Flashback: IATCCC Hall of Fame Jan. 2010

This past January I had the honor of being inducted into the Indiana Association of Track and Cross Country Coaches Hall of Fame.

It was a lovely evening in Indianapolis with the people who made my running career possible: family, coaches, friends and supporters of all sorts.

Thanks to my last name, I was alphabetically the first inductee to speak. My speech was non-traditional and the crowd was silent as I approached the lectern. I felt butterflies in my stomach similar to those I used to get before high school track races. But unlike high school, I didn't down half a bottle of Tums and a mini Snickers bar to ward off the nerves.

Instead, I took a deep breath and blurted it out. It went over ok, I think. At the intermission a few ladies in the restroom told me they enjoyed my speech. It sure was different (and shorter) than the rest of the speeches.

Here's the text, along with a few photos from the evening:

"I wrote a speech for tonight, but it was kind of boring and it kept making me cry when I read it, so instead I put together a little poem, so here it goes...

People tell me I am crazy for running every day

I tell them, YES, I know, but I didn't start out this way.

First, I loved basketball, then later soccer I would play

Until I ran high school track, then I knew this sport would stay.

West Lafayette was a great place to go to school,

Teachers, coaches, teammates and friends - my motivation, they did fuel.

My soccer coaches let me run cross country, and that's when I got stronger

Steve Lewark met me for early morning runs, even though I wanted to sleep longer.

Lane Custer and Chris Williams kept me going on the course and on the track

"We laugh at inclement weather," Custer would say, and to state meets, I fondly look back.

Judy Bogenschutz Wilson took a chance on recruiting a girl from Purdue-land

Since I liked the school and they had kicked out Knight, Dad said - IU, he could now stand.

Coach Wilson was patient with me and we worked through tough times and many a mile

But the good times were more than worth it, and her corny jokes always make me smile.

I have to thank my dad, my sister, all my family and friends for their love and support.

Without their encouragement I would not have gone as far in this great sport.

I am very grateful to be here tonight, and honored to be in this Hall of Fame,

I don't know how all you high school coaches do it, I think those kids would drive me insane.

Thanks now to Brooks and Robert Chapman for letting me continue to compete

My addiction to distance running, I never will defeat.

That's all I have to say tonight, thank you for your time

I appreciate your patience while sitting through my rhyme."

Here's a book review from The Guardian that might be of interest:

Running: A Global History by Thor Gotaas

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/jan/03/running-long-distance-global-history

I haven't read it yet as I'm vowing to complete more of the many unread books on my shel before spending more money on books, but it looks really interesting. Here's an excerpt from the review by writer Christopher McDougall:

"Gotaas's span begins with prehistory, arguing that because of our sweat glands and springy leg tendons, humans are the greatest distance runners on earth. Our tremendous efficiency at venting heat and maximising caloric energy allows us to run big game to death by chasing them across the savannah until they collapse from heat exhaustion. Access to meat allowed us to grow big brains, while tracking animals allowed us to use this cerebral hardware to develop abstract thinking, verbal communication and cooperation strategies, the mental skills we'd later use to come up with intravascular surgery and iPods."

Two Miles

Today I ran two miles. I was supposed to run a marathon. I had my sights on the Rock 'n Roll Arizona race in sunny Phoenix, and I was hoping to use it to qualify for the 2012 Olympic Trials Marathon.

Instead, I tied up my laces in partly sunny Bloomington, Ind., jogged out seven minutes and thirty seconds, and turned around. My stomach gurgled. My throat burned. My feet shuffled.

Not exactly what I had envisioned for this day when I was making my training schedule a few months ago; yet, I couldn't help but recall past times when injury would leave me wishing for nothing more than a two mile jog.

Just as I was getting back in to the swing, and the physical pounding, of serious marathon training in late October, I started having gastrointestinal issues. At first I thought it was something I ate, then maybe a stomach bug, perhaps a food allergy.

But a few doctor visits, some blood samples, some other samples I’d rather not discuss, an ultrasound, a colonoscopy, and a three-hour series of x-rays after drinking 20 oz. of barium, I am still having problems. Thank goodness I have COBRA insurance from my former university job, or both my stomach and my wallet would really be hurting.

Sometimes I get confused - am I 25 or 65 with all these medical issues? I have a follow-up visit to the gastroenterologist in early February, which was the earliest appointment he had to discuss the results of the x-rays, which I had on Dec. 29. Five weeks is a long time to wait when running, eating, sleeping, walking, sitting and existing in general are made constantly uncomfortable.

Nonetheless, I am afraid karma will come to get me if I complain too much (I’ve been watching a lot of episodes of Lost lately). It can always be worse. How many people didn’t, and couldn’t, run two miles today? Not I.

So now I will go watch more Lost to distract myself from the fact that I can't run as much as I would like. And who knows, maybe tomorrow I'll be able to get in three miles.

Confessions of a Klutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stride on, friends.

Luck of the Hoosier

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

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

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

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

Stride on, friends.

The not-so-mini Indianapolis Mini-Marathon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stress, and a fracture

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

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

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

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




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