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...