Confessions of a Klutz

In the past five months or so since I last posted I have been running, but nothing much to brag about. Last week, though, I took a newsworthy tumble on the Bloomington Rails to Trail, just past a sign that said "Danger: Falling Rocks." I made it past all the rocks (none of which were falling, just a few nicely placed below a bridge), all proud of myself for staying upright when my right ankle nipped a leaf-covered root and I flew forward, landing on my right elbow. Life lesson No. 7,349 learned from running: Don't be cocky about making it past the big boulders because it's the little things that will trip you up when you least expect it.

Mud-covered and moaning I got back up and decided the fastest way back to my car was to run, so I did. When I got there I realized my elbow was really bleeding, so I high-tailed it back to my apartment and took a shower and tried to clean up the wound. It wasn't very big, but I couldn't get the dirt out.

So I did what any clueless person would do and took a picture of my elbow in the bathroom mirror using my iPhone and emailed it to my friend, Anne, and asked her what to do. As a mother of two I consider her the world's foremost non-physician medical expert on injuries and illness. The fact that she is British makes her seem extra smart as well. After getting her response saying I should probably have it checked out, and then making and eating a bowl of banana-pumpkin-cinnamon oatmeal with peanut butter and some coffee, I went to PromptCare.

Nice folks at PromtCare, but it is anything but Prompt. After two hours I came out with a tetanus shot, most of the skin scrubbed off of my elbow with a plastic torture brush, two stitches, a slightly blue and slightly swollen but not broken ankle, and a bandage around my arm that was supposed to keep me from bending it.

This was a fairly minor incident - a bum ankle and two stitches - but unlike previous

falls, I at least had some evidence that I was in pain. When I flew over the handlebars on my bike and landed on my bum, nobody saw that bruise. They just wondered why I walked around like I had a plunger stuck up my butt for the next three weeks. When I fell two years ago and landed on some rocks on a trail in Dean Wilderness, nobody could tell that every breath was another knife stabbing into my lungs thanks to the broken ribs. On my long list of self-inflicted accidents this one rates at the top for sympathy received and speedy recovery. I would recommend it to all the other running klutzes out there, at least over most of the alternative injuries.

By Saturday (three days post-fall) I was able to run again. I participated in the 10th annual Hoosiers Outrun Cancer event and ran faster than I thought I would in the 5k given I had taken the last two days off and have been doing a lot of long slow base-building work. HOC is one of my favorite road races because the greater-Bloomington community is so involved and the money goes to a great cause. The day started out cloudy and grey but the skies opened up, as if a lot of people were looking down from above on the group of runners, walkers, volunteers and supporters. I stopped by the Rebound Physical Therapy tent in hopes of seeing some of my physical therapists friends so I could show them my cool stitches and regale them with another tale of my running tribulations. But alas, Rebound sent one of the very few people I don't actually know from that operation. So I walked back to my apartment and ate some lunch. And that's the not-so-exciting update from here.

Stride on, friends.

Luck of the Hoosier

Like all runners, no matter how hard I try to deny it, I do harbor some superstitious tendencies. I have long since shed my lucky socks from high school, but I was afraid to write about my running lately in case I jinxed myself. Afraid no more: after almost a month back in my Brooks shoes I am knocking on wood yet happy to report that the miles are slowly but surely falling under foot.

I have been injured before and had to come back from the wasteland of out-of-shapeness before, but there is something special about doing it in the heat, hills and humidity of summer in Bloomington, Ind. When I was on a work trip and ran on a treadmill in an air conditioned room last month I thought to myself, wow, maybe my little stationary bike rides and occasional elliptical machine use really did keep my cardiovascular system primed. Then I returned to Bloomington and discovered otherwise. I sweat profusely up each incline and the four mile runs that used to seem so short now involve some of the mental tricks I once saved for 12-mile threshold workouts.

Not to complain, though, because I would rather be huffing and puffing for short periods than sitting on the couch for long ones. Plus, other factors will contribute to a quick return: no more full time job with its associated sleep deprivation and stress, a pass to the IU Outdoor Pool for some cross training and relaxation, yoga class at the YMCA to keep those tight hips loose, a new running-based strength class at Rebound Physical Therapy Clinic, and a generally more peaceful existence.

My speed and endurance may need a few four leaf clovers to help them along, but I have learned that recovering from an injury is less about luck than patience, not about glamor but guts. There will be many ugly runs in my near future; there is no escaping that reality. No worries, though, because I am just paying my dues before that future breakout marathon, whenever and wherever that might be.

Stride on, friends.

The not-so-mini Indianapolis Mini-Marathon

Numerous out-of-state acquaintances have commented on the absurdity of describing anything longer than three miles as "mini." But I like that Indiana's most famous half-marathon, the Indianapolis Mini Marathon, can be both "mini" and the largest half-marathon in the country. It exemplifies that Midwestern "aw shucks" attitude that makes it neat-o without being presumptuous. (That presumptuousness is reserved for the car race a few weeks later, which is clearly the world's best pollution-ridden sporting event in the world.)

Friday night I came down with a bad soar throat, but after comparing my list of symptoms to those of H1N1 (a.k.a. the swine flu) I determined I would not be spreading any global pandemics by my presence. I gave some last second advice to Pops, then took some NyQuil to get a few hours of sleep before getting up early to trot over to the starting line for moral support.

Bolstered by the good news yesterday at that the doctor doesn't think my stress fracture is severe and that I can start running again in a week or so, I broke out into a gallop, weaving through the tens of thousands of folks making their way into race corrals, through non-runners looking for a prime spot to wait for a loved one to finish the 13.1 mile race, or past volunteers setting up mounds of bananas and stacked cups of water and Gatorade. For those few minutes with the wind in my face again, I forgot that my throat was on fire, and it was blissful. The snot running down my face quickly snapped me back to reality, though.

The weather was perfect for a distance run: temperature in the high 40s, rain the night before but no rain at the moment, light cloud cover and no wind. I watched the elites run underneath the gigantic American flag hanging between two fire truck ladders, and snapped a few photos of my teammates before watching the masses go by. The wheelchair race was over (about 45 minutes in) before all of the runners and walkers had even made it through the bottleneck at Washington and West streets to start their journey. It is no quick task to move 40,000 people through a 24-foot starting line.

After watching the start I parked myself on the grassy area near the finish line and waited. And waited. And waited. While running, time ticks away too fast, yet while waiting at a finish line, it's as though someone dropped the clock in a vat of molasses and the hands are stuck in goo. I played with a few of the dogs (including a pug!) who were waiting for their two-legged loved ones to finish, then finally finishers started coming down New York Street. Brooks Team Indiana Elite was well represented with the top male and female finishers from Indiana, Jeff Powers and Camille Herron.

My training partner, Dani, heroically finished the race despite being sick the entire last two weeks. I saw a few friends finish strong, but was getting dizzy scanning the thick crowd of runners for a 50-year-old five-foot-eight man wearing black shorts, a white t-shirt and gray hat. There were a lot of people who fit that description. (Note to self: make Dad wear a bright pink shirt next year). Finally I saw my dad run across the finish line two hours and ten minutes into the race, quite an accomplishment considering his bad Achilles and that he has not run more than 18 miles in a week since his marathon last fall.

My body felt miserable because of whatever bug was inhabiting it, but my spirit was uplifted watching all of those runners, of every make and model, finish the half-marathon. This is the second year in a row I've watched this race, and again it reminded me of all those corny touchy-feely reasons why I run, and why I want to run when I can't.

Stress, and a fracture

I'm not sure which broke first: my fibula or my will to go to work every day. For a multitude of reasons, none of which I am quite naive enough to post online, I decided it was time to resign from my position at the IU School of Journalism. Meantime, my daily runs became an achy affair. Everything between my knees and my feet throbbed with each step, but I kept going anyway. Running was the spoonful of sugar that got me through the stress of work. Well, that and multiple spoonfuls of ice cream. And lots of watching mindless TV in Dani's room after a long day of work and workouts.

A sub-par race at the Gate River Run in Jacksonville, Fla. over spring break morphed into another painful month of miles before the IU Mini Marathon in early April. Dani and I ran together every step of the way and split the prize money. (Note: We got second and third to to a Russian woman from Cincinnati who wore those Spira shoes with the springs in them. Not that I'm bitter or anything since I had no springs in my shoes). Aerobically I felt great, and the adrenaline masked the pain in my lower right leg on that sunny and pleasant day in Bloomington. The next morning we rolled out of bed and did our usual Sunday morning two-hour/16-mile part road/part Rail Trail long run. More aching, more throbbing.

In a masochistic way it seems only logical that the mental stress manifested itself into a physical stress fracture (right upper fibula). The more upset I felt, the more I ran, and the worse that fracture was getting while I dismissed it as a tight calf muscle. Ignorance is not always bliss when one is training hard.

I love running, and I love my coworkers at the J-school, but it is apparently time for a break before my bone and my brain literally break. I already miss running, and I will miss my coworkers. Yet, happy trails are on the horizon. As I have seen on the back of many a high school track team t-shirt: What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.




Stride on able-bodied friends. Rest on all others.

2009 - So far, it's a blur...

An early 2009 update:

• Week before Houston Half Marathon - Left knee starts hurting.
• Middle of the race - Hurts so much I have to stop, but hey, at least it's warm down there.
• After the race - Find out both patellas don't track correctly, causing inflammation and pain, and they're "knobby," according to the trainer. Hmm, so maybe I didn't just have unlucky cases of patella tendonitis every single year while I was in college, there actually was a biomechanic reason for my pain. Amazing.
  
• End of January/beginning of February - Lots of quad and hamstring exercises and stretches.
• End of January/beginning of February - HORRIBLE WEATHER, but Dani and I made it through anyway (see pictures).
• End of January/beginning of February - Work is insane, can't see the bottom of my desk anymore.
• Middle of February - If your knees ever ache uncontrollably and you have high arches, try the Superfeet Green inserts. Amazing.
• Middle/end of February - Training coming along, over 80 miles per week now. Dreaming of warm weather in Jacksonville at the Gate River Run on March 14, and then in South Carolina when Dani and I take a little Team Indiana Elite - Women road trip.
  

Happy trails to you, until we meet again...

Just another manic... January

Busy busy busy lately. Lots of running, lots of work, lots of family, and little time for blogging. So instead of worrying about writing something witty and insightful, I'll just cut and paste an article I wrote for The Herald-Times a few weeks ago about running in the cold weather. The irony of the thing is that after this article was published I have since run twice on the treadmill. Honestly, though, for living in Indiana, twice on the treadmill in the winter is a pretty good record. I am looking forward to going to Houston on Friday to run in the U.S.A. Half Marathon Championship (on Sunday) with highs in the 60s and lows only in the 40s.

In other Bloomington running news, there was a woman attacked on the Rails to Trails just north of Country Club Road in late December. This really freaked me out, as well as lots of other female runners in town. The Women With Will group organized a "Take Back the Trail" walk/run yesterday and it was covered by the H-T in today's paper. I have run on the Rail Trail numerous times since the attack, but always with at least one other person. We have seen some creepy people out there in the past (in tents, with guns, sitting in the woods, etc.). Despite the horrible acts this woman had to endure, this event is a very good reminder to always be observant and to tell people when and where you are running if you have to go out alone. I am debating buying some mace to run with, but given my klutzy tendancies I am worried I will end up spraying myself with it accidentally and never actually using it, so we'll see...

Stay warm, stay alert, move forward, and stride on!

HeraldTimesOnline.com

COMMENTARY
Holiday lights a bonus for running in a winter deep freeze

By Jessica Gall Community columnist December 19, 2008

Many people tell me I am crazy for running as much as I do. So many people, in fact, that I am numb to the comments, as numb as my hands are after five minutes of running on a Midwestern winter day. Yet, during the long winter months and short winter days, these unsolicited mental health diagnoses become stronger and more frequent.

“Are you insane?” is a frequent one, along with, “that cannot possibly be a good idea,” especially when the wind chill dips into the single digits. I was not born with any extra insulation, so no, I do not enjoy freezing my backside off (and often the front too, depending on which direction the wind is blowing).

But the endorphins win out over the goose bumps nearly every time. As for now, the advantages of living in the Midwest outweigh the sugarplums and fairy tales that dance in my head and whisper about these magnificent places where people don’t have to put on three shirts and two pairs of gloves to run outside.

Besides, there is no better way to take a tour of holiday lights through Bloomington than in the self-propelled bipedal fashion.

Ever since I was little, I loved Christmas lights. It is likely genetic. My dad puts so many Christmas lights in and around our three-bedroom single-story ranch in West Lafayette that I am surprised the city council has not made a new sign ordinance to address the issue (and the drain on the local electricity grid). Running is a great way to fulfill my desire for multicolored plastic glowing bulbs, while not having to endure the effort of hanging any up myself.

When my poor pops plugged in the dozen strands of lights he had left on the outdoor trees from last year (anything to save time and money), it was a terribly disappointing display.

Only a few puny strands emitted their Christmas spirit for all the neighborhood to see. Alas, if the Indiana climate proves too harsh for outdoor “weatherproof” light bulbs, why would any sane individual run through it?

After a recent onslaught of claims of insanity due to my outdoor habit of perpetual forward motion, I became slightly less numb to them and entertained the notion of their merit.

Yes, perhaps the treadmill is not the evil machine I remembered it to be. How could it be, if the machines at the YMCA are always jam-packed when I glance at the cardio section on my way to anywhere else but the large belts of monotony?

So I packed my gym bag with only shorts and a T-shirt one recent frigid December day, knowing that would force me to run inside. I even uploaded a new peppy play list of music to my iPod, as I noticed even the retired men at the Y wear iPods in the cardio section.

I may be an experienced runner, but I consider treadmilling a different sport (much like baseball vs. cricket — baseball can take an agonizingly long time, but the matches do not last for days as its English predecessor can), and was taking any social cues I could get.

After four miles on the treadmill (on a normal day I will run between eight and 16 miles), I ripped the earbuds out of my ears, grabbed my water bottle and walked away from the black master of boredom dazed, confused and abnormally sweaty. I decided running outside with the change of scenery, even in the cold, was better than the treadmill.

Once I stepped out the door, though, a blast of wind changed my mind, and I trudged back toward the human version of a hamster wheel.

I did finish my run inside that dreary day, but I also determined that I am not necessarily the crazy one for running outside.

The crisp cool air in my lungs may sting, but it reminds me I am alive, and I find it a better stinging then the sweat in my eyes after five minutes on a treadmill.

The harsh wind outside may cause every exposed piece of epidermis on my body to cringe, but even in the dark, there is a sense of accomplishment for having survived the elements.

Crazy, insane, nuts — you pick the adjective, but while you are deciding on one, I will bundle up and head out the door. I have got Christmas lights to scope out and miles to log.