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I took steroids.
I was young, but I knew what I was doing. I was injured. I was a competitor. And I needed an edge.
So I found a doctor who would give me a shot.
My wrist was in awful pain. I thought I had torn a tendon in my left hand, the tendon that attaches the thumb to the wrist.
Then I hurt it worse, running on icy bleacher steps at Westerville North’s football stadium. I slipped on a slick spot and caught myself with that hand. My career flashed before my eyes.
Nearly blinded by the pain, I drove desperately around town until I found someone who could help. I’ll call him Dr. “Z.”
Dr. Z slowly closed the door and drew out a needle. “You don’t want to do this too often,” he said quietly. “The tendon will weaken.”
He filled the syringe with a clear liquid. Then he plunged the needle directly into the sore tendon.
Almost immediately I felt sweet relief. I slipped him the money and left. Within three days the tendon was completely healed.
Those who get a taste of cortisone — or “zone,” as we call it on the street — know how alluring it can be. It is magic.
One moment your career running Brewery District 5Ks and Muddy Feet 4-milers hangs in the balance — the next moment you are superman. Some may call it cheating. I call it survival.
Yes, I took steroids. And I’d do it again.
