Under sudden fatigue

instead of the classic Hi, how are you? I often approach my entourage made up of runners, cyclists and other sportsmen, with the following formula:
In shape?
A response usually follows which ranges from not really à Yes very. But whatever the answer, the subtext is always the same: if the form is bad, it is only temporary, it is a question of giving it the time necessary for a return to normal.
La normal here is to be active, to run, to ride, to swim, to move. In this group of individuals and more broadly in the population, sport is health, vector of happiness, encouraged by many Grand Défi Pierre Lavoie and other public campaigns on healthy lifestyles. And let it be clear, the idea here is not to question the benefits of sport. I've seen more than one transformation caused by it so there's no doubt left in my mind about it.
Throwback to a discussion with a colleague, solid runner, marathon under 2h30, large weekly volume, the total. He has been running since he was very young and has defined himself as a person through his practice. He even made it his job, he produces running clothes. He informs me that day that he has not run for more than two months due to an injury that he cannot heal, that in the process, he has moved away from his group of friends, lost his bearings and found himself isolated.
Live malaise on Zoom, I'd like to cheer him on but nothing that doesn't sound totally useless comes to me. He explains to me that he turned to his family, he lives with his wife and their young daughter, that the loss caused by his break is important, that not a day goes by that he doesn't think about it.
Exit friends, events, the endorphin rush. Exit the anticipation of finding his gang on Sunday morning for an outing medium-high pace friendly and an oat milk cortado. Exit the sometimes futile but always heated discussions around the carbon plate of the new racer which promises the best energy return.
We can philosophize by telling ourselves that there is worse, and there is worse, it is true. Everything is always relative, but when you hit your thumb with a hammer, you don't give a damn about your neighbour's cancer. Way of saying that for him, this stop is brutal.
The call ends but the idea of ​​being deprived of sports stays with me for several days, even a few weeks. In his case, running, or rather the lack of it, became the trap.
Taking a step back, we come to question the wisdom of letting our pleasure in life rest on a single thing, external, over which it is impossible to have much control.
The race for the runner, the pet for the homebody, the fix for the junkie. All perfect smoke screens so that ambient noise never stops. Sport to avoid spending time alone, in silence with questions that you don't always dare to ask yourself, as a remedy for spleen of the time.  
I would like to tell you that there is an epiphany at the end of this reflection but I am afraid not. At most an awareness that leads to consider excesses, in sport like the rest, with a little more scruple.
Sport socially accepted, encouraged. Maybe that's the basic trap.
Maybe not either, I'll let you see.