Do you have to run to be a runner? Take a moment to noodle that one. Sounds ludicrous to even consider, but you've read it on these pages, heard it from fellow runners and most likely experienced it yourself through running clubs, race fund-raising or the engaging conversation at the running store with someone you never met before but who shares your favorite brand of shoes.

Being a runner is more than just running - it's the camaraderie, the friendships, the community. So why then does it have to require running?

Fortunately for most, the question is moot. You run and mingle, run and talk, run and grow. But what happens when a runner - someone who thrives on PRs, split times and GU at mile 21 - can no longer run? Can he still be part of running?

I say this because after nine months of an injury that has confounded seven doctors, a neurologist, two chiropractors, three physical therapists, a massage trigger-point therapist and acupuncturist, I believe I will never run again.

And while the running part, the pride of great fitness, the thrill of a strong tempo run, the jitters five seconds before the start will cease, I wonder why I can't still experience all the rest?

To be honest, for most of the last nine months I didn't want to be part of the running community. I hated runners. I saw you trotting on bike paths on a cold, snowy day and cursed you; as the weather turned warm and fresh I saw you breeze down dirt roads in pairs and pursed my lips in envy.

I saw your grimacing faces in the running magazines and flipped away the page with a "hrumpt." I saw my old marathon race numbers pinned to my office wall and, well, didn't know how to describe the feeling. I hated you ... you runners.

This is what happens when a runner can no longer run. "Why me?" was my mantra. I was unbearable to live with and no fun to talk to.

My wife thought I took it too seriously and I told her she didn't understand. The problem was I didn't understand. But attitude is a slow ship to turn and it is best altered through one thing: action. So I took some - I signed up for a race; just not one I ran in - I volunteered.

Standing at the first turn of a 5K pointing a hard right to the runners may seem like a trivial effort, but when you've been attached to the sport for 30 years and suddenly despise "healthy runners" who don't appreciate their health, standing on this race corner was painful.

Painful, that is, until the first runner came toward me and I couldn't help myself. It just came out: the runner support scream I've heard so many times - "You look great. Keep it up!"

My tempo and mood lightened as the runners streamed by. Fast runners, small runners, big runners, old runners. I jumped and danced as they came by, calling out particular numbers - "Go 254. You look great!" "You can do it, 75!"

I smiled the whole race. I'm pretty sure that's the first time I can say that.

There is a typical injury-response pattern that veteran runners experience. It starts with denial and skips through tacit acceptance, then on to resignation, full acceptance, determination (to treat and fix the injury), disgust (after the first treatment doesn't fix the problem in one week), frustration, revived determination, then either recovery or the vicious cycle that bats you between frustration and determination with loads of self pity.

I'm not fully revived because I volunteered for one race, but I am relieved I can be a runner (part of this great runner community) without running.

So until I lick this thing I will bounce between frustration and determination, but with a twist: I will always be, no matter my physical capability, a runner - a runner volunteer, runner coach, runner mentor or just plain runner cheerleader.

Because running is not just for the swift of feet; it is for those who believe it is more than that. MR