Friday, August 29, 2008
Blog, Interrupted
It appears as though my grand scheme to get caught up with my posts this week has ended in a sad, tragic, DNF. I’ve been overwhelmed with both moving and planning a backpacking trip, and, unfortunately, the life-and-death decision of spork vs. spoon and fork has claimed all my obsessive energies. I’ll be in Wyoming for the next twelve days, much of it holed up in a sub 3-pound “tent” (he chuckles) braving the elements and hiding from bears in the Wind Rivers. I may find some time in civilization to post, but if not, I’ll pick it back up Sept. 11th. Until then dudes, rock on at the races this weekend, and fire those glutes.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Wilke: My First Time
Wilke. WILKE. Everyone talks about Wilke. I’d heard so many stories about this freakin' hill I didn’t know what to believe:
“Dude, Bernard ran it once 25 times at a 4:15 pace. I didn’t see it per se, but someone has the video. It’s on YouTube.“
“My ex-girlfriend used to run with the Gazelles and she told me that once Desiree Ficker came to the morning class with a ruptured Achilles, and she hopped up it 43 times.”
“My friend’s cousin saw Roger, the guy from the Tuesday/Thursday class, run it 57 times on the hottest day of the year with a Camelback full of Michelob Ultra.“
I was skeptical, but I braced myself for the absolute worst. We left the Robert E. Lee parking lot for our quiet warm-up jog to base camp. After the running sideways-backwards-and-like-a-clown drills, Gilbert gathered us under a streetlight to give the rundown.
“Okay, today the focus here is not on speed, but form. I really want to see you lift your knees and get that power from your glutes. Also, I want everyone to do what they can handle, but Chicago folks should do at least seven. Now . . . Robert over here . . . “
No. Please stop.
“Everyone see Robert? Over there. Behind Brian. No, to the left of Steve. Yeah, that’s him. Okay, Robert . . . Robert is the crazy blogger (oh good god) . . . and he is going to run 10. Who wants to join Robert?”
Crickets. Lot of staring.
Thanks, Gilbert, for that. That made me feel uncomfortable in so many ways. How, how did I end up in this situation? Training partner Dan, it appeared, was on some kind of sabbatical. He went off into the woods to run with wolves or something. Some of the faster Chicagoans are also no-shows. So it’s me, myself and I. I take one nervous swig of Accelerade, re-tie my shoes and ready myself for the beatdown.
The group commences. I timidly lean my head forward and take to the hill. The first 150 meters, not so bad, I’m easing into it. Then the steepest third hits and my body revolts with an “Oh no you didn’t!” Three quarters of the way up, I want to go back to bed. I slow almost to a walk as I reach the apex, preparing my descent. I begin my turn— but what is this? A false summit! Thirty yards of modest, but at this point punishing, incline lie ahead. “What a treat! More!” I reflect.
I run to the stop sign and warily tip-toe back down, trying to keep my nerves from frying my touchy hamstring. I follow the procession to the streetlight and step back on the escalator for round two.
Like jumping into Barton Springs, the second time proves a little easier than the shock of the first one. Smoothly ascending at a blistering 12-min/mile pace, I feel heat from Steve “The Rocket” Duffy as he closes in. This is so thrilling. It’s like watching one of those “World’s Strongest Man” competitions where two guys are running while pulling a refrigerator. Only we’re skinny and neither of us is pulling a refrigerator.
When we top out I turn to Steve, “You doing 10?”
“Seven.“
“No, dude, let’s do it together, Band of Brothers!”
He does not seem enthused. I can’t quite hear him, but I think he says something like, “Band of Brothers? My ass. How about my IT band?” and vaults downward ahead of me.
The third repeat raises the bar and lowers the comfort level. I attempt to run with my butt. I can’t really get into specifics about this, but I’ll just say I try some different things. It doesn’t really work out.
4th Repeat: The same but I’m slower and more erratic. I hit a mailbox.
5th: Rather than running directly forward, I try "tacking." Proves inefficient without wind. Or a sail. This just ends up being stupid.
6th: As I’m gaining some confidence with my slow but determined pace, Gilbert introduces five pages of notes: “Bring your knees way up, swing your arms, lean into the hill, chest out, quit doing that dolphin fin-waving thing, don’t tilt your head to the side and fire your glutes, man!” So, just some minor refinements.
7th: It is becoming dark now. Not outside, but inside my brain.
8th and 9th: I devolve. My thoughts turn all primitive. Must move legs. Must climb mountain. Must please Coach.
10th: By now everyone seems to have graduated to another confusing set of drills, but I break through the crowd with the force only a 15 min/mile can generate and endure the final climb, false summit and all, to the end of the road. The stop sign says Stop, and I f'n do.
My first time on Wilke. Done, done, and done. I check my pulse. I still have one.
As we’re disbanding, Gilbert takes me aside and gives me the real stats: Desiree Ficker and Patrick Evoe did actually run it 38 times, and Gilbert knocked off 33 for his 33rd birthday. My birthday choice would be margaritas, but you know, to each his own. Gilbert says this is where champions are made, and he's convinced me. I make a mental note to insert a Wilke day into my schedule every so often and I thank Gilbert for his excellent coaching advice.
Then I throw up on his shoe.
“Dude, Bernard ran it once 25 times at a 4:15 pace. I didn’t see it per se, but someone has the video. It’s on YouTube.“
“My ex-girlfriend used to run with the Gazelles and she told me that once Desiree Ficker came to the morning class with a ruptured Achilles, and she hopped up it 43 times.”
“My friend’s cousin saw Roger, the guy from the Tuesday/Thursday class, run it 57 times on the hottest day of the year with a Camelback full of Michelob Ultra.“
I was skeptical, but I braced myself for the absolute worst. We left the Robert E. Lee parking lot for our quiet warm-up jog to base camp. After the running sideways-backwards-and-like-a-clown drills, Gilbert gathered us under a streetlight to give the rundown.
“Okay, today the focus here is not on speed, but form. I really want to see you lift your knees and get that power from your glutes. Also, I want everyone to do what they can handle, but Chicago folks should do at least seven. Now . . . Robert over here . . . “
No. Please stop.
“Everyone see Robert? Over there. Behind Brian. No, to the left of Steve. Yeah, that’s him. Okay, Robert . . . Robert is the crazy blogger (oh good god) . . . and he is going to run 10. Who wants to join Robert?”
Crickets. Lot of staring.
Thanks, Gilbert, for that. That made me feel uncomfortable in so many ways. How, how did I end up in this situation? Training partner Dan, it appeared, was on some kind of sabbatical. He went off into the woods to run with wolves or something. Some of the faster Chicagoans are also no-shows. So it’s me, myself and I. I take one nervous swig of Accelerade, re-tie my shoes and ready myself for the beatdown.
The group commences. I timidly lean my head forward and take to the hill. The first 150 meters, not so bad, I’m easing into it. Then the steepest third hits and my body revolts with an “Oh no you didn’t!” Three quarters of the way up, I want to go back to bed. I slow almost to a walk as I reach the apex, preparing my descent. I begin my turn— but what is this? A false summit! Thirty yards of modest, but at this point punishing, incline lie ahead. “What a treat! More!” I reflect.
I run to the stop sign and warily tip-toe back down, trying to keep my nerves from frying my touchy hamstring. I follow the procession to the streetlight and step back on the escalator for round two.
Like jumping into Barton Springs, the second time proves a little easier than the shock of the first one. Smoothly ascending at a blistering 12-min/mile pace, I feel heat from Steve “The Rocket” Duffy as he closes in. This is so thrilling. It’s like watching one of those “World’s Strongest Man” competitions where two guys are running while pulling a refrigerator. Only we’re skinny and neither of us is pulling a refrigerator.
When we top out I turn to Steve, “You doing 10?”
“Seven.“
“No, dude, let’s do it together, Band of Brothers!”
He does not seem enthused. I can’t quite hear him, but I think he says something like, “Band of Brothers? My ass. How about my IT band?” and vaults downward ahead of me.
The third repeat raises the bar and lowers the comfort level. I attempt to run with my butt. I can’t really get into specifics about this, but I’ll just say I try some different things. It doesn’t really work out.
4th Repeat: The same but I’m slower and more erratic. I hit a mailbox.
5th: Rather than running directly forward, I try "tacking." Proves inefficient without wind. Or a sail. This just ends up being stupid.
6th: As I’m gaining some confidence with my slow but determined pace, Gilbert introduces five pages of notes: “Bring your knees way up, swing your arms, lean into the hill, chest out, quit doing that dolphin fin-waving thing, don’t tilt your head to the side and fire your glutes, man!” So, just some minor refinements.
7th: It is becoming dark now. Not outside, but inside my brain.
8th and 9th: I devolve. My thoughts turn all primitive. Must move legs. Must climb mountain. Must please Coach.
10th: By now everyone seems to have graduated to another confusing set of drills, but I break through the crowd with the force only a 15 min/mile can generate and endure the final climb, false summit and all, to the end of the road. The stop sign says Stop, and I f'n do.
My first time on Wilke. Done, done, and done. I check my pulse. I still have one.
As we’re disbanding, Gilbert takes me aside and gives me the real stats: Desiree Ficker and Patrick Evoe did actually run it 38 times, and Gilbert knocked off 33 for his 33rd birthday. My birthday choice would be margaritas, but you know, to each his own. Gilbert says this is where champions are made, and he's convinced me. I make a mental note to insert a Wilke day into my schedule every so often and I thank Gilbert for his excellent coaching advice.
Then I throw up on his shoe.
Monday, August 4, 2008
A Growing Concern
I’m back at SPI for physical therapy with Pieter Kroon, famous go-to guy for gimpy runners. The pleasant, relaxing, generously windowed room with a Loop 360 view, however, deceives. Tucked away in its corners lie special tools and devices designed to stretch, bend, and relocate. Under a stack of yoga mats I swear I saw a hook.
Pieter approaches and plants a hearty handshake. His stature and demeanor is cheerful, broad, Teutonic. It’s like we could put away beers together, or he could crush me, depending on his mood.
First order of business is the adjusting. Pieter asks me to lie on the table on my back and cross my arms over my chest. He then wraps his biceps around my shoulders and gives me a suffocating bear hug until I hear a succession of pops in my upper back. Aah, echoes of the primitive greeting ritual my Dad and I peform twice a year.
Next, Pieter calls across the room: “Troy, can you come over here for a second and help me?”
Troy? Wait? Why do we need to bother Troy?
“Troy is going to hold you down while I adjust your left leg.”
“Hold me down?? You know, I can see that Troy was making a real difference in someone’s life over there, so I think we should just send him bac—OH MY GOD.”
Pieter wraps his arm around my left shin and yanks on my leg until there’s a dull snapping sound at my hip.
“What was that all about??”
“Ha! Don’t worry! The hip joint is the strongest in the human body. Back in medieval times, when they would draw and quarter someone, the rest of the victim’s joints would come apart, but the hip almost always remained intact. Ha, ha!”
Ha! The victim’s hip stayed intact while his arms fell off, that’s hilarious!!
Finally, Pieter retrieves from, I don’t know, the dungeon next door, a padded leather strap that he secures around my upper left thigh. Once again, he yanks on the thing, but this time up and out, moving my hip in a direction it has never ever known. I think my hip would have preferred to live in ignorance.
And now we’re ready for the therapy.
Gratefully, the horror scene dissolves and we get down to some serious stretching. Pieter kneads the back of my left thigh with his knuckles, finding the adhering nerves with magical precision and unadhering them. It hurts, but dude, it hurts so good. He bends my legs all over the place, and I learn that my hips are about as flexible as a rusty lawn chair. After 20 minutes, he unfolds me and sits me back up on the table.
“Your hamstring is dominating. When you rely too much on your hamstring, the site of your original injury, the nerves in the whole area flare up. Your glutes need to do more of the work. Over the next several weeks you’ll be performing exercises designed to strengthen your glutes and get you to rely more on them when you run.”
“So, what you’re saying is . . . . my butt needs to dominate.”
“Yes.”
Okay then.
This is a serious medical discussion we are having.
Pieter gleefully sends me off with a cadre of butt exercises to do at home. Settling into my car, I begin to fret. What this ultimately means is that over the next several weeks, my butt will grow in size. What are the implications? I’m concerned about proportionality. Will this be noticeable? Will I need a new wardrobe? What will my co-workers say?
But as I remind myself of Gilbert’s sage words, my concerns fade. I want to run with power and I absolutely must rid myself of this godawful nerve pain. I got to have a butt to do it. I’m going for it. I’m making the sacrifice.
My butt will dominate.
Pieter approaches and plants a hearty handshake. His stature and demeanor is cheerful, broad, Teutonic. It’s like we could put away beers together, or he could crush me, depending on his mood.
First order of business is the adjusting. Pieter asks me to lie on the table on my back and cross my arms over my chest. He then wraps his biceps around my shoulders and gives me a suffocating bear hug until I hear a succession of pops in my upper back. Aah, echoes of the primitive greeting ritual my Dad and I peform twice a year.
Next, Pieter calls across the room: “Troy, can you come over here for a second and help me?”
Troy? Wait? Why do we need to bother Troy?
“Troy is going to hold you down while I adjust your left leg.”
“Hold me down?? You know, I can see that Troy was making a real difference in someone’s life over there, so I think we should just send him bac—OH MY GOD.”
Pieter wraps his arm around my left shin and yanks on my leg until there’s a dull snapping sound at my hip.
“What was that all about??”
“Ha! Don’t worry! The hip joint is the strongest in the human body. Back in medieval times, when they would draw and quarter someone, the rest of the victim’s joints would come apart, but the hip almost always remained intact. Ha, ha!”
Ha! The victim’s hip stayed intact while his arms fell off, that’s hilarious!!
Finally, Pieter retrieves from, I don’t know, the dungeon next door, a padded leather strap that he secures around my upper left thigh. Once again, he yanks on the thing, but this time up and out, moving my hip in a direction it has never ever known. I think my hip would have preferred to live in ignorance.
And now we’re ready for the therapy.
Gratefully, the horror scene dissolves and we get down to some serious stretching. Pieter kneads the back of my left thigh with his knuckles, finding the adhering nerves with magical precision and unadhering them. It hurts, but dude, it hurts so good. He bends my legs all over the place, and I learn that my hips are about as flexible as a rusty lawn chair. After 20 minutes, he unfolds me and sits me back up on the table.
“Your hamstring is dominating. When you rely too much on your hamstring, the site of your original injury, the nerves in the whole area flare up. Your glutes need to do more of the work. Over the next several weeks you’ll be performing exercises designed to strengthen your glutes and get you to rely more on them when you run.”
“So, what you’re saying is . . . . my butt needs to dominate.”
“Yes.”
Okay then.
This is a serious medical discussion we are having.
Pieter gleefully sends me off with a cadre of butt exercises to do at home. Settling into my car, I begin to fret. What this ultimately means is that over the next several weeks, my butt will grow in size. What are the implications? I’m concerned about proportionality. Will this be noticeable? Will I need a new wardrobe? What will my co-workers say?
But as I remind myself of Gilbert’s sage words, my concerns fade. I want to run with power and I absolutely must rid myself of this godawful nerve pain. I got to have a butt to do it. I’m going for it. I’m making the sacrifice.
My butt will dominate.
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