So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye 2008

Lots happened in the running world, and in my own running nation-state as well, during 2008...

The Olympics
I absolutely love the Olympics, and 2008 did not disappoint. Olympic fever started for me in April when I participated in the U.S. Olympic Team Trials - Women's Marathon in Boston. I went in with a hip injury and knew it would not be healthy nor smart to run the whole race, so I ran at the front for my (literally) 15 minutes of fame. Some day I'll be running at the front for the whole race instead of less than three miles. Nonetheless, it was a great experience, and by not finishing I was able to watch the finish and see a convincing win by Deena, a breakthrough for Magdelena, and a redeeming moment for Blake (no, I don't personally know any of them, but I like just using their first names). Despite those impressive races, my favorite moments of the weekend were:

1.) Sneaking a camera phone picture of Joan Benoit Samuelson before the start (no, I'm not a stalker, just to shy to actually talk to her and say what a fan I am)
2.) Watching my friend, former training partner and an all-around amazing person Heather May give it every last ounce of her being to finish with a PR
3.) Making a new friend, Camille Herron, who is now a West Sider, a new teammate and training partner and great person as well
4.) Watching the Boston Marathon the next day, including watching Coach (a.k.a. Judy Wilson) finish strong

The summer Olympics were likewise exciting despite not seeing them in person. I have always rooted for Shalane Flanagan as her mom is a native Hoosier, but to see anyone come back from food poisoning to win a medal in a track race is just plain jaw-dropping. That 10,000m race was also the highlight of the Games for me as Amy Yoder Begley, Indiana running legend, also participated. The marathon races were dissapointing for the Americans, and another one of my favorites, Paula Radcliff, but great reminders that even the best of the best cannot win them all. Other favorite moments were former IU teammate David Neville getting bronze in the 400m and gold in the relay, Bryan Clay winning the decathlon, and, of course, Michael Phelps. Amazing.

Injuries
These things stink, big time, but I learned a lot about my body, renewed my passion for the sport, and moved on. Hopefully less of my running time will be devoted to injuries in the future, but if fate intervenes I know from this experience with my hip that I can, and will, overcome it.

Watching Deena's foot snap in half three miles into the Olympic Marathon was heartbreaking for many, but obviously had to be excruciating both mentally and physically for her. Hopefully she can pop "Spirit of the Marathon," into her DVD player and remember that she, too, has a good track record of overcoming injury.

Team Indiana Elite
Ok, this has very little worldwide running relevance, but it was a big part of my 2008. I have a great training partner thanks to T.I.E.W.B. (Team Indiana Elite Women Bloomington), and enjoyed all the conversations and miles with Dani Prince in 2008. I also have a very good coach in Robert Chapman and I think his training will pay off in not just 2009, but in 2010, 2011, and then the next Olympic year. Brooks also gave us more than a pullover and some too-short pants this year, and developed a neutral cushioned trainer that doesn't feel like a boat with laces, the Ghost, so I am very grateful to that company for its support.

Marathons
I did not run any this year, but Dani ran Columbus and won, which was just fantastic. Also, my dad ran his first marathon, the Indianapolis Marathon, and is now hooked. I have created a running monster with him. These two marathoners have me very excited to take another crack at the epic event in the fall of 2009 (Twin Cities? Chicago? I am still not sure which one).

The Weather
Warm, wet, cold, dry, windy, icey, snowy, hotter than Haites, the list is endless. Turns out global climate change was not a hoax after all. Who would have thunk it? This is the first year I have not slipped on the ice and injured myself, though, for which I am extremely grateful!

Here's to a fast and fun 2009! Stride on friends!

Another Thanksgiving, another Drumstick Dash!

I awoke at 5:30a.m. on Thanksgiving morning to my dad blasting Christmas music from his iTunes library. That was my cue; it was time to get going to Indianapolis for our annual pilgrimage to the Drumstick Dash.

Dad was way more excited than I was in my state of sleep deprivation; nonetheless, I do always look forward to this race. There is no better way to start off a holiday than with a run raising money for a good cause. I met Tony, and later Allison, and we did a little warm-up then muscled our way through the masses toward the start.

Over 7,000 people showed up, but the star of the day was indeed Gerry Giblets. Gerry, who is rumored to be a former IU All-American and Olympian not named Bob Kennedy, who was the race starter, always gets a head start. A glorious trophy with a little turkey on top is the reward for the first male and female runner to tag Gerry. I crowded my way to the starting line in hopes of catching Gerry as early as possible then jogging the rest of the way.

The gun went off, and around me zoomed a four-foot tall frizzy-haired girl in a neon yellow long sleeve shirt. I figured she went out too hard, and she did, so I returned the favor about two minutes into the race and passed her back. When I slapped Gerry's wing two-and-a-half minutes in, I realized it was kind of sad that I took such glee in out-running a middle schooler. Actually, though, I was doing her a favor by teaching her to be tough and to aspire to run smarter next time!

After about a mile I finally caught up with my dad and paced him to an average of 8:06 per mile pace for 4.5 miles, over 16 minutes faster than his time last year! I may have won a small trophy with a turkey on top, but Dad was the won who deserved an award for such a huge improvement. And my knees greatly appreciated the faster pace as it hurt them to run over-10 minute miles last year.

The rest of the day was filled with driving, family, actual turkey and hitting golf balls into Crooked Lake. I am extremely grateful for my running abilities, but more grateful for the people I get to share them with, and also for all the people who wouldn't give a darn if I didn't run. Hope you all had a terrific Turkey Day yourselves.

Marvelous Marathoners

As this marathon of a weekend comes to an end, I couldn't be happier for my dad or my training partner Dani. Pops ran 4:24 at the Indianapolis Marathon on Saturday, averaging just over 10 minutes per mile. Not bad for a guy who a few years ago ran the IU Open 5k where the following Monday the IDS reporter covering the meet remarked that there was a Santa-like man bringing up the rear as though he were "looking for some milk and cookies."

On Sunday Dani conquered Columbus and beat out all the other women to take first in 2:48. Also not bad for someone who only a little over a year ago would be hurting during our 12-mile long runs after a 60-mile training week. I squealed like a pig when I got her voicemail after our T.I.E. long run at Morgan-Monroe revealing the good news. The whole run I kept thinking, "Gee, Dani is probably at mile 10 by now. Gee, I wonder what Dani went through halfway in. Gee, I hope Dani is doing well!" And boy was she ever doing well! Next year we will run Chicago together and people will be making a documentary about that - bring it on "Spirit of the Marathon!"

Back at the Indy Marathon on Saturday, I also had the pleasure of running with Brenda, one of my (many) physical therapist friends, who was hoping to qualify for Boston after narrowly missing the mark earlier this year at the Rock 'n Roll Marathon in San Diego. It was nice to catch up with her and hopefully have helped her a teeny weeny bit with her goal. She finished in 3:39 and is now Boston-bound.

After I ran with Brenda I turned around and jogged against the crowd to find my dad again. When I first saw him that day, just after the 7-mile-mark, he was yelling random stuff at people (i.e. he saw someone with a Drumstick Dash shirt on and yelled, "Go Dashers!" as if anyone had any clue what that meant), and even jumping up and down for a few pictures (I carried my camera with me the whole way). The second time I saw him was at mile 15, and his stride was much shorter, so I hopped in and tried to make small talk. He said he felt okay physically but mentally was hurting. I made it through 18 with him then had to stop because running 10-minute/mile pace makes my knees ache something fierce. When I saw him again a little after mile 20 his head was so far down I could see the very top of his black Brooks Pre-Nat's hat I had given him from when I placed in the top 25 at that meet 3 years ago. I made him lift his head up and we progressed through the next six miles.

Out of all the miles I have run in my life, I will never forget running miles 25-26 with my dad yesterday. The whole last six miles I was debating in my head if I should say something "daddish," such as "Just go faster!" or "get your butt up that hill now, Gall!" all typical sayings that have fallen out of his mouth during my races. With immense effort I managed to bite my tongue and make only postive or contructive utterances.

All of a sudden Dad said to me, "I have been waiting this whole run for you to say 'why can't you just run faster?' to me like I used to say to you. Well, every muscle and bone in my body is sorry, they all say sorry!"

This run, for him, gave new meaning to the old saying "walk a mile in another (wo)man's shoes." My dad ran 26.2 of them, and I couldn't be prouder. A sure sign that he is his daughter's father is that he has called me multiple times since the marathon yesterday to tell me he is mad at himself for not running the last two miles faster and finishing under 4:22, and wants to pick another one to do so he can run faster. There is now officially no hope at recovery. Another running-addict is out there on the streets. Lock up your stores of Gu and Gatorade, folks.

Antsy

I am antsy all over right now. I am antsy to cheer on my dad in his first marathon in Indianapolis on Saturday. I am antsy to hear how my training partner, Dani, does in her first marathon in Columbus next Sunday. And I am really antsy for an entire year from now when I run another marathon myself. Being antsy for an entire year is too much to handle, so I will have to find ways to distract myself in the meantime.

The antsy-ness boiled up inside of me last night when Dani and I watched "Spirit of the Marathon," on DVD. Even though I had already seen it, that dramatic orchestra music in the background and the visuals of 40,000 people striding through the streets of Chicago made my heart rate race in anticipation. There is a whole year of waiting and training left, and that's if I don't manage to fall and bruise my kneecaps and ribs (like I did two weeks ago) right before the race, or get some other bizarre injury.

Today Dani and I tagged along with Chapman and the Team Indiana Elite guys to do our semi-long run in Deam Wilderness south of Lake Monroe. I wish digital cameras were smaller so we could have ran with one and captured the beauty of southern Indiana on a sunny fall day, the light sneaking in between tree limbs, illuminating the dirt particles we kicked up with our Brooks shoes. The only part that was not so scenic was all the horse poop we tried to jump over, but other than that it was nice and peaceful. It was the first time I had run in four days because of my "deep bone and cartilage bruise of the patella." Although the knees still ached, I truly did enjoy it. It was the perfect distraction from the days and days, and miles and miles, left to go before marathon day, fall 2009.

Four months and eight days

Today marks the first time in four months and eight days that I have done a hard running workout. Over a third of a year ago I was in Boston struggling through two-thirds of the Olympic Marathon Trials, left shoulder hiked up and right hip hiked out, a twisted mess of a runner.

Thanks to months of physical therapy, stretching and strengthening, pools and bikes, new shoes and a new beginning, I finally did a lactate threshold run today. I spent all of last night conning Dani into doing it with me early this morning on her one chance to sleep in this week. Being a good friend and teammate, she obliged and we met at the Rail Trail before the sun had fully risen. Through the fog we jogged an easy warm up before hitting the Clear Creak Trail, marked every half mile, for a four-mile LT. We agreed to do the first mile around 6:45 per mile pace, but despite her fatigue Dani took off at 6:00 minute pace. I huffed and puffed and we slowed down to a comfortable 6:30 or faster pace the rest of the way. This was by no means a blazing workout, especially given it was slower than my marathon pace.

The past was irrelevant, though, it was all about living in the (four-mile-long) moment. By the last mile I felt as if I could go a couple more and that was such a fantastic feeling. To once again have my heart beating rapidly, to have the slight discomfort of exertion permeating my muscles and lungs and to have the endorphins, was glorious.

I sat on my butt the last two and a half weeks watching the Olympics, watching people give every last ounce of their being to propel themselves beyond their previous physical limitations. That too was glorious, but it made me wonder if I still had that in me, that ability to red-line for the sake of the challenge. It had been so long since I had done a gut-buster of a workout or pushed myself through a never ending long long long run. While today was neither of those occasions, it did feel good to go hard. This once again proves I am an insane masochist. Bring on the pain - and the gain! Luckily, as watching the Olympics reinforced for me, I'm not the only one!

Cheers to London 2012!

Summer days wasting away

Due to my OCD and perhaps a little to my journalism training, I have a hard time posting anything I don't deem of at least decent quality, so please forgive me for the lack of posting. Since I have last posted anything I have been quite busy, but who isn't busy, so that is no excuse!

Thankfully, part of that being busy has been with more running than I have done in months! The doctor finally released me to go do my own thing, and I graduated from pool physical therapy. I have my last land appointment scheduled for next week. As much as I am glad to be healthy (or healthier) again, it will be really sad to not go to physical therapy. Even the therapist who calls me an "uptight white girl" is really good at what she does and I really enjoy joking around with all of them. And I think they might be the only people in addition to anyone in the School of Journalism in town who actually read my little community column in the newspaper, so I have got to give them props! Last week I finally got back up to forty miles, and everything feels pretty good. I'm not falling apart, yet... Over the Fourth of July weekend I got to do my traditional run and then jump in the lake (thanks to cousin Cathy for swimming to the Island and back with me), and the next weekend got to visit Cheese Country and lovely Oostburg, Wisconsin with my amazing roommate Jane. Her sister took us to a state park to run, and it was so hilly I got in my first workout in three months. I seriously think my heart rate had to be near its max on the steeper climbs. It made me feel so out of shape, but it hurt so good!

Besides running, the main reason I have been busier than ever is that the J-school is hosting fifteen Iraqi undergraduate students for five weeks. We knew it would be a difficult and time-consuming event, but until we met them in person and escorted them back to the Heartland of America, I had no idea what I was in for. They mostly want to shop (iPods, digital cameras, clothes, and wandering around College Mall are popular), so my lectures about Congress, politics, leadership, Indiana Limestone and journalism are not exactly thrilling. Some days I go to sleep thinking about Iraq, I dream about Iraq, then wake up and spend all day with Iraqis. I feel like I am in the Twilight Zone or something... but overall I am learning a lot about management, leadership, culture, and both Kurdistan and Iraq. A majority of our students are from Kurdistan in the northern section of Iraq, where there is relative peace and security and virtually no U.S. military presence. Another new thing I learned about Iraqis - they hate walking, and I make them walk everywhere, so you can guess how much they like me for that!

In non-running related news, it seems a number of my techno-savvy relatives have stumbled upon this little blog of mine. In honor of this discovery, I'd like to give a shout-out to cousin Gary recovering from his big surgery. May the scars heal quickly so we can once again push you into the lake when you're not paying attention!

Gotta love p.t.

Two actual conversations that occurred at physical therapy over the past week:

Wednesday
Receptionist: I saw your picture in a magazine, you're famous!
Me: Thanks...
P.T. tech: Saw your picture and article.
Me: Thanks...
P.T. #1: Yeah, and your left knee was collapsing in, you need to work on that.
Me: Yeah, that's why I've been going to physical therapy for seven months...

P.T. #2: Hey, did you see how your left femur was rotated in that picture?
Me: Yep, working on it...

P.T. #3 (walking by the room where I'm laying on a table doing exercises): Nice rotated leg.
Me: Thanks...

Friday
P.T. #4: Maybe if you weren't an uptight white girl you wouldn't have all these problems.
Me: Hmm, well, there's a theory...
later in the session
P.T. 4 (who is a Caucasian woman as well): Man, you are pasty!
Me: I thought we already established that I was white.
P.T. 4: You're a pasty uptight white girl.
Me: Thanks...

Bruised on my bum, but far from bummed

Merriam-Webster defines masochism as "pleasure in being abused or dominated: a taste for suffering." While no true competitor enjoys being dominated, the rest of the definition is quite appropriate for the philosophy of a successful distance runner. I argue that the injured distance runner is even more of a masochist, trying any legal method, no matter how cruel, in the hopes that it may further the progress toward recovery.

The most painful treatment I've endured during my quest to return to competitive running is called the Graston technique (Graston for short, although there are other names for this same type of treatment). Graston uses a patented set of metal torture tools (invented by one David Graston as a way to treat himself after a water skiing injury) to detect and remove fascial and myofascial adhesions and restrictions. In layman's terms, it's like digging the flat edge of a butter knife into the most painful spot you can find where there are knots or scar tissue stuck on a tendon, ligament or muscle.

I first had Graston done on a tiny muscle in between two of my ribs after I tore it during the track state meet my sophomore year in high school . Before the physical therapist dug in, he warned me that most of the grown men who get the treatment cry because it hurts so much. Great. At that point I was determined not to cry, but boy did I want to, it definitely did hurt.

I had a lovely honeymoon away from Graston for the next four or five years before rediscovering it in the IU athletic training room. Sometimes it really helped, but sometimes I just got bruised. After I was done at IU I had a few Graston treatments at Rebound, the physical therapy place I now use. Again, a few cool bruises, but still tight and restricted in the areas that received the treatment.

Over the last four months, I have had a Graston bruise on one part of my body or another the entire time. When I went to get a massage the masseuse asked if I had been in a car accident. I would joke that someone had pushed me down the stairs, but nope, it was self-inflicted. I had asked for this "treatment." This was a hard concept to explain to non-runners.

The worst of the bruises came when I begged my former IU trainer to treat me one more time before the Marathon Trials in hopes of a miraculous recovery. He had performed Graston on me a few weeks earlier and it worked wonders, until I screwed it up by trying to do mile repeats on the track a few days later (too much too soon). The trainer tried his best to help me again, but unfortunately that time I was left with a bruise that left a shadow over my whole right thigh that is still visible a full two months later and little actual relief.

My latest Graston bruise was somewhat unexpected. While at Rebound this past Friday I was lying on my side as the PT was stretching out my hip. Before I knew it, she was using the Graston tool on my rear side, and I instantly knew why she didn't warn me. It hurt like few other Graston treatments have hurt and I don't think she wanted me to know what she was about to do. My bum has a nice souvenir from it, but luckily it's much less visible to the rest of the world than the bruises I've had down my thigh and around my shoulders.

Thankfully, this time around the bruise seems to be worth it as I went on a pain-free four-mile run yesterday on the Rail Trail. Every time I sit down or stand up I can feel the bruise on my butt and I have a nice reminder of Mr. Graston and his metal torture tools. Masochist or not, I prefer to think of myself as an optimist. I'm hopeful that whichever treatment I am going with now is getting me one step closer to packing in the miles again.

Another state meet weekend

After this past weekend, I have attended nearly twenty Indiana track and field state championship meets (including both boys and girls meets). While my role at the meet has changed drastically since I am now a spectator instead of an athlete, without fail, just being at the meet gives me goosebumps. I do not believe in my entire college career that I was ever quite as nervous as I was for some of my high school state meet races.

In high school, the track state meet was the end-all, be-all of life for me. As a high school freshman I saw the attractive brown ribbons with the Indiana-shaped medals my teammates had earned for their ninth place finish the previous year in the 4x8 relay, and I wanted one. The regional meet had been neck and neck between us and Carmel, and I knew the state meet would be similar. There I was, a 5-foot tall braces-clad freshman with my dorky crew length socks pulled as high as they would go, and I was anchoring a relay with a bunch of upperclassmen. I wanted to puke so badly, but while I was looking around for a good spot to do so, all of a sudden my teammate was charging into the exchange zone and it was time to race. I ran a personal best split of 2:20, but it was not enough to overtake traditional powerhouse Carmel. I ran so hard, though, that I tore a costal muscle in my ribs, but it was worth it for my own Indiana-shaped medal. That medal, though, made the 3200m run later in the meet not quite as fun, and no Indiana-shaped medal as a souvenir for that one.

I didn't think it was possible to be more nervous than I was my freshman year, but my sophomore year proved me wrong. That year we won regionals in the 4x8 and we were favored to do the same at state. There was less of the underdog mentality and more of that heavy "we need to win this because we may never again have such a good shot," feeling. This time, though, I was the third leg and not anchor. The plan was to build a gap so that Carmel's strong anchor leg (who would later be a teammate at IU) could not catch up, or would wear herself out trying to close the gap too soon. It worked to perfection and this time we had the blue medal. I was so giddy I almost forgot to warm-up for the 3200m run later that evening, but the fact that I had used up all my nervousness on that first race allowed me a care-free second race. This time I kept all my rib muscles intact and managed to place third individually.

My junior year was just a delayed sophomore slump. Severe allergies and a deviated septum derailed my grand plans for two more medals, yet we gave it our all in the 4x8 and got the much-adored orange-ribboned medal for sixth place. I didn't even qualify for the 3200m run individually, which would motivate me tremendously during summer training after recovering from surgery to correct the crooked septum in my nose.

By the end of my senior year the roller coaster of a career was back on the upswing. As proof that life comes full circle, I closed my high school career with the same medals I had earned my sophomore year, a blue and a white, but this time reversed in the events. Before the 3200m run, my last high school race, the nervousness demons encircled me. As one of the race officials walked us to the start line I panicked. I had forgotten my BreathRight strip! How could I run without it? My breathing will be off! Oh well, the gun's up now, just go! The first mile I was cautious, afraid to go into oxygen debt without the coveted nasal strip to keep all airways as open as possible. My patience paid off as the leader slowly came back to me and I quickly reeled her in, passing her with 200m to go and never looking back.

Back to the future... and even after finishing college, I still get butterflies in my stomach watching the state meet. I can see in the eyes of the high schoolers that same nauseating feeling, that anxiety, the desire to just know how it will end up, be it good or bad. It's the not knowing that is so hard to handle. I see in some of the high schoolers the joy of everything coming together, and in others, the tears of everything falling apart, and I feel for them both. The joy is so fleeting, yet the disappointments will linger so long.

The biggest lesson I have learned from observing instead of competing in these meets is that high school state track meets are not, in fact, the end of the world. The sun will still rise the next day no matter what happened on the oval or in the field. As logical as that sounds, it is harder to grasp than it seems! It has only taken me ten years to do so...

Bolder in Boulder

I had been to Boulder once before, but only for a day, and I was hungry for a second helping of this gorgeous mountainside town where my cousin Sallie lives. Thanks to a few extra frequent flier miles from my uncle, I was off to Colorado for an extended Memorial Day weekend.

I was a very bad patient and violated the doctor's recommendation that I not run at all for six weeks. It was a clear beautiful day in Boulder and my running shoes were the little devil on my shoulder, screaming into my ear all day to give into temptation. I only gave in for a 4-miler, and my lungs burned from the altitude and lack of an inhaler, but I was thrilled nonetheless.

Boulder is without a doubt an athlete's town. You cannot walk down any street without seeing bikers, joggers, runners, and occasionally the elite or international star athlete. Organic food seems more common than the normal grub, and I cannot recall seeing one chubby kid while I was there. I kept bugging my cousin to "go to the mountains," and she obliged my request as we went off-roading up Flagstaff Mountain one day. Despite all the dust, it was very cool, it felt like the Dinosaur Ride in Animal Kingdom at Disney World, expect it wasn't dark and nothing popped out at us besides a few wayward tree branches.

On Saturday I was walking down the Boulder Creek Path on my way to check out the Boulder Creek Festival, a condensed and hippie-infested version of a county 4-H fair. Instead of fried Snickers Bars like we have in Indiana, they had a Kashi Cereal stand with soy milk; I was in heaven. They even had a Gravitron, my favorite fair ride, but the urge to ride it now is much less than when I was 10 years-old. Back on the path, two of the Japanese elite athletes who would be running in the Bolder Boulder on Monday jogged slowly by me and I managed to whip out my camera in time to get a quick shot. I kept my eyes peeled for any other elite runners, but no luck.

After wandering around the festival for awhile, I needed to take a shower as the mix of sweat and the incense that many at the festival were burning was too much for my nose to handle. On my walk back on the path to meet up with my cousin and her friends I noticed a slim runner speeding towards me. Oh my goodness, it's Deena Kastor! I thought to myself as I fumbled for my camera, or perhaps a pen to get an autograph. No luck, I had foolishly removed those items from my person when I had stopped at my cousin's condo to take the shower. Lesson learned: showering is bad, save water instead.

Oh well. I ran by her for three whole miles in the Olympic Trials, I don't need an autograph. Then I remembered the time she lapped me last summer at the USATF National Championship 10k. She said "good job," as she glided by effortlessly. She even lapped me again, the second time without enough breath to utter any encouragement. The thought of getting lapped twice in a track race made me simultaneously cringe and laugh. I would give anything to get lapped twice at this year's National Championship - the Olympic Trials. But alas, I will have to wait until 2012 and at that point, I will definitely not be lapped once, let alone twice!

On Monday I again violated doctor's orders by jogging the Bolder Boulder 10k, the second-largest 10k in the country (behind the Peachtree race in Atlanta on July 4). Sallie, her roommate Megan, their friend Michael and myself lined up at 7a.m. in wave HC, set to go off at 7:59:10a.m., a full 59 minutes after the first heat. It was a long and chilly wait, but finally it was our turn to go. I waved wildly at the cameras trying to actually enjoy the experience. It was only the second time I had ever run a road race just for fun and not to place as highly as possible (the first being the 2006 Turkey Trot with my dad).

I thought the Indoor Big Ten 5k was a crowded race, but that pales in comparison to running with 55,000 of your closest friends. The course wound through town, and the light rain and cool temperature was perfect for a morning stroll. There were off-key singers and bands and lots of cheering people for the entire six miles. The belly dancers were probably my least favorite part as they were quite unattractive and just plain bizarre, but they still provided a distraction. The race finished inside the University of Colorado football stadium where a huge screen shows all the runners finishing. After collecting our goodies (including a free lunch box, tote-bag, and many snacks - they better have had good post-race stuff since we had to pay $48 just to enter), we walked back in the rain, which by this point was cold and coming down harder. The nice part was that I got to see the CU campus. I got a cup of coffee at the little coffee shop a block from my cousin's condo, which helped warmed me up too.

The next day it was time to return to reality in Indiana, but the short visit was refreshing and has me hoping that sometime soon I return to Boulder. I don't think my cousin will ever move back to Indiana after spending the last six years in Boulder, and I don't blame her, it's hard not to fall in love with the place! I don't know if I will live there in the future or not, but many visits are definitely in my plans.

On your marks, get set, cook!

My Grandma Fran was a great cook. Her parents were German, but she grew up in southern California next door to a Mexican woman who taught her some of the basics of tamales and tacos. As a Navy nurse during World War II, she met a striking Italian-American midshipmen, Nicolas DeFrancesco. After the War they got married and returned to his hometown of Elkhart, Indiana.

The pair started the first pizzeria in Elkhart, Nicky D's. Grandpa could make a great pizza, but he also missed a great opportunity to expand the business. A local grocer tried to convince him to freeze his handmade works and sell them in the grocery to the masses so they could take them home and eat Nicky D's whenever they wanted. Who would ever do that? he thought. Despite the missed opportunity for expansion, Nicky D's remained one of the most popular restaurants in the growing northern Indiana city, a labor of love for both of my grandparents.

My grandpa died of brain cancer when I was 11 months old and Grandma Fran never did completely stop grieving. The restaurant, or "resternt" as Grandma always called it, folded after a few years under my uncle's management, but Grandma never stopped cooking.

She would make fresh bread in the bread machine and when my sister and I came home from soccer, basketball, track or softball practice we would practically inhale it. If we were lucky, she would make a huge pot of spaghetti sauce from scratch, checking in on the Italian recipe between her TV shows to patiently stir it. The best was Saturday nights when she would make pizza dough and pizza sauce, and we each could make our own pizzas with our toppings. Mine was normally doused in cheese, so much so that I now have a slight aversion to cheese since I ate so much of it for so many Saturdays. Saturday homemade pizza was one of the few stable traditions our family had. We may have been (and still are) dysfunctional, but at least we picked a tasty tradition to follow!

Grandma occasionally drove my dad nuts in the kitchen, watching over his shoulder whenever he tried to cook something of his own, normally some large chunk of meat. I ran into the same annoyance whenever I had tried to make desserts for any school or sporting event. I barely got to bake the "just add water" brownies on my own. She was the master chef, and we all knew it.

When I left for college Grandma Fran wrote down most of her recipes on index cards in her beautiful cursive writing. Without her to cook dinner I started experimenting on my own while in college and have come to love cooking. One of the best parts of running is that I burn a lot of calories, so I can cook a lot of food for myself. I occasionally use some of her recipes, but have not had the guts to try her signature tomato sauces or pizza because I know I won't come close to what she would have made.

Grandma passed away last summer and it really hit me hard. I was glad she was no longer in pain, but who would I call when I didn't know how to cook a porkchop or why the the banana bread didn't rise. A few months ago I decided to try a new pasta sauce that was on sale at the grocery store. Not thinking much of it, I poured it on my noodles and took a bite. Tears came to my eyes, it was the first thing I had tasted since Grandma died that came anywhere close to what her sauce tasted like. To be clear, it is not as good as her sauce, but it could definitely be a cousin in taste.

Cooking can nurture in more ways than the physical. I marveled at Deena Kastor cooking her enchiladas at the end of the Spirit of the Marathon movie as it reminded me of the simple pleasures of good food. Often when I cook I think of Grandma, although my "style" differs greatly from hers. Someday I will make that sauce from scratch and again have homemade pizza on Saturday, but until then, I'll nourish my body and soul with my own concoctions, then go run some more so I can have more ice cream.

I ran across this cookbook on http://eliterunning.com/, it's called The Runners Cookbook and was compiled by Allison Wade. It has tons of recipes from elite American distance runners, from Shalane Flanagan and her mom to the Gouchers and Alan Webb. I ordered it and to my amazement, the cover is a picture from the Tufts 10k I ran last October, and on the very right-hand edge you can see my eye, part of my arm and part of my leg! Go to http://www.runnerscookbook.com/ for more information or to order it. All proceeds are split evenly between the Jenny Crain "Make it Happen" Fund and the Ryan Shay Memorial Fund.

Another in the better-late-than-never catagory: Indy Mini '08

Ever since I started running I've wanted to run the Indianapolis Mini Marathon. What could be cooler than running the largest half marathon in the country right in my own backyard? And getting to run on the Speedway, oh how I want to do it! Alas, the dream will have to wait another year (or more, who knows what 2009 will bring), but I got a good taste of the event watching friends and family run on May 3.

Friday before the race I went to the Expo to pick up Jane's number for her and to listen to the legend, Frank Shorter, speak. As soon as I had positioned myself in a fantastic spot to hear the '72 Olympic marathon gold medalist espouse his wisdom, my cell phone rang with a request from my aunt. I ended up going with her to the airport to pick up my cousin and her roommate who were flying in from Denver to run. Good thing I went to navigate because if I hadn't, my aunt likely would have been in Lebanon before she realized that I-65 N does NOT go to the Indianapolis Airport.

Even without listening to Frank, it was a lovely evening. My aunt, cousin, her roommate, my dad, his girlfriend and I had dinner at Harry & Izzy's, an offshoot of the famous St. Elmo's. We had some of their famous shrimp cocktail with the horseradish sauce that will light your nose hair on fire if you're not careful. After dinner we walked back to our respective hotel rooms and called it a night.

Even though I was not running I still had the fluttering-stomach excited feeling. I couldn't wait to watch my Team Indiana Elite teammate Dani race in the elite field as I knew she was in good shape and would easily PR, especially since her first half marathon was the hilly IU Mini last September. I was also anxious for my cousin and a whole posse of her friends to run because I had written them a training plan for this, their first half marathon. I wouldn't call myself a coach, but I do know a fair amount about the sport and this was the first time I would see if I could transfer any of that knowledge onto others who had very little experience with the longer distances.

Additionally, I was hopeful that my dad would have a good run. I was guilty of talking him into it and signing him up for it, so if it went poorly I would probably be hearing about it for a while. He had actually trained for this race more than any of his previous half marathons, so I was hopeful. He started running a full two months prior to the race, which was quite an improvement on when he ran the Flying Pig half in Cincinnati a few years ago off of two weeks of training.

I set my alarm so I would make it to watch the start, but when it went off my dad came into my room and told me to just sleep in and catch later parts of the race. Sounded good to me, and it also let me get in a good breakfast while watching the start of the race on TV. I get grumpy without a good breakfast, and also can be grumpy when I'm not running, so I at least needed the food in this recovery phase of my training!

After grabbing some grub Nancy and I piled into my Prius and we headed toward the Speedway. We rushed down 16th St. to get as close to the race track as we could and got dizzy watching the throngs of people running, jogging and slogging past us back towards downtown. I clutched my digital camera waiting for a glimps of Pops and my cousin and her friends. We eventually saw Sallie in her "eighties-tastic" pink capris and got a few good shots of her, but never did see Dad. He must not be feeling well, we thought, so we decided to head to the finish to catch him there. Again, we stood staring at the sea of humanity running the last .1 of their 13.1 mile adventure

Hundreds after hundreds ran into the checkered finish area and no sight of a Mr. Tom Gall. One of the extremely rare times that my dad did not have his cell phone on him we had no idea how we would locate the man. We eventually found the "G" station at the family reunion area and there he was proudly wearing his race car-shaped medal and drenched in sweat, even a little blood (he forgot to use the Body Glide I had given him, huge mistake for a male). Ends up he had run so much faster (2:09) than his goal pace (2:15) that he had finished before we even got there. Way to go Pops!

After that I found out that Dani got fourth and my cousin and all her friends finished well under their sub-2:20 goals (they were all around 2:15). The sun was shining and I was grateful to be able to watch such a wonderful spectacle of the human race. Athletes do not always get the chance to see what they are doing as they are right in the thick of it, so it was a glorious day to be a spectator. I was beaming with pride for my fast friends and family and just happy to be the supporter instead of the supported for once.

Long overdue: My Olympic Trials Marathon experience

Over a month removed from the big show I think I finally have enough perspective on my Olympic Trials Marathon experience last April in Boston to put the weekend into words.

It all began Friday, April 18th, the day that Indiana shook. With a 5.2 magnitude earthquake in the wee hours of the morning awaking residents in states more known for tornadoes than tremors, I should have taken that as an omen that the weekend and following weeks would be a little shaky.

When Ben and I arrived at Indianapolis we found a few runner friends on our flight to Boston's Logan Airport. Once we arrived, we showed Camille how to navigate the Boston subway. After we got off of the subway and emerged above ground, we managed to roll ourselves and our luggage to the Boston Sheraton. I couldn't get to the official Trials check-in room fast enough to see what goodies awaited. I was not disappointed. All participants received a technical t-shirt with logo, Nalgene bottle with logo, oversized cotton gloves with logo, poster with logo, Camelback bookbag (without the water bladder) with logo, and stuffed lobster (no logo on the lobster). The good people at Brooks contributed to the goodies galore with another book bag, gloves, ear band and very nice jacket.

Friday night brought with it the first official Trials weekend activity: the Welcoming Reception. There were some nice cheese and crackers and clam chowder for hors d'oeuvres, but I was mistaken in thinking this event was a dinner, oops. The best part of the reception, though, was reuniting with my old training partner and friend Heather May. It was so nice to see her again. Second best part was the slides show they had on two large screens with "playing cards" shown for every single runner. I missed my own photo the first go-round, so stared intently at the screen for the next five minutes so I could see it again. It flashed quickly then was gone, but I was pretty excited nonetheless. After the reception we met up with my good West Lafayette friend Mary and had some scrumptious cheesecake at, where else, the Cheesecake Factory.

Saturday morning Ben and I went for an easy run along the Charles River. Apparently everyone else in town had the same idea. We passed a gaggle of Hanson's Runners on our way out. After a couple miles I stopped to stretch my hip a bit. As I looked up I saw a yellow blob approaching? Could it be? No, surely not... but wait, it was! Lance Armstrong just ran by me and looked me in the eye! I started running after him, Ben rolling his eyes at me, but then the Livestrong clan went a different direction so we went back to running our own route. On the way back to the hotel we passed the Team USA Mammoth Lakes clan, then saw a few Ethopian elite athletes before watching both of the Hanson brothers run down to the river as well. It was like flipping through a real-life Runners' World magazine with all the famous runners we saw, my excitement level increasing with every run-by.

Saturday afternoon we toured historic Boston with my cousin Ann and had a great meal in the Italian section of town. Afterwards we went to the Boston Marathon Expo, the granddaddy of all race expos. We visited with Blake at the USATF stand in the corner and I loaded up on a few free Lara Bar and Power Bar samples, got a Livestrong poster, bought my dad a t-shirt and then was satisfied. Saturday evening was the pre-race dinner from 4-6p.m. at the Sheraton. Not to be an ungrateful snob, but the food was pretty bad. Dried out chicken and bland pasta sauce, topped off with melted ice cream was what the Boston Trials committee served us. Nonetheless, it was free!

It was only 6pm and we were already done with dinner, which only meant there was way too much time for mischief. Since my hip was hurting I knew I wouldn't be able to finish the whole race, so there was really no need to rest up and stay off my feet. Ben, Blake and I headed down to Fenway Park to see if we could find some cheap tickets to the Red Sox game. We ended up getting leftover handicap seats that had a fantastic unobstructed view, right at the first baseline. The game was great fun, even though I'm not a huge baseball fan, but by about five innings in I was absolutely freezing and wanted to leave. My compadres weren't about to leave, though, so I toughed it out and we got to see Manny Ramirez hit an eighth-inning come-from-behind homer to secure the victory for the BoSox.

While waiting for the subway to go back to the hotel we ran into two guys running Boston on Monday. One of the guys was so excited to find out that I was running in the Trials that he had his friend take a picture of the two of us. That pretty much made my day!

Unfortunately I got to bed much later than I had hoped, and 5:30a.m rolled around much sooner than I had hoped. With bags under my eyes I made my way down to the elite athlete breakfast and ate the crumbs left over from all the other runners . Note to self: bring breakfast or eat earlier in 2008.

At 7a.m. all the athletes were waiting in the designated hallway to be paraded out onto Boylston Street and our designated staging area. I wanted to talk a paparazzi picture of Joan Benoit Samuelson, but restrained myself. The temptation proved too much, though, as I did take a few of her with my camera phone once we made it outside. Even though I was not really racing, I still got chills walking outside arm to arm with all these amazing athletes and seeing so many fans out to watch us compete.

I did a one mile warm-up back and forth along Boylston and could tell from it that it was going to be a rough run. I managed to get the leg heated up enough to not limp, and the adrenaline from being in close proximity to Joan Benoit Samuelson, Deena Kastor and so many others also helped alleviate the pain. Before the final run-outs I found Heather and told her I'd love to pace her for as long as I could. She would be running 6:15s to 6:20s and that sounded like a good pace for me since I could barely run mile repeats much faster the week before.

After the national anthem I weaseled my way toward the front of the line and found a spot conveniently just behind Deena. While we were waiting for the start, two women pointed to the huge bruise on my leg and told me it looked pretty cool. Then all of a sudden the gun went off and I felt like we were crawling, although the pace quickly became more respectable. I decided to go for my fifteen minutes of fame and stay up front for at least the first 2.2-mile loop. I could hardly believe that I was running right next to Deena, and in my euphoria I forgot about the pacing-Heather plan. I managed to stay upfront long enough that I knew I would be clearly visible on the live Web-cast, which also contributed to my amnesia about the original pacing plan.

After three miles I let the chase pack (Magdalena Lewy Boulet had charged to the lead at the start and built an early gap on the rest of the field). As I settled in to a more comfortable 6-6:15/mile pace I tried to soak up the entire experience, watching all the cheering bystanders, enjoying the view, imagining myself still in the lead and feeling comfortable. I even saw Ryan Hall cheering at one spot on the crowd, and heard a friend yell "RDP!" from the sidewalk (RDP is my high school's motto - Red Devil Pride). At the 180-degree I could see the runners behind me, and saw Heather. I remembered my promise to pace her and felt guilty for not following through on it, but was still so hyped up that I could not bring myself to slow down. Ah, the vigor of inexperience.

After the first loop, bringing me to 8.2 miles, the adrenaline began wearing off and the tightness took its place. Both my left shoulder and neck and my right hip were aching and my form was deteriorating more with each passing mile. Around 10 miles an awful stench made its way to my nasal cavity and I quickly became nauseous. As a lady in a dark blue top but brown shorts and brown legs passed me, I realized what the smell was and felt both sorry for her and increasingly sick to my own stomach. Before I could stop it, I leaned over to the side of the road and puked up all the Gatorade I had drank that day. Ever since I was little and had to clean the litter box I've had a really hard time with that smell.

The last half of that second loop was rough, and once I passed the medical tent at 14.2 miles I decided it would be stupid to put my body through any more pounding. A very nice volunteer walked me back to the tent where a very nice lady sat me down on a massage table. An athletic trainer came by and saw the huge bruise on my leg from the Graston therapy and freaked out, told me I had developed a huge hematoma and needed ice immediately. I told him I'd had the bruise from Graston and it had been there for a week. He shook his head and just walked away. Evenutally a sports massage therapist, Helen, came over and I had a new best friend. She knew exactly what she was doing and my tight muscles could not have been more grateful. After she was done rubbing me out she put my participant's medal around my neck and told me best of luck in 2012, which made me tear up a little.

I changed quickly and rushed back outside to catch the end of the race. It was quite inspirational to see Deena gliding in to easily win her first Olympic Trials Marathon. I felt re-energized watching everyone finish, knowing that with a few more years I too could be up there competing with them. I also got to see Coach again and made plans to meet up with her after she finished her own marathon the next day.

After the race was over Ben and I made our way to the Hansons-Brooks Post-Race Party. I was most excited about getting another very nice free Brooks bag, and the free pizza and Diet Coke were big winners in my book as well. Ben schmoozed with some Brooks big-wig while I talked with friends and fellow participants Ann and Johanna. After party number one it was time for the official Trials Awards Banquet. We sat with Camille and her husband, Purdue cross country coach Connor Holt. They were a riot and I thoroughly enjoyed hanging out with some fellow West Lafayetters (even if they are transplants, they still count).

The banquet was another serving of inspiration for me. There were many people in the top 15 that I have at one point or another competed with, and nearly all of them were older than me. This helped me not feel as badly for not finishing (one of my absolute least favorite things in the world) and reassured me in the need for patience in this masochistic sport of distance running. My time is yet to come.

The next morning, Patriots Day, Ben and I went for one more easy run along the river. This time we did not see nearly as many famous people. My hip still ached, and I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that it might be my last run for a while. After cleaning up and again eating the leftover scraps at the athlete hospitality room we headed out to watch the finish of the Boston Marathon. We saw Ethiopian Dire Tune and Russian Alevtina Biktimirova sprint to the finish in the elite women's race. Not long after, Robert Cheruiyot passed by us. He completely dominated the men's field; it looked like it was a playground foot race and he wasn't even breathing hard.

We walked further up Commonwealth Avenue to find a good spot to look for Coach (a.k.a. Judy). Ben hoisted me up onto the ledge of a light pole and right before she passed me I finally saw her. I screamed "Go Coach!" at the top of my lungs and she turned her head and gave me the thumbs up. I also managed to get a picture of her - mission accomplished. It took a while to wander through the massive crowds of weary finishers and anxious family members, but I eventually found Coach in the family reunion area. She and her old college teammate and I waddled back to the Prudential Center food court to get some grub. I enjoyed catching up with her and she very kindly listened to me vent about all my current frustrations. When it was time to leave to catch my flight and I had to say good bye to her, I once again got teary-eyed. You don't know what you've got till it's gone, that's for sure.

After a long flight and solo drive home I finally got back to good ol' Bloomington. I dumped my bags on the floor and passed out on the couch, didn't even bother to walk to my bed. I was physically and emotionally drained. Alas, I have many things to take from this experience: lots of free junk with the cool '08 Trials logo on it, and a truck-load of inspiration, enough to last me a good four more years at least.

Coach Hep Cancer Challenge

Okay, I know I've been woefully bad at posting on this lately. I have a lot to write about (Marathon Olympic Trials, watching the Indy Mini last weekend, and more), but just have not had much free time, or mental energy. All these events and everything in between have been slightly traumatic and I'm still sorting through it all and recovering. Nonetheless, I promise there will be updates soon.

For now I just want to make a quick plea to support the Coach Hep Cancer Challenge in Bloomington this weekend. If you are in town you should sign up to participate at www.CoachHepCancerChallenge.org. There is an event for everyone - 5k walk or run, 40k bike ride, 100k bike ride and 40k ride/5k run combo.

If you can't come, or don't want to, consider making a donation. Here's my Active.com fund raising site: http://www.active.com/donate/DontQuit/JGall1

I don't care if you donate to me or to anyone else participating because it is all going to a great cause. Donations go to the IU Simon Cancer Center (where Lance Armstrong was treated) and the Olcott Center for Cancer Education.

As Coach Hep used to say, Don't quit.

Almost to Boston!

Yikes, I really can't believe it is almost April 20th and in less then two days I'll be on a plane to Boston. The idea of running in the Olympic Trials Marathon still seems abstract to me since I never imagined even trying to qualify for it until only a few months before I did. This is in stark contrast to my normally tireless mind that spins every night pondering the possibilities of my future for tomorrow, next week, next year, and the next ten years. I'm continuing to learn that trying to plan out life is almost futile as it never quite ends up like we expect, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse!

I've packed a few essential items - my jersey, shorts, racing flats - but as is my tradition, have yet to completely pack and I know that's what I'll be spending the majority of tomorrow night doing. Unfortunately there are many other things I have to do as well, so I'll likely forget a few essential items with the last minute rush. I was excited to find out, though, that I'll be getting a fat tax refund check, which will likely lead to me purchasing way too many souvenirs, which will then cover any clothing item I may forget to bring.

I'm excited for not only the race and getting to watch the Boston Marathon on Monday, but also for the chance to stalk two of my biggest running idols, Deena Kastor and Joan Benoit Samuelson. I will be able to put my obsessive compulsive journalism skills to use with my new digital camera and my old video camera that I have hardly used since I bought it.

Boston will also be a place of many reunions for me. I'll get to meet up with a former training partner, a former coach, a cousin I haven't seen in years, and one of my best friends from grade school and high school. It's been nice to get random Facebook messages from people I haven't talked to in a while wishing me good luck. Oh the perks of advanced communication technology!

I have no idea how the race itself will go. I've had difficulty training over the last couple months due to this mystery hip/thigh ailment. Thanks to one of the best athletic trainers I've ever worked with, Matt Donahue, it was feeling much better, so I tried to do a workout last night. That has unfortunately caused my right leg to revolt, so I had Matt do one last round of Graston treatment today. For those of you who have not had the pleasure of Graston, I will explain. It involves taking hard metal tools and scraping them along the soft tissue until scar tissue and restrictions in the muscles, tendons and ligaments are broken up. It often involves biting towels to stop thinking about the pain, and in my case it also involves a bruise the size of Montana.

No matter what, I know this weekend will be one of those experiences that I will carry with me for the rest of my life. Off to Bean Town!

Anyone up for a drink?

I know competitive distance running is not “normal.” I get it, no further explanation needed. Yet, when I went last week to an anesthesiologist, recommended by the physical therapist, to see if he could help fix the nerve problem in my neck, I was not expecting his visceral reaction to my uncommon obsession.

“You know, people drink a twelve pack a day and destroy their livers through cirrhosis. You’re basically destroying your bones and joints with this running just like if you were drinking a twelve pack a day. You might as well be drinking a twelve pack!”

His bluntness combined with my shock and frustration to form some H20 in the corner of my eyes. “Are you okay?” the doctor said. “Yeah, bad allergies today,” I lied. Unfortunately, that allowed him to continue his lecture. “You know this is not normal, you know that right? If you keep running twelve miles a day, you’ll have double knee replacements and a hip replacement by the time you’re 46.”

Clearly he wasn’t listening as I had actually said that I run five to twelve miles a day, not twelve miles every day. Even that was a slight fib, as my long runs are normally longer than twelve, but thank goodness I didn’t go there. I can’t imagine what he would’ve said if he had known I had run a marathon.

He kept repeating, “This is not normal, you have to acknowledge that.” For good measure he threw in a few, “I can give you some shots, but those are just band-aids. You’re choosing to tear apart your body, kind of like people who drink twelve packs every day.”

Lost in his ramblings was my protest that I had run just fine before a weight lifting injury, but clearly it was my addiction to running that had caused the disc between my fifth and sixth cervical vertebrae to bulge, clearly…

Eventually he suggested I try physical therapy. Ask my bank account, I’ve tried physical therapy! He finally relented to actually examining my neck – novel idea, for a doctor to examine a patient instead of just looking at the chart – and acknowledged the trigger points. He gave me a trigger point injection, but kept emphasizing it was only a “band-aid” and would keep coming back unless I ran three miles or less per day, preferably on a treadmill.

I finally got out of his office and went about the rest of my day, but couldn’t stop contemplating the fact that a medical professional had actually equated running with alcoholism! Ok, if running is so abnormal, why do I do it?

Well, there are a million reasons, from the obvious (cardiovascular health, bone density, weight control, etc.) to the corny (skills like discipline, focus, teamwork, etc. and lifelong friendships). But there has to be something deeper that gets me out of bed to run when it is 30 degrees, dark and the covers are so darn warm.

Perhaps it’s just that running has become habitual and I don’t want to change. Perhaps I’ve formed so much of my identity through being a runner that I don’t want anyone to see me as anything else, don’t want to let anyone down. Perhaps it’s my faith in medical technology that those knee replacements will be so advanced by the time I’m 46 that I won’t even feel a thing. Alas, I know that none of these reasons gets me to do mile repeats or a tempo run.

I run… because it’s hard. Call me a masochist, but there is something about pushing your body and mind farther than you thought you could that can’t be replicated with any drug or sedentary activity. That’s the idea behind those team t-shirts you see at high school meets that say “Our sport is your sport’s punishment.” The beauty of the sport is in its difficulty, the fact that no matter how hard we try we will never be able to convince every single person to become a runner. It’s just too hard. Running is also beautiful in its simplicity. It’s the sport that we were born to do; yet, also the sport that’s hardest to consistently do, the sport that is so easy to not do.

In the heat of an intense run you confront your own demons, the voices telling you to stop. But, you don’t stop, because stopping would be too easy, and running, running is hard.

I’ve always liked quotes. I like the idea of plucking the most profound wisdoms that people have uttered out of their universe and into my own mental library, hopefully learning something vicariously. This movie quote, with a one word substitution, explains the reason why I run, instead of drinking a twelve pack every day. It’s from A League of Their Own, which was filmed right here in Indiana (Bosse Field in Evansville). Replace the word “baseball” with “running” and my point is made. To set the scene, Dottie has just told her manager, Jimmy, that’s she’s quitting to move home with her husband Bob, who has recently returned from the war.

Dottie: Yeah. It is only a game, Jimmy. It's only a game, and, and, I don't need this. I have Bob; I don't need this. At all.
Jimmy: I, I gave away five years at the end my career to drink. Five years. And now there isn't anything I wouldn't give to get back any one day of it.
Dottie: Well, we're different.
Jimmy: Shit, Dottie, if you want to go back to Oregon and make a hundred babies, great, I'm in no position to tell anyone how to live. But sneaking out like this, quitting, you'll regret it for the rest of your life. Baseball is what gets inside you. It's what lights you up, you can't deny that.
Dottie: It just got too hard.
Jimmy: It's supposed to be hard. If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard... is what makes it great.

Ay ay ay

I have not written in awhile because the last two weeks have been rather bizarre and I doubt I can accurately capture it all in words, but I'll try...

Three weeks ago today I did a decent cut-down run then 4x400m on the track with Ben, with the last three 400's at 72 seconds, not bad for a long distance girl. Nothing hurt, nothing felt too bad. A few hours later I got up from my chair at lunch and all of a sudden my right hip was very tight, but I could not tell exactly what was wrong. It bugged me for the next week, getting slightly worse every day until that Friday when I could only squeeze out four of my planned eight miles. Luckily, Ben talked me out of doing the twenty-miler that was scheduled the day before I left for Chile (yes, as in South America, my job is kind of crazy sometimes!) so I went to the meat market (a.k.a. campus rec. center) and pretended my music was too loud to hear the sorority girl who who threw a fit that I was on the elliptical machine she had signed up for even though there were free ones on either side of me. Got to love it.

I kept my chin up, plowing away at the hotel elliptical in Santiago early in the morning before
walking for hours all across the city every day. I dragged my right leg behind me in a gimpy gallop trying to get across the street before being hit by the speeding cars ignoring the green walking man symbol! Brad and Bonnie (my bosses/professors/travel partners) were pretty proud of themselves for being able to "keep up with me," so I decided not to burst their bubble and kept my injury status to myself. At one point where I almost didn't make it across before the speeding out of control Chilean taxis, Brad finally noticed but I just shrugged it off as no big deal, although in my head I was going nuts over it. What was wrong, and why didn't it clear up already? In desperation I took Wednesday and Thursday completely off, no cross training! The sunshine and red wine helped take the edge off my worries, but they still stabbed at my sharply whenever my thoughts wondered off topic.

At one point in Chile I was laying in my hotel bed and suddenly sat straight up in a cold sweat thinking, "Oh my gosh, what if this is a stress fracture?" So I pushed on the top of my thigh and nothing hurt, and then was satisfied that I was just being a paranoid hypochondriac. When we arrived back in Indiana I made my way over to Rebound to see the physical therapists. Shannon looked at my hip then pushed down on my leg and said, "Uh, let me go get Scott," which I knew was a bad sign. Then Scott came in and pushed down on my leg, twisted it into various positions and then told me that it was likely a femoral neck stress fracture. I managed to save face in that they both quickly left the room to go schedule me an appointment with the pool therapist, so neither saw the tears dripping down onto my t-shirt, my t-shirt from a running event. Running, the lone inner friend of mine that has not left my side since third grade, was now threatening to pack up and go hang out with with the popular kids.

A stress fracture - no wonder it hurt despite taking time off, and walking all over South America probably made it even worse! No wonder I couldn't pinpoint the pain in one spot; the achiness enveloped my thigh in a way no one strained muscle could emulate. I didn't know what to do, so I went to work to take care of a few loose ends from being gone all week. The bad news and the lack of sleep from flying all night (I'm an insomniac and have a terrible time falling asleep while traveling) were all catching up with me and I was walking around Ernie Pyle Hall in an unproductive trance, I need to get out of there.

Still in my trance of self pity, I wandered over to the store knowing that it would be harder for me to be depressed when in the presence of someone who was recently sidelined for four months with a stress fracture of his own. That helped a bit, but not for long. The sense of urgency that helps one get through tough workouts can also be a hinder when trying to be patient with injuries. Jane, Dani and I had such a good thing going with our once-a-week track workouts, long runs and other occasional side-splitting bouts of laughter, things were just starting to get better, now this? Just my luck.

I was supposed to get an MRI the following day, Friday; however, the phone at the doctor's office was malfunctioning and some miscommunication lead to no MRI and an entire weekend of angst. I kept telling myself this was silly - I didn't have cancer, I hadn't been hit by a bus, nobody had died. People are permanently maimed in war every day so I had no right to be upset about a little sports injury. Rationally, that argument makes sense to me, but I'm figuring out that sometimes rationality doesn't factor into the equation the way we think it should. I was still pretty upset about the situation. It is nearly impossibly to use logic to change your emotions, or the emotions of anyone else. That is why elections aren't about policy positions as much as public opinion, public relations, favorables and unfavorables, but I'll spare y'all a political science lesson...

In my anxiety I did what any member of the millennium generation would do, I Googled "femoral neck stress fracture." Bad news bears. Phrases like "crutches," "career-ending," "surgery," and "metal pins" swung right off of the Web pages to punch me in the gut. It didn't help that I had taken even more days completely off and my right hip was aching worse then ever, also contributing to my lack of sleep. I spent the weekend in the nursing home with my dad helping my grandma who had a stroke right before I left for Chile, and I honestly contemplated borrowing her walker, it was pathetic.

All sorts of thoughts floated through my head over the days of uncertainty. I thought about how I might be able to become a cyclist if I couldn't run well again. I thought about getting into coaching and volunteering at road races to at least stay involved in the sport. I even thought about the possibility of becoming a track official so I could get the best seat in the house at all the big meets, not to mention the free food in the officials' tent and those snazzy looking polo shirt and straw hats! I was grasping for anything I could, trying in vain to "always look on the bright side of life."

In the middle of all of this, my college coach was packing up and leaving for Tennessee. It was hard for me to see the woman who was the only reason I came to Bloomington now leaving herself. It brought back a flood of memories from my five years of collegiate running and that made it even harder to imagine that it could possibly be all over. As much as she was a coach, she also was a good friend who probably knows more about me than anyone else, and her departure definitely added to my state of melancholy.

Slowly but surely the weekend came to an end, then finally Monday was over too, then Tuesday morning took it's sweet time until eventually I was getting an MRI. Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning were equally lethargic as I counted down the minutes until my appointment with Dr. Steiner at 11:15AM on Wednesday to find out the results of the MRI. He asked me a few questions, then went back out to look at the MRI. I strained to hear what he was saying as I recognized his voice through the wall, both talking to his nurse and calling someone else. Eventually he came back in and asked if I would like to look at the MRI. After three different physical therapists had told me they were pretty sure I had this stress fracture, I was not expecting the good news - the MRI was negative!

I was so excited that I didn't even care that there was no concrete diagnosis for my pain. No matter what the cause, surely I would recover from it better than I would recover from a femoral neck stress fracture! I called and texted a number of people before returning to work in a significantly better mood, despite having to listen to my dad's response that this should be a lesson to not go so hard and that I should be more careful and blah blah blah... non-runners, and specifically non-running parents, just don't understand sometimes...

I felt silly for shedding so many tears over something that turned out to be nonexistent, but oh well! The next day I went to aquatic physical therapy at Rebound East with Amanda and she said that my right side is very tight and that my "pelvic girdle" is unstable. After putting in so many miles, my body is now revolting against the muscle imbalances likely caused by a few years of incorrect strength training (thanks a lot IU).

Yesterday I ran for the first time in two weeks, 15 minutes on a treadmill in Chicago while escorting some journalism students on a media networking trip. It was short and my right side still feels quite different than the left, but I have never been so happy to be injured because at least I'm not as injured as I thought I was! This little fiasco will clearly alter my training and racing strategy for the rest of the track season; yet, the fact that I even have a track season to worry about now is quite uplifting. The last few months have really been an emotional roller coaster, so I'm hoping this latest loop-de-loop is signaling the end of a descent and the beginning of another upward swing. Click clack, click clack... slowly climbing back up to the top!

Hurts so good

I hate cleaning. Despise it. After I sign a shoe deal with Nike and have money to throw away I'll definitely be hiring a maid. But in the meantime, I need to tidy up my place a bit, and while I do dislike cleaning I am also not a fan of living in a pit. Some of my former roommates can attest to that...

I did make some decent progress cleaning and organizing this weekend; took a big bag to Goodwill and a few to the dumpster. While I was sorting through the last box I still hadn't unpacked since moving in late July (pathetic, yes, I'm well aware), I found a piece of paper upon which I had written down some of my favorite quotes from Lance Armstrong's first book It's Not About the Bike. The one at the very top of the page was amazingly appropriate for how I've been feeling lately, and also appropriate for all athletes in general. Due to some mystical confluence of the gloomy weather and other unpleasant events, I haven't been the most chipper lately. Don't get me wrong, I am so grateful to be healthy (well, minus the bulging disk...) and employed and to have family and friends nearby, but everyone hits rough patches from time to time. If you ever find yourself suffering mentally or physically, read this quote for a little comfort:

"Suffering, I was beginning to think, was essential to a good life, and as inextricable from such a life as bliss. It's a great enhancer. It might last a minute, or a month, but eventually it subsides, and when it does, something else takes its place, and maybe that thing is a greater space. For happiness. Each time I encountered suffering, I believed that I grew, and further defined my capacities - not just physical ones, but my interior ones as well, for contentment, friendship, or any other human experience." ~Lance Armstrong in It's Not About the Bike

*The above picture is from the 2006 RAGBRAI bike ride across Iowa when Lance and his Livestrong team passed my dad in the middle of nowhere, pretty cool! I was super-excited to read that Lance will be running the Boston Marathon this April so perhaps I'll get the chance to take my own paparazzi Lance picture then! I'm a big Lance fan, and someday when my knees give out and running is not quite as enjoyable I'm looking forward to riding my bike a lot, all around the country, maybe in a few foreign locations too, wherever the wheels take me!

Last week in review

The secret of life is gettin up early
The secret of life is stayin up late
The secret of life is try not to hurry
But dont wait
Don't wait.
~Faith Hill, The Secret of Life

After two weeks of watching track meets I just couldn't take it any more, so I entered last Saturday's 3k at the Indiana Relays. I knew I probably wouldn't PR, but I was hoping to at least compete for a win despite putting in my highest week of mileage ever. As the week soldiered on I slowly realized that the miles in my legs would provide plenty of trials for my confidence. Here's a little recap of the highlights and lowlights:

Tuesday was the second installment of our T.I.E.W.B. evening training series (Team Indiana Elite Women in Bloomington). After a lot of indecision we settled on 4x3x400m, with each of us leading one 400 per set, and each set getting progressively faster. The first two sets went by in a snap, but the last two took their sweet time. I was pleased to be able to get down to 72s for the last set, but wish I could've been able to do a few more intervals after that. Ben wanted me to do an extra 1k, but my legs just wouldn't allow it and I knew it was time to cool down and go home. Perhaps it was a sign when halfway through our last set Rick Rumple turned most of the lights off on us in the Fieldhouse!

Thursday I tried to sneak in another workout. Ben had suggested two-to-three 800s at race pace, although he never told me what race pace should be. So, I assumed it should be at least 2:37, hopefully more like 2:35. My first, and subsequently last, 800 on Thursday was 2:40. I threw in some 200s to get some leg turnover in, if nothing else from the workout, then slogged through a two mile cool down upstairs around Assembly.

Friday, the day before the big 3k, I did not want to do a workout at all, I barely even wanted to run! When my alarm went off at 7:18a.m. that morning I looked out the window, saw rain morphing into sleet and just couldn't bring myself to get out the door. I stood in my living room starring blankly at the weatherman on the TV screen trying to decide what to do. I eventually shoved a ton of running clothes into my book bag and headed to work, bitter that if I didn't run in the morning that I had gotten up that early for nothing.

All morning I sat at my boring desk debating if I should try and run at lunch or after work. I decided lunch would be best (more recovery time before the race the next day), borrowed a friend's student ID and ice skated over to the HPER building, all ready to use a treadmill for the first time this winter. I should've guessed that at lunch time the one singular treadmill at the HPER would be occupied, but I didn't and was disappointed. With the ground covered in ice I wasn't about to go outside and bruise my tail bone, so I turned on the iPod and resigned myself to run my 8 miles on the 6-laps-and-138-feet-to-a-mile indoor track there.

The flatness proved glorious, despite the nearly 90 degree turns, and the new downloads on my iPod made the first 30 minutes go by quite quickly. I didn't even mind dodging the frat boys, sorority girls or old men in short shorts lap after lap. Out of curiousity I decided to clock the next mile, then let out a small grunt of disbelief when I saw the time, so I clocked another one. Shockingly, I saw the exact same thing, 6:36! Besides the intervals on the indoor track, this week I had been slogging through a lot of 7:30 (or slower, I try not to think about it) miles, so it was thrilling for a pace so much faster to feel easy! It was also awesome to watch Jordan go for a sub-4 mile, and although he didn't quite get it this time it was amazing to hear the whole Fieldhouse cheering and clapping those last four laps!

Alas, the glory of easy fluid movement for me was short lived. Saturday on my shakeout run in the morning with Georganne and Jane I had to stop twice on my way back to my apartment to loosen up my left knee and left upper calf. I was pumped up after watching Dani run to a huge PR in the mile and thanks to the mercy of my old trainer at IU the leg felt better while warming up, although not 100 percent. Just being in a race was fun (I hadn't worn buns since June!), but not being able to respond when others pushed the pace was disheartening. I finished fourth in 9:55, a full 26 seconds slower than when I ran the 3k in the exact same race last year. My excuse for this is all the miles in my legs, but I still don't like even having an excuse. That is why this sport is so difficult to master. I takes this bizarre combination of patience and impatience. The patience to know that the current pain will pay off later, yet the impatience to train and race as though there's no tomorrow.

Sunday proved to be another interesting run. I had the bright idea to run the three miles from my apartment to meet Jane, Dani and Allison at Bryan Park. It was downhill, it didn't feel too bad. Even with company, the next 12 miles hurt. My lower legs wanted to amputate themselves at a few points. During the Rail Trail portion of the run we saw a National Guard guy puking his guts out and later saw a man with a large dog and shotgun, it was very odd. When I finally stumbled into my apartment a little over 2 hours and 15 minutes later, I made a quick batch of Endurox then pretty much collapsed onto the floor. I remained there as a blob for I don't know how long, and the rest of the day felt like a zombie. Probably was a bad idea to run that far at the end of a long week with no water or Gatorade along the way. I was only supposed to do 16 miles, but I was feeling ornery.

At the T.I.E. Super Bowl get-together at Coach Chapman's that night, I couldn't stop yawning. Luckily I managed to stay awake to witness the best game of the season! If the Giants can beat the Patriots, maybe there's hope for some of us T.I.E. underdogs to make it to the Trials :) I know logically those two things have nothing to do with each other, but when you run races 26 seconds slower than the year before you'll take any small dash of hope you can get!

The secret of life is a good cup of coffee
The secret of life is keep your eye on the ball
The secret of life is to find the right woman
The secret of life is nothin at all
Oh, its nothin at all
The secret of life