The pool is an interesting place. It has it's own language, structure, timing and etiquette. As a runner turned triathlete and a woman who learned to swim at the ripe old age of 38, the pool and all of its intricacies were and in some sense still are a bit of a mystery.
Words like yards, laps, intervals, on the top, on the bottom and of course, lane sharing all had to be negotiated and learned. I was oblivious at first and am sure I pissed off a few of the more seasoned folks more than once. Rather than clue me in, however, they would smirk and make snarky comments. Not really helpful since I had no idea what I'd done to be offensive.
I joined my first Master's class in 2006 or 2007 at the behest of a good friend who swore by it. I felt like an outcast member of some secret society who by mandate had been forced to accept new people. I didn't behave like the rest of them. I didn't understand their language or the basic lane rules. I'd never swum with others. How was I to know? The class was led by a man who basically read the newspaper while everyone carried out the workout he had printed or handwritten before the session began. No instruction, no coaching, nothing. He basically sat there, yelled out the random comment to someone in his inner circle and then went back to his paper. I asked him, "How do I get better at this?" His answer without bothering to look up, "Swim more." Right. I had a very messy stroke and some bad habits that with a little coaching would have saved me a lot of time over the course of the next several years. But he couldn't be bothered. I'd come into Master's swimming with high hopes and left it deflated.
Fast forward to 2012. I was coming off the second round of Posterior Tibial Tendonitis and wasn't sure what my tri racing future held. One tipsy night the previous spring, I'd told my good friend Bobbi that if my foot made it through the summer training and races, the next year I'd do a half ironman with her. My fourth and her first. I figured, like all smack talking tipsy chatter, she'd forget all about it. Wrong. That woman has a mind like a bear trap. Just before Christmas she sent me a PM on Facebook: "So, how's your foot?". UGH. I knew where this was going. Before you knew it, I was signed up for the Patriot 70.3 in Williamsburg, VA. DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN. How did I let this happen? As I clicked PURCHASE on the race website, I thought, "Shit, I haven't swum in about a year." It was time to find a place to swim. 1.2 miles in a river with a lot of current is a long way.
Our recent house purchase put me very near a swim center. Walking distance, in fact. I figured without the hassle of trying to get to the pool, I'd probably get there more often. Then, while perusing the tri club Facebook page, I discovered another Master's class. All the triathletes were swearing by it. Jenn's Master's Class. Get in before it fills up. Fills up?!?! Must be pretty good. Though my previous experience was terrible, I thought I'd give it a chance. And in January, freezing to death beneath four layers, I headed to the pool. Turns out joining that class was the best decision I ever made on the swimming front. By far.
Over three sessions (three consecutive winters) Jenn coached me into FAR better stroke form, alternate breathing and even breast stroke. I learned the lingo, how to count on the interval and how to move to the left at the end of a set. I picked up speed and I felt successful. And most importantly, I loved my lane mates! Mary, a strong swimmer with impeccable pacing; Joe with his big shoulders and ability to pull you along in his wake and Marina, who couldn't count but provided much needed comedic relief for those very long main sets. They were great incentive to head to the pool when it was a mere 18 degrees outside. Those three winters were swimming bliss. Then something great and tragic happened simultaneously. I got too fast. My lane mates, who had spent more than their fair share of time being "rushed" at the wall, voted to kick me to a faster lane. I was sad but I knew it was time to go.
By February of 2014, I was in a new lane with a new set of folks. I thought we'd be fast friends. Joke around during the rest like Mary, Marina, Joe and I had. No way. This lane was serious. I was middle of the pack pace wise so I fit in but I didn't really like the mood of the lane. Nevertheless, I stuck it out. Week after week I showed up, jumped in and did what needed to be done but most of the joy of swimming with friends had faded. The winter Master's session ended, tri season began and before I knew it we were all back at the pool listening to Jenn describe the night's workout while the snow floated past outside.
Winter session 2015. I am in a lane with a woman I'll call Sally. For the latter part of the 2014 session, Sally was in my lane. Moved there, as I was, because she'd begun to "overswim" hers. We didn't have a lot of contact at first. The random exchange during rests, confirmation of the interval and the occasional conversation in the hot tub after practice. She was annoying but nothing I couldn't live with. Let's face it, my previous lane mates would be a hard act to follow.
Very quickly I figure out, "annoying" has somehow become "obnoxious". I greet her, say hi. I tell her I really haven't been swimming much. She chimes in, "I haven't swum since August!" and then goes on to describe how she hasn't swum because she was in this 100 mile running race or that 50 mile one. She is very boastful and loud. We jump in. She proceeds to swim as fast as she can for the warm up giving another woman and me very little rest at the wall. I clock her in at 1:47 per 100. We are supposed to be the 2:05 lane. In swimming 5 seconds is a LOT. 17 seconds means you need to move up two lanes! She won't budge. For some reason she's decided that she and I are in a competition. The other woman does another 100 with us and then switches lanes.
UGH. I like the other woman. Now, early in the season, I am stuck. Stuck with obnoxious Sally. At the next break I ask her why she doesn't just switch lanes. "I'm not really that fast." I look at her confused, "You keep swimming 1:50s in the 2:05 lane. Why don't you swim in the 1:50 lane?". She doesn't reply and pushes off. It's official. I hate her. I decide then and there she needs a dose of her own medicine. I let her tire herself out (her typical pattern) and then pick up the pace. I rush her at EVERY wall for 500. I am tired at the end but she looks beat. When hot tub time rolls around she is there talking loudly over everyone about her races, how great she is, etc. I roll my eyes and find Marina. "UGH I hate her." I say to Marina who immediately knows who I'm talking about. "Yeah, nobody likes to swim with her. Everybody but you has left her lane." I am a little surprised but then understand. My next thought is, "How do I get out of her lane?" I am too fast for my old lane, too slow for the lane Sally should be in. I am stuck. I decide that next week, I will switch.
Tuesday, we line up to swim. Just as I am about to jump in to my favorite lane, Jenn stops me. "Elisa, you're over here with Sally." NOOO. I don't want to be over "here" with Sally. I try to make an excuse for being in my old lane. "No, you're here." Jenn says with authority. UGH. Plan, feeble though it is, foiled. Not to lose momentum, Sally ups the ante. On the endurance set where we are to swim at 2:05 for 400 I ask her to just split the lane. She agrees with the snarky comment, "Because you don't want to get lapped." YES. True, only until she tires herself out in the first 100, but also because I want as little to do with her as possible.
Later, I ignore her in the hot tub. She tries desperately to get my attention. I can't figure out why. Then, she says it. "I think you're a faster runner than I am." I don't say anything. She begins to prattle on (in her baby voice) without prompting about her race time compared to mine in the last ten miler we both happened to be in. Yes I was faster and yes I am about 8 years older than she is. Then it hit me, I am her "target". Sally, it turns out, is like Lance Armstrong. She needs someone to lose so she can win. It's less about the intrinsic challenge and more about being outwardly competitive. Though truth be told she won't admit that she's competitive - something I hate even more. But that's another blog.
Still, her presence in the lane is making me really hate Master's swimming. Something I loved so much has become something I dread. I have started to skip class and swim on my own. I miss my friends. I miss Jenn's workouts and her coaching but the alignment of the lanes this year doesn't provide the right assortment of folks for me to switch. I am stuck smack dab in the middle of POOLITICS. I have to smile. For a woman who started out feeling like an intruder in a secret society, I have come full circle. Here I am embroiled in a political battle of wills AT THE POOL.
I am now a part of the clan. The secret society. The swimmers. With all of the newly found friends, obnoxious Sallies and hot tub humor, I have somehow found my place. What's next? Will obnoxious Sally drive me to hold her head under in the hot tub? Will I force myself to swim 1:50s just to escape? Who knows. But no matter what, I am officially part of the Poolitics and that makes me almost teary eyed. SPLASH.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
Friday, April 24, 2015
A Good Goddamn
The 10 miler by all accounts was a good, solid race for me. Not a PR by any means but solid. I don't normally run "with" others. I like the alone time and the ability to focus on my race, how I feel and get a sense of whether I can push it or not. Also, I don't "chat". In fact, my theory of the case is that if you have enough breath and energy to chat, you aren't running fast enough. Plus, nobody REALLY wants to hear about the ten different cereals you've tried this week. Sorry.
I ran the race with my good friend Bobbi's husband Kevin. He's almost a foot taller than I am (I exaggerate but not by much) and has a much longer stride. But that said, he was able to match my pace and keep me steady (he could have run MUCH faster I think so am happy he sacrificed his time for me). We didn't chat apart from a random word here or there - the benefits of running with a man. And though he easily crossed the finish line first, I wasn't far behind. Well done both of us.
Enter the rest of the training week. I was utterly uninspired to do anything. You would think that after a recovery day and a few well earned carbs at Sunday brunch I'd be raring to go. Nope. In fact. I could have cared less. Less than less. As my grandfather used to say, I didn't give a good goddamn. I know that word is offensive to some but it was his way of expressing his ultimate "I don't care". One part "could care less" and two parts, "general irritation" at either not caring or being forced to think about caring ... more.
As I pondered the "good goddamn" and not caring to give one, I reflected on some of the times my grandfather had used that word when he DID give one - a GDD. Once when he fixed the 987 year old black and white TV with a pair of pliers, a screwdriver and aluminum foil he exclaimed, "Well, I'll be goddamned!" (clearly not religious my grandfather). When he got more from his garden than he thought he would - my grandparents grew their vegetables for winter sustenance, I'd hear, "Good goddamn!" So the fact that he didn't give one at any given time was clearly a serious consideration about whatever was being discussed.
Back to the workout week. NOT one GGD did I care to give and I could not pinpoint the reason why. Tired? Yes. Not fully recovered? Maybe. Depressed ... probably not. I couldn't quite figure it out. Wednesday rolled around and I did a short run. Disaster in running shoes. I was hot, cranky and generally not in the mood. Didn't help that the work week was barreling down on me like a herd of angry dogs but still, I can usually rise above. Thursday. Swim day. I binged watched Drop Dead Diva instead of going to the pool OR running. SIGH. For whatever reason, to quote Jo dee Messina, "My give a damn was busted." My mind churned with guilt! I am usually the LAST person to skip a workout for something trivial. I panicked. What's wrong? Maybe I really am OLD. Maybe this is how it starts - you stop caring for one day and wake up and it's ten years!
So after beating myself up for another day at work, I decided to relax and just see where all of this was going. On Friday, I woke to find myself amazingly and without explanation, giving a GOOD GD! Maybe it was the break and the rest. Maybe it was taking the pressure off always having to be ON. Maybe it was just letting myself be human for once. Maybe it was Drop Dead Diva. I'm not sure but I do know this. Sometimes your "give a damn" just needs a break. Mine did. Glad I listened because now I'm BACK and on my way to the pool.
I ran the race with my good friend Bobbi's husband Kevin. He's almost a foot taller than I am (I exaggerate but not by much) and has a much longer stride. But that said, he was able to match my pace and keep me steady (he could have run MUCH faster I think so am happy he sacrificed his time for me). We didn't chat apart from a random word here or there - the benefits of running with a man. And though he easily crossed the finish line first, I wasn't far behind. Well done both of us.
Enter the rest of the training week. I was utterly uninspired to do anything. You would think that after a recovery day and a few well earned carbs at Sunday brunch I'd be raring to go. Nope. In fact. I could have cared less. Less than less. As my grandfather used to say, I didn't give a good goddamn. I know that word is offensive to some but it was his way of expressing his ultimate "I don't care". One part "could care less" and two parts, "general irritation" at either not caring or being forced to think about caring ... more.
As I pondered the "good goddamn" and not caring to give one, I reflected on some of the times my grandfather had used that word when he DID give one - a GDD. Once when he fixed the 987 year old black and white TV with a pair of pliers, a screwdriver and aluminum foil he exclaimed, "Well, I'll be goddamned!" (clearly not religious my grandfather). When he got more from his garden than he thought he would - my grandparents grew their vegetables for winter sustenance, I'd hear, "Good goddamn!" So the fact that he didn't give one at any given time was clearly a serious consideration about whatever was being discussed.
Back to the workout week. NOT one GGD did I care to give and I could not pinpoint the reason why. Tired? Yes. Not fully recovered? Maybe. Depressed ... probably not. I couldn't quite figure it out. Wednesday rolled around and I did a short run. Disaster in running shoes. I was hot, cranky and generally not in the mood. Didn't help that the work week was barreling down on me like a herd of angry dogs but still, I can usually rise above. Thursday. Swim day. I binged watched Drop Dead Diva instead of going to the pool OR running. SIGH. For whatever reason, to quote Jo dee Messina, "My give a damn was busted." My mind churned with guilt! I am usually the LAST person to skip a workout for something trivial. I panicked. What's wrong? Maybe I really am OLD. Maybe this is how it starts - you stop caring for one day and wake up and it's ten years!
So after beating myself up for another day at work, I decided to relax and just see where all of this was going. On Friday, I woke to find myself amazingly and without explanation, giving a GOOD GD! Maybe it was the break and the rest. Maybe it was taking the pressure off always having to be ON. Maybe it was just letting myself be human for once. Maybe it was Drop Dead Diva. I'm not sure but I do know this. Sometimes your "give a damn" just needs a break. Mine did. Glad I listened because now I'm BACK and on my way to the pool.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Happy Returns
It's been a while! Or if you're a blogger (a year and almost a half), forever. But after a long hiatus and attempts at other blogs, I am back!
Catching up .....
Raced in 2014 with some pretty decent results. 1st in my age group and 5th overall in my first EVER duathlon. 5th overall in my local running series (until I sprained my ankle in October and had to forfeit the remainder of the races - SIGH). Always the feet and ankles with me.
That said, my routine of stretch, Footz ball rolling and massage are paying off. My Plantar Fasciitis and Posterior Tibial Tendonitis are being well managed. AND, it's the beginning of the 2015 Triathlon Season.
That said, I still feel a little behind. I need to lose some weight. 7 pounds to be exact. And cresting the hill of (AHEM) a monumental birthday does not make it easier. Also contributing to the melee is the new work environment. Cookies, cakes, snacks. UGH... Long meetings where you are forced to eat take out food. And if stuffing in the treats isn't enough, there is always the "open plan" work space where you can contract any number of unique viruses that throw your training into a tailspin. SIGH.
I need to come up with a plan. Stat. In the meantime, as I recover from the latest virus (#2 this winter), I am in the final training week before my FIRST race of the season. The Cherry Pit 10 miler.
Last year, I ran 8:23s. Pretty decent showing coming off tendonitis. I've been running more this year and trying to build faster "mile drills" into my running through the coach appointed workouts. I want to run 8:15s but somewhere deep inside, I am afraid to want that. Afraid that if I don't meet that mark it will mean something more than just a "missed time". I don't know why, but that's how I feel. That said, I know I need a goal pace. A good solid race pace that's achievable. 8:15s seem feasible. Again, nervous. What if I can't do it? What will that mean and why do I care so much this time?
The fact that I've arrived at this point in the season still 7 pounds over my race weight makes me .... depressed. I feel like I just haven't done enough. When the race is done and dusted, if I am slower then the conversation will begin. The one where I am not enough. Didn't do enough. Try hard enough.
Stop. I need to think about what I can do here and now with what I have. I am healthy. I have been training pretty consistently all winter. No matter what. I'll learn something. Even if it's something I don't particularly care to see.
Right now I can follow the process. Do the work out on the schedule. Pretty soon the fitness will come. Don't chase! Don't eat a bad dinner. Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.
Swim 2100/Bike HARD/Run gently. Ready .... set ..... GO!
Catching up .....
Raced in 2014 with some pretty decent results. 1st in my age group and 5th overall in my first EVER duathlon. 5th overall in my local running series (until I sprained my ankle in October and had to forfeit the remainder of the races - SIGH). Always the feet and ankles with me.
That said, my routine of stretch, Footz ball rolling and massage are paying off. My Plantar Fasciitis and Posterior Tibial Tendonitis are being well managed. AND, it's the beginning of the 2015 Triathlon Season.
That said, I still feel a little behind. I need to lose some weight. 7 pounds to be exact. And cresting the hill of (AHEM) a monumental birthday does not make it easier. Also contributing to the melee is the new work environment. Cookies, cakes, snacks. UGH... Long meetings where you are forced to eat take out food. And if stuffing in the treats isn't enough, there is always the "open plan" work space where you can contract any number of unique viruses that throw your training into a tailspin. SIGH.
I need to come up with a plan. Stat. In the meantime, as I recover from the latest virus (#2 this winter), I am in the final training week before my FIRST race of the season. The Cherry Pit 10 miler.
Last year, I ran 8:23s. Pretty decent showing coming off tendonitis. I've been running more this year and trying to build faster "mile drills" into my running through the coach appointed workouts. I want to run 8:15s but somewhere deep inside, I am afraid to want that. Afraid that if I don't meet that mark it will mean something more than just a "missed time". I don't know why, but that's how I feel. That said, I know I need a goal pace. A good solid race pace that's achievable. 8:15s seem feasible. Again, nervous. What if I can't do it? What will that mean and why do I care so much this time?
The fact that I've arrived at this point in the season still 7 pounds over my race weight makes me .... depressed. I feel like I just haven't done enough. When the race is done and dusted, if I am slower then the conversation will begin. The one where I am not enough. Didn't do enough. Try hard enough.
Stop. I need to think about what I can do here and now with what I have. I am healthy. I have been training pretty consistently all winter. No matter what. I'll learn something. Even if it's something I don't particularly care to see.
Right now I can follow the process. Do the work out on the schedule. Pretty soon the fitness will come. Don't chase! Don't eat a bad dinner. Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.
Swim 2100/Bike HARD/Run gently. Ready .... set ..... GO!
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Torqued
UGH!
This past Wednesday I went for a nice run around the neighborhood. Nothing crazy, just your average everyday sweep along the sidewalks of beautiful Riva Trace. The sun was shining, the trees were beautiful and I was thinking affectionately about the 81 year old woman who just died after her last marathon. I was sad that she died but felt happy that the last thing she got to do was something she really loved for the better part of what I think was 50 years.
SCRRRRAAATCH! My memories were violently interrupted like a record needle scratching vinyl. As I turned the corner and passed the entrance to the retirement home, I stepped onto some leaves strewn along the sidewalk. My foot immediately went down into a hole in the sidewalk I could not see beneath the leaves and turned inward. My left foot, firmly planted on the concrete was able to take the weight and I was able to remain upright instead of face planting into the sidewalk or falling with the weight of my entire body onto my ankle.
That said, remaining upright still wasn't pretty. I looked around. There was a little, older lady approaching with her cane. I think I both shocked and appalled her with the litany of expletives that left my mouth. I doubt there are more creative ways to use the "F" word than I came up with. Immediately, panic set in. How hurt was I? Could I make it home? I was a mile from home and it was getting chilly out. I had on lighter clothes because I hadn't counted on walking. CRAP.
I started running again after walking for a couple of minutes. To my surprise, no pain and no swelling. Good sign, I thought. I gave it a couple more minutes to see. Still no pain, no swelling, no burning. Great. I can at least make it home. Gingerly navigating the sidewalk, I made it home.
First order of business: Ice. I dug out the gel ice strip and put it on my foot. Next, I took an aspirin. Ok, the rest remains to be seen.
The next day, the top of my foot was sore but not swollen and though it was sensitive to put weight on it, I could walk and move my toes around. PHEW!
However, here I sit today, SUNDAY still unable to run. UGH. My foot is improving but still sore. I guess the moral of this story is cut down all the trees so there are no leaves. KIDDING. I need to watch my footing. The very last thing I need is yet another injury!
On the plus side, my ankles, feet and core were strong enough to endure a particularly bad twist with no lasting damage. That is definitely PROGRESS!
This past Wednesday I went for a nice run around the neighborhood. Nothing crazy, just your average everyday sweep along the sidewalks of beautiful Riva Trace. The sun was shining, the trees were beautiful and I was thinking affectionately about the 81 year old woman who just died after her last marathon. I was sad that she died but felt happy that the last thing she got to do was something she really loved for the better part of what I think was 50 years.
SCRRRRAAATCH! My memories were violently interrupted like a record needle scratching vinyl. As I turned the corner and passed the entrance to the retirement home, I stepped onto some leaves strewn along the sidewalk. My foot immediately went down into a hole in the sidewalk I could not see beneath the leaves and turned inward. My left foot, firmly planted on the concrete was able to take the weight and I was able to remain upright instead of face planting into the sidewalk or falling with the weight of my entire body onto my ankle.
That said, remaining upright still wasn't pretty. I looked around. There was a little, older lady approaching with her cane. I think I both shocked and appalled her with the litany of expletives that left my mouth. I doubt there are more creative ways to use the "F" word than I came up with. Immediately, panic set in. How hurt was I? Could I make it home? I was a mile from home and it was getting chilly out. I had on lighter clothes because I hadn't counted on walking. CRAP.
I started running again after walking for a couple of minutes. To my surprise, no pain and no swelling. Good sign, I thought. I gave it a couple more minutes to see. Still no pain, no swelling, no burning. Great. I can at least make it home. Gingerly navigating the sidewalk, I made it home.
First order of business: Ice. I dug out the gel ice strip and put it on my foot. Next, I took an aspirin. Ok, the rest remains to be seen.
The next day, the top of my foot was sore but not swollen and though it was sensitive to put weight on it, I could walk and move my toes around. PHEW!
However, here I sit today, SUNDAY still unable to run. UGH. My foot is improving but still sore. I guess the moral of this story is cut down all the trees so there are no leaves. KIDDING. I need to watch my footing. The very last thing I need is yet another injury!
On the plus side, my ankles, feet and core were strong enough to endure a particularly bad twist with no lasting damage. That is definitely PROGRESS!
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Triathlon Roadmaps
It's a Tuesday night and I am sitting here in a hotel room in Boston, MA, half listening to Man vs Food, eating a salad and longing for my running gear. Boston is such an awesome place to run. Little more than three blocks away from my hotel is a wonderful trail that runs along the river. Lots of runners, walkers and cyclists weave their way around each other on the tiny paved path in a dance of the fitness determined. Tonight, I wish I could count myself among them.
SIGH.
I am here for the bi-annual Sales Meeting that my company has every year. Today I had to present my product and product updates for all the sales folks. It was nerve-wracking but fine. I don't like public speaking but it's a necessary evil in my job. Typically, all of the presenting participants are invited to dinner to mingle and press the flesh of the revenue generators they hardly ever get to see. Let's face it, they have better things to do than hang out with a bunch of product folks. Because of this, I decided not to pack running clothes or shoes because I figured (as has been the case in the past) that I'd go straight from the meeting to dinner. But this time, that was not the case. I ended up dateless for dinner with nothing but time on my hands.
UGH! I could have gotten a nice, long RUN in.
Oh well, I guess there are just some things you can't account for. Not being "required" at dinner is one of them. I have to admit, I'm a little disappointed. I like our sales folks. They are fun, positive and vibrant. They keep the faith and add cheer to a company that sometimes has trouble seeing the opportunities for the risks. I love them for that. They believe!
So my thoughts turn from technical product roadmaps to the triathlon off season, my lackadaisical training regime as of late (sorry Coach Liz) and what the next season will hold. I have pondered another 70.3 race and when it's all said and done, I don't wanna. AND, I feel GUILTY about that. I did not have what I would call at GREAT race this year. I trained, stressed and really put the time in only to have it not work out on race day. STILL, I feel some sort of odd obligation. So as I sit here sort of pouting and pondering next year's race calendar, I realize that putting together next year's roster of races is not unlike certain aspects of product management.
As a product manager, you consider your buyer and/or user (me), what characteristics, abilities and limitations she has and build a product that meets her needs or addresses her pain points. As the "user" I've had some good training experiences and some not so good ones this season. I have sensitive feet that need constant monitoring due to past injury and a longing to get more than two rest weekends of my summer back from relentless triathlon training. I love to train and combine my vacations with training and/or exercise (there is a difference). If I had a wish list for swimming, I'd swim in the sea every. SINGLE. day. Rivers freak me out and there are always those damn jellies! I am very busy with the day job and really need to race in events that "sharpen the spear" instead of build toward something big.
When I consider myself as the "user" of my race season, the complexion changes. I become less emotional and more logical about what's best for my body, mind, spirit and life.
I ponder the requirements list for a good race calendar:
If I were to try to design a schedule for the me tri user based on these requirements I would choose Olympic distance tris and/or duathlons. And you know what else? I would NOT feel guilty. I would feel like I'd MET the requirements and answered the pain points.
So as I sit here and type instead of run, maybe the best way to think about the new season and assuage my guilt is to see it through the lens of a product manager. Internalize what the requirements are instead of what I feel on emotional level is "not enough". I can then choose races and set goals around the time for those races that make me feel proud for having made the effort.
The product approach, who would have thought?
SIGH.
I am here for the bi-annual Sales Meeting that my company has every year. Today I had to present my product and product updates for all the sales folks. It was nerve-wracking but fine. I don't like public speaking but it's a necessary evil in my job. Typically, all of the presenting participants are invited to dinner to mingle and press the flesh of the revenue generators they hardly ever get to see. Let's face it, they have better things to do than hang out with a bunch of product folks. Because of this, I decided not to pack running clothes or shoes because I figured (as has been the case in the past) that I'd go straight from the meeting to dinner. But this time, that was not the case. I ended up dateless for dinner with nothing but time on my hands.
UGH! I could have gotten a nice, long RUN in.
Oh well, I guess there are just some things you can't account for. Not being "required" at dinner is one of them. I have to admit, I'm a little disappointed. I like our sales folks. They are fun, positive and vibrant. They keep the faith and add cheer to a company that sometimes has trouble seeing the opportunities for the risks. I love them for that. They believe!
So my thoughts turn from technical product roadmaps to the triathlon off season, my lackadaisical training regime as of late (sorry Coach Liz) and what the next season will hold. I have pondered another 70.3 race and when it's all said and done, I don't wanna. AND, I feel GUILTY about that. I did not have what I would call at GREAT race this year. I trained, stressed and really put the time in only to have it not work out on race day. STILL, I feel some sort of odd obligation. So as I sit here sort of pouting and pondering next year's race calendar, I realize that putting together next year's roster of races is not unlike certain aspects of product management.
As a product manager, you consider your buyer and/or user (me), what characteristics, abilities and limitations she has and build a product that meets her needs or addresses her pain points. As the "user" I've had some good training experiences and some not so good ones this season. I have sensitive feet that need constant monitoring due to past injury and a longing to get more than two rest weekends of my summer back from relentless triathlon training. I love to train and combine my vacations with training and/or exercise (there is a difference). If I had a wish list for swimming, I'd swim in the sea every. SINGLE. day. Rivers freak me out and there are always those damn jellies! I am very busy with the day job and really need to race in events that "sharpen the spear" instead of build toward something big.
When I consider myself as the "user" of my race season, the complexion changes. I become less emotional and more logical about what's best for my body, mind, spirit and life.
I ponder the requirements list for a good race calendar:
- Not so short that's it's boring (sprint) but not so long that I am panic stricken if I miss a long brick (70.3 or over)
- Breaks the monotony
- Fewer jellyfish stings
- Allows for more pure run races
- Keeps my weekend training down to less than three hours
If I were to try to design a schedule for the me tri user based on these requirements I would choose Olympic distance tris and/or duathlons. And you know what else? I would NOT feel guilty. I would feel like I'd MET the requirements and answered the pain points.
So as I sit here and type instead of run, maybe the best way to think about the new season and assuage my guilt is to see it through the lens of a product manager. Internalize what the requirements are instead of what I feel on emotional level is "not enough". I can then choose races and set goals around the time for those races that make me feel proud for having made the effort.
The product approach, who would have thought?
Monday, September 23, 2013
Running Through
Yesterday was long run day. Typically on long run day, I anticipate mileage north of 10 that is slow and not particularly aggressive. I call it my "stroll". It's a good zone 2 workout without a lot of speed. A half and half builder of mental toughness and good running "base".
Yesterday was different.
On Thursday, I logged into Training Peaks to see that the coach had posted this as my long run workout for Sunday: 14 miles/1:50. Followed by, "You have a good base coming off your Half Ironman." She had some other stuff in there too about pacing and for which mile but I looked right past all of that to what really mattered: 1:50.
RIGHT. Need I mention that during said 70.3 I dehydrated and had to WALK a good portion of the run? HMMM. Need I also mention that it's been a couple of weeks since I have done a long run (hello TAPER). To say the least, I was a bit ..... incredulous.
But then, I asked, "What if?". What if I just hauled my ass out there and ran that long run like a race? Could I get close to 1:50? The weather was supposed to be perfect - 70 degrees and cloudy. My kind of day. SO why NOT?
I drove to the Baltimore-Annapolis Trail. The only place I could think of that had already done the hard work of counting the miles (with mile markers). I knew the terrain (always a comfort) and there were enough hills to partially replicate what I would encounter on race day. I did a quick inventory. Hammergel, check. Water, check (there is water along the trail so dehydration would not be an issue). Sunscreen, check. Mental attitude in the positive, double check.
I took off with the fancy Timex watch in tow. I wanted to get an idea of pace so I decided that equipment was in order for this long run. I decided to warm up for three miles and then build. After the build I would RACE the rest of the run. Despite ignoring most of her instructions, I knew my coach would get it. I needed to understand where I might blow up, how and under what sort of circumstances. I needed to see if I could come close to 1:50 without blowing up. But that's the rub. I had to be willing to blow up.
At the end of three miles, I felt great. Time to build. I looked at the fancy Timex. I was pleasantly surprised at my time. I was ahead of where I thought I would be. I was encouraged. Next up, the build. I kept reducing my time by 10 seconds per mile, then 15. I neared mile 6 and picked up the pace again. It was slightly uphill but I kept the increased pace. I covered the next mile, ate some Hammergel and turned around. Time to RACE. I set my sights on sub-nines. At this point in my healing adventure, this is a good time for me for a 14 mile run. When I looked at the fancy watch at mile 8, I couldn't believe it! I was doing FAR better than just sub-nines. I was crushing it. I picked up the pace again. Systemically, I felt fine. My glutes, however, were beginning to give way.
Mile 10. Always the hardest mile. It's in that middle place where you really have to focus. I was tired, my form was slipping and I was losing mental focus. STEADY PRESSURE on the HILLS, I kept repeating to myself (sometimes out loud) to bring my focus back to where I was. Here, running. NOW. FORM. KEEP the FORM.
By mile 11, it was all uphill. Steady pressure. As I ran, the sensation to stop and walk washed over me. I declared NO out loud. I began to run past the sensation. As I ran past it, I ran past what felt like a film of the former me - a diaphanous membrane with the texture of a bubble. The old me. The injured me. The me who has been holding me back. The fearful me. I ran through her. Through the bubble, the fatigue and doubt. I simply just ran through. I felt her trying to claw me back. As if she were saying "Wait, you don't know where this will go. You could fail or get hurt. You could...." I kept running. I slipped through the membrane and mile 13.
ONE MILE TO GO. I was still running. As fast as I could go. Leg turnover, excellent. Speed, good. Glutes and hamstrings, OUCH.
As the "finish line" approached, I looked down at the display of the fancy Timex: 2:06. NOT bad. NOT bad at all. Sub nines for training means sub nines for the race. Tired, sore, achy and happy, I stretched and listened to the birds singing around me.
I glanced back up the trail, through the trees to the wooden bridge where legs burning and at their limit, I defied myself and ran through. I smiled. I didn't blow up. I made it. And I will again. Metric Marathon, here I come.
Yesterday was different.
On Thursday, I logged into Training Peaks to see that the coach had posted this as my long run workout for Sunday: 14 miles/1:50. Followed by, "You have a good base coming off your Half Ironman." She had some other stuff in there too about pacing and for which mile but I looked right past all of that to what really mattered: 1:50.
RIGHT. Need I mention that during said 70.3 I dehydrated and had to WALK a good portion of the run? HMMM. Need I also mention that it's been a couple of weeks since I have done a long run (hello TAPER). To say the least, I was a bit ..... incredulous.
But then, I asked, "What if?". What if I just hauled my ass out there and ran that long run like a race? Could I get close to 1:50? The weather was supposed to be perfect - 70 degrees and cloudy. My kind of day. SO why NOT?
I drove to the Baltimore-Annapolis Trail. The only place I could think of that had already done the hard work of counting the miles (with mile markers). I knew the terrain (always a comfort) and there were enough hills to partially replicate what I would encounter on race day. I did a quick inventory. Hammergel, check. Water, check (there is water along the trail so dehydration would not be an issue). Sunscreen, check. Mental attitude in the positive, double check.
I took off with the fancy Timex watch in tow. I wanted to get an idea of pace so I decided that equipment was in order for this long run. I decided to warm up for three miles and then build. After the build I would RACE the rest of the run. Despite ignoring most of her instructions, I knew my coach would get it. I needed to understand where I might blow up, how and under what sort of circumstances. I needed to see if I could come close to 1:50 without blowing up. But that's the rub. I had to be willing to blow up.
At the end of three miles, I felt great. Time to build. I looked at the fancy Timex. I was pleasantly surprised at my time. I was ahead of where I thought I would be. I was encouraged. Next up, the build. I kept reducing my time by 10 seconds per mile, then 15. I neared mile 6 and picked up the pace again. It was slightly uphill but I kept the increased pace. I covered the next mile, ate some Hammergel and turned around. Time to RACE. I set my sights on sub-nines. At this point in my healing adventure, this is a good time for me for a 14 mile run. When I looked at the fancy watch at mile 8, I couldn't believe it! I was doing FAR better than just sub-nines. I was crushing it. I picked up the pace again. Systemically, I felt fine. My glutes, however, were beginning to give way.
Mile 10. Always the hardest mile. It's in that middle place where you really have to focus. I was tired, my form was slipping and I was losing mental focus. STEADY PRESSURE on the HILLS, I kept repeating to myself (sometimes out loud) to bring my focus back to where I was. Here, running. NOW. FORM. KEEP the FORM.
By mile 11, it was all uphill. Steady pressure. As I ran, the sensation to stop and walk washed over me. I declared NO out loud. I began to run past the sensation. As I ran past it, I ran past what felt like a film of the former me - a diaphanous membrane with the texture of a bubble. The old me. The injured me. The me who has been holding me back. The fearful me. I ran through her. Through the bubble, the fatigue and doubt. I simply just ran through. I felt her trying to claw me back. As if she were saying "Wait, you don't know where this will go. You could fail or get hurt. You could...." I kept running. I slipped through the membrane and mile 13.
ONE MILE TO GO. I was still running. As fast as I could go. Leg turnover, excellent. Speed, good. Glutes and hamstrings, OUCH.
As the "finish line" approached, I looked down at the display of the fancy Timex: 2:06. NOT bad. NOT bad at all. Sub nines for training means sub nines for the race. Tired, sore, achy and happy, I stretched and listened to the birds singing around me.
I glanced back up the trail, through the trees to the wooden bridge where legs burning and at their limit, I defied myself and ran through. I smiled. I didn't blow up. I made it. And I will again. Metric Marathon, here I come.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Somewhere left of stellar
This past Saturday, I participated in my first 70.3 race since 2009.
Having promised a good friend that I'd do it with her (it was her first and my 4th), I mustered up the guts to start a Master's swim class in January (YES, I love getting in the pool when it's 23 degrees outside) and hired an excellent tri couch in April. I trained hard. When it was all said and done, I did more than 96 hours of biking, 69 hours of running and 55 hours of swimming. The race should have gone off without a hitch. Physically, I was ready.
As my coach often says in her blog, being physically fit is not all that matters. I agree. Your mental game is just as important, if not more so than your physical fitness. For me, I've always been able to power through, to really suffer when others give up, to put 10-15 seconds worth of time into someone because I know that mentally it will hurt them far more than it will physically hurt me (to quote Coach Liz). I can suffer. I am willing to suffer. But suffering was not the issue with this race. The challenges were far more subtle and frankly, exactly what I needed to finally face the work I need to do if I intend to get better at this triathlon racing business.
The swim started off in a river with a pretty substantial current. Having really brought my swim up this year, I felt confident and strong. Even when the current sent me hurtling toward the channel marker pilings (where I cut my foot on barnacles), I still managed to right myself and swim on. I came into transition in well under an hour and for me, in that crazy river environment, this was a success!
The bike revealed what I've known for some time and literally tried to ignore or hide or just not address. I am an aerobar wimp. I suck at using them. I am not a confident bike handler and I spook very easily at the prospect of falling, so the aerobars really freak me out. Nevertheless, because of this fear, I suffer and not in the "I know I'm doing well and it's worth suffering way." The course traveled over 55 mph roads with no shoulder. At one point, I heard a diesel engine and a low honk of a truck horn. I looked over to see the hubs of a giant tractor trailer passing by my head. REALLY?!?! Who the hell thought this was a good course? Needless to say, between my near non-existent aerobar skills (I have trouble eating and drinking while in aero) and the constant stream of 55 mph traffic, I never could get a rhythm going on the bike. As I churned past blind turns as fast as I could to escape danger, something occurred to me. Despite all of my physical prowess, nerves and a lack of proper hydration were starting to take me down. I tried hard to hydrate but by the time the bike segment was almost over, I knew my run was toast.
There is nothing like going into a run, knowing you are behind the eight ball. I knew on the second mile that I was in for it. I tried to push through. I began hydrating like crazy. Alternating Osmo with water. The Osmo worked nearly instantly and I did feel a little better but it was already too late. By mile 7 of 13.1 I was walking. Sad, angry, disappointed and downtrodden, I continued. I knew I wouldn't quit but I also knew that all of that work, all of those hours, all of that sacrifice was going to be unraveled by a bad run.
I picked up the pace and started running again. My stomach churned. I couldn't get my blood sugar stabilized. I walked and ran until I finally finished. Far off the time I'd planned and much worse for the wear mentally.
The good news about this race is that unlike many situations in life, triathlon puts right in your face precisely what your weaknesses are. You are forced to face them in all of their ugliness and decide, "Will I take this on and get better? Or will I just keep playing this game with myself and trying to avoid what needs to be addressed?"
After the Patriot race, I know the answer. I need a plan. I am good at planning. And I am DAMN GOOD at sticking to a plan. What I am less good at is owning up to the fact that I am afraid. I am afraid of falling, of being out of control, of not being able to balance and swerving into a lane with a car that will kill me. I am not confident on the bike. I am afraid of my lack of confidence and my ability to react in an emergency situation where good bike handling skills will be required to avoid injury or death. Because of these fears, I have become something that I fear more than anything else in this world: mediocre. I am a mediocre athlete. I don't do well with mediocrity.
So more than anything that could possibly motivate me, my disdain for mediocrity will drive me to push past my comfort zone. I admit defeat. I admit fear. I will allow myself to be open and as the amazing Diana Nyad says: FIND A WAY! If you don't like it, FIND A WAY. I hate it. I hate being mediocre. I hate being afraid and mostly, I hate letting myself down.
I will find a way! I won't scale the mountain only to drown in a puddle. I will create a plan and race with the confidence that no matter what, I addressed all my fears and brought everything I had to the race. EVERYTHING.
EVERYTHING.
Having promised a good friend that I'd do it with her (it was her first and my 4th), I mustered up the guts to start a Master's swim class in January (YES, I love getting in the pool when it's 23 degrees outside) and hired an excellent tri couch in April. I trained hard. When it was all said and done, I did more than 96 hours of biking, 69 hours of running and 55 hours of swimming. The race should have gone off without a hitch. Physically, I was ready.
As my coach often says in her blog, being physically fit is not all that matters. I agree. Your mental game is just as important, if not more so than your physical fitness. For me, I've always been able to power through, to really suffer when others give up, to put 10-15 seconds worth of time into someone because I know that mentally it will hurt them far more than it will physically hurt me (to quote Coach Liz). I can suffer. I am willing to suffer. But suffering was not the issue with this race. The challenges were far more subtle and frankly, exactly what I needed to finally face the work I need to do if I intend to get better at this triathlon racing business.
The swim started off in a river with a pretty substantial current. Having really brought my swim up this year, I felt confident and strong. Even when the current sent me hurtling toward the channel marker pilings (where I cut my foot on barnacles), I still managed to right myself and swim on. I came into transition in well under an hour and for me, in that crazy river environment, this was a success!
The bike revealed what I've known for some time and literally tried to ignore or hide or just not address. I am an aerobar wimp. I suck at using them. I am not a confident bike handler and I spook very easily at the prospect of falling, so the aerobars really freak me out. Nevertheless, because of this fear, I suffer and not in the "I know I'm doing well and it's worth suffering way." The course traveled over 55 mph roads with no shoulder. At one point, I heard a diesel engine and a low honk of a truck horn. I looked over to see the hubs of a giant tractor trailer passing by my head. REALLY?!?! Who the hell thought this was a good course? Needless to say, between my near non-existent aerobar skills (I have trouble eating and drinking while in aero) and the constant stream of 55 mph traffic, I never could get a rhythm going on the bike. As I churned past blind turns as fast as I could to escape danger, something occurred to me. Despite all of my physical prowess, nerves and a lack of proper hydration were starting to take me down. I tried hard to hydrate but by the time the bike segment was almost over, I knew my run was toast.
There is nothing like going into a run, knowing you are behind the eight ball. I knew on the second mile that I was in for it. I tried to push through. I began hydrating like crazy. Alternating Osmo with water. The Osmo worked nearly instantly and I did feel a little better but it was already too late. By mile 7 of 13.1 I was walking. Sad, angry, disappointed and downtrodden, I continued. I knew I wouldn't quit but I also knew that all of that work, all of those hours, all of that sacrifice was going to be unraveled by a bad run.
I picked up the pace and started running again. My stomach churned. I couldn't get my blood sugar stabilized. I walked and ran until I finally finished. Far off the time I'd planned and much worse for the wear mentally.
The good news about this race is that unlike many situations in life, triathlon puts right in your face precisely what your weaknesses are. You are forced to face them in all of their ugliness and decide, "Will I take this on and get better? Or will I just keep playing this game with myself and trying to avoid what needs to be addressed?"
After the Patriot race, I know the answer. I need a plan. I am good at planning. And I am DAMN GOOD at sticking to a plan. What I am less good at is owning up to the fact that I am afraid. I am afraid of falling, of being out of control, of not being able to balance and swerving into a lane with a car that will kill me. I am not confident on the bike. I am afraid of my lack of confidence and my ability to react in an emergency situation where good bike handling skills will be required to avoid injury or death. Because of these fears, I have become something that I fear more than anything else in this world: mediocre. I am a mediocre athlete. I don't do well with mediocrity.
So more than anything that could possibly motivate me, my disdain for mediocrity will drive me to push past my comfort zone. I admit defeat. I admit fear. I will allow myself to be open and as the amazing Diana Nyad says: FIND A WAY! If you don't like it, FIND A WAY. I hate it. I hate being mediocre. I hate being afraid and mostly, I hate letting myself down.
I will find a way! I won't scale the mountain only to drown in a puddle. I will create a plan and race with the confidence that no matter what, I addressed all my fears and brought everything I had to the race. EVERYTHING.
EVERYTHING.
Monday, April 22, 2013
The Finish Line
Running has always been a sacred space for me. From the time I ran around the block for the first time, I was hooked. I remember the first time I ran 8 miles. It was on Christmas Day and the trail was empty. Just me, what wild life was left and a forest of hibernating trees. I could see my breath and feel my heart beat as my legs moved me effortlessly forward. I felt joy rise up and fill my heart as I ran the last hundred yards to the car. I'd never run farther in my life before that day. There would be longer distances and many more days but for some reason, that eight mile run really stands out. I felt like I was one with the Universe.
Running is my moving meditation. My opportunity to leave the mind behind and really focus on being in the moment.
Running is the great equalizer. It does not care how much money you have, how influential you are or whether you are grouchy or kind. It treats everyone the same - you get from running what you give. That fairness, that equalization, is also why running is the great connector. It galvanizes communities, families, friends and causes. It inspires others to come out and cheer and selflessly celebrate the accomplishment of another. Running draws people together in warmth and celebration. It is a exercise in hope and goodness. Or it was.
Watching the terror at the Boston Marathon was one of the most difficult things I've witnessed. I watched as the carnage of runners, friends, family and spectators of all kinds lay strewn near the finish line. Tears stung my eyes as I heard that a little 8 year old boy was killed. WHY?!? I kept asking. Who would want to blow up a marathon?!? And worst of all, why blow up the FINISH LINE?!
The Finish Line. The most sacred place in any race. I thought about how many times I've crossed a finish line. At least 30 times and each and every one of them was a celebration. Sometimes I saw someone I loved patiently and eagerly awaiting my arrival. Almost always there were volunteers and other spectators cheering me on to the finish. Many times, athletes who'd finished earlier in the day had returned to keep cheering for those of us who were mere mortals. The finish line is a place of celebration, hope, encouragement and love. It is also a place of remembrance.
Those last 100 or so yards before you cross the finish line, when the crowds are cheering and the end is quickly approaching is surreal. Every sacrifice no matter how small passes through your mind. Every painful training run; early morning or late night workout; every frustrated tear or small victory; every missed happy hour and all those times someone called you "crazy" or "obsessed". All of those memories remind you how you came to be 100 yards from a sign that reads, "FINISH". I can't tell you how many times I've had tears in my eyes crossing that line. The Finish Line is the one place where joy and turmoil are not at cross purposes. Where the sweetness of perseverance and determination is rewarded with those last precious strides.
By blowing up the finish line at the Boston Marathon, those terrorists raped all runners of the bliss we feel crossing over that sacred spot. Many of us will run again and will cross many more finish lines, but we will never be as innocent again. We will have a twinge of fear for those who wait for us and so selflessly cheer us on and wonder if they will be safe. We will be looking around to see if it's safe to cross - like we would if we were crossing a dangerous street. Yes, we will pick ourselves up like runners always do but we will never be the same.
The Finish Line will still be my place of hope, truth and satisfaction. I will never let those bastards have that. But I will never again be the same. I will never be able go back to those days of fearless innocence - blissfully gliding across the line without a care in the world.
Running is my moving meditation. My opportunity to leave the mind behind and really focus on being in the moment.
Running is the great equalizer. It does not care how much money you have, how influential you are or whether you are grouchy or kind. It treats everyone the same - you get from running what you give. That fairness, that equalization, is also why running is the great connector. It galvanizes communities, families, friends and causes. It inspires others to come out and cheer and selflessly celebrate the accomplishment of another. Running draws people together in warmth and celebration. It is a exercise in hope and goodness. Or it was.
Watching the terror at the Boston Marathon was one of the most difficult things I've witnessed. I watched as the carnage of runners, friends, family and spectators of all kinds lay strewn near the finish line. Tears stung my eyes as I heard that a little 8 year old boy was killed. WHY?!? I kept asking. Who would want to blow up a marathon?!? And worst of all, why blow up the FINISH LINE?!
The Finish Line. The most sacred place in any race. I thought about how many times I've crossed a finish line. At least 30 times and each and every one of them was a celebration. Sometimes I saw someone I loved patiently and eagerly awaiting my arrival. Almost always there were volunteers and other spectators cheering me on to the finish. Many times, athletes who'd finished earlier in the day had returned to keep cheering for those of us who were mere mortals. The finish line is a place of celebration, hope, encouragement and love. It is also a place of remembrance.
Those last 100 or so yards before you cross the finish line, when the crowds are cheering and the end is quickly approaching is surreal. Every sacrifice no matter how small passes through your mind. Every painful training run; early morning or late night workout; every frustrated tear or small victory; every missed happy hour and all those times someone called you "crazy" or "obsessed". All of those memories remind you how you came to be 100 yards from a sign that reads, "FINISH". I can't tell you how many times I've had tears in my eyes crossing that line. The Finish Line is the one place where joy and turmoil are not at cross purposes. Where the sweetness of perseverance and determination is rewarded with those last precious strides.
By blowing up the finish line at the Boston Marathon, those terrorists raped all runners of the bliss we feel crossing over that sacred spot. Many of us will run again and will cross many more finish lines, but we will never be as innocent again. We will have a twinge of fear for those who wait for us and so selflessly cheer us on and wonder if they will be safe. We will be looking around to see if it's safe to cross - like we would if we were crossing a dangerous street. Yes, we will pick ourselves up like runners always do but we will never be the same.
The Finish Line will still be my place of hope, truth and satisfaction. I will never let those bastards have that. But I will never again be the same. I will never be able go back to those days of fearless innocence - blissfully gliding across the line without a care in the world.
Monday, April 1, 2013
40 Days
Easter marks for me (and many other folks, I'm sure) new beginnings. Spring, blooming flowers and trees and of course, Christ's rising.
This weekend, I watched a History Channel show about Jesus' Crucifixion and his subsequent rise from the dead. The story is told that he appeared for 40 days to various individuals and then ascended. 40 days is a long time. During that time and those appearances, what Jesus actually said to those he appeared to can be summed up in one line: "Jesus said a lot of stuff."
Great. My thought is this: If a man who inspired so many with his teachings is murdered ; rises from the dead three days later and then spends the next 40 days appearing to his followers, don't you think that no matter WHAT he said you'd write it down?!? If he said, "I'm going to the bathroom", I'd have recorded it. Seriously! It's not every day that something like that happens.
I gave this some thought as we went about our weekend. We stopped to put together furniture and install a light fixture for Ken's mom. Then we helped a friend hang a door. I thought to myself, this is in the spirit of what Jesus was getting at, be a good Samaritan. Lend your talent, skills and time to others to lighten their load and make their lives better. Take care of each other. Leave joy in your path. Jesus was all about honoring the Divine in others. What you see in your world and in others is a reflection of who you are and what you've created. You are not removed from that process or a victim of it.
Which begs the question. Why would a man with so much insight into the human spirit and subsequently the celestial heavens bother to come back to say so seemingly little? The short answer, at least as I see it, is that he didn't.
I suspect, Jesus had a lot to say. He probably talked about how at the end of the day, we are all one spirit. We are all Divine. Famous for saying,"God is within you", Jesus probably got to experience what that meant first hand. He probably told the disciples that everyone is in effect his/her own version of God. Being made in the image is a metaphor, how could we not be a part of that life force? We are all 1% away from being physically identical. Why would we be so different metaphysically? The biggest thing that I bet Jesus said was that if we honor the Divinity in each other and the Divinity in ourselves, we don't need regulators like war, religion and law. We would not do anything to harm the Divine if we could see it for what it really was. A spark of God in all of us.
I suspect that though Jesus may have relayed these truths in great detail, they weren't what worked well with the human motives of the time. There was a need for the larger populous to feel inferior to God so that the religious hierarchy and the manipulation of that hierarchy would work. In essence, the disciples did not spread the simpler, purer message that we ARE the spark of God and that as such we are our own Creators. In fact, I am sure they would have met much the same fate as Jesus had they tried.
Jesus probably also explained in greater detail Karma or the laws of cause and effect. It's not personal. There is a Universal balance to be maintained. You reap, without judgement, what you have put into effect. Conscious of the power we all possess - the Power of the Creator, Jesus refused to manipulate or coerce. At the close of his 40 days, I suspect he reminded everyone that we are all Divine and it's embracing that Divinity that creates peace in our souls and a better world around us. We are responsible for being our own Creators. And frankly, we don't need an intermediary to bridge the Divine conversation. The Kingdom of God is within us always. It never leaves us because it IS us. We can access it any where, any time.
I think Jesus did say many, many things during his 40 days. Much of it so simple and powerful that it frightened the people responsible for spreading that particular part of the gospel. So in the end, we got the CliffNotes. Could explain why we aren't exactly making an "A" on the ensuing test.
This weekend, I watched a History Channel show about Jesus' Crucifixion and his subsequent rise from the dead. The story is told that he appeared for 40 days to various individuals and then ascended. 40 days is a long time. During that time and those appearances, what Jesus actually said to those he appeared to can be summed up in one line: "Jesus said a lot of stuff."
Great. My thought is this: If a man who inspired so many with his teachings is murdered ; rises from the dead three days later and then spends the next 40 days appearing to his followers, don't you think that no matter WHAT he said you'd write it down?!? If he said, "I'm going to the bathroom", I'd have recorded it. Seriously! It's not every day that something like that happens.
I gave this some thought as we went about our weekend. We stopped to put together furniture and install a light fixture for Ken's mom. Then we helped a friend hang a door. I thought to myself, this is in the spirit of what Jesus was getting at, be a good Samaritan. Lend your talent, skills and time to others to lighten their load and make their lives better. Take care of each other. Leave joy in your path. Jesus was all about honoring the Divine in others. What you see in your world and in others is a reflection of who you are and what you've created. You are not removed from that process or a victim of it.
Which begs the question. Why would a man with so much insight into the human spirit and subsequently the celestial heavens bother to come back to say so seemingly little? The short answer, at least as I see it, is that he didn't.
I suspect, Jesus had a lot to say. He probably talked about how at the end of the day, we are all one spirit. We are all Divine. Famous for saying,"God is within you", Jesus probably got to experience what that meant first hand. He probably told the disciples that everyone is in effect his/her own version of God. Being made in the image is a metaphor, how could we not be a part of that life force? We are all 1% away from being physically identical. Why would we be so different metaphysically? The biggest thing that I bet Jesus said was that if we honor the Divinity in each other and the Divinity in ourselves, we don't need regulators like war, religion and law. We would not do anything to harm the Divine if we could see it for what it really was. A spark of God in all of us.
I suspect that though Jesus may have relayed these truths in great detail, they weren't what worked well with the human motives of the time. There was a need for the larger populous to feel inferior to God so that the religious hierarchy and the manipulation of that hierarchy would work. In essence, the disciples did not spread the simpler, purer message that we ARE the spark of God and that as such we are our own Creators. In fact, I am sure they would have met much the same fate as Jesus had they tried.
Jesus probably also explained in greater detail Karma or the laws of cause and effect. It's not personal. There is a Universal balance to be maintained. You reap, without judgement, what you have put into effect. Conscious of the power we all possess - the Power of the Creator, Jesus refused to manipulate or coerce. At the close of his 40 days, I suspect he reminded everyone that we are all Divine and it's embracing that Divinity that creates peace in our souls and a better world around us. We are responsible for being our own Creators. And frankly, we don't need an intermediary to bridge the Divine conversation. The Kingdom of God is within us always. It never leaves us because it IS us. We can access it any where, any time.
I think Jesus did say many, many things during his 40 days. Much of it so simple and powerful that it frightened the people responsible for spreading that particular part of the gospel. So in the end, we got the CliffNotes. Could explain why we aren't exactly making an "A" on the ensuing test.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Grateful for the burn
Friday ended up being long run day by weather default. According to the forecast (which is NEVER right, by the way. How DO those people keep their jobs?!?!) it was the only day of the weekend that didn't promise an outright or near down pour.
I am forever changing up my long run routes to ward off the ennui of turning my legs over a billion times for a couple of hours each weekend. This week, I decided I'd do a destination run. Circle a new neighborhood and then end at happy hour! Two missions accomplished and delicious fish tacos waiting at the end.
The day was sunny and nice. 55 and low winds. I set out. I chose a route that seemed hilly but not too terrible. BOY was I wrong! The first hill I coasted down made me worry. I knew that when I turned around to go back, that hill would be a killer AND it was close to the finish which meant I'd be spent. I put that thought out of my mind and kept my focus on the road - a sort of busy one with (thankfully) wide shoulders.
I cruised down the hilly road lined with country offices that seemed to go on forever. I finally took the left I'd calculated with the map tool and looked straight up, almost literally, at a monster climb. SIGH. I thought for sure that I'd get a break this close to the water. I continued on, picked up the main road and realized my water bottle was almost empty. I was very far from "home". I spotted a Chinese food place in the shopping center and decided to beg for water. Language barrier notwithstanding, the owner took pity on me and filled my bottle from a rickety tap. I prayed the water was potable.
I set off again. My left toe had a blister and my legs burned. My glutes were so spent that I was shuffling along and systemically I was starting to feel the impact of the effort. I ate my last Hammergel and tried to put that last hill out of my mind. Then, before I knew it, looming in the distance there it was - a seemingly endless ribbon of pain. I tucked my head down, checked my form and kicked it up. Mid-way up the hill I could hear my labored breath above the din of 80s rock. I could feel the burning in my glutes and aching quads. I started to give in to the pain by letting the anguish seep into my mind. Then, I caught myself. I WANT THIS. I have been obsessed with getting back to my long run routine since my last bout of tendonitis. I thought about Das Boot and how that first 17 minute run was my old walking pace and how I felt like I'd never get back to normal. I decided then and there to be grateful for the burning and aching. To be grateful that I could push myself hard enough to feel this sort of pain. I smiled. The wind was picking up but I didn't care. I felt grateful. Grateful to be alive. Grateful to be running and grateful that both my feet seemed happy to oblige.
I crested the hill and saw Parole come in to view. AH YES, happy hour was mere minutes away. I checked my watch. Right on time, I would arrive by 5p.
I cruised up to the restaurant and stretched. Ken was just getting there and greeted me with a fresh change of clothes. I sat at the bar eating fish tacos, drinking sangria and basking in the glow of a long run, well done. I CAN. I DID and I AM GRATEFUL.
I am forever changing up my long run routes to ward off the ennui of turning my legs over a billion times for a couple of hours each weekend. This week, I decided I'd do a destination run. Circle a new neighborhood and then end at happy hour! Two missions accomplished and delicious fish tacos waiting at the end.
The day was sunny and nice. 55 and low winds. I set out. I chose a route that seemed hilly but not too terrible. BOY was I wrong! The first hill I coasted down made me worry. I knew that when I turned around to go back, that hill would be a killer AND it was close to the finish which meant I'd be spent. I put that thought out of my mind and kept my focus on the road - a sort of busy one with (thankfully) wide shoulders.
I cruised down the hilly road lined with country offices that seemed to go on forever. I finally took the left I'd calculated with the map tool and looked straight up, almost literally, at a monster climb. SIGH. I thought for sure that I'd get a break this close to the water. I continued on, picked up the main road and realized my water bottle was almost empty. I was very far from "home". I spotted a Chinese food place in the shopping center and decided to beg for water. Language barrier notwithstanding, the owner took pity on me and filled my bottle from a rickety tap. I prayed the water was potable.
I set off again. My left toe had a blister and my legs burned. My glutes were so spent that I was shuffling along and systemically I was starting to feel the impact of the effort. I ate my last Hammergel and tried to put that last hill out of my mind. Then, before I knew it, looming in the distance there it was - a seemingly endless ribbon of pain. I tucked my head down, checked my form and kicked it up. Mid-way up the hill I could hear my labored breath above the din of 80s rock. I could feel the burning in my glutes and aching quads. I started to give in to the pain by letting the anguish seep into my mind. Then, I caught myself. I WANT THIS. I have been obsessed with getting back to my long run routine since my last bout of tendonitis. I thought about Das Boot and how that first 17 minute run was my old walking pace and how I felt like I'd never get back to normal. I decided then and there to be grateful for the burning and aching. To be grateful that I could push myself hard enough to feel this sort of pain. I smiled. The wind was picking up but I didn't care. I felt grateful. Grateful to be alive. Grateful to be running and grateful that both my feet seemed happy to oblige.
I crested the hill and saw Parole come in to view. AH YES, happy hour was mere minutes away. I checked my watch. Right on time, I would arrive by 5p.
I cruised up to the restaurant and stretched. Ken was just getting there and greeted me with a fresh change of clothes. I sat at the bar eating fish tacos, drinking sangria and basking in the glow of a long run, well done. I CAN. I DID and I AM GRATEFUL.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
26,000 years in the making
In late September of 2012 I received what I'd been hoping for and working toward for the better part of a year - an offer on my house! For almost a year, Ken (the better half) and I had been living in a virtual prison also known as the "show house".
For those who may not be familiar with putting your house on the market, it requires tolerating an almost constant stream of interruptions to your regularly scheduled program when the automated scheduling system gives you 30 minutes notice of a "showing". It also means that you are on constant patrol and must maintain a Buddist-like dedication to keeping your show house spotless (see 30 minutes notice for potential buyers to come by, take what is probably a 15 minute tour and make catty comments about your choice of shower curtain colors). I dreamed about the offer, how it would come in and I would show up to sign on the dotted line and live happily ever after. SCREEECH. Stop the music. No such luck! I have never done anything harder than sell a house and move twelve years worth of collected STUFF.
For forty-five days after everyone agreed, I worked like a woman possessed hiring contractors to fix the "wish list" of shit the new buyers insisted they could not live without. OK, the skylight was legit and maybe the loose stair railing but, still. Finally, on October 26th (two days before Hurricane Sandy, thank you Mother Nature). I closed on the house, arranged the movers and watched as the moving truck slowly pulled away.
Before I left for the last time, I walked around that empty house and remembered all of the times I'd had there. Like moving in during the summer of 2000 and throwing a paint party with my best friends. After a couple of bottles of wine, Kim spilled orange paint on the carpet and we all laughed. She was mortified. Coming home from the UK and finishing up the decorating. I would walk around the house and just marvel sometimes that I lived there. Coming home and soaking in the jetted tub after a particularly hard marathon, pissed off that I missed my goal time (I should have been grateful). Showering after my first 70.3 race with tears in my eyes at what I had accomplished. Healing from tendonitis and lamenting the loss of my fitness. The first time Ken stayed over and all the great times we had grilling on the deck, laughing with our friends and dreaming about our future.
As I locked the door for the last time, I smiled. It was the end of an era and the beginning of something exciting and new. Just in time for 2013, a new 26,000 year cycle. Perfect timing.
With the stress of home ownership, repairs and showings behind me, I rededicated myself to getting fit. My friend Bobbi, who remembered that I'd said if my foot held up to the Grand Canyon, I would train and participate in a 70.3 race with her, sent me a link to her race of choice. So true to my word, I signed up. A local race for a great cause - fallen warriors (a cause I am a sucker for).
I created a training plan, got new shoes, Spenco covered orthotics and went to work. I set my sights on a "warm up" race in Pensacola, FL in January. A 13.1 mile race that seemed as laid back as the residents. I also signed up for a master's swim class with a swim instructor the tri club raved about. I bought a set of fins, hand paddles that look like something Hannibal Lector would wear and a new swimsuit to replace the one in the back of my drawer that looked like I fished it out of a gutter.
Then I went outside for a run. Then another. Then an indoor trainer ride and then a swim. And so it has gone. The foot is holding. I am cautiously optimistic. Here's hoping for a strong come back for this mechanically deficient, middle of the packer. Could it be that in closing an era and a slightly more significant celestial cycle that I might also have closed the book on posterior tibial tendonitis? I certainly hope so. Only time will tell.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Grand Adventure
It all started with a conversation at happy hour. A couple of glasses of wine, a little dreaming and before I knew it, I was researching a Rim to Rim hike of the Grand Canyon.
Yep, you read that right, THE GRAND CANYON.
Given my foot issues, the very prospect of this was daunting. Four hiking days; decending and ascending over 7200 feet; a 30lb pack on my back with everything I need to live for those precious, life altering, unwashed days and no way out if anything went wrong. EEK! I was scared. Soon though, the fear began to fade and an odd excitement took its place.
This was my chance. If I could make it through this, I could declare my foot, healed. A broken tendon does not withstand this sort of abuse without being, dare I say, somewhat fixed.
We booked the trip and started "training". Weekend hikes, endurance rides and some running. We even tried to slim down a little. Nothing could have prepared us for what we encountered and I could not have hoped for a more glorious ending.
As August rolled around, I started feeling antsy. Only 30 days until "THE" day. The day we'll don our packs and head out. I could feel my stomach do a couple of loops at the prospect. We were smart. We hired the Cadillac of adventure companies, Just Roughin It. So the logistics, equipment and food were covered. Now it was not just a matter of physical fitness.
The better half and I put the pedal to the metal for all of August and really upped the ante on our fitness program. Interval training, long rides in the blazing sun and weight specific training had us feeling good. We also did some test hikes with full packs to get a feel for how we'd do from a weight and balance perspective. In addition, I used the techniques in the foot book like a religion. Stretching, icing, stretching, massaging. Anything to make sure the flexibility of my tendons remained intact.
August 30. Our flight leaves for Phoenix. We are in the air for four plus hours and cross a couple of time zones. By the time we get to our hotel, it's 11p our time. We are tired but oddly hungry so we head out for a little food followed by some much needed rest.
August 31. We meet our driver in the lobby of the hotel at 4:30a! We didn't sleep well the night before for obvious reasons. We take our duffle bags and head for the van. We are excited, tired and a little nervous. Or at least I am.
We arrive at the trail four hours later. We'll begin our hike in the heat of the day. All of us are nervous. The group consists of my friend Laura, my better half's brother, the better half and me. We pick up a singleton, a lovely woman from Vancouver, BC named Lenora. She hasn't seen 90 degrees for most of her life. We sit in silence at the prospect of hiking in what might be 115 degrees!
We pick up our guide, The Steve. An awesome guy with a wicked sense of humor and superhuman strength (he carried all of his gear and all of our meals). We are ready.
The hike begins with a descent into the Canyon. We will have descended just about 4000 feet when we reach the first camp site. It is hot when we start. The trail is narrow and treacherous.
Yep, you read that right, THE GRAND CANYON.
Given my foot issues, the very prospect of this was daunting. Four hiking days; decending and ascending over 7200 feet; a 30lb pack on my back with everything I need to live for those precious, life altering, unwashed days and no way out if anything went wrong. EEK! I was scared. Soon though, the fear began to fade and an odd excitement took its place.
This was my chance. If I could make it through this, I could declare my foot, healed. A broken tendon does not withstand this sort of abuse without being, dare I say, somewhat fixed.
We booked the trip and started "training". Weekend hikes, endurance rides and some running. We even tried to slim down a little. Nothing could have prepared us for what we encountered and I could not have hoped for a more glorious ending.
As August rolled around, I started feeling antsy. Only 30 days until "THE" day. The day we'll don our packs and head out. I could feel my stomach do a couple of loops at the prospect. We were smart. We hired the Cadillac of adventure companies, Just Roughin It. So the logistics, equipment and food were covered. Now it was not just a matter of physical fitness.
The better half and I put the pedal to the metal for all of August and really upped the ante on our fitness program. Interval training, long rides in the blazing sun and weight specific training had us feeling good. We also did some test hikes with full packs to get a feel for how we'd do from a weight and balance perspective. In addition, I used the techniques in the foot book like a religion. Stretching, icing, stretching, massaging. Anything to make sure the flexibility of my tendons remained intact.
August 30. Our flight leaves for Phoenix. We are in the air for four plus hours and cross a couple of time zones. By the time we get to our hotel, it's 11p our time. We are tired but oddly hungry so we head out for a little food followed by some much needed rest.
August 31. We meet our driver in the lobby of the hotel at 4:30a! We didn't sleep well the night before for obvious reasons. We take our duffle bags and head for the van. We are excited, tired and a little nervous. Or at least I am.
We arrive at the trail four hours later. We'll begin our hike in the heat of the day. All of us are nervous. The group consists of my friend Laura, my better half's brother, the better half and me. We pick up a singleton, a lovely woman from Vancouver, BC named Lenora. She hasn't seen 90 degrees for most of her life. We sit in silence at the prospect of hiking in what might be 115 degrees!
We pick up our guide, The Steve. An awesome guy with a wicked sense of humor and superhuman strength (he carried all of his gear and all of our meals). We are ready.
The hike begins with a descent into the Canyon. We will have descended just about 4000 feet when we reach the first camp site. It is hot when we start. The trail is narrow and treacherous.
By the time we reach the camp site, my feet feel numb. I am very anxious. I am not sure that I can go on and am almost certain that my feet will not be able to take this abuse and last. I put on my flip flops and try to move slowly around the camp site. I flex my feet and stretch them gently. I long for ice. I know the river is 50 degrees but it's dark and I can't find the river now without a significant effort. I eat my delicious dinner, massage my feet and head for the tent. REST. RECOVERY. Tomorrow is another day.
The next hiking day is a bit of a blur but somewhere outside of Phantom Ranch I felt my feet connect to the Earth. I have the sensation that after this hike, my feet will be healed. I feel an internal peace. I smile. I have this inherent knowledge that this is the type of immersion therapy my feet need and that I needed on so many levels. I let go and let it happen. I feel content and pick up the pace.
At Phantom Ranch my wishes come true! I find a wonderful little sliver of the Colorado River where I can "ice" my tired feet, a glass of wine (OK two) and the chance to splash into river in my shorts for a quick whole body cool down. I love it. I am in the moment.
The next hiking day is a blur. We arrive at Indian Gardens and camp. I realize that the next day will be the last and I feel sad. We hike to Plateau Point and see the most breathtaking views I've ever seen. I am entranced.
As we crest the South Rim on the very last day, I check my feet. Covered in moleskins for blisters but they are still structurally whole. They have survived and so have I. I did it! I feel tears rush to my eyes. 100 yards to go. When I get there, I will have done something that only 1% of the people who have visited this great, massive canyon will have ever done. I feel a sense of pride like I've never felt before in my life. I feel myself coming back into that bad ass body that I knew so many years before. The one that got me through four half iron races and three 6:34 miles off the bike in my first triathlon. That body. Those feet. They are back. I am grateful. I am thankful. I am ready for the next adventure.
I stare out at the Canyon for a long time before I bid it farewell. I will likely be back but the first dance is always special. Learning each other, supporting each other and allowing for the experience of both. It was the most amazing experience of my life. A healing transcendence to the next, most amazing me that I can be.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Happier Feet
I am reading a book called, "Every Woman's Guide to Foot Pain Relief. The New Science of Healthy Feet." by a Katy Bowman a physical therapist and apparently a very smart and practical woman.
Things I've learned about my feet:
Things I've learned about my feet:
- They should be more like fingers. Mine are more like bricks
- Foot alignment is important - especially if you tend to "kick" one foot out more than the other
- You need to strengthen your feet
- Flip flops are the devil
There are even exercises to "train" your feet so they are healthy and more functional. So giving it a go, I tried a few. My conclusion? I have the couch potato equivalent of feet - no wonder they get injured. My remedy? What I always do - get 'er done!
I started with walking correctly. Believe it or not this means pointing my feet straight ahead and standing up straight. This is very hard if you have not been doing it. Minute changes to pelvic position and foot alignment left me SORE. Like" ran a few miles", sore. Seriously. Who knew? But it does explain a lot. I have decided to delve deeper into this foot book and try a few other things.
But the net of all of it is, my feet seem .... happier! I have been able to run (albeit it painfully slowly) every other day for an hour. This is no small feat (pun totally intended)! I really had to work up to it.
Posterior Tibial Tendonitis has left me with one lasting truth. I will always be injured, it's just a matter of degree. Getting "better" means running without lasting pain. This is about all I can hope for now. It's ok. I have no races planned and I may never actually race hard again. But being able to run, truly RUN and lose myself in the luxurious nothingness of it cannot be beat. I relish the time and am happy to be out on the road.
I am now a religious wearer of the orthotics. I have grown to love them despite my aversion to anything that "helps" the feet. They do help. They help me to stay aligned properly, particularly when I get tired and my form suffers. They help keep me solid and keep my feet from traveling. SO they are a staple now despite it all.
I have a goal to run 13.1 miles by the fall. I'd love to run a fall half marathon. My personal trainer is on the case. He is on board with the plan and frankly, it will be nice to have a goal again. Not that I am not enjoying just doing "stuff".
At any rate, the feet are happier and so am I. I ice, stretch, ice, stretch and ice again..... but alas, I am making more progress every day. That's a good thing! Count the blessings, no matter how small. Progress is progress even if it's running one minute more than I did last time.
Slow and steady wins the ultimate race. I'm OK with that.
I started with walking correctly. Believe it or not this means pointing my feet straight ahead and standing up straight. This is very hard if you have not been doing it. Minute changes to pelvic position and foot alignment left me SORE. Like" ran a few miles", sore. Seriously. Who knew? But it does explain a lot. I have decided to delve deeper into this foot book and try a few other things.
But the net of all of it is, my feet seem .... happier! I have been able to run (albeit it painfully slowly) every other day for an hour. This is no small feat (pun totally intended)! I really had to work up to it.
Posterior Tibial Tendonitis has left me with one lasting truth. I will always be injured, it's just a matter of degree. Getting "better" means running without lasting pain. This is about all I can hope for now. It's ok. I have no races planned and I may never actually race hard again. But being able to run, truly RUN and lose myself in the luxurious nothingness of it cannot be beat. I relish the time and am happy to be out on the road.
I am now a religious wearer of the orthotics. I have grown to love them despite my aversion to anything that "helps" the feet. They do help. They help me to stay aligned properly, particularly when I get tired and my form suffers. They help keep me solid and keep my feet from traveling. SO they are a staple now despite it all.
I have a goal to run 13.1 miles by the fall. I'd love to run a fall half marathon. My personal trainer is on the case. He is on board with the plan and frankly, it will be nice to have a goal again. Not that I am not enjoying just doing "stuff".
At any rate, the feet are happier and so am I. I ice, stretch, ice, stretch and ice again..... but alas, I am making more progress every day. That's a good thing! Count the blessings, no matter how small. Progress is progress even if it's running one minute more than I did last time.
Slow and steady wins the ultimate race. I'm OK with that.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
End of an Era
My house has been on the market for just about two weeks now. As I walk through each room, perfectly neat and neutralized it feels as if I am in someone else's house. Don't get me wrong, I like the colors just fine (in a Picasso's blue period sort of way) and they serve the very important purpose of helping me subtract my preferences and "self" from the environment. The softer colors and less offensive hues are also meant to attract a larger number of buyers. Here's hoping! After four months of back breaking work, it's nice to know that all of this DIY will be appreciated by someone.
I stood at the top of the stairs yesterday, where I've stood many times before, looking down on the foyer reflecting back to twelve years ago just after I moved in. The last box had been left in the appropriate room, the movers were gone and the house was silent. Light streamed in from the skylight and lit up the loft. I remember thinking, "This is mine. I can do whatever I want." Flash forward to yesterday, months of agonizing primer, paint, repeat; repairs and yard work later and I found myself thinking, "I hope the new owner loves living here as much as I have." I also thought, "It's the end of an era".
This past year has seemed like the end of a couple of eras. I resisted this for a long time. I am not a person who is comfortable with change. It's not that I am stuck in my ways or don't want to evolve, it's just that I get used to things as they are. Like a lot of people I guess. Selling a house I've lived in for twelve years (my first house) and moving to a rental is truly the end of an era. I've had so many great times here, some heartache too but this house has been a witness to a decade of growth and regeneration. I started a business here, became a serious athlete here, fell in love with the man of my dreams here and sat many nights on my deck underneath the stars, sipping wine and just being grateful for being here.
It's also the end of a running era. The end of trying to come back to an athlete that I will never be again. The end of striving to keep up with an old version of myself that no longer serves my new trajectory and what I want to have moving forward. I took myself off the racing circuit and am taking the time to let my injury heal, work on my mechanics and find other interests that will light me up as much as running fast used to. I look back on my athletic self of 2006 and marvel! I am thankful I could experience that sort of success on the physical plane. I hope to run distance again but am fairly certain that it won't be at those same speeds. So another era ends but with that ending there is a new beginning. An opportunity to experience new things and grow in new ways.
Getting better doesn't have to mean getting faster (though I am faster than I've ever been on the bike). It does have to mean that the experience is fulfilling no matter what.
I am looking forward to renting, having the freedom to move if we need or want to, having a little more money to travel with or save. I am also looking forward to taking my time as I get back into the rhythm of running. No need to rush, push or try to chase the ghost of the runner I was. I get to take my time. Enjoy the process and be open to the possibilities.
When I decided that the experience was more important than the things my life shifted. What seemed so valuable once, isn't really any more. End of an era. I think I'm OK with it. In fact, I think I can even welcome it.
I stood at the top of the stairs yesterday, where I've stood many times before, looking down on the foyer reflecting back to twelve years ago just after I moved in. The last box had been left in the appropriate room, the movers were gone and the house was silent. Light streamed in from the skylight and lit up the loft. I remember thinking, "This is mine. I can do whatever I want." Flash forward to yesterday, months of agonizing primer, paint, repeat; repairs and yard work later and I found myself thinking, "I hope the new owner loves living here as much as I have." I also thought, "It's the end of an era".
This past year has seemed like the end of a couple of eras. I resisted this for a long time. I am not a person who is comfortable with change. It's not that I am stuck in my ways or don't want to evolve, it's just that I get used to things as they are. Like a lot of people I guess. Selling a house I've lived in for twelve years (my first house) and moving to a rental is truly the end of an era. I've had so many great times here, some heartache too but this house has been a witness to a decade of growth and regeneration. I started a business here, became a serious athlete here, fell in love with the man of my dreams here and sat many nights on my deck underneath the stars, sipping wine and just being grateful for being here.
It's also the end of a running era. The end of trying to come back to an athlete that I will never be again. The end of striving to keep up with an old version of myself that no longer serves my new trajectory and what I want to have moving forward. I took myself off the racing circuit and am taking the time to let my injury heal, work on my mechanics and find other interests that will light me up as much as running fast used to. I look back on my athletic self of 2006 and marvel! I am thankful I could experience that sort of success on the physical plane. I hope to run distance again but am fairly certain that it won't be at those same speeds. So another era ends but with that ending there is a new beginning. An opportunity to experience new things and grow in new ways.
Getting better doesn't have to mean getting faster (though I am faster than I've ever been on the bike). It does have to mean that the experience is fulfilling no matter what.
I am looking forward to renting, having the freedom to move if we need or want to, having a little more money to travel with or save. I am also looking forward to taking my time as I get back into the rhythm of running. No need to rush, push or try to chase the ghost of the runner I was. I get to take my time. Enjoy the process and be open to the possibilities.
When I decided that the experience was more important than the things my life shifted. What seemed so valuable once, isn't really any more. End of an era. I think I'm OK with it. In fact, I think I can even welcome it.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Gaining Momentum
My decision to drop off the racing circuit this year has been a good one. As soon as I decided not to race, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. I cannot do anything half-assed. I never have been able to. So, declaring that I wouldn't race because I knew that I'd push myself past reasonable, healthy limits to compete is both humbling and self-aware.
Know thyself.
I also know this about myself. I am tenacious and willing to work hard for what I want. I am run 5.8 (when I used to breeze through at 7.5 or 8.0) miles per hour for two months, tenacious. Try every available shoe, sock and distance combination, tenacious. Slog through grueling strength and plyometrics training, tenacious. I have been doing the work to rehabilitate my ankle/foot and it seems that this investment is paying off - FINALLY.
On Saturday, a beautiful day in Annapolis, MD, I ran my "long" run. This was a one hour run on a course I call "Tour de Annapolis". It takes me over a bridge with a stunning view of City Dock, past the Naval Academy and back down a lonely stretch of Rowe Blvd until I make it back to town. It's a "nothing" course for me typically. Something I'd run on a week night just before it gets dark. But not having run outside in months or for more than 45 minutes at a time, this was a monumental run.
I suited up. Orthotics, Balga socks, sunglasses and iPod. I felt nervous but excited. Once out, there was no other choice but to run back in. I couldn't stop the treadmill and just get off. I had to keep running or risk freezing in the wind. I set out. I turned the corner and headed up the hill. As I passed my gym, I looked at my watch - 7:45. The gym is a mile away from my house. SHIT. I need to slow down. Oddly, my cardiovascular fitness was great - all that break neck, crazy ass cycling at the bike store put me in a very good position. I slowed down. I told myself, you still have the better part of an hour to go. Take it easy. Keep your form.
I made my way through town and eventually crested the arch of the bridge. I looked out over the Bay and sighed. I could feel my legs beneath me and my heart ticking over the beats. I love this run. I love the view. I love being outside, I even love the wind in my face. I love everything about it.
I monitored my foot - all systems go. I kept the pace and kept moving through downtown. I dodged people and dogs. I dodged strollers and people meandering between shops. I used to curse them but frankly, I was happy to be running outside. I didn't care. I headed for the lonely stretch. I could feel my ankle but everything seemed fine. Past the St. John's Boathouse and around the corner, I headed back to town. A stiff headwind met me on the way back but for once I relished it.
1:07 later, I reached my front door. I stretched. I relaxed and basked in the glow of a run well done. No pain, no issues apart from a couple of blisters from new shoes. I was this day, a runner again. I may not have run my usual pace but I was out there RUNNING.
I felt free. There was no race hanging over my head, no time to keep or workout to record. I ran just for fun. Just for the joy of it all and I loved it. I stretched a little more before I went inside and got on with the rest of the day. I knew I'd be sore and achy the next day but I didn't care. I had the world's biggest smile on my face.
Blessings, no matter how small should always be counted. If you can run, that's a blessing. That run is one I will definitely count.
Know thyself.
I also know this about myself. I am tenacious and willing to work hard for what I want. I am run 5.8 (when I used to breeze through at 7.5 or 8.0) miles per hour for two months, tenacious. Try every available shoe, sock and distance combination, tenacious. Slog through grueling strength and plyometrics training, tenacious. I have been doing the work to rehabilitate my ankle/foot and it seems that this investment is paying off - FINALLY.
On Saturday, a beautiful day in Annapolis, MD, I ran my "long" run. This was a one hour run on a course I call "Tour de Annapolis". It takes me over a bridge with a stunning view of City Dock, past the Naval Academy and back down a lonely stretch of Rowe Blvd until I make it back to town. It's a "nothing" course for me typically. Something I'd run on a week night just before it gets dark. But not having run outside in months or for more than 45 minutes at a time, this was a monumental run.
I suited up. Orthotics, Balga socks, sunglasses and iPod. I felt nervous but excited. Once out, there was no other choice but to run back in. I couldn't stop the treadmill and just get off. I had to keep running or risk freezing in the wind. I set out. I turned the corner and headed up the hill. As I passed my gym, I looked at my watch - 7:45. The gym is a mile away from my house. SHIT. I need to slow down. Oddly, my cardiovascular fitness was great - all that break neck, crazy ass cycling at the bike store put me in a very good position. I slowed down. I told myself, you still have the better part of an hour to go. Take it easy. Keep your form.
I made my way through town and eventually crested the arch of the bridge. I looked out over the Bay and sighed. I could feel my legs beneath me and my heart ticking over the beats. I love this run. I love the view. I love being outside, I even love the wind in my face. I love everything about it.
I monitored my foot - all systems go. I kept the pace and kept moving through downtown. I dodged people and dogs. I dodged strollers and people meandering between shops. I used to curse them but frankly, I was happy to be running outside. I didn't care. I headed for the lonely stretch. I could feel my ankle but everything seemed fine. Past the St. John's Boathouse and around the corner, I headed back to town. A stiff headwind met me on the way back but for once I relished it.
1:07 later, I reached my front door. I stretched. I relaxed and basked in the glow of a run well done. No pain, no issues apart from a couple of blisters from new shoes. I was this day, a runner again. I may not have run my usual pace but I was out there RUNNING.
I felt free. There was no race hanging over my head, no time to keep or workout to record. I ran just for fun. Just for the joy of it all and I loved it. I stretched a little more before I went inside and got on with the rest of the day. I knew I'd be sore and achy the next day but I didn't care. I had the world's biggest smile on my face.
Blessings, no matter how small should always be counted. If you can run, that's a blessing. That run is one I will definitely count.
Monday, January 16, 2012
The Recipe
In 2004, I started teaching myself to cook. Tired of eating turkey sandwiches and tortilla chips and in an attempt to fuel what was then a very steep ramp up to multiple distance triathlons and running races, I tried some new recipes. It's funny about recipes, even though they are exact in many cases, how you combine the ingredients and at what time is very pivotal to the texture and taste of the dish. Putting in spice too early or too late can make a dish bitter or bland. Not sifting the dry ingredients before combining them can mean grainy, odd tasting muffins. The same rules apply to recovering from an injury. The ingredients for healing don't necessarily combine for optimum success. It takes some experimentation.
For the past couple of months, I have been in active recovery and rebuild mode. The boot has long since been stored on a shelf in the closet (where it will hopefully remain forever). I have been taking it easy. Dipping a toe into running, going very, very slowly and adding in some hiking to mix things up. I am not sure yet how this recipe will turn out but it seems like I have the right ingredients to get the dish right and get back on the path (literally) to healthy, pain free running.
First and foremost was the diagnosis and then prognosis. While the former seemed dire, the latter seemed somewhat positive. Posterior tibial tendonitis is tricky. Mechanical deficiencies in the core, glutes and vastus medialis (that small quad muscle inside the knee) make it difficult to fix if you don't address the underlying problems. The prognosis, "wear your orthotics and you'll be able to run just fine." seemed somewhat encouraging until I actually tried it and felt that same nagging pain. So I've decided that a multi-faceted approach is best and this is how I've laid it out:
Strengthening the feet: The only shoes that do not bring nagging pain or discomfort seem to be the New Balance Minimus shoes that I bought just before my injury. I run on the treadmill absolutely barefoot for about 7 minutes and then put them on. I then finish up my run in those shoes. My feet are sometimes sore but in that "good sore" way that means progress and not break down. I've run in my orthotics several times and each time I felt that old familiar sensitivity and eventually pain that wasn't severe but enough to make me stop. I am a firm believer in building up and not making "lazy" when it comes to any muscle so I guess this is just proof positive that these inserts aren't coming to the rescue like I thought they might.
So I've been experimenting with shoes. Running in my hiking boots - no pain. Running in a "higher heel profile" not bad but heavy and my feet aren't as nimble. Combining those shoes with the orthotics - painful! It's again, finding the right combination of ingredients.
I stretch my feet, do sideways "crab" walks and do what I call the "ballerina" workout - flexing my feet, rolling up on my toes and standing on the balls of my feet for 10-15 seconds at a time. I will also do some plyometrics (jumping up on a small block) if I haven't done that in personal training sometime during the week.
Personal training for flexibility and strength: Two times per week. I work with a personal trainer to strengthen my glutes, legs and core. We also do some plyometrics and stretching and he keeps close tabs on what works and doesn't in terms of my foot pain.
Sport specific training: Indoor trainer workout: High and low intensity. I do one very high intensity workout at the bike store that focuses on building leg strength and endurance. Then I do an easier, long workout on the weekends where I focus on really building my hip flexors and using an efficient pedal stroke. Strong hip flexors take the pounding off the feet and allow me to "lift" my leg up and put it down during the run stride instead of just "dropping" it and pounding.
New to the recipe - Crossfit: Having heard so many testimonials about the benefits of Crossfit, I decided to join the Foundations class and see what it was all about. After the first couple of "real" workouts, I was hooked. If ever there was a class that focuses on your core and building a strong set of glutes and legs, this class is it. Plus, the intensity keeps your heart rate high and helps burn fat so for me a double dip!
The Hike/Run: I took up hiking to realize a "bucket" list item of mine - hiking the Grand Canyon Rim to Rim to Rim. This is an arduous undertaking even for someone as fit as I am. With a foot that is not really dependable, "practicing" hiking is essential.My tri coach says, "Nothing builds run fitness like running." I am applying that same theory to hiking. From a cardiovascular perspective, I don't foresee any issues. I do foresee getting my body used to making steep ascents and keeping my back loose. I've been combining these strenuous hikes with very SLOW running. I don't run faster than 5.8 mph at this point.
The result? Well, the soup is still simmering on the running front but I am more fit than I've been in many years (and a couple pounds lighter). I am stronger, I have actual muscles now and am able to work parts of my legs and glutes that I've neglected for years. My foot tends to be sore on some occasions after a run and not on others. I haven't been able to pinpoint exactly what causes the soreness apart from my experimental footwear. It seems rather random. But there is no swelling and the tendon is not "hot".
I ice and stretch more than I've done before. I also RECOVER more. If I am exhausted, I rest. This is new for me. I am used to pushing myself on no matter what. My foot will not tolerate that now so I have to be more mindful of when I need to rest.
Perhaps my "recipe" all along has had too much of one ingredient and I've somehow made that strength a weakness (like too much pepper in the chili). I have not run more than 45 minutes in months and though I miss those long contemplative runs, I do not miss "training". In fact, I am not racing at all this year - on purpose. I have not signed up for a race and I don't intend to. I intend to have fun and see where having fun and trying a new recipe takes me.
Will I ever be back to those two hour runs? I don't know. I hope so. But I hope to take them in a new direction like trail running. Like the hike/run. Maybe I'll just hike instead of run, who knows. But what is becoming clear to me is that this new recipe has more flavor, depth and complexity than it ever has before and the joy that is going into making it has a special flavor all its own. It makes me happy to be alive and grateful that I can give it all I have and do it again the next week.
Until my second round with this tendon injury, I took for granted how important having a completely healthy body really is. For those with chronic pain, knee, back or other debilitating injuries, I now know your pain in some small sense. You never know what you will get. I have good "foot" days and not so good foot days but I am thankful that I can still do 90% of the activities I love. Everything is a blessing if you are willing to see it that way.
So for now, the soup simmers and the jury is still out but the recipe already has a delicious aroma that is equal parts variety, complexity and sheer joy.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
If the shoe fits.....
I've been in physical therapy for two weeks now and it's been tough. There has been sweat inducing pain, discussions about stability and at least three "shoe" tests.
First, the numbers. Apparently the posterior tendon has a flex range of about 8% over and above what is typical. My tendon was rotating about 14% given my defunct heels (genetic shape and slant that I can do nothing about) and the partial droop of my arch. My physical therapist said she'd never seen that much "play" and was really surprised that I hadn't experienced a rupture. Me too given those stats.
Though I can do nothing about my genetics, there is much I can do to improve my flexibility, give my feet more support and in general create better foot mechanics. One way to do this is with custom orthotics. The process started with these paper mache looking strips that were wrapped around my feet. They hardened pretty quickly and immediately I was able to see the nature of my deficiency. One of the casts actually ROCKED back and forth a considerable amount. Sigh. This is what my foot is doing thousands of times per hour every time I run. No wonder my tendons are pissed off! The outcome of this exercise is to create a piece of plastic that will compensate for these deficiencies. The photo negative of the rocking cast. Seems like we'd have better technology this day and age. Something space age that could be inserted just under the skin and magically balance both feet. But alas, no. The human body is complicated.
The next step was to do a stability test pre-orthotics in all of my favorite running shoes. First up, the shoes I thought for sure would pass - the natural running, forefront gliding Newton's. NO SUCH LUCK. In fact, for my particular feet, the Newton's were the absolute worst possible shoe. According to my physical therapist, these shoes are where all of the trouble likely began.
In my particular case, the Newton's cause my feet to roll around even more than they do already! Plus, they are too wide. Newton does not make a narrow shoe - trust me I've complained. Unfortunately, I have very narrow feet! For a $175 running shoe, you should be able to have a narrow shoe in a decent color, that comes complete with matching socks, a cape and a super hero decal, but I digress. So the combination of the pitch of my body and feet forward, the resultant stress on the posterior tendon combined with the lack of stability, wobble and low profile heel, made the Newton's a disaster for my poor feet! Sad in some ways, but not really. These shoes are incredibly expensive and if I can fare better in less expensive kicks then I'm in!
Next up, the New Balance Miniumus series. The physical therapist tested me in the trail and regular running versions. The winner? The trail or most minimal version of that shoe was the absolute, most stable. The non-trail version was not far behind and she thinks once I get the orthotics, they should be ok too. A surprise of a different sort were the Brooks stability running shoes. I ran a marathon in shoes like these. The verdict? No go. They were almost as unstable as the Newton's. Crazy what you can learn in physical therapy.
The next card in this house of tendons was my back and core stability. Apparently I am unstable in general terms and not just in my running shoes. My core stabilizing muscles have apparently been on holiday and haven't returned. To draw them back and "wake them up" I have homework: Lie on the floor on my back with my thighs perpendicular to the floor. I have to push my thigh slightly forward creating a litte bit of resistence. First on one leg and then the other and finally with both. Hands flat on thighs, light resistance, don't shake. Check! This is supposed to help my back as well. A back, by the way, that I thought was in pretty good shape. No so much but that's a topic for another blog.
As far as the posterior tendon goes, I am almost ready to run again (with the orthotics, of course). In the meantime and ongoing there is "homework":
Wall Stretches: Stand with toes about 1-3 inches from the wall (knee/foot flexion dependent). Keep a neutral position and drop the knee forward to touch the wall. The stretch is felt in the heel and calf. Really, really felt!
Arch Lifts: Standing, roll feet upward toward the ceiling so the arches are as parallel to the floor as possible. Do this 20 times. Minimal roll to the outside of the foot or lightly supinated. Don't roll up onto the ball of the feet.
Arch Lifts part deux: Standing lift calves and heels up and roll onto the balls of the feet. Not like a standard calf raise where the calves do the heavy lifting but more like a supination of the feet with a finish on the balls of the feet.
I've learned in physical therapy that the posterior tendon is both delicate and tough. It is the central theme in the foot and lower leg and any irritation or weakness will severely disrupt your ability to walk let alone run. Looking back over my years of running and running shoes, I never really encountered so severe an issue until I started using more high tech shoes. Nothing against Newton, I think they have a fine concept for a lot of people but for those of us who are mechanically deficient, their shoes may be a disasterous choice. The devil is in the details as they say.
For me, it's back to basics. I will give the natural New Balance shoes a try and see what happens. At least I know they are stable and won't likely exacerbate my existing injury. I may need to size up to be able to accommodate the orthotic but that's ok. What I want more than anything is to run again pain free. I am willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen.
Homework, sure. New shoes, fine. Until you can't walk or run without pain, you don't realize how much you take your basic mobility for granted and what you are willing to do to get it back. I want to hike the Grand Canyon Rim to Rim to Rim. I want to hike, period and be able to walk three miles for dinner. I want to be able to run more than fifty steps before my ankle hurts. I want to be mindful now that being able to do any of this without pain and effort is a blessing and not a right. Thank heavens for physical therapists and their dedication to making us all more mechanically correct. But the real effort lies in maintaining that investment throughout the journey.
First, the numbers. Apparently the posterior tendon has a flex range of about 8% over and above what is typical. My tendon was rotating about 14% given my defunct heels (genetic shape and slant that I can do nothing about) and the partial droop of my arch. My physical therapist said she'd never seen that much "play" and was really surprised that I hadn't experienced a rupture. Me too given those stats.
Though I can do nothing about my genetics, there is much I can do to improve my flexibility, give my feet more support and in general create better foot mechanics. One way to do this is with custom orthotics. The process started with these paper mache looking strips that were wrapped around my feet. They hardened pretty quickly and immediately I was able to see the nature of my deficiency. One of the casts actually ROCKED back and forth a considerable amount. Sigh. This is what my foot is doing thousands of times per hour every time I run. No wonder my tendons are pissed off! The outcome of this exercise is to create a piece of plastic that will compensate for these deficiencies. The photo negative of the rocking cast. Seems like we'd have better technology this day and age. Something space age that could be inserted just under the skin and magically balance both feet. But alas, no. The human body is complicated.
The next step was to do a stability test pre-orthotics in all of my favorite running shoes. First up, the shoes I thought for sure would pass - the natural running, forefront gliding Newton's. NO SUCH LUCK. In fact, for my particular feet, the Newton's were the absolute worst possible shoe. According to my physical therapist, these shoes are where all of the trouble likely began.
In my particular case, the Newton's cause my feet to roll around even more than they do already! Plus, they are too wide. Newton does not make a narrow shoe - trust me I've complained. Unfortunately, I have very narrow feet! For a $175 running shoe, you should be able to have a narrow shoe in a decent color, that comes complete with matching socks, a cape and a super hero decal, but I digress. So the combination of the pitch of my body and feet forward, the resultant stress on the posterior tendon combined with the lack of stability, wobble and low profile heel, made the Newton's a disaster for my poor feet! Sad in some ways, but not really. These shoes are incredibly expensive and if I can fare better in less expensive kicks then I'm in!
Next up, the New Balance Miniumus series. The physical therapist tested me in the trail and regular running versions. The winner? The trail or most minimal version of that shoe was the absolute, most stable. The non-trail version was not far behind and she thinks once I get the orthotics, they should be ok too. A surprise of a different sort were the Brooks stability running shoes. I ran a marathon in shoes like these. The verdict? No go. They were almost as unstable as the Newton's. Crazy what you can learn in physical therapy.
The next card in this house of tendons was my back and core stability. Apparently I am unstable in general terms and not just in my running shoes. My core stabilizing muscles have apparently been on holiday and haven't returned. To draw them back and "wake them up" I have homework: Lie on the floor on my back with my thighs perpendicular to the floor. I have to push my thigh slightly forward creating a litte bit of resistence. First on one leg and then the other and finally with both. Hands flat on thighs, light resistance, don't shake. Check! This is supposed to help my back as well. A back, by the way, that I thought was in pretty good shape. No so much but that's a topic for another blog.
As far as the posterior tendon goes, I am almost ready to run again (with the orthotics, of course). In the meantime and ongoing there is "homework":
Wall Stretches: Stand with toes about 1-3 inches from the wall (knee/foot flexion dependent). Keep a neutral position and drop the knee forward to touch the wall. The stretch is felt in the heel and calf. Really, really felt!
Arch Lifts: Standing, roll feet upward toward the ceiling so the arches are as parallel to the floor as possible. Do this 20 times. Minimal roll to the outside of the foot or lightly supinated. Don't roll up onto the ball of the feet.
Arch Lifts part deux: Standing lift calves and heels up and roll onto the balls of the feet. Not like a standard calf raise where the calves do the heavy lifting but more like a supination of the feet with a finish on the balls of the feet.
I've learned in physical therapy that the posterior tendon is both delicate and tough. It is the central theme in the foot and lower leg and any irritation or weakness will severely disrupt your ability to walk let alone run. Looking back over my years of running and running shoes, I never really encountered so severe an issue until I started using more high tech shoes. Nothing against Newton, I think they have a fine concept for a lot of people but for those of us who are mechanically deficient, their shoes may be a disasterous choice. The devil is in the details as they say.
For me, it's back to basics. I will give the natural New Balance shoes a try and see what happens. At least I know they are stable and won't likely exacerbate my existing injury. I may need to size up to be able to accommodate the orthotic but that's ok. What I want more than anything is to run again pain free. I am willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen.
Homework, sure. New shoes, fine. Until you can't walk or run without pain, you don't realize how much you take your basic mobility for granted and what you are willing to do to get it back. I want to hike the Grand Canyon Rim to Rim to Rim. I want to hike, period and be able to walk three miles for dinner. I want to be able to run more than fifty steps before my ankle hurts. I want to be mindful now that being able to do any of this without pain and effort is a blessing and not a right. Thank heavens for physical therapists and their dedication to making us all more mechanically correct. But the real effort lies in maintaining that investment throughout the journey.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Good Mourning?
This past weekend I got to see a really good friend of mine that I don't get to see often. We met for coffee and chatted about life. She marveled at the boot and the fact that this is round two. We both talked about what the Universe might be trying to get across, what I could learn from all of this and the precise date when the boot would come off.
"You can still bike, right?" she asks. "Yeah but I haven't done much of that either." I sort of mumbled. She smiled and said, "Yeah, you have to grieve the loss of running first. Then you'll figure out that there is more to life that dashing through the streets on two feet." And as she said this I could feel her words resonate somewhere deep within me. She was right.
Since the boot went on, I've been largely uninspired to do much training at all. Typically, I'd bike 2-3 times per week with at least one of those rides being a hard tempo ride and the other specific to pedal stroke training. I have sort of shrugged them both off for the past couple of weeks. I do ride on the weekends now but only one day and half the time I used to. I had been marveling at my lackluster attitude and almost non-existent motivation to ride until I heard her utter those words.
Running is such a part of me that I am indeed grieving at the loss of it in my life. It is the stick by which I measure my athleticism. I am a runner first, I always have been. Running has delivered me from some of the worst moments of my life and delivered into some of the best. Running is moving meditation, a chance to compete and a way to push myself to the edge physically. Running is the metaphor for my life and I miss having that means of expression.
Today was the most perfect running day! I shuffled to the mailbox dragging the boot behind and sighed. By the time I am "healed", it will be spring. Summer running is not my thing - especially fat which I have a good chance of being given the weeks ahead. All this Fall running will slip right past and leave me with another season of wondering what might have been.
I think for the first time in my life, I am actually sort of depressed. Maybe because for once in my life it seems like my running life could well come to a close. That is something that is very painful for me. If I have to give up running, I will have to give up such a big part of who I think I am.
I have been lucky enough in my life not to have had to mourn much. Mourning is useful. It gives our pain a voice, our loss a purpose. It allows us the opportunity to reflect and determine how we will move forward, adapt and become stronger in the broken places. Despite whatever becomes of my running life, I will never be the same runner I was before I got injured. I wasn't the same runner after the last injury. I will always be different. I will have to adapt. If I can't run, I will have to determine what's next.
But I am new to mourning so I am not sure how it works. Should I be going through all the traditional "grieving" steps? Or will I just sort of feel unmotivated and uninterested for awhile? I am trying to give whatever this is the proper air time. My usual way is to just fix it and move on. Make it better and be off to the next thing. This time I just don't have the energy to do that. I suppose the teacher appears when the student is ready. I'll try to be open to the possibilities.
Nothing is confirmed. There is no unfortunate prognosis. I keep wearing the boot like some sort of storm trooper religion and awaiting that miraculous day in physical therapy when I can be pronounced mechanically sufficient.
Looking on the bright side, the swelling is gone, I can flex my foot to the inside a little bit more than I could before. The pain is also largely gone though the stiffness is still there.
I had a dream a couple of nights ago that I was running barefoot with no pain. I wonder if it's a prophetic dream or if it's just my psyche's way of expressing its longing. Life is about defining and refining. I suppose that's the lesson in this. For now, I am still a runner. An injured runner but a runner until all avenues are exhausted.
Since the boot went on, I've been largely uninspired to do much training at all. Typically, I'd bike 2-3 times per week with at least one of those rides being a hard tempo ride and the other specific to pedal stroke training. I have sort of shrugged them both off for the past couple of weeks. I do ride on the weekends now but only one day and half the time I used to. I had been marveling at my lackluster attitude and almost non-existent motivation to ride until I heard her utter those words.
Running is such a part of me that I am indeed grieving at the loss of it in my life. It is the stick by which I measure my athleticism. I am a runner first, I always have been. Running has delivered me from some of the worst moments of my life and delivered into some of the best. Running is moving meditation, a chance to compete and a way to push myself to the edge physically. Running is the metaphor for my life and I miss having that means of expression.
Today was the most perfect running day! I shuffled to the mailbox dragging the boot behind and sighed. By the time I am "healed", it will be spring. Summer running is not my thing - especially fat which I have a good chance of being given the weeks ahead. All this Fall running will slip right past and leave me with another season of wondering what might have been.
I think for the first time in my life, I am actually sort of depressed. Maybe because for once in my life it seems like my running life could well come to a close. That is something that is very painful for me. If I have to give up running, I will have to give up such a big part of who I think I am.
I have been lucky enough in my life not to have had to mourn much. Mourning is useful. It gives our pain a voice, our loss a purpose. It allows us the opportunity to reflect and determine how we will move forward, adapt and become stronger in the broken places. Despite whatever becomes of my running life, I will never be the same runner I was before I got injured. I wasn't the same runner after the last injury. I will always be different. I will have to adapt. If I can't run, I will have to determine what's next.
But I am new to mourning so I am not sure how it works. Should I be going through all the traditional "grieving" steps? Or will I just sort of feel unmotivated and uninterested for awhile? I am trying to give whatever this is the proper air time. My usual way is to just fix it and move on. Make it better and be off to the next thing. This time I just don't have the energy to do that. I suppose the teacher appears when the student is ready. I'll try to be open to the possibilities.
Nothing is confirmed. There is no unfortunate prognosis. I keep wearing the boot like some sort of storm trooper religion and awaiting that miraculous day in physical therapy when I can be pronounced mechanically sufficient.
Looking on the bright side, the swelling is gone, I can flex my foot to the inside a little bit more than I could before. The pain is also largely gone though the stiffness is still there.
I had a dream a couple of nights ago that I was running barefoot with no pain. I wonder if it's a prophetic dream or if it's just my psyche's way of expressing its longing. Life is about defining and refining. I suppose that's the lesson in this. For now, I am still a runner. An injured runner but a runner until all avenues are exhausted.
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