grasped why that injury had to happen, why I needed that experience in my life, why it happened when it did. As I mentioned above I am not traditionally religious, but I am spiritual. I believe that everything happens for a reason and this was no different. I needed that time to address my inner demons, to sit with them and feel just how uncomfortable I was. That injury forced me to look at myself and my life. It forced me to acknowledge that I had used sport to avoid ever asking myself the questions that really matter: What do you want in life? Are you happy, or are you just doing this because you’re good at it? What did you want to do in life that got thrown to the side as your cycling career took off? The answer was, a whole lot! 

While I will never regret my time in professional sport, looking back, it seems like a necessary detour along the course of my life rather than the path I was always meant to be on. If it was my life’s calling I would probably still be in it. Allowing myself to acknowledge that maybe I wasn’t destined to be a professional cyclist, or at least not destined to define my entire life by it, brought about a major shift in my mindset. To accept that it was an experience that I needed to have along the way, to learn and grow from, was a completely different way of looking at things. I know guys in the sport who would genuinely rather die doing what they love than not be able to do it. Johan Van Summeren comes to mind. He was forced out of the sport with heart issues and that man lived for one thing: to pedal, and pedal damn fast. For him, having that taken away was like being shot through the heart. Cycling was never that way for me, and I think that says it all.

So what does it all have to do with my injury, with setbacks? Well, I cannot think of anyone, myself included, who likes being hurt or dealing with a major setback in life, especially the ones that we never could have seen coming. Nowadays it seems the popular school of thought is to rise up, to embrace the attitude of individuals like David Goggins, and “crush that motherfucker” (the motherfucker being your obstacle). I think a different approach is of at least equal value. You know the phrase “love your enemy”? My suggestion is to do that with your setback, whatever form it takes. Acknowledge that it is there to teach you something, that no matter how painful, emotionally or physically, there is something to be learned from it. 

Some of the most balanced, spiritual, kind, peaceful and happy individuals that I know have dealt with substance abuse issues in their younger years. I didn’t know any of them while they were using, but from the conversations we have had it seems many now view their addiction as a gift of sorts because it led them to the life they are now living. Granted, this may be a sheltered view as the ones I know are successful chefs, doctors and the like. Still, if they can embrace something that is potentially life altering, if not life ending, with gratitude, looking for the lessons to be learned, then surely we can all do the same. 

This doesn’t mean you can’t temporarily wallow in self pity. Give yourself permission to be angry, frustrated, to yell at the world, “why?!”. Then, keep moving forward. Look for the lessons, look at what you might be able to learn from whatever painful, terrible, or even simply inconvenient thing you are dealing with. There is nothing wrong with looking to crush the obstacles you may face, I’m simply pointing out that there is another way. A kinder, gentler way to approach them as well as to approach yourself. That approach might not be for everyone but I know that it has worked for me. Simply acknowledging that there was another option, that I didn’t have to confront this injury, or all of the emotions that came with departing pro sport, with a “kill or be killed” type of attitude changed everything for me, and I’m hoping it can do the same for you. 

Unfortunately it seems that all too often kindness, to oneself as well as to others, can be mistaken for weakness. My time in sport forced me to cultivate a tough outer shell, one that conveyed the message: I am on a mission and no one is going to get in my way. One where I intentionally shied away from forming strong friendships or emotional bonds with teammates, directors, mechanics, etc. There were a handful of individuals with whom I let my guard down and those turned out to be lifelong friends. I now go surf with a former doctor. I recently picked up a surfboard from a former mechanic. I laugh when I read correspondence from a former director living in Switzerland because reading his words and imagining his voice puts a smile on my face. But they are the exception, not the rule. Right or wrong, I felt that sport forced me to take on a persona that had nothing to do with who I truly am, or even who I was. The problem was I held onto that persona for so long I actually started to believe it was who I was. When I got injured last November I initially tried to take that same hard ass approach that I thought had served me well in sport, that had led me to podiums and wins and supposed success. What I found was that it didn't work anymore. Trying to be who I used to be, to approach the situation the same way I had for years, simply wasn’t yielding the results I wanted. Instead, it led to feeling depressed and frustrated that I couldn’t simply will myself out of the situation I was in. 

It may sound odd, but prior to this injury I don’t believe I had ever faced a situation that I couldn’t overcome through sheer willpower. Any illness, poor performance, anything that I had faced in sport, I could always more or less will my way out of, or through. I considered this to be an asset but in hindsight it might have been my greatest crutch. Rather than accepting that some things take time, I always wanted them to happen on my schedule, to force them to happen rather than allow them to happen. My injury taught me that at the end of the day, I wasn’t the one in control. Sure, I had to show up, I had to do the PT exercises, I had to do the work, but the timeline wasn’t something that I had control over. I would heal when I healed and all the frustration and anger in the world wasn’t going to change that. 

If there is something to take away from everything I have shared today I would say it is this: “slowly by slowly” isn’t just a motto for Kenyan runners, it’s a motto for life. A motto that embraces kindness to oneself, that embraces change but does not attempt to dictate the pace at which it happens. A way of living that allows for appreciation and recognition of the small, subtle, constant progress we are making towards our goals, progress that might otherwise be easily discounted or go unnoticed. Recognizing the progress that you are making in life I have found to be a key component of happiness. Take this as proof: the first steps that I took without crutches last January put a smile on my face that was uncontrollable. It was the simple act of walking, something I had taken for granted, that did it. It wasn’t running, it wasn’t riding, it wasn’t what I’m able to do today, but at the time it certainly was progress. People have overcome far greater injuries and have far more inspirational stories than simply hurting their ankle, but it wasn’t the injury that was meaningful in my story, it was what I learned from it.

Writing all of this down now brings back one of my favorite memories from my time in cycling: I was in a small, no name airport somewhere in France. It was July of 2014 and I had finished over thirty minutes behind the peloton in the Tour de France the day prior. Sick and dealing with a back injury and I had decided not to start the next day. Or, more accurately, my body had made that decision for me. I was sitting on the ground in a corner of that airport, feeling like I had been ejected mid flight from the bubble of excitement and energy that accompanies the Tour, waiting for the plane back to Barcelona. While I was staring into the distance two younger french boys came up to me. In broken English they asked if I was Andrew Talansky. “Yes” I replied, unsure of what they wanted, or how they knew who I was without a cycling kit on. “Your ride yesterday was amazing, thank you for not quitting” was what they said next. I was dumbfounded. I thanked them for their kinds words, shook their hands, and then they left me alone again. 

In that moment my whole view began to shift. Later that day, I would learn that French TV had continued to follow me during my time behind the peloton, all the way to the finish line, something that apparently hadn’t been done before. I had no idea that my own private battle was being broadcast around the US, around the world. It was something that was so personal that at first I felt very exposed. But then the messages started to come in. It wasn’t just those French boys who had found something good in my ride, people all across the US responded in a similar way. I was awestruck that something that felt so bad, so negative, so painful on a personal level could have created so much good in the broader scope, that people found a message of “never give up” from the depths of my own personal hell. While it didn’t make leaving the Tour that year any easier, it did change my perspective on it and to this day I feel immense gratitude that something positive came from one of the worst experiences of my life, that others could find something good in it, even if it took me much longer to do the same. It helped me see that even the darkest of experiences can have a silver lining.

The final thing I hope you can take away is this: the moments that seem the most difficult, that challenge you, are often the ones that can teach you if you let them. They can also break you. If you choose to fight against them, to engage in battle, rather than open your arms and embrace whatever obstacle you are facing, odds are you will lose. There is always something to be learned even if we don’t see the lesson until years later. I hope that by being a little bit more gentle with yourself, a little bit kinder, and by acknowledging the progress you are making, you won’t have to wait so long to learn those lessons.