Yes, my New York trip was a bit of a downer. But on that Wednesday by the dismantled grandstand in Central Park, I pulled from the wreckage of my DNS ("Did Not Start") a new resolve! I logged 18 miles while recovering that week and went in to Saturday, Nov 8th determined to run a strong 16. Through the hilly first ten I managed a 7:35 mi, but assumed superpowers or something somewhere around 45th & Duval and ran the last six under 7:00. I ended with a 7:19 mi overall, five seconds under MGP. A glimpse of a marathon effort, taken out on a poor, hapless 16. I knew I was pushing the pace for a long run, but I’d put away so many of these already and I really wanted a confidence boost. I got what I needed, even if my legs got all cranky afterwards.
My legs on Sunday morning: “Dude, what was that? You expect us to get out of bed now?”
“Zip it. I needed that, okay? Address all complaints to my elbow.”
“Seriously, we’re not moving. And we want more of the duvet. Half of it's on the floor.”
“You want an ice bath?”
“NOOOOO!!”
“Then I suggest you cooperate.”
All is well for two days as I prepare to jump back in to the Gazelles. And then, I awake Tuesday morning to a scratchy throat, congested sinuses, a cough and general crappitude. Oi. The scene at work is not pretty. Folks are calling in or leaving early, all falling to a bug that’s now going around. And of course it gets to me as well. I normally don’t blink at colds and run through them, but two runs of five and six miles during the week tell me this time to take it easy. On Thursday a doctor—not my normal PCP because he’s booked—says I have one of the typical viral infections making the rounds. My lungs are clear, but he gives vague non-runner friendly answers to my questions like, “You don’t want to push it or it may get worse.” Define ‘push it?’ Does ‘push it’ mean five miles or 20? Recovery pace or MGP? And despite my sharp interrogation, he insists that none of my setbacks have anything to do with each other. He chalks it all up to bad luck.
I take it day-to-day and by Saturday (this morning) I realize while five or six might work, putting in my final 22 today would be a bad idea. I move all my little running reminders on my calendar back a week and set my sights on 22 next Saturday, three weeks out from Dallas.
I believe I’ve developed a new marathon training regimen. For the last eight weeks of training, run a week hard and then take a week and a half to two weeks off. The BLTW (Blog Like The Wind) Approach. And yet, AND YET, I am still in the game. Last Saturday told me I have the fitness, so if I can just be patient, rest, keep an IV of Emergen-C in my arm at all times and get over this—even if it takes an ungodly two weeks, which it shouldn't—I think I can still rev back up and make it to Dallas on December 14th in good shape. Relatively.
One step forward, two steps . . . no, no, no. Two steps forward, one step back. That's more like it. I’ve worked this new schedule out on my calendar and it looks like the timing is perfect. Nov 23rd, Nov 30th, Dec 7th. Yep. The week of Dallas White Rock, I'm due to step forward.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Running on the Brain
I stealthily approach Todd's cubicle. He’s got a Rogue sticker on his PC. He's one of us. When he realizes someone’s behind him he frantically closes his Internet browser. All I could make out was YouTube footage of some marathon from the 80’s. Grete Waitz was involved.
“Hey Todd, what’s happening?”
“Robert! Hey, how was New York?? Did you BQ?”
“I ended up not running. I got a last-minute injury.”
“Oh no! Was it your leg?”
“My elbow.”
“What??”
“My elbow. I got a staph infection five days before NY. It was the size of a grapefr—a cantaloupe.”
“Are you kidding me?? That’s like the worst luck imaginable. Oh man, I’m sorry. Those things can be terrible."
“Yeah, it was unpleasant. But I’m better now and Saturday I did 16. Ran the whole thing at a 7:19 min/mi. Five seconds under MGP. Last six were under 7:00.”
“Pretty good,” Todd admits, impressed. “Well Thursday I ran ten 800’s, with the last half of the last two under 6:00 min/mi.”
“Yeah? Last week I ran three 3km’s, two 2000m’s, and four 1000m’s, and the middle two 1000m’s were at my 2km pace.”
“How about this? Seven miles on Town Lake yesterday, and I ran from the place where that rock sticks out to the Stevie Ray Vaughn statue in 12.8 seconds.”
“You didn't.”
"That's right, Rob. Twice as fast as MGP. For 80m."
"80m at .5 MGP. Dude, that's a sub-3:15 marathon, guaranteed."
Courtney from Sales breezes by.
“Hi, Robert.”
“Hey, Courtney, how’s it going in Sales?”
“Oh, you know.”
“Yeah.”
She stops, plucks a pen off Todd’s desk, and signs a stack of forms she’s carrying against the wall of his cubicle.
Without taking her eyes off the paper, “Wow, pleats, that’s a first for you.”
“Just mixing it up.”
On her way down the hall now, “You know what they say about pleats don’t you?”
“What’s that?”
“They make your butt look big. Ha, ha!”
"Ah! That's, eh . . . hilarious!"
My smile hides the horror.
As she turns the corner, “See ya at the Tech Talk!”
Before retreating I hang at Todd’s cubicle for a second.
“Hey Todd, do you think for the good of the company you could change your IM screen name?”
“Why, what’s wrong with it?”
“'HGEBRSELASSIE?' It’s just not very practical in an office environment. No one can spell it. And besides, I’m the only one who gets the reference.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Yeah. How about 'PRE?'”
Pause
“Hey, I like that.”
“Hey Todd, what’s happening?”
“Robert! Hey, how was New York?? Did you BQ?”
“I ended up not running. I got a last-minute injury.”
“Oh no! Was it your leg?”
“My elbow.”
“What??”
“My elbow. I got a staph infection five days before NY. It was the size of a grapefr—a cantaloupe.”
“Are you kidding me?? That’s like the worst luck imaginable. Oh man, I’m sorry. Those things can be terrible."
“Yeah, it was unpleasant. But I’m better now and Saturday I did 16. Ran the whole thing at a 7:19 min/mi. Five seconds under MGP. Last six were under 7:00.”
“Pretty good,” Todd admits, impressed. “Well Thursday I ran ten 800’s, with the last half of the last two under 6:00 min/mi.”
“Yeah? Last week I ran three 3km’s, two 2000m’s, and four 1000m’s, and the middle two 1000m’s were at my 2km pace.”
“How about this? Seven miles on Town Lake yesterday, and I ran from the place where that rock sticks out to the Stevie Ray Vaughn statue in 12.8 seconds.”
“You didn't.”
"That's right, Rob. Twice as fast as MGP. For 80m."
"80m at .5 MGP. Dude, that's a sub-3:15 marathon, guaranteed."
Courtney from Sales breezes by.
“Hi, Robert.”
“Hey, Courtney, how’s it going in Sales?”
“Oh, you know.”
“Yeah.”
She stops, plucks a pen off Todd’s desk, and signs a stack of forms she’s carrying against the wall of his cubicle.
Without taking her eyes off the paper, “Wow, pleats, that’s a first for you.”
“Just mixing it up.”
On her way down the hall now, “You know what they say about pleats don’t you?”
“What’s that?”
“They make your butt look big. Ha, ha!”
"Ah! That's, eh . . . hilarious!"
My smile hides the horror.
As she turns the corner, “See ya at the Tech Talk!”
Before retreating I hang at Todd’s cubicle for a second.
“Hey Todd, do you think for the good of the company you could change your IM screen name?”
“Why, what’s wrong with it?”
“'HGEBRSELASSIE?' It’s just not very practical in an office environment. No one can spell it. And besides, I’m the only one who gets the reference.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Yeah. How about 'PRE?'”
Pause
“Hey, I like that.”
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Best-Laid Plans
I can’t go through everything that’s happened in the last three weeks, but I’ll briefly note that I rebuffed my wimpy calf strain with a resounding 22 miler. Through stretching, cross training, and some quality time at SPI with a rubber ball, a trampoline, and Pieter's knuckles on the back of my leg, my calf healed up nicely.
Now I skip to race week, counting down the final days before New York.
I swear I am not making this up.
---Tuesday, October 28th---
I’m at SPI Tuesday morning for a last-minute appointment with Dr. Spears. It’s not a nerve issue, calf issue, foot, leg, hip or any runner-related issue. No. It’s my elbow.
It is the size of a grapefruit.
Monday night was terrible. Sleepless, fever, chills, feeling of total crappiness. And I kept turning over onto my elbow, which, one more time for emphasis, is the size of a grapefruit.
It’s so disgusting it scares Dr. Spears’ assistant, Lisa, as she walks through the door.
“Whoa, that looks awful, we need to drain that. Lie down on the bed and extend your arm toward the floor.”
“I can’t straighten it out.”
“Well, just kind of let it hang there, as best you can.”
Two minutes after inserting the needle into my elbow and holding it in place, she pulls it out exasperated.
“That’s so weird, I couldn’t get any fluid out of it. Dr. Spears needs to see this.”
Doc walks in, widens his eyes a bit, and immediately asks me to raise both my arms.
“Yeah, look at that. He’s got a staph or strep infection and it’s septic. See this pink line shooting up the underside of his arm? I think it got in through the dried up skin on his elbow. Have you been around livestock or spent any time in a barn lately?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you work at a dog kennel?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“How about a hospital?”
"Does this place count? I spend more time here than some of your staff."
“There’s a concern about whether this the run-of-the-mill or drug resistant variety. We’ll put you on antibiotics and if it’s not the bad kind that should take care of it.”
“What about running?”
“I’d take it easy for 10 days.”
“But I’m running the New York Marathon in five days.”
Pause
“Oh. Well, I’ll put you on Ceftin, it’s pretty potent. And oral meds nowadays are just as fast as an injection. My advice would be to take it easy, go to New York, and see how you’re feeling on Saturday before deciding to run.”
“What are the odds I’ll be 100% by Sunday?”
“Honestly, I think it’s pretty slim. You’ve got a major systemic infection right now. The drugs should work, but five days to be back in marathon mode is a pretty quick turnaround for something like this.”
Wow.
I can’t believe this is happening. Is this like a dream or something? Am I being punked?
Two days on the antibiotics and I finally start to feel some effects. My elbow now looks more like a baseball. Thursday afternoon I test the waters with a 4 miler. A lumbering effort. Way more work than it should be. And it hits me hard an hour later. Wiped out and lethargic, I pack my bags for the Friday morning flight, gambling on a full recovery by Sunday.
My travel day goes fairly well and I’m starting to think I can pull it off. I try again Saturday morning with 3 miles around Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Bleh. Better than Thursday, but the results certainly aren’t stellar. This is not encouraging. I withhold any decision for the next few hours hoping the expo will inspire a surge of enthusiasm. By the time I get to the Jacob Javits Center in midtown Manhattan to pick up my race bib, however, I am awash in weakness and malaise.
Once again, I can’t believe this is happening. I should be bouncing off the walls right now but all I want to do is curl up in a fetal position. How am I going to do this? Forget a BQ, now the question is finishing. Did I come up here for a completely miserable experience?
I stay at the expo for more than two hours, alternating between mindlessly browsing the booths and sitting on the floor against a wall, trying to rest and find some clarity. With thirty minutes left on my options, I walk over to the cancellation desk. I hand the volunteer my bib. She draws an “X” from corner to corner in permanent marker and tosses it in a box with the other defiled numbers. Man. I was going to frame that thing.
I walk out into the city obviously distraught, bummed out, and perplexed. But not completely irrational. By dropping out at the expo rather than trying to run the next morning, I secured a spot in New York next year. And I saved myself for another fall marathon to keep me in the game for Boston. An hour later in my friend’s apartment in Brooklyn, I pull out my laptop and sign up for Dallas.
Still in the city Wednesday morning, three days after the marathon, I finally get my crack at the last few miles of the course in Central Park. With 800 yards to go, I round the corner near Columbus Circle and race past the empty grandstand, which is being dismantled. I ask a worker where the finish line is.
“See that Verizon truck? Right there.”
I run over to the Verizon truck and stop in the middle of the road.
This is it. I'm throwing down.
"Yo, New York! This is Robert. From TEXAS. New York! I'm calling you out. You listening? Check your INBOX, New York! Cause I just sent you an E-VITE! I've got an appointment with you right here at this spot on Sunday, November 1, 2009, the date of next year's marathon. At 12:40pm."
"Exactly three hours after the First Wave Start at 9:40."
"November 1st, 2009, 12:40pm. Right here, dudes. And don't be late."
Pause
Man. That was pretty severe.
Long Pause
"Make it 12:45."
Now I skip to race week, counting down the final days before New York.
I swear I am not making this up.
---Tuesday, October 28th---
I’m at SPI Tuesday morning for a last-minute appointment with Dr. Spears. It’s not a nerve issue, calf issue, foot, leg, hip or any runner-related issue. No. It’s my elbow.
It is the size of a grapefruit.
Monday night was terrible. Sleepless, fever, chills, feeling of total crappiness. And I kept turning over onto my elbow, which, one more time for emphasis, is the size of a grapefruit.
It’s so disgusting it scares Dr. Spears’ assistant, Lisa, as she walks through the door.
“Whoa, that looks awful, we need to drain that. Lie down on the bed and extend your arm toward the floor.”
“I can’t straighten it out.”
“Well, just kind of let it hang there, as best you can.”
Two minutes after inserting the needle into my elbow and holding it in place, she pulls it out exasperated.
“That’s so weird, I couldn’t get any fluid out of it. Dr. Spears needs to see this.”
Doc walks in, widens his eyes a bit, and immediately asks me to raise both my arms.
“Yeah, look at that. He’s got a staph or strep infection and it’s septic. See this pink line shooting up the underside of his arm? I think it got in through the dried up skin on his elbow. Have you been around livestock or spent any time in a barn lately?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you work at a dog kennel?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“How about a hospital?”
"Does this place count? I spend more time here than some of your staff."
“There’s a concern about whether this the run-of-the-mill or drug resistant variety. We’ll put you on antibiotics and if it’s not the bad kind that should take care of it.”
“What about running?”
“I’d take it easy for 10 days.”
“But I’m running the New York Marathon in five days.”
Pause
“Oh. Well, I’ll put you on Ceftin, it’s pretty potent. And oral meds nowadays are just as fast as an injection. My advice would be to take it easy, go to New York, and see how you’re feeling on Saturday before deciding to run.”
“What are the odds I’ll be 100% by Sunday?”
“Honestly, I think it’s pretty slim. You’ve got a major systemic infection right now. The drugs should work, but five days to be back in marathon mode is a pretty quick turnaround for something like this.”
Wow.
I can’t believe this is happening. Is this like a dream or something? Am I being punked?
Two days on the antibiotics and I finally start to feel some effects. My elbow now looks more like a baseball. Thursday afternoon I test the waters with a 4 miler. A lumbering effort. Way more work than it should be. And it hits me hard an hour later. Wiped out and lethargic, I pack my bags for the Friday morning flight, gambling on a full recovery by Sunday.
My travel day goes fairly well and I’m starting to think I can pull it off. I try again Saturday morning with 3 miles around Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Bleh. Better than Thursday, but the results certainly aren’t stellar. This is not encouraging. I withhold any decision for the next few hours hoping the expo will inspire a surge of enthusiasm. By the time I get to the Jacob Javits Center in midtown Manhattan to pick up my race bib, however, I am awash in weakness and malaise.
Once again, I can’t believe this is happening. I should be bouncing off the walls right now but all I want to do is curl up in a fetal position. How am I going to do this? Forget a BQ, now the question is finishing. Did I come up here for a completely miserable experience?
I stay at the expo for more than two hours, alternating between mindlessly browsing the booths and sitting on the floor against a wall, trying to rest and find some clarity. With thirty minutes left on my options, I walk over to the cancellation desk. I hand the volunteer my bib. She draws an “X” from corner to corner in permanent marker and tosses it in a box with the other defiled numbers. Man. I was going to frame that thing.
I walk out into the city obviously distraught, bummed out, and perplexed. But not completely irrational. By dropping out at the expo rather than trying to run the next morning, I secured a spot in New York next year. And I saved myself for another fall marathon to keep me in the game for Boston. An hour later in my friend’s apartment in Brooklyn, I pull out my laptop and sign up for Dallas.
Still in the city Wednesday morning, three days after the marathon, I finally get my crack at the last few miles of the course in Central Park. With 800 yards to go, I round the corner near Columbus Circle and race past the empty grandstand, which is being dismantled. I ask a worker where the finish line is.
“See that Verizon truck? Right there.”
I run over to the Verizon truck and stop in the middle of the road.
This is it. I'm throwing down.
"Yo, New York! This is Robert. From TEXAS. New York! I'm calling you out. You listening? Check your INBOX, New York! Cause I just sent you an E-VITE! I've got an appointment with you right here at this spot on Sunday, November 1, 2009, the date of next year's marathon. At 12:40pm."
"Exactly three hours after the First Wave Start at 9:40."
"November 1st, 2009, 12:40pm. Right here, dudes. And don't be late."
Pause
Man. That was pretty severe.
Long Pause
"Make it 12:45."
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