But the pain didn't stop when my run did, nor when my holiday ended. It lingered, long into that first night and into the next day. And then it made itself at home, like a squatter.

I wondered: Could just one run, one of thousands I'd taken in my life, have caused such a profound ache, stretching from my lower back and down the length of my left leg? I'd had muscle strains and pulls before. But this was something new.

I explored this new landscape for the next few months, as my lower body issued ever more urgent complaints.

Backs, I knew, can be treatment-defying enigmas.

The statistics on back pain are, um, painful. The US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention household survey in 2012 found that 28 per cent of adults said they had experienced lower-back pain at some point in the preceding three months. The CDC also reported that an estimated 70 per cent of people in industrialised countries will feel the burn over their lifetimes.

My doctor thought she recognised my problem immediately. "Sciatica," she declared, a common affliction affecting the sciatic nerve, which runs like an interstate highway from the lower back down both legs. She prescribed naproxen, an anti-inflammatory drug.

It was no help. If anything, the pain deepened.

Every simple physical activity, from hauling a laundry basket to merely sitting for longer than 20 minutes, sent spasms down the neural network in my body's lower half.

I also tried endurance and stoicism, fending off my wife's entreaties to revisit the doctor. But my wife kept nudging. She branded me "the impatient patient".

I relented. This time, the doctor prescribed stronger medicine: anti-inflammatory steroids. They had the same result as naproxen.

My distress increasing, I consulted a neurologist, who suggested physical therapy. Off I went, to sessions of stretching exercises, massage and "stim", the application of mild electrical current to my lower back and rear. I emerged from the first five appointments no better than when I went in.

At this point, daily functions had started to become a challenge. Walking was difficult; bending to pick up an object was out of the question. Even leaning too far forward over the sink while shaving brought on a stern reminder, a dagger strike below the waist. I continued to work, though from home and with difficulty. Once, I started an interview seated at a desk but was forced to lie down on the floor as the pain gathered like a black fog.

At the end of a day of shuffling around, I'd crawl into bed, lying only on my right side. On some days, my wife would bring dinner to my bedside, where I would remain until morning. I was practically a shut-in.

At this point, two months after that run, my neurologist recommended an MRI.

The imaging clearly revealed the source of my problem: The lowest vertebrae on my spinal column had bulged out of alignment. A classic herniated, or "slipped" disc. (The latter term is a misnomer because discs don't actually slip; they stretch, twist or get squeezed.) The bone, in turn, was pressing on the surrounding spinal nerves. In other words, I had a pinched nerve.

An orthopedic surgeon recommended a laminectomy, a scary-sounding but relatively common procedure in which doctors remove part of the disc - the part pinching the nerve - via a small incision in the lower back.

Unlike a classic laminectomy, the minimally invasive kind involves a small incision in the lower back and the use of a microendoscope, essentially, a tiny surgical camera, that is inserted into the incision via a hollow metal cylinder. Once the surgeons have a clear path, they use a sharp cutting tool called a rongeur to remove bits of spinal bone.

I was game, but with a lingering question: How had this happened? Had I lifted something the wrong way? Had I run too many miles? Were my bones disintegrating?

In a word, no. "You can blame gravity," the surgeon said. Since humans began walking upright, he explained, our spines have been under gravitational pressure. "Sooner or later, nature finds the weak point. Basically, you get this by living past the age of 20."

A few weeks later, I underwent the laminectomy. It was as advertised: quick and painless. I was sedated for less than two hours and walked out of the surgery centre after the procedure. After three months of agony, the pain was instantly, blessedly gone. I was back at work about five days later.

Four months later, I still feel fine. I'm not 100 per cent; the surgeon warned me that I wouldn't be for a number of months.

But this experience has taught me a valuable lesson: Normal isn't boring; it's a beautiful thing. I'll never take it for granted again.

Washington Post.