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.