I've been dabbling in running again.
And by dabbling, I mean I've kinda-sorta-already-run-7-(extremely slow)-miles-on-a-random-Saturday-afternoon.
This is both the best and worst thing to ever happen to me.
A lot of people didn't understand why I was so brutally upset when I had to make the decision to skip the half marathon for which I had been training for three months. Sure, it sucked to have to fall short of a goal I was fairly certain to achieve, but at the end of the day, it was just a race, at a distance I'd already run a few months before. It's not like I had trained for a marathon, only to have it ripped out from beneath me the day before (two of my good friends went through that with Boston and New York, respectively, which really provided me with some much-needed perspective in the long run). In retrospect, sobbing under a tree in the rain the evening before the race might have been a bit melodramatic.
At the time, though, I was struggling with a lot of negative emotions. In particular, I suffered from serious self-doubt, and it took until October for me to really understand that I made the right decision. Amidst all of the Nancy Kerrigan, "WHYYY???" moments, the real problem plaguing me was wondering if I had used my injury as a cop out: was I really incapable of running 13.1 due to a legitimate injury, or was I just afraid to do it after my underwhelming BAA performance, after very publicly declaring my goal to crush my personal record?
Obviously, those thoughts weren't based in reality in the slightest. An MRI showed a distinct stress shadow on the spot where my ankle was radiating pain, as well as peroneal tenosynovitis that likely developed as a reaction to the stress reaction. Not one, but two respected medical professionals who deal with these injuries every day verified my decision, pointing out that I didn't have a full-blown stress fracture -- yet -- but that if I continued to train and attempted to complete the half marathon distance, I could have literally end up snapping my tibia, my peroneal tendon or worse, both, at any point. They didn't even say that it was a mere possibility, but that it was a likelihood, given the location of the injury.
So, rather than sweating through my spandex and gobbling Gu, I spent last Memorial Day weekend self-medicating with chardonnay on a beach and a boat (and under the aforementioned tree, of course).
This year, I won't be so lucky.
Like the crazy, non-talented running lunatic I am, I have signed up to run another half marathon in the semi-near future. Note that I said "run," not, "train for", although if we're being real (and I always strive to be real), I am nothing short of woefully terrified of a repeat performance of last year. I could have gestated a child since I last ran more than eight miles in a week.
Gestated a child, people.
I learned a lot about how to train after my first half, which was actually only my third race, period. The second time around, I knew that I wanted to go at least 11 miles prior to race day; I actually had a 12er two weeks out on my training plan. I knew what to eat and when to consume it; I knew to start eating and drinking while I was still feeling good, rather than waiting until my energy started to deplete. Most importantly, I knew that the distance was no longer mythical or impossible, because I'd already raced it. Not just run it -- there were elements of the race itself for which no amount of training would have prepared me.
Now, I have the benefit of hindsight to realize what I did -- both right and wrong -- the last time, and to adjust yet again. Now I know that "cross-training" isn't code for, "Gossip Girl Marathon" on the training plan. Now I know that I'm one of those people for whom custom orthotics and CEP socks are of tremendous benefit, despite the discomfort. Now I know that my run doesn't end at the front door; it ends twenty minutes of calf-, IT- and hamstring-stretching later. Most importantly, now I know that even if I'm a mile from the historic finish line of the Boston Marathon, even if I've just had the best run of my life and I'm in the middle of the world's biggest runner's high, I need to take that day's run for what it is, to savor that feeling, to not let my emotions get the better of me, and to stop running. This week's miles are for this week; next week's miles are for next week.
And when the opposite of that feel-good runner's high happens and something hurts, even after a few days rest? Get thee to a doctorey is my new mantra.
The good news is that, should I ever feel even the slightest annoying twinge or tweak, be it from running or otherwise, I now have a
fully-stocked arsenal of medical professionals at my disposal. In addition to my
Primary Care, I have a Sports Medicine/Orthopaedics Gal (great for
ruling out all the stuff the problem is not), a Physical Therapist
(great for figuring out how to make the pain stop and teaching me how to
strengthen stuff so I stop getting hurt), a Certified Massage Therapist
(for all those random aches and pains that PT won't help), a Podiatrist
(for pointing out all the other issues my flat feet have bestowed upon
me) and a Chiropractor (for twisting my spine into impossible
configurations and relieving whatever ailments the rest of them fail to
solve). I even have an Allergist on staff to remind me that no, I have
not contracted the plague or chronic fatigue syndrome; I'm tired and
itchy and sneezing all the time because I have the immune system of a
newborn.
In other words, I should probably live in a bubble.
So, that's the plan. I did 4.25 miles of hellish hills last night, and my legs are in in rough shape this morning. On with the CEPs and fire up the calf rocker -- it's going to be a long (but productive!) few months.
Showing posts with label Half Marathon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Half Marathon. Show all posts
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
The Injury Chronicles: Part Two
This morning, the 2012 BAA Half Marathon sold out in an hour and fifteen minutes.
After a lot of thinking, hemming, hawing, whining, drinking and thinking some more, I made the decision not to enter this year. It sounds like it was a hard call, but really, it wasn't. The fact is, while there is a good chance I would be physically ready and able to run 13 miles by October 7th, mentally itcould would be a disaster.
Why? Because frankly, I'm scared to start running again. I'm scared of the huffing and puffing and the snail paces on the clock. I'm scared of the blisters, the band-aids and the bloody socks. I'm scared of the ice baths, the endless energy shots and the Costco-sized gallons of Gatorade that threaten to overwhelm my (tiny) fridge.
Mostly, I'm scared of pushing too far, too fast. Of hurting myself all over again. Of running my feet, quite literally, into the ground.
I started physical therapy last week. Despite being surrounded by medical professionals for most of my adult life, I was still really intimidated by the prospect of having a qualified professional watch my every move and then instruct me on how to fix whatever I did incorrectly. What if I was, I don't know, bad at it, thus hindering my recovery to the point of never being able to walk, let alone run, again? (You probably think I'm kidding, but Andrew will vouch that I have these kind of reactions often. I'm nothing if not consistent in my paranoia and fear of judgment and failure).
During my assessment, my PT echoed the thoughts expressed by every doctor I've seen; I have a really flat right foot and a really, really flat left. He even went a step further and said that the left arch has entirely collapsed. Like all those before him, he assured me that this is not my fault, that it would have happened in due time anyway, that running just accelerated the need for a good podiatrist and custom orthotics. Like my sports med doc, he thinks that the stress reaction itself was likely a result of severe overpronation and that the trauma of whacking my foot was just a catalyst, the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back (or almost broke my ankle, if you will).
Thankfully, he also used the phrase, "already turning the corner" and gave me a referral to a very highly-regarded podiatrist, whom he guaranteed would not give me the one-glance-and-done routine perfected by the last pod I saw. Unfortunately, said M.D. is unavailable to see me until August 20th, which is a really long frickin' time from now. In the meantime, I've been a good little doobie, paying thrice-weekly visits for electrostim, massage, stretching, strengthening and ice. I do my little exercises three times a day (err... I try, anyway), tying my little rubber band to a desk chair and miming the alphabet under my desk. And, to the horror of most women I encounter, I have abandoned all sense of fashion and overhauled my collection of summer footwear.
Tangent: This is week 11 of wearing sneakers. Did you hear that? WEEK ELEVEN! OF SNEAKERS! I admit to a minor indiscretion involving a pair of three-inch wedges and the occasional fling with flip flops, but for the most part, I've been wearing holes in every pair of pseudo-supportive sneakers I own. And by that I mean I've been purchasing every kind of over-the-counter insoles known to womankind in the hopes that they will somehow miraculously provide the arch support my failing feet crave, thereby saving me several hundreds of dollars next month. So far, no dice. By the time I'm done I will have amassed enough CVS Extrabucks and CitySports Rewards to finance my entire apparel-shoe-sock-and-gel budget for a year, let alone pay for custom insoles. But I digress.
Today, the 2012 BAA Half Marathon sold out in an hour and fifteen minutes, without me.
And I am relieved.
After a lot of thinking, hemming, hawing, whining, drinking and thinking some more, I made the decision not to enter this year. It sounds like it was a hard call, but really, it wasn't. The fact is, while there is a good chance I would be physically ready and able to run 13 miles by October 7th, mentally it
Why? Because frankly, I'm scared to start running again. I'm scared of the huffing and puffing and the snail paces on the clock. I'm scared of the blisters, the band-aids and the bloody socks. I'm scared of the ice baths, the endless energy shots and the Costco-sized gallons of Gatorade that threaten to overwhelm my (tiny) fridge.
Mostly, I'm scared of pushing too far, too fast. Of hurting myself all over again. Of running my feet, quite literally, into the ground.
I started physical therapy last week. Despite being surrounded by medical professionals for most of my adult life, I was still really intimidated by the prospect of having a qualified professional watch my every move and then instruct me on how to fix whatever I did incorrectly. What if I was, I don't know, bad at it, thus hindering my recovery to the point of never being able to walk, let alone run, again? (You probably think I'm kidding, but Andrew will vouch that I have these kind of reactions often. I'm nothing if not consistent in my paranoia and fear of judgment and failure).
During my assessment, my PT echoed the thoughts expressed by every doctor I've seen; I have a really flat right foot and a really, really flat left. He even went a step further and said that the left arch has entirely collapsed. Like all those before him, he assured me that this is not my fault, that it would have happened in due time anyway, that running just accelerated the need for a good podiatrist and custom orthotics. Like my sports med doc, he thinks that the stress reaction itself was likely a result of severe overpronation and that the trauma of whacking my foot was just a catalyst, the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back (or almost broke my ankle, if you will).
Thankfully, he also used the phrase, "already turning the corner" and gave me a referral to a very highly-regarded podiatrist, whom he guaranteed would not give me the one-glance-and-done routine perfected by the last pod I saw. Unfortunately, said M.D. is unavailable to see me until August 20th, which is a really long frickin' time from now. In the meantime, I've been a good little doobie, paying thrice-weekly visits for electrostim, massage, stretching, strengthening and ice. I do my little exercises three times a day (err... I try, anyway), tying my little rubber band to a desk chair and miming the alphabet under my desk. And, to the horror of most women I encounter, I have abandoned all sense of fashion and overhauled my collection of summer footwear.
Tangent: This is week 11 of wearing sneakers. Did you hear that? WEEK ELEVEN! OF SNEAKERS! I admit to a minor indiscretion involving a pair of three-inch wedges and the occasional fling with flip flops, but for the most part, I've been wearing holes in every pair of pseudo-supportive sneakers I own. And by that I mean I've been purchasing every kind of over-the-counter insoles known to womankind in the hopes that they will somehow miraculously provide the arch support my failing feet crave, thereby saving me several hundreds of dollars next month. So far, no dice. By the time I'm done I will have amassed enough CVS Extrabucks and CitySports Rewards to finance my entire apparel-shoe-sock-and-gel budget for a year, let alone pay for custom insoles. But I digress.
Today, the 2012 BAA Half Marathon sold out in an hour and fifteen minutes, without me.
And I am relieved.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
The Injury Chronicles: A Run To Remember or, That Time I Booted
As I alluded in my grand re-entry to blogging, I've been rocking some really fancy new footwear off-and-on for the past month or so.
I've also been on a bit of an emotional roller coaster, as the only effective stress reliever I'd found that didn't result in a pounding headache was cruelly ripped out from beneath me. Granted, it's not like I lost a limb or anything, and in the grand scheme of my life it's just a blip on the radar. Basically, I'm going to take the opportunity to prattle on simply because I can (and all of my other friends and family are sick of hearing about it). So, if reading about running or my privileged problems isn't your bag, feel free to skip this one. I'll understand.
And now, my pathetic tale of woe.
I know at least some of you were reading a year ago, when I started training for the BAA Half Marathon. A few more were reading when I actually ran it in October (and by ran, I mean shuffled).
A week after the race, I went hiking with a few of my friends that are also recreational runners. At one point, while discussing my crash-and-burn the week before, my friend mentioned that Boston's other big half, the Run to Remember, is touted as being a bit easier than the BAA, while still holding the elusive challenge of 13.1.
Those who aren't local or aren't into running might not know that the "new" BAA course is known for its psychological brutality; apparently somewhere along the line the race organizers said, "Hey, you know what?! We're known for running one of the world's most notoriously tricky marathons, let's make our half match!" As such, they designed the course to be 4 miles of mostly downhill on Suicide Alley, aka the Jamaicaway, followed by 5 miles of gradual incline past Jamaica Pond, which you can't see because of a wall of trees. A brutal cross-back over the sweltering hot bridge with a view of Forest Hills brings you back to Franklin Park and the 9-mile mark, where you get to endure 2 miles of flat loop on a sketchy golf course, a mile of steepish incline on a transit road, a mile through a God-forsaken zoo, and, just as you see the banners and balloons and think to yourself, "OH THANK GOD! THE PROMISED LAND!", you realize that some asshole decorated the 13 mile marker and you still have to run .1 around a track while an overcaffeinated announcer bellows your name.
In contrast, the R2R course is comprised of rolling hills, but it's Boston, so anyone that runs here regularly is used to that. It starts at the World Trade Center in the beautiful Boston seaport, runs through the shiny buildings of the Financial District, over by the historic Garden, over the river into Cambridge, then runs basically flat (minus a few bridges) for five miles in a loop along the iconic Charles River. Loop back over the bridge, run around the Common in full bloom, cut through the Downtown Crossing area back to Southie and you finish back at the World Trade Center, collecting your medal against the backdrop of the gorgeous Boston Harbor.
Not that I'd know, or anything.
That's because on a gloomy Saturday morning back in the beginning of April, I bounded out of bed at 7am, stoked to go on a nine mile run. Obviously, there was something already wrong, because 1) I don't bound. Anywhere; 2) Least of all at 7am; 3) And definitely not for nine miles' worth of torture. I'm actually pretty sure that I had a mild hangover, if we're being honest, but for whatever reason, I was STOKED to start my run. And therein lay the problem.
In my haste, and by that I mean in my laziness to reach my arm approximately 12 inches to put on my glasses, I terribly misjudged my bounce. And then all I remember is an explosion of pain. Ankle, meet iron bed frame. HOLY. HEAVENS. I haven't felt such agony since the time I stood up too fast on a tour bus and hit my head so hard I literally saw stars. I stood there for a few minutes as tears stung the back of my eyelids and bile rose in my throat. Faster than I thought possible after an episode like that, though, the pain began to dissipate and I decided to wait a few hours, ice it and see if any bruising or swelling happened.
It never did.
So, three hours later, off I went on my nine-miler which, coincidentally, turned into a 10-miler because I'm a math idiot and miscalculated the distance it would take for me to get home. I was happy with my time and over all, I felt good. I did my usual post-long run stretch, ice bath, shower routine, got in the car, and drove up to NH to spend Easter with Andrew's family. No harm, no foul.
As the week went on, I started noticing a bit of stiffness happening in my left ankle after short runs, but didn't really think anything of it. It was a drop-back week anyway, so the furthest I went was five miles. I knew I was pushing my shoes, the very same ones that caused so much drama in the BAA half, to their limit as far as wear and tear -- and by that, I mean the foam on the back of the left one had completely worn out. So, I started with what any runner does when leg pain starts: I bought new shoes.
In a brand spankin' new pair of Brooks Ravenna 3s, I did a few shorties, an 11-miler ending at the finish line the day before the Boston Marathon, PR'ed a 5-mile race, and did a leisurely 9-mile run with Andrew. Unfortunately, I had to take more and more time off between them to recover. The crazy thing was, it didn't hurt AT ALL while I was running, save for the occasional twinge of discomfort and, well, what one would expect while running 11 miles. It was only afterwards, typically the next morning, that I would get a dull but persistent ache right above my outer left ankle bone. RICE became my best friend. The only cause I could think of was the new shoes; I honestly forgot that I had ever whacked it three weeks before.
And then, one day on a 2-mile treadmill jaunt, the area right above my ankle bone started to sting. Obviously, this paranoid hypochondriac had been WebMDing and Runner's World Forum-ing every twitch and tingle, so I immediately got off the damned machine and stretched my lower leg out. It felt a bit better, and I had no pain at all as I walked out of the gym. The next morning, however, was another story; I could barely put any weight on it and couldn't make it two feet without wincing from pain shooting up the outside of my leg. At that point, I called the doctor and made an appointment for the next day.
With four weeks to go until my big "Revenge Race," I went to a GP at my office's urgent care, who ordered x-rays and a walking boot. The x-rays were negative but the pain persisted, so I scheduled an appointment with a Nurse Practitioner specializing in Sports Medicine and non-operative injuries. After feeling along the bone and realizing it was an extremely localized pain, she diagnosed a stress reaction (fancy name for "bone bruise"), but would not rule out the possibility of a fracture. I'm planning to do a follow-up post on this stuff, but I was blown away by the care I received -- I walked in there expecting to be told to quit running for months and scrap the race, but instead I found support and a solid plan: 7-10 days in a walking boot, a short test run, a follow-up appointment, another test run -- all with the hope of being able to not only start, but finish, my 13.1.
As you might have surmised, it didn't work. I did a short run the week before the race and while it felt amazing mentally to be pounding the pavement, my ankle still ached enough afterward that both my NP and I weren't convinced there was not a small stress fracture lurking deep in the bone. With that in mind, I made the incredibly hard decision to skip the Run to Remember to let it heal. My Memorial Day weekend was bittersweet; Andrew made sure to get me out of the city and down the Cape, but I still shed more than a few tears over the lost opportunity of seeing all of my hard work and training finally pay off.
I'm actually still in the walking boot as I type this -- when the ache didn't fully go away, I called my NP back and we scheduled an MRI. Thankfully, it turned out that her original diagnosis was right on the money: a lateral tibial stress reaction, rather than a stress fracture. For obvious reasons, that is great, but there is a down side... bone bruises can oftentimes take twice as long to heal as actual fractures. There is also a bit of fluid in the area, and the MRI indicated mild tendonitis, although we aren't sure if that is secondary due to the primary trauma or because my gait has been whacked out since I got hurt. Today is Day 14 in little Bootsykins, although I am going to keep it on for a few extra days because I was a bit, err... lax with it on vacation last week (Like there was ever a chance in hell I was going to wear it to the beach. Right.). I actually have to call and make an appointment for physical therapy later this afternoon, as well as a follow-up with my NP. She thinks that, with any luck, I should be back to running again in about five weeks.
To be honest, at this point, I'd be happy just to walk. But I have big plans once this thing is gone:
I've also been on a bit of an emotional roller coaster, as the only effective stress reliever I'd found that didn't result in a pounding headache was cruelly ripped out from beneath me. Granted, it's not like I lost a limb or anything, and in the grand scheme of my life it's just a blip on the radar. Basically, I'm going to take the opportunity to prattle on simply because I can (and all of my other friends and family are sick of hearing about it). So, if reading about running or my privileged problems isn't your bag, feel free to skip this one. I'll understand.
And now, my pathetic tale of woe.
I know at least some of you were reading a year ago, when I started training for the BAA Half Marathon. A few more were reading when I actually ran it in October (and by ran, I mean shuffled).
A week after the race, I went hiking with a few of my friends that are also recreational runners. At one point, while discussing my crash-and-burn the week before, my friend mentioned that Boston's other big half, the Run to Remember, is touted as being a bit easier than the BAA, while still holding the elusive challenge of 13.1.
Those who aren't local or aren't into running might not know that the "new" BAA course is known for its psychological brutality; apparently somewhere along the line the race organizers said, "Hey, you know what?! We're known for running one of the world's most notoriously tricky marathons, let's make our half match!" As such, they designed the course to be 4 miles of mostly downhill on Suicide Alley, aka the Jamaicaway, followed by 5 miles of gradual incline past Jamaica Pond, which you can't see because of a wall of trees. A brutal cross-back over the sweltering hot bridge with a view of Forest Hills brings you back to Franklin Park and the 9-mile mark, where you get to endure 2 miles of flat loop on a sketchy golf course, a mile of steepish incline on a transit road, a mile through a God-forsaken zoo, and, just as you see the banners and balloons and think to yourself, "OH THANK GOD! THE PROMISED LAND!", you realize that some asshole decorated the 13 mile marker and you still have to run .1 around a track while an overcaffeinated announcer bellows your name.
In contrast, the R2R course is comprised of rolling hills, but it's Boston, so anyone that runs here regularly is used to that. It starts at the World Trade Center in the beautiful Boston seaport, runs through the shiny buildings of the Financial District, over by the historic Garden, over the river into Cambridge, then runs basically flat (minus a few bridges) for five miles in a loop along the iconic Charles River. Loop back over the bridge, run around the Common in full bloom, cut through the Downtown Crossing area back to Southie and you finish back at the World Trade Center, collecting your medal against the backdrop of the gorgeous Boston Harbor.
 |
| Rough view, no? |
Not that I'd know, or anything.
That's because on a gloomy Saturday morning back in the beginning of April, I bounded out of bed at 7am, stoked to go on a nine mile run. Obviously, there was something already wrong, because 1) I don't bound. Anywhere; 2) Least of all at 7am; 3) And definitely not for nine miles' worth of torture. I'm actually pretty sure that I had a mild hangover, if we're being honest, but for whatever reason, I was STOKED to start my run. And therein lay the problem.
In my haste, and by that I mean in my laziness to reach my arm approximately 12 inches to put on my glasses, I terribly misjudged my bounce. And then all I remember is an explosion of pain. Ankle, meet iron bed frame. HOLY. HEAVENS. I haven't felt such agony since the time I stood up too fast on a tour bus and hit my head so hard I literally saw stars. I stood there for a few minutes as tears stung the back of my eyelids and bile rose in my throat. Faster than I thought possible after an episode like that, though, the pain began to dissipate and I decided to wait a few hours, ice it and see if any bruising or swelling happened.
It never did.
So, three hours later, off I went on my nine-miler which, coincidentally, turned into a 10-miler because I'm a math idiot and miscalculated the distance it would take for me to get home. I was happy with my time and over all, I felt good. I did my usual post-long run stretch, ice bath, shower routine, got in the car, and drove up to NH to spend Easter with Andrew's family. No harm, no foul.
As the week went on, I started noticing a bit of stiffness happening in my left ankle after short runs, but didn't really think anything of it. It was a drop-back week anyway, so the furthest I went was five miles. I knew I was pushing my shoes, the very same ones that caused so much drama in the BAA half, to their limit as far as wear and tear -- and by that, I mean the foam on the back of the left one had completely worn out. So, I started with what any runner does when leg pain starts: I bought new shoes.
 |
| [Source] |
In a brand spankin' new pair of Brooks Ravenna 3s, I did a few shorties, an 11-miler ending at the finish line the day before the Boston Marathon, PR'ed a 5-mile race, and did a leisurely 9-mile run with Andrew. Unfortunately, I had to take more and more time off between them to recover. The crazy thing was, it didn't hurt AT ALL while I was running, save for the occasional twinge of discomfort and, well, what one would expect while running 11 miles. It was only afterwards, typically the next morning, that I would get a dull but persistent ache right above my outer left ankle bone. RICE became my best friend. The only cause I could think of was the new shoes; I honestly forgot that I had ever whacked it three weeks before.
And then, one day on a 2-mile treadmill jaunt, the area right above my ankle bone started to sting. Obviously, this paranoid hypochondriac had been WebMDing and Runner's World Forum-ing every twitch and tingle, so I immediately got off the damned machine and stretched my lower leg out. It felt a bit better, and I had no pain at all as I walked out of the gym. The next morning, however, was another story; I could barely put any weight on it and couldn't make it two feet without wincing from pain shooting up the outside of my leg. At that point, I called the doctor and made an appointment for the next day.
With four weeks to go until my big "Revenge Race," I went to a GP at my office's urgent care, who ordered x-rays and a walking boot. The x-rays were negative but the pain persisted, so I scheduled an appointment with a Nurse Practitioner specializing in Sports Medicine and non-operative injuries. After feeling along the bone and realizing it was an extremely localized pain, she diagnosed a stress reaction (fancy name for "bone bruise"), but would not rule out the possibility of a fracture. I'm planning to do a follow-up post on this stuff, but I was blown away by the care I received -- I walked in there expecting to be told to quit running for months and scrap the race, but instead I found support and a solid plan: 7-10 days in a walking boot, a short test run, a follow-up appointment, another test run -- all with the hope of being able to not only start, but finish, my 13.1.
 |
| Boot, Elevation, Ice... check! |
As you might have surmised, it didn't work. I did a short run the week before the race and while it felt amazing mentally to be pounding the pavement, my ankle still ached enough afterward that both my NP and I weren't convinced there was not a small stress fracture lurking deep in the bone. With that in mind, I made the incredibly hard decision to skip the Run to Remember to let it heal. My Memorial Day weekend was bittersweet; Andrew made sure to get me out of the city and down the Cape, but I still shed more than a few tears over the lost opportunity of seeing all of my hard work and training finally pay off.
I'm actually still in the walking boot as I type this -- when the ache didn't fully go away, I called my NP back and we scheduled an MRI. Thankfully, it turned out that her original diagnosis was right on the money: a lateral tibial stress reaction, rather than a stress fracture. For obvious reasons, that is great, but there is a down side... bone bruises can oftentimes take twice as long to heal as actual fractures. There is also a bit of fluid in the area, and the MRI indicated mild tendonitis, although we aren't sure if that is secondary due to the primary trauma or because my gait has been whacked out since I got hurt. Today is Day 14 in little Bootsykins, although I am going to keep it on for a few extra days because I was a bit, err... lax with it on vacation last week (Like there was ever a chance in hell I was going to wear it to the beach. Right.). I actually have to call and make an appointment for physical therapy later this afternoon, as well as a follow-up with my NP. She thinks that, with any luck, I should be back to running again in about five weeks.
To be honest, at this point, I'd be happy just to walk. But I have big plans once this thing is gone:
 |
| I want to go to there. |
Revenge Run: Double or Nothing.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Race Recap: The BAA Half Marathon
I considered breaking this into two posts. Then I realized that since I don't get paid per click, there is really no reason to hold anyone in suspense (for the record, this blog isn't monetized. I give it up for free!). I also realized that I'm documenting this as much for myself and my own nostalgia as I am for everyone else. So settle in, folks... this is going to be a long run (ahahaha get it?).
That's right: I braved the record-breaking 82 degree temperature, a brutal second half, a lack of Gatorade and a blister from hell, but I did it....
The race was both the best and worst experience of my life :)
The Lead Up
There are few things that I hate more than bloggers who go ballistic with the Twitter/blog "ZOMG GUYZ I IZ RUNNIN A RACE!" updates, but to be perfectly honest, I now loathe them a little less. I was SO NERVOUS leading up to the race that it kind of took over my every waking thought. At one point, while working under a grant deadline, I found myself wanting to fling my ever-growing pile of paper in the air and scream, "WHO CARES IF PEOPLE GET PAID FOR CONDUCTING CANCER RESEARCH; I'M RUNNING A HALF MARATHON NEXT WEEKEND, DAMN IT!"
Not exactly my proudest moment.
(FTR, I did not actually do that. I love my job and I in no way consider running a road race on par with finding a cure for cancer; there is no comparison. I just have a flair for the dramatic.)
Despite my nerves, I woke up at 5am Sunday feeling remarkably calm. This could have been related to the fact that I have never seen that time from the perspective of waking up before, but I like to think it was because I felt prepared. After all, how could I not with all of this shit?!
We ate (peanut butter toast with sliced banana, half a cup of coffee and a liter of water), hopped the T to Back Bay, transferred to Forrest Hills and then finally to the shuttle to the starting line. We checked our bag, slugged back somemelted popsicle Gatorade Prime and did some light dynamic stretching. Yet somehow, despite my meticulous pre-planning, we still ended up caught in a port-o-potty line 20 people deep ten minutes before gun time. With six minutes to spare, I finally decided that if all of the other people booking it back to the woods behind the pottys had no shame, neither did I.
Nothing says, "I am now a bona fide runner" like peeing in the woods with a hundred of your closest competitors.
With that little initiation complete, we headed over to the starting corral. The waaaaay back of the starting corral. Seriously, out of 5,500 runners, there were only about 100 of them behind us. After the requisite announcements about it being unseasonably warm, to seek medical attention if you were experiencing issues, the locations of the water/gato/gel stops, yadda yadda yadda, the horn finally blew and the crowd surged forward. Six minutes later, with "Ya'll Ready For This?" blaring in my ear, I crossed the mat and my journey to 13.1 began.
The Race
I've only run two other races, both 5ks, and based on those experiences I knew that my biggest hurdle was going to be maintaining a manageable pace for the first few miles of the course. I did all of my training based on this challenge, even building my walking warm-up into that first mile time. I knew I was in trouble as soon as I passed the 1-mile marker and realized I'd run it in less than 11 minutes. 11:02 was my ultimate DREAM pace going into this, and based on my training I knew it was extremely unlikely I would be able to sustain it over 13.1 miles. The course lends itself to a fast first half as it is; the first five miles are on a pretty major decline. I managed to settle in to a 13 min/mile pace somewhere around the 5k point (where I spotted Erin on the sidelines!), and despite having 90% of the runners pass me on their way to mile 6 as I jogged past mile 4 (including my totally rad coworker/running buddy, KJ), I felt pretty good through the first five miles, even hamming it up for the photographers at the official mile 5 checkpoint/turnaround.
Then came mile 6.
You see, there was a tiiiiny snafu in the week leading up to the race. In my over-cautious attempt to limit any strain on my lower legs, I wore flats every. single. day. Which would probably be fine for a normal person with normal feet, but as we all know, I, unfortunately, am/have neither. As a result of said stroke of genius and lack of proper arch support, I ended up hobbling myself with killer shin/calf pain and spent the five days leading up to the race sporting a sweet ace bandage, rotating ice packs and that classic 9-5 staple, sneakers with skirts.
I know, I know; I should probably consider making the leap to fashion blogger now.
In the end, though, the joke was on me. I ended up with no pain in my left leg during the race... but developed a sweet blister on the bottom of my foot RIGHT at mile 6, which also happened to be the beginning of a seven-mile climb to the finish. I slowed down my already slow speed for the hydration station, downing a tangerine PowerGel and grabbing an extra cup of water. As I rounded Jamaica Pond, I ran/walked at a decent pace, but definitely noticed my overall mile times drifting upward as I hit mile 7.
By mile 8, the temperature had soared to a scorching 78 degrees and the blister on the ball of my foot was becoming increasingly painful with each step. With the help of the theme from Chariots of Fire and Mama Mia, though, I powered back across the unforgiving, shadeless overpass and back into the park. I even managed to pass a few people, which is quite a feat when you're literally staying a few steps ahead of the dreaded street sweeper. By the time I crossed the mile 9 marker in 1:56:52 (GPS time, not official time), I had given up on trying to make the 2:30 "official" end of timing, but I still had a shot at finishing under 2:45.
And then all hell broke loose.
While the rational part of my brain knows it had to have been, the emotional three year old inside of me maintains that there is no way in HELL that mile 9 was only one mile. It was, without a doubt, the single hardest physical and mental event through which I have ever suffered. The pain threshold and mental toughness that my "bad" training runs were supposed to create flew right out the window when faced with the actual event. I assume it was the half version of the infamous Wall that marathoners endure around mile 20, and I have to say, if I had heaps of respect for endurance athletes before, I bow down before them now. Each step felt as though it were rattling the very fibers of my soul, and I thought that the seams holding me together might unravel at any minute.
The road wound on and on, with no sign of the vaunted 10th mile marker in sight. At that point, I had slowed considerably, walking a good majority of the way and only jogging when one of the two targets I'd set seemed to be getting too far away from me. Andrew passed me going in the opposite direction at that point and I'm happy to say that a race cop riding behind him almost fell off his bike laughing when I screamed, "THIS IS THE LONGEST F**KING MILE OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!". Some kind soul took pity on me and let me know that the mythical 10th mile was just over the next hill, which bolstered my hopes and sent me loping towards it with wild abandon. Seriously, though.... I probably looked like some kind of crazed zoo animal on the loose. Even with the heavy amount of walking going on, I crossed the 10 mile checkpoint a full 15 minutes faster than I ran that same distance the week before. I hammed it up for the official photographer, and somehow, the journey back didn't seem quite as torturous. I punched the 11-mile marker hard when I passed it.
Multiple fist-pumps, some cheering and possibly a few air punches ensued. Hey, I was basically by myself at that point, so it's not like more than a handful of people were witness to my adrenaline-induced antics. After slugging some more water, I rounded the corner to (what I thought was) the last hurdle of the course: a giant, mothereffin' hill. I wish that I had taken a picture to remember it by, but I'm not really the type to whip a camera out mid-race, even if a turtle IS passing me. Just trust me that it was one of those enormous, never-ending inclines where you can't even see the top.
As I tossed my water cup into the pile being swept away, I tried to muster up both the mental and physical strength to start running again. The Rocky theme came on my shuffle (strategically planted, actually), and I started to pick up the pace. I jogged probably a tenth of a mile before the pain under my foot became unbearable -- I was totally fine with the general discomfort in my body after 2.5 hours of strenuous exercise, but with each step, I could feel that little pocket of fluid bulge a tiny bit more. I also realized that ironically enough, my RIGHT calf/shin was starting to ache; because it hurt so much to plant my foot straight down, I was compensating by landing on the outside edge of my sneaker. I tried to correct that, but it just didn't work. I walked up the majority of the hill.
About a half mile later, my friend KJ and her family passed me going in the opposite direction. It really was a blessing; she had already finished (beating former Patriots linebacker Tedy Bruschi by over 5 minutes!) and came straight over to jog with me down the other side of the hill, shouting encouragement the entire way. As much as I wanted to kill her for both getting me into this mess and forcing me to run when walking was so much easier, I really appreciated having her support. Not to mention her post-race water, which she very generously donated to my cause so that I could dump it over my head. As I made the turn back into the park, she left me to go back to her family, promising I was doing great and was into the home stretch.
I think I might have been a little bit delirious, because I was SO HAPPY to see the majestic banner and balloon arch looming ahead that the fact I had never passed the 12-mile marker didn't even cross my mind. I sprinted towards the timing mat with everything I had left... only to realized that I was re-crossing the starting line on my way to mile 12.
In all honesty, the twelfth mile was kind of a blur. The fact that I was running through a fucking zoo notwithstanding, that last tiny push of adrenaline seemed to anesthetize the pain so that I could run again. By that point, I just wanted the mothereffing race to be over and I kind of just zoned out. I heard there was a giraffe and a zebra and some other random animals, but the only thing I remember is a camel and having the vague notion that it would be really funny if an alligator escaped and ate me during the last mile of my half marathon.
After passing through the starting line AGAIN (!!), I turned onto the path leading to White Stadium. There were adorable little signs saying stuff like, "Only 800 more meters!" but hello, I'm American and clearly don't know what the fuck that means. One lap? Two? I gave up trying to do the mental math and decided to focus on catching this girl who passed me at mile 8. She ran with a limp, so I thought that I at least had a decent shot at climbing one rung on the from-the-last ladder. Ignoring the squishy-burning feeling under my foot and sucking air as fast as my little lungs would let me, I powered on and pushed past her with the entrance to the stadium in sight. I could see the gates and the balloons and felt an overwhelming surge of relief and satisfaction. I just wanted to grab the closest passerby and hug them, squeezing their guts out and screaming "Victory is MINE!"
... until I realized that the same sick bastard who had fooled me once before had decorated mile 13 to make it LOOK like the finish, and that I still had to run halfway around the stupid track to ACTUALLY finish. Then I just wanted to kick someone's ass.
Because I'd used up my residual energy sprinting to the 13 mile marker, I power walked Grandma-style around the short side of the track, picking up into a sprint again for the straightaway. Since I was, again, ALONE, I had the announcer's attention all to myself, so it wasn't much of a surprise when, "And Caitlin will be finishing in just a few moments -- 26 years old and making allll of her dreaaammssss commmmeee trueeeeee!!!" came bellowing across the PA system.
My official time was 3:02:10.
The Aftermath
After a few puffs of my inhaler, a hug from Andrew and a quick brush with the Grim Reaper (I kid), I managed to collect myself enough to get my medal and wheeze the word, "water!". Thankfully, the BAA did a fantastic job with the post-race setup, so I was able to properly hydrate and FINALLY drink some nectar of the Gods, aka Gatorade (both of the stations on the course were out by the time I plodded through, which sucked, considering that I trained with Gato and we are now old friends). A few photos with my man and our medals (he finished in 2:47), a brief stint collapsed on the grass and the collection of our tshirts later, and we were on our way home.
Reflections
It's taken a few days to collect my thoughts and process all of the emotions that this whole experience produced. Obviously, first and foremost, I'm extremely proud of myself for completing a half marathon. I'm also a bit shocked, actually; I've always been honest here, and I don't think it's a secret that I have a history of setting goals and not following through. I'm amazed that my body, which I've had my share of battles with, did something so intense.
In the interest of full disclosure, though, I'd also be lying if I didn't admit to being a tiiiiny bit disappointed with my time. Not because I don't believe I did my best on that given day, but more because I'm annoyed that elements outside of my control prevented me from running the time I knew I had somewhere inside me. At the time, I didn't feel as though the weather had much of an impact on me, but I know that biologically it had to (and my sausage fingers proved it). I hydrated as best I could, but I have a really finicky water/salt ratio and I'm sure it had an effect. Similarly, there's nothing I could have done to prevent that blister from forming; I wore the exact same socks and shoes that I trained in with no problems at all. It might have been a function of running at such a steep downhill at the beginning, but it might have been totally random. After perusing the Runner's World forums, I know that it's something that can just happen. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.
Overall, I'd say that finishing the race was one of the best accomplishments I've made in my adult life. That might sound extreme, considering that I'm a college graduate and all, but I actually feel as though running 13.1 miles was just as important as receiving my diploma -- maybe even a little bit more. School was always easy for me; running (any physical activity, really) is not. Likewise, setting a goal and achieving it is an accomplishment in and of itself, and I'm extremely proud of myself for having the guts to decide to do something hard and then to actually follow through and do it.
Most importantly, though, I am thankful. Thankful to my body, for allowing me to complete such a feat; thankful to my mind, for screaming just a little bit louder than my legs when they told me to quit; thankful to my friends and family, for offering all of the advice, encouragement and understanding that I could ever need; thankful to my boyfriend, for undertaking this journey with me, and thankful to YOU, my readers, for all of your comments, tweets, emails and general support, from the moment I posted my crazy idea straight up until after I crossed the finish line.
It truly meant the world.
That's right: I braved the record-breaking 82 degree temperature, a brutal second half, a lack of Gatorade and a blister from hell, but I did it....
I FINISHED THE B.A.A. HALF MARATHON!
The race was both the best and worst experience of my life :)
The Lead Up
There are few things that I hate more than bloggers who go ballistic with the Twitter/blog "ZOMG GUYZ I IZ RUNNIN A RACE!" updates, but to be perfectly honest, I now loathe them a little less. I was SO NERVOUS leading up to the race that it kind of took over my every waking thought. At one point, while working under a grant deadline, I found myself wanting to fling my ever-growing pile of paper in the air and scream, "WHO CARES IF PEOPLE GET PAID FOR CONDUCTING CANCER RESEARCH; I'M RUNNING A HALF MARATHON NEXT WEEKEND, DAMN IT!"
Not exactly my proudest moment.
(FTR, I did not actually do that. I love my job and I in no way consider running a road race on par with finding a cure for cancer; there is no comparison. I just have a flair for the dramatic.)
Despite my nerves, I woke up at 5am Sunday feeling remarkably calm. This could have been related to the fact that I have never seen that time from the perspective of waking up before, but I like to think it was because I felt prepared. After all, how could I not with all of this shit?!
We ate (peanut butter toast with sliced banana, half a cup of coffee and a liter of water), hopped the T to Back Bay, transferred to Forrest Hills and then finally to the shuttle to the starting line. We checked our bag, slugged back some
Nothing says, "I am now a bona fide runner" like peeing in the woods with a hundred of your closest competitors.
With that little initiation complete, we headed over to the starting corral. The waaaaay back of the starting corral. Seriously, out of 5,500 runners, there were only about 100 of them behind us. After the requisite announcements about it being unseasonably warm, to seek medical attention if you were experiencing issues, the locations of the water/gato/gel stops, yadda yadda yadda, the horn finally blew and the crowd surged forward. Six minutes later, with "Ya'll Ready For This?" blaring in my ear, I crossed the mat and my journey to 13.1 began.
The Race
I've only run two other races, both 5ks, and based on those experiences I knew that my biggest hurdle was going to be maintaining a manageable pace for the first few miles of the course. I did all of my training based on this challenge, even building my walking warm-up into that first mile time. I knew I was in trouble as soon as I passed the 1-mile marker and realized I'd run it in less than 11 minutes. 11:02 was my ultimate DREAM pace going into this, and based on my training I knew it was extremely unlikely I would be able to sustain it over 13.1 miles. The course lends itself to a fast first half as it is; the first five miles are on a pretty major decline. I managed to settle in to a 13 min/mile pace somewhere around the 5k point (where I spotted Erin on the sidelines!), and despite having 90% of the runners pass me on their way to mile 6 as I jogged past mile 4 (including my totally rad coworker/running buddy, KJ), I felt pretty good through the first five miles, even hamming it up for the photographers at the official mile 5 checkpoint/turnaround.
Then came mile 6.
You see, there was a tiiiiny snafu in the week leading up to the race. In my over-cautious attempt to limit any strain on my lower legs, I wore flats every. single. day. Which would probably be fine for a normal person with normal feet, but as we all know, I, unfortunately, am/have neither. As a result of said stroke of genius and lack of proper arch support, I ended up hobbling myself with killer shin/calf pain and spent the five days leading up to the race sporting a sweet ace bandage, rotating ice packs and that classic 9-5 staple, sneakers with skirts.
I know, I know; I should probably consider making the leap to fashion blogger now.
In the end, though, the joke was on me. I ended up with no pain in my left leg during the race... but developed a sweet blister on the bottom of my foot RIGHT at mile 6, which also happened to be the beginning of a seven-mile climb to the finish. I slowed down my already slow speed for the hydration station, downing a tangerine PowerGel and grabbing an extra cup of water. As I rounded Jamaica Pond, I ran/walked at a decent pace, but definitely noticed my overall mile times drifting upward as I hit mile 7.
By mile 8, the temperature had soared to a scorching 78 degrees and the blister on the ball of my foot was becoming increasingly painful with each step. With the help of the theme from Chariots of Fire and Mama Mia, though, I powered back across the unforgiving, shadeless overpass and back into the park. I even managed to pass a few people, which is quite a feat when you're literally staying a few steps ahead of the dreaded street sweeper. By the time I crossed the mile 9 marker in 1:56:52 (GPS time, not official time), I had given up on trying to make the 2:30 "official" end of timing, but I still had a shot at finishing under 2:45.
And then all hell broke loose.
While the rational part of my brain knows it had to have been, the emotional three year old inside of me maintains that there is no way in HELL that mile 9 was only one mile. It was, without a doubt, the single hardest physical and mental event through which I have ever suffered. The pain threshold and mental toughness that my "bad" training runs were supposed to create flew right out the window when faced with the actual event. I assume it was the half version of the infamous Wall that marathoners endure around mile 20, and I have to say, if I had heaps of respect for endurance athletes before, I bow down before them now. Each step felt as though it were rattling the very fibers of my soul, and I thought that the seams holding me together might unravel at any minute.
The road wound on and on, with no sign of the vaunted 10th mile marker in sight. At that point, I had slowed considerably, walking a good majority of the way and only jogging when one of the two targets I'd set seemed to be getting too far away from me. Andrew passed me going in the opposite direction at that point and I'm happy to say that a race cop riding behind him almost fell off his bike laughing when I screamed, "THIS IS THE LONGEST F**KING MILE OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!". Some kind soul took pity on me and let me know that the mythical 10th mile was just over the next hill, which bolstered my hopes and sent me loping towards it with wild abandon. Seriously, though.... I probably looked like some kind of crazed zoo animal on the loose. Even with the heavy amount of walking going on, I crossed the 10 mile checkpoint a full 15 minutes faster than I ran that same distance the week before. I hammed it up for the official photographer, and somehow, the journey back didn't seem quite as torturous. I punched the 11-mile marker hard when I passed it.
Multiple fist-pumps, some cheering and possibly a few air punches ensued. Hey, I was basically by myself at that point, so it's not like more than a handful of people were witness to my adrenaline-induced antics. After slugging some more water, I rounded the corner to (what I thought was) the last hurdle of the course: a giant, mothereffin' hill. I wish that I had taken a picture to remember it by, but I'm not really the type to whip a camera out mid-race, even if a turtle IS passing me. Just trust me that it was one of those enormous, never-ending inclines where you can't even see the top.
As I tossed my water cup into the pile being swept away, I tried to muster up both the mental and physical strength to start running again. The Rocky theme came on my shuffle (strategically planted, actually), and I started to pick up the pace. I jogged probably a tenth of a mile before the pain under my foot became unbearable -- I was totally fine with the general discomfort in my body after 2.5 hours of strenuous exercise, but with each step, I could feel that little pocket of fluid bulge a tiny bit more. I also realized that ironically enough, my RIGHT calf/shin was starting to ache; because it hurt so much to plant my foot straight down, I was compensating by landing on the outside edge of my sneaker. I tried to correct that, but it just didn't work. I walked up the majority of the hill.
About a half mile later, my friend KJ and her family passed me going in the opposite direction. It really was a blessing; she had already finished (beating former Patriots linebacker Tedy Bruschi by over 5 minutes!) and came straight over to jog with me down the other side of the hill, shouting encouragement the entire way. As much as I wanted to kill her for both getting me into this mess and forcing me to run when walking was so much easier, I really appreciated having her support. Not to mention her post-race water, which she very generously donated to my cause so that I could dump it over my head. As I made the turn back into the park, she left me to go back to her family, promising I was doing great and was into the home stretch.
I think I might have been a little bit delirious, because I was SO HAPPY to see the majestic banner and balloon arch looming ahead that the fact I had never passed the 12-mile marker didn't even cross my mind. I sprinted towards the timing mat with everything I had left... only to realized that I was re-crossing the starting line on my way to mile 12.
WHAT KIND OF SICK PERVERT FORCES THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE WHO HAVE JUST RUN 11.75 MILES TO CROSS BACK OVER THE STARTING LINE?!
In all honesty, the twelfth mile was kind of a blur. The fact that I was running through a fucking zoo notwithstanding, that last tiny push of adrenaline seemed to anesthetize the pain so that I could run again. By that point, I just wanted the mothereffing race to be over and I kind of just zoned out. I heard there was a giraffe and a zebra and some other random animals, but the only thing I remember is a camel and having the vague notion that it would be really funny if an alligator escaped and ate me during the last mile of my half marathon.
After passing through the starting line AGAIN (!!), I turned onto the path leading to White Stadium. There were adorable little signs saying stuff like, "Only 800 more meters!" but hello, I'm American and clearly don't know what the fuck that means. One lap? Two? I gave up trying to do the mental math and decided to focus on catching this girl who passed me at mile 8. She ran with a limp, so I thought that I at least had a decent shot at climbing one rung on the from-the-last ladder. Ignoring the squishy-burning feeling under my foot and sucking air as fast as my little lungs would let me, I powered on and pushed past her with the entrance to the stadium in sight. I could see the gates and the balloons and felt an overwhelming surge of relief and satisfaction. I just wanted to grab the closest passerby and hug them, squeezing their guts out and screaming "Victory is MINE!"
... until I realized that the same sick bastard who had fooled me once before had decorated mile 13 to make it LOOK like the finish, and that I still had to run halfway around the stupid track to ACTUALLY finish. Then I just wanted to kick someone's ass.
Because I'd used up my residual energy sprinting to the 13 mile marker, I power walked Grandma-style around the short side of the track, picking up into a sprint again for the straightaway. Since I was, again, ALONE, I had the announcer's attention all to myself, so it wasn't much of a surprise when, "And Caitlin will be finishing in just a few moments -- 26 years old and making allll of her dreaaammssss commmmeee trueeeeee!!!" came bellowing across the PA system.
My official time was 3:02:10.
The Aftermath
After a few puffs of my inhaler, a hug from Andrew and a quick brush with the Grim Reaper (I kid), I managed to collect myself enough to get my medal and wheeze the word, "water!". Thankfully, the BAA did a fantastic job with the post-race setup, so I was able to properly hydrate and FINALLY drink some nectar of the Gods, aka Gatorade (both of the stations on the course were out by the time I plodded through, which sucked, considering that I trained with Gato and we are now old friends). A few photos with my man and our medals (he finished in 2:47), a brief stint collapsed on the grass and the collection of our tshirts later, and we were on our way home.
Reflections
It's taken a few days to collect my thoughts and process all of the emotions that this whole experience produced. Obviously, first and foremost, I'm extremely proud of myself for completing a half marathon. I'm also a bit shocked, actually; I've always been honest here, and I don't think it's a secret that I have a history of setting goals and not following through. I'm amazed that my body, which I've had my share of battles with, did something so intense.
In the interest of full disclosure, though, I'd also be lying if I didn't admit to being a tiiiiny bit disappointed with my time. Not because I don't believe I did my best on that given day, but more because I'm annoyed that elements outside of my control prevented me from running the time I knew I had somewhere inside me. At the time, I didn't feel as though the weather had much of an impact on me, but I know that biologically it had to (and my sausage fingers proved it). I hydrated as best I could, but I have a really finicky water/salt ratio and I'm sure it had an effect. Similarly, there's nothing I could have done to prevent that blister from forming; I wore the exact same socks and shoes that I trained in with no problems at all. It might have been a function of running at such a steep downhill at the beginning, but it might have been totally random. After perusing the Runner's World forums, I know that it's something that can just happen. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.
Overall, I'd say that finishing the race was one of the best accomplishments I've made in my adult life. That might sound extreme, considering that I'm a college graduate and all, but I actually feel as though running 13.1 miles was just as important as receiving my diploma -- maybe even a little bit more. School was always easy for me; running (any physical activity, really) is not. Likewise, setting a goal and achieving it is an accomplishment in and of itself, and I'm extremely proud of myself for having the guts to decide to do something hard and then to actually follow through and do it.
Most importantly, though, I am thankful. Thankful to my body, for allowing me to complete such a feat; thankful to my mind, for screaming just a little bit louder than my legs when they told me to quit; thankful to my friends and family, for offering all of the advice, encouragement and understanding that I could ever need; thankful to my boyfriend, for undertaking this journey with me, and thankful to YOU, my readers, for all of your comments, tweets, emails and general support, from the moment I posted my crazy idea straight up until after I crossed the finish line.
It truly meant the world.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
As Long As They Ask
You know, this whole half marathon experience has definitely been humbling. I'm not the type of person who likes to admit that I'm not good at something, or that I don't know what I'm doing. In school, I tended to focus on the things I was actually good at (textual analysis, communication, music, parsing arguments, biological sciences etc.) and did just enough to get by in the areas where I was weak (physical sciences, sports, economics, math of all kinds). Gym class was my worst nightmare come true -- I didn't lose weight (the first time) until my junior year, so those fall semesters that I was forced to engage in physical activity with my peers were spent being picked last for team sports and taking the elective classes that would minimize my wiggly bits. I'd like to thank Walking for Fitness and Line Dancing for saving both my humility and my classmates' eyes.
Thinking back, even with all the bitching, backstabbing and bullying that accompanied those years (and I don't mean of the, "OoooMG, you guyz, sum biddy totes called mah purple ankle jeanz ugly, yo" variety), one of the worst memories I have is of running The Mile (it warrants capitalization).
Apparently, most high schools only make you do it once a semester during the Presidential Fitness Thingie, but not mine. No, we had to run the mile EVERY. SINGLE. FRIDAY. for half of the semester, and if we didn't cut our time by a certain goal, we got a zero for the day. I only took gym the fall semester of my freshman and sophomore years, so as I wheezed my way around a park three and a quarter times, I was on the heftier side. Twice, I didn't even finish; I collapsed on the ground next to Coach Beiste and cried about my blood-soaked socks. At the time, I was unaware that Keds are not really the best sneakers for running (or, you know, for a millenial high schooler to be wearing, period. But we'll get into my total social ineptitude and utter fashion misfortune some other time).
To make matters even worse, I happened to have a gym class full of those harpies from hell, the "athletic" girls. Sure, they weren't as morally corrupt as the other bastions of high school hierarchy, the cheerleaders; they were a hundred times worse. These girls were smart. They were skinny and gorgeous. Perhaps worst of all, they were NICE. "C'mon, you can do it!!!" they'd chant, clapping and throwing out encouragement as I puffed along the sidewalk a solid ten minutes after they'd finished their final lap. And then, when I was finally done, they'd make these ridiculous saccharine statements about how, "when I first started running, it took me twenty minutes to run a mile, too!".
Bitch, please. It's not quite the same when you're seven.
I've been called a lot of mean things in my life, but few of them ever made me feel more embarrassed than feeling like some kind of charity mission for those more athletically gifted than I. Sure, I knew they meant well, but in the end all that their "you go, girl!"s did was make me even more aware of the fact that OTHER people were aware of my struggles. While I appreciated the sentiment, I really wished they would've just let me run my tortoisely slow mile in peace, sans comment. Or maybe actually invited me to their parties, rather than just commenting on my weaknesses, then completely ignoring my existence when I saw them in my own element.
I really haven't changed much. When I go to the gym, I still don't like when people watch me or make it a point to say they've noticed whatever I'm doing. If they want to strike up a conversation about something else, that's totally fine; I'm more likely to cultivate a friendship or feel comfortable in a new class if they start out by cracking a joke about the decrepit state of the spin bikes or the spastic Zumba instructor rather than making some asinine comment like, "oh wow, you must be new at this!". I also try to keep this in mind before I open my mouth to dispense my own workout encouragement and advice.
Because while it might take me 2.5 hours to run 9 miles, I can shake my ass like Shakira. A secret which I am happy to share with anyone.
As long as they ask.
Thinking back, even with all the bitching, backstabbing and bullying that accompanied those years (and I don't mean of the, "OoooMG, you guyz, sum biddy totes called mah purple ankle jeanz ugly, yo" variety), one of the worst memories I have is of running The Mile (it warrants capitalization).
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| [Source] |
To make matters even worse, I happened to have a gym class full of those harpies from hell, the "athletic" girls. Sure, they weren't as morally corrupt as the other bastions of high school hierarchy, the cheerleaders; they were a hundred times worse. These girls were smart. They were skinny and gorgeous. Perhaps worst of all, they were NICE. "C'mon, you can do it!!!" they'd chant, clapping and throwing out encouragement as I puffed along the sidewalk a solid ten minutes after they'd finished their final lap. And then, when I was finally done, they'd make these ridiculous saccharine statements about how, "when I first started running, it took me twenty minutes to run a mile, too!".
Bitch, please. It's not quite the same when you're seven.
I've been called a lot of mean things in my life, but few of them ever made me feel more embarrassed than feeling like some kind of charity mission for those more athletically gifted than I. Sure, I knew they meant well, but in the end all that their "you go, girl!"s did was make me even more aware of the fact that OTHER people were aware of my struggles. While I appreciated the sentiment, I really wished they would've just let me run my tortoisely slow mile in peace, sans comment. Or maybe actually invited me to their parties, rather than just commenting on my weaknesses, then completely ignoring my existence when I saw them in my own element.
 |
| In my element a few years later. |
I really haven't changed much. When I go to the gym, I still don't like when people watch me or make it a point to say they've noticed whatever I'm doing. If they want to strike up a conversation about something else, that's totally fine; I'm more likely to cultivate a friendship or feel comfortable in a new class if they start out by cracking a joke about the decrepit state of the spin bikes or the spastic Zumba instructor rather than making some asinine comment like, "oh wow, you must be new at this!". I also try to keep this in mind before I open my mouth to dispense my own workout encouragement and advice.
Because while it might take me 2.5 hours to run 9 miles, I can shake my ass like Shakira. A secret which I am happy to share with anyone.
As long as they ask.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Punting the Ball
If you've been reading for the past month or so, you know that I'm kind of in the middle of a major endeavor.
A large part of the reason I haven't been doing the typical "check out my half-marathon progress!" posts are because, to be completely honest, the majority of times that I stumble upon those training recaps on other blogs, they make me squirm. Reading posts about blonder, thinner, more spritely ladies saying how they, "are so out of shape and haven't run in forever!" who then turn around and post about how they busted out an "easy" 5-miler at a sub-10mile might be inspiring to some, but to me, they make me feel like an utter, utter failure (and that's why I've stopped reading them).
And while it's true that I have no problem throwing some snark out there, the last thing I want is to make OTHER people feel like shit. Although if I'm being honest, I sincerely doubt that would happen.
Because for the most part (up until the last week or so, since I'm being honest), training for a half marathon has been, in a word, HELL.
I've said this before and I've never won any friends out of it, but to the people who say that "anyone can be a great/fast/distance runner if they work hard enough!", I call BULLSHIT. Running is like writing, or any other hobby; anyone can learn to do it, but I truly believe it takes a certain amount of natural talent in order to excel. That's why there are millions of blogs and books and only a comparatively small list of NYT best-sellers, and why 27,000 runners cross one line in Hopkinton but only a handful cross Copley in under 3 hours.
We can't ALL be good at EVERYTHING.
But as the thousands of people who don't list, "Published Author" as part of their Twitter bio and all those individuals huffing and puffing their way around the track at 5:30am can tell you, that doesn't have to stop us from trying new things, from setting new goals, from pushing ourselves to the brink.
Sure, I might not have the "natural" body type for a runner -- my flat feet, disproportionately large calves, wide hips and the extra 50lbs I'm currently hauling around my waist are proof enough of that. Even my good runs, some times, are bad runs; aches, pains, foot spasms and asthma attacks all coalesce into one epically unsatisfying experience, each mile slower than the last.
Let me put it this way: on the second 5-miler of my training plan, I got lapped by a man who wasn't a day under 80.
Twice.
At I watched that old man's grey ponytail disappear further and further over the horizon, quitting as an option became more and more real. During those same 5 agonizing miles, I envisioned my bloody, blistered self in the middle of a battlefield, white flag waving frenetically in one hand and a single, sweat-soaked towel being hurled "in" -- wherever "in" was -- with as much strength as my defeated body could muster.
I didn't, though. Instead, I dry-heaved my lunch, cursed myself for not drinking enough water beforehand and continued to put one foot in front of the other. Mostly because I was in Cambridge with no money for a cab, bus or measly T ticket home, but also because I remembered all of the dreams I've had and all of the goals I've set, without ever following through because I'm petrified of failure, of not being good enough, of coming in last.
The student newspaper.
The double-major in Classics.
The graduate degree, from law to publishing to law again, and finally to health communications (so about that GRE...).
And then, when all the pictures of the things I was too afraid to try were done with their slideshow, came the words. Oh, the words.
Slow.
Fat.
Failure.
Those are the images and words that sometimes float through MY head, as I'm slogging up the Mem Drive side of the Charles River, 2-miles into a 5-mile long run half-blinded by sweat, calves and shins beating their omnipresent drum of ache with massive blisters burrowing ever-deeper into the
Sometimes, I quit. More often, though, I let those thoughts and feelings fester, until I can feel my blood boiling just below the surface of my skull. I get angry at all the times in my life I've let petty excuses, circumstances and plain old laziness get in the way of what I've wanted. I get so angry, in fact, that before I know what has happened, my legs have picked up speed and I'm barreling down the river, one foot in front of the other until suddenly, I've fulfilled my mileage and I can collapse on the ground, spent in more ways than one.
******************************
I know that there's a prevailing idea that we're all supposed to be Susie Can-Do in this ol' blog world. That we're supposed to surround ourselves with positive energy, tack inspirational quotations all over the place, tell ourselves "YES WE CAN!" and to be the ball.
But sometimes? I find it much more effective to let those nasty thoughts creep in, to scream, "NO, I CAN'T!", and to punt the mothereffing ball as far away from myself as humanly possible.
So to answer the question that keeps popping up in my inbox, yes, I am still training for the BAA Half Marathon on Columbus Day weekend. It hasn't been easy, it hasn't been pretty and it sure as shit hasn't been fast. At this point, I've pretty much come to terms with the fact that in all likelihood, at the end of the 2:30:00 official deadline to cross that finish line, there will be a big ol' DNF next to my name. My barely 12:30 minute miles and I have come to peace with it. But in the meantime, we keep swearing and sweating and screaming and -- yes -- sometimes punting.
But most of all, we keep running.
Because really, what's the point of having the ball if you don't have to punt and run to catch it?
A large part of the reason I haven't been doing the typical "check out my half-marathon progress!" posts are because, to be completely honest, the majority of times that I stumble upon those training recaps on other blogs, they make me squirm. Reading posts about blonder, thinner, more spritely ladies saying how they, "are so out of shape and haven't run in forever!" who then turn around and post about how they busted out an "easy" 5-miler at a sub-10mile might be inspiring to some, but to me, they make me feel like an utter, utter failure (and that's why I've stopped reading them).
And while it's true that I have no problem throwing some snark out there, the last thing I want is to make OTHER people feel like shit. Although if I'm being honest, I sincerely doubt that would happen.
Because for the most part (up until the last week or so, since I'm being honest), training for a half marathon has been, in a word, HELL.
I've said this before and I've never won any friends out of it, but to the people who say that "anyone can be a great/fast/distance runner if they work hard enough!", I call BULLSHIT. Running is like writing, or any other hobby; anyone can learn to do it, but I truly believe it takes a certain amount of natural talent in order to excel. That's why there are millions of blogs and books and only a comparatively small list of NYT best-sellers, and why 27,000 runners cross one line in Hopkinton but only a handful cross Copley in under 3 hours.
We can't ALL be good at EVERYTHING.
 |
| [Source] |
Sure, I might not have the "natural" body type for a runner -- my flat feet, disproportionately large calves, wide hips and the extra 50lbs I'm currently hauling around my waist are proof enough of that. Even my good runs, some times, are bad runs; aches, pains, foot spasms and asthma attacks all coalesce into one epically unsatisfying experience, each mile slower than the last.
Let me put it this way: on the second 5-miler of my training plan, I got lapped by a man who wasn't a day under 80.
Twice.
At I watched that old man's grey ponytail disappear further and further over the horizon, quitting as an option became more and more real. During those same 5 agonizing miles, I envisioned my bloody, blistered self in the middle of a battlefield, white flag waving frenetically in one hand and a single, sweat-soaked towel being hurled "in" -- wherever "in" was -- with as much strength as my defeated body could muster.
I didn't, though. Instead, I dry-heaved my lunch, cursed myself for not drinking enough water beforehand and continued to put one foot in front of the other. Mostly because I was in Cambridge with no money for a cab, bus or measly T ticket home, but also because I remembered all of the dreams I've had and all of the goals I've set, without ever following through because I'm petrified of failure, of not being good enough, of coming in last.
The student newspaper.
The double-major in Classics.
The graduate degree, from law to publishing to law again, and finally to health communications (so about that GRE...).
And then, when all the pictures of the things I was too afraid to try were done with their slideshow, came the words. Oh, the words.
Slow.
Fat.
Failure.
Those are the images and words that sometimes float through MY head, as I'm slogging up the Mem Drive side of the Charles River, 2-miles into a 5-mile long run half-blinded by sweat, calves and shins beating their omnipresent drum of ache with massive blisters burrowing ever-deeper into the
Sometimes, I quit. More often, though, I let those thoughts and feelings fester, until I can feel my blood boiling just below the surface of my skull. I get angry at all the times in my life I've let petty excuses, circumstances and plain old laziness get in the way of what I've wanted. I get so angry, in fact, that before I know what has happened, my legs have picked up speed and I'm barreling down the river, one foot in front of the other until suddenly, I've fulfilled my mileage and I can collapse on the ground, spent in more ways than one.
******************************
I know that there's a prevailing idea that we're all supposed to be Susie Can-Do in this ol' blog world. That we're supposed to surround ourselves with positive energy, tack inspirational quotations all over the place, tell ourselves "YES WE CAN!" and to be the ball.
But sometimes? I find it much more effective to let those nasty thoughts creep in, to scream, "NO, I CAN'T!", and to punt the mothereffing ball as far away from myself as humanly possible.
So to answer the question that keeps popping up in my inbox, yes, I am still training for the BAA Half Marathon on Columbus Day weekend. It hasn't been easy, it hasn't been pretty and it sure as shit hasn't been fast. At this point, I've pretty much come to terms with the fact that in all likelihood, at the end of the 2:30:00 official deadline to cross that finish line, there will be a big ol' DNF next to my name. My barely 12:30 minute miles and I have come to peace with it. But in the meantime, we keep swearing and sweating and screaming and -- yes -- sometimes punting.
But most of all, we keep running.
 |
| [Source] |
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