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!