Distance Running Yips

I think I’ve got the yips, I mumble to myself, laying flat on the apartment floor, legs resting against the front door.

I first heard about the yips from a New Yorker article about a baseball player’s comeback.

From the abstract of a National Library of Medicine paper, “The definition of the 'yips' has evolved over time. It is defined as a motor phenomenon of involuntary movements affecting golfers. In this paper, we have extended the definition to encompass a continuum from the neurologic disorder of dystonia to the psychologic disorder of choking.”

Scientifically, I don’t really know if/how this can be applied to running but since it’s the only sport I know, here’s my take. 

I hurt my foot on May 2 and proceeded to spend the rest of that month more or less locked down at home resting and icing and resting and icing. 

When I was able to cautiously start running again in June, I was ecstatic. My foot felt basically good to go, though the loss of fitness was frustrating. I quickly slipped back to my marathon training schedule but the weekend long run remained elusive. It was like I’d forgotten how to run more than 10 miles. 

• June 13, 7.5 miles. That shouldn’t be that hard, Western Pennsylvanian hills or not.

• June 20, 10.1 miles. I can live with this. Seeing as I’ve averaged 4-5 hours of sleep for a week straight at camp, it’s a miracle I even got out the door. 

• June 27, 14 miles. This was the worst 14 miles I’ve probably ever run. What is going on with my body? If anyone could help my legs remember we have a race in August that would be awesome. 

That was supposed to be my “back to normal” run. I was shooting for 18 miles with intentions to meet a friend for the last four. I hobbled to her at 13.5 and we capped it off with a half mile before I threw in the towel. Yips, I thought that day, as I rehydrated and moped. 

• Saturday, July 4, 4:11am. Let’s just see what I can do. 

Twelve strong miles in and I was starting to falter. The sun was out. The air humid. I hovered at the park water fountain and wondered if the August race was an impossibility. I really, really needed a win. 

Around the 23rd mile of my third marathon, I felt myself flirting with “the wall.” From Runner’s World, “Hitting the wall refers to the point in a race where your body simply runs out of energy. While you can produce energy via carbohydrates, fats and proteins, carbohydrate is the body’s preferred fuel source during exercise. This is broken down into glucose and stored as glycogen in the liver and muscles. When your body runs out of glycogen, it has to utilise other fuel sources, such as fats and proteins, but you’re not able to make energy as effectively.”

I say flirting with the wall because I wasn’t there yet. It was the best I’d ever run—a total dream race—and I was feeling better with every mile marker. Then around 23 or so, I started to flirt with the wall. Maybe I am a little tired. But two decades of distance running cut me off before I could complete the thought.

Running is just a mental game. And I am so mentally strong.

I don’t know where that came from. But when I think back on that race weekend, this memory goes deeper than watching them engrave a new PR on the back of my medal. 

The idea of running with your heart clicked. The idea of trusting your body clicked. The idea of believing in myself and knowing that I am a person who can do hard things clicked. And the wall became an open door. 

• July 4. I dumped another bottle of water over my head. I took stock of the heat, of my foot. The first felt manageable, the latter, fine. Running is a mental game. And I am so mentally strong.

  
  

One hour and six more miles later, I stopped my running app with a crisp 18. It wasn’t my fastest work. It definitely wasn’t the prettiest. But it was done. Eighteen miles two months post injury and one month back on the trail. 

Once again, I found myself flat on the floor, legs on the wall. Rehydrating. Giddy. 

It’s been a weird (hard) few months. Personally. Professionally. Every other “-ally” you can think of. Losing easy mobility and the tedious rebuild of running hasn’t helped. 

Running eighteen miles yesterday was about so much more than next month’s race. It was a reminder that I can hit a wall and keep going. That if my muscles feel weak, I can call on my spirit. That if I ever wonder what I’m capable of, I have real, tangible things to point at. Real, messy, beautiful examples of hitting a setback and getting to the other side stronger. 

There will always be areas of uncertainty. Places where the puzzle pieces don’t quite fit or where you start to doubt in your ability. 

What can you do today to remind yourself that you can? It doesn’t have to be an 18 mile run. But what is your equivalent? What can you do in the next ten minutes that will help you feel like you? That will connect you to yourself? That will bring you peace? 

If you have your answer, perhaps time to begin.