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."
Sunday, October 26, 2008
New Attitude
---Friday, October 10th---
I tow my unmotivated, demoralized lug of self into the gym for yet another day of cardio-lameness. I’m starting to recognize the regulars. Sweatpants dude. Blonde lady with Texas flag running shorts. The 56-year-old in the Under Armour body suit. A guy who only goes backwards on the Arc Flex. Change it up, dude, change it up.
I pass a heavyset fellow I see a lot hunched over a Stairmaster.
“Here comes Mr. Mopeypants," he mutters under his breath.
I climb onto the only available stationary bike, enter all the useless information in the machine and start the plodding, my head down, already defeated.
La di da, this is lame, I think to myself. I’m so not into this.
Woe is me.
Bombarded by “The View” with the sound off on the tv in front of me, I have no choice but to retreat into my thoughts. I think about some of my recently injured fellow runners. Many of them had to stop their training, pull out, and hope for a spring marathon. A few are getting on a road bike, others are—I can’t believe I am even saying this—aqua jogging. It's so frustrating when injuries happen even though you’re in control and doing everything right. Recently a guy hobbled into a certain retail store where I work on occasion in a massive crazy looking cast up to his knee.
“What the heck happened?” I asked.
“Ruptured achilles playing soccer,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Wow, that must have hurt. What does it feel like when it ruptures?”
“Like you’ve been shot.”
“Oh. I see.”
“It’s crazy, you can’t stand up. You try, but you just fall forward on your face.”
“Yikes. How long will it be before you can play again?”
“I’ll have the cast on for 12 weeks and then I’ll start rehabilitation. At least six months.”
“Man that sucks.
“Yeah, it’s a bitch, but I’ll get over it.”
Pause
“Where are your wind chimes?”
That man is lacking a functional Achilles tendon. And here I pedal. With a calf strain. BOO HOO. Poor Robert. I have to ease up for two weeks. WAAAAH. Ooh, I think the pedaling might be hurting my calf, somebody call the wambulance.
I need an ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT.
I’m sick of this little pity party I’m throwing for myself. I’m turning this frown upside down. I am so darn lucky to have run as many marathons as I have without serious injury. I’m still headed for New York, I’ve just hit some bumps, that’s all.
I’m going to shoot for 22 tomorrow and if it works out, cool. If it doesn’t, I’ve still got three weeks to chill. And maybe it won’t be the marathon of my dreams, but it’ll be my 11th and it’ll be in New York. If I’m five minutes off my goal, I’m still a winner. Ten minutes . . . that goes in the win column too. Fifteen . . . okay, I will probably fall into a mild depression, but I’m confident therapy can pull me out of it. No, this is it: If I finish and my leg doesn’t fall off, that’s in its own way a victory.
I get so revved up about all this I increase the resistance level on my bike from “6” to “8.” After 40 minutes I bound off, and, high on my new attitude, try to lead the room in a round of “Nyo Ingwe.” There is a struggle, and people are getting it confused with the 1961 pop hit, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”
“No, the chorus is ‘Nyo Ingwe’ not ‘Wimoweh.’ That’s a completely different song, dudes.”
“ . . . in the jungle, the mighty jungle . . . “
“STOP! You are ruining the whole thing. That’s not the song!”
“ . . . Wimoweh, Wimoweh . . . “
“This is terrible. That is the wrong song. I’ve completely lost my patience with all of you. Enjoy ‘The View.’ I’m going to go work on my glutes.”
I race out of the room, passing the heavyset guy on the Stairmaster, who is standing up and crooning in falsetto, “ . . . the lion sleeps tonight . . . ."
I tow my unmotivated, demoralized lug of self into the gym for yet another day of cardio-lameness. I’m starting to recognize the regulars. Sweatpants dude. Blonde lady with Texas flag running shorts. The 56-year-old in the Under Armour body suit. A guy who only goes backwards on the Arc Flex. Change it up, dude, change it up.
I pass a heavyset fellow I see a lot hunched over a Stairmaster.
“Here comes Mr. Mopeypants," he mutters under his breath.
I climb onto the only available stationary bike, enter all the useless information in the machine and start the plodding, my head down, already defeated.
La di da, this is lame, I think to myself. I’m so not into this.
Woe is me.
Bombarded by “The View” with the sound off on the tv in front of me, I have no choice but to retreat into my thoughts. I think about some of my recently injured fellow runners. Many of them had to stop their training, pull out, and hope for a spring marathon. A few are getting on a road bike, others are—I can’t believe I am even saying this—aqua jogging. It's so frustrating when injuries happen even though you’re in control and doing everything right. Recently a guy hobbled into a certain retail store where I work on occasion in a massive crazy looking cast up to his knee.
“What the heck happened?” I asked.
“Ruptured achilles playing soccer,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Wow, that must have hurt. What does it feel like when it ruptures?”
“Like you’ve been shot.”
“Oh. I see.”
“It’s crazy, you can’t stand up. You try, but you just fall forward on your face.”
“Yikes. How long will it be before you can play again?”
“I’ll have the cast on for 12 weeks and then I’ll start rehabilitation. At least six months.”
“Man that sucks.
“Yeah, it’s a bitch, but I’ll get over it.”
Pause
“Where are your wind chimes?”
That man is lacking a functional Achilles tendon. And here I pedal. With a calf strain. BOO HOO. Poor Robert. I have to ease up for two weeks. WAAAAH. Ooh, I think the pedaling might be hurting my calf, somebody call the wambulance.
I need an ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT.
I’m sick of this little pity party I’m throwing for myself. I’m turning this frown upside down. I am so darn lucky to have run as many marathons as I have without serious injury. I’m still headed for New York, I’ve just hit some bumps, that’s all.
I’m going to shoot for 22 tomorrow and if it works out, cool. If it doesn’t, I’ve still got three weeks to chill. And maybe it won’t be the marathon of my dreams, but it’ll be my 11th and it’ll be in New York. If I’m five minutes off my goal, I’m still a winner. Ten minutes . . . that goes in the win column too. Fifteen . . . okay, I will probably fall into a mild depression, but I’m confident therapy can pull me out of it. No, this is it: If I finish and my leg doesn’t fall off, that’s in its own way a victory.
I get so revved up about all this I increase the resistance level on my bike from “6” to “8.” After 40 minutes I bound off, and, high on my new attitude, try to lead the room in a round of “Nyo Ingwe.” There is a struggle, and people are getting it confused with the 1961 pop hit, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”
“No, the chorus is ‘Nyo Ingwe’ not ‘Wimoweh.’ That’s a completely different song, dudes.”
“ . . . in the jungle, the mighty jungle . . . “
“STOP! You are ruining the whole thing. That’s not the song!”
“ . . . Wimoweh, Wimoweh . . . “
“This is terrible. That is the wrong song. I’ve completely lost my patience with all of you. Enjoy ‘The View.’ I’m going to go work on my glutes.”
I race out of the room, passing the heavyset guy on the Stairmaster, who is standing up and crooning in falsetto, “ . . . the lion sleeps tonight . . . ."
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Gazelle in Exile
---Wednesday, October 8th---
Things aren't going smoothly.
I’m way down in it and I’m struggling big time. Leg turnover is sloppy, my breathing overwrought. I’m clunky, cranky, I’m peering over the edge. Dig Deep! Gut it out! This is virtually intolerable. No sports gels, no water stops, this is crazy. I have found my limit. I’m in a dark place right now. Just keep it together. Stay in the game. I start counting down from 100. Get the pain out of your head. I really don’t know if I can make it. But I’m so close! Focus, Robert. Push on through. Crank. It. Out.
And then, finally, thank the gods, it ends. Finis. I don’t have to endure one more second. I look at my watch.
40 minutes.
I step off the elliptical trainer.
Oh my god. OH MY GOD. I can’t think of anything more unpleasant, more sanity-testing and more ridiculous than 40 minutes on a cardio machine. Bring on the 15-45-90 leg lifts! Mile Repeats! Wilke, I love you! But, by all that is good in this world, please spare me the cardio machine. Why so difficult? Because you are not moving. You are going through the motions, but you are not in motion. You are gunning the engine, yet you are in park. All of the work, none of the fun. Mt. Bonnell is replaced by a series of bars on the monitor that you stare at. Ooh, here comes the big bar, watch out! Oh no, will I make it over the big bar?! I don’t know! Rather than a view of the lake or trees or the back of a faster runner, you get a tv without sound that, in my gym, is usually turned to Rachael Ray or a show about the world’s toughest prisons. What? Earl spent 36 hours in “The Box” before overpowering his guard and starting a small gang fight? Why, that’s fantastic. I’m so glad there’s video of it.
I want to be free, to run like the wind! And yet my wings are clipped. My calf strain is the issue—relatively minor and fixable, but the timing is terrible. Over the last week and a half I have hobbled onto the trail three times with unacceptable results: 1 mile, 4 miles, 8 miles, each followed by a morale-sapping walk back to my Subaru. I missed the last 20 miler for the New Yorkers and I’m putting all my eggs in a successful solo attempt three weeks out. The folks at SPI, Pieter, Troy, Dr. Spears, Lori the physician’s assistant, Rebecca at the front desk, and the building’s janitor all implored me not to run until I was completely over the strain. Not only am I glum about losing my conditioning, but it’s like I’ve been quarantined, out of the Gazelles loop, unable to run with my buddies. I want Coach to throw a medicine ball at me. I miss that.
I walk over to the stationary bike and try to get in another twenty minutes of extreme annoyance. I start peddling and the lights on the monitor go on. Why does it want my age and weight?? Just start, let’s get this over with. That’s it, ENOUGH, I’m about to lose it! I jump off and kick the stupid hell device. Oww, MY CALF!!! That was retarded.
I find myself completely bereft of satisfying workout options. Sullen, self-pitying, I get back on the bike, but I just sit there watching Rachael Ray.
Pause.
Another pause.
Hey.
Those “hot-dog-a-bobs” look pretty good.
Things aren't going smoothly.
I’m way down in it and I’m struggling big time. Leg turnover is sloppy, my breathing overwrought. I’m clunky, cranky, I’m peering over the edge. Dig Deep! Gut it out! This is virtually intolerable. No sports gels, no water stops, this is crazy. I have found my limit. I’m in a dark place right now. Just keep it together. Stay in the game. I start counting down from 100. Get the pain out of your head. I really don’t know if I can make it. But I’m so close! Focus, Robert. Push on through. Crank. It. Out.
And then, finally, thank the gods, it ends. Finis. I don’t have to endure one more second. I look at my watch.
40 minutes.
I step off the elliptical trainer.
Oh my god. OH MY GOD. I can’t think of anything more unpleasant, more sanity-testing and more ridiculous than 40 minutes on a cardio machine. Bring on the 15-45-90 leg lifts! Mile Repeats! Wilke, I love you! But, by all that is good in this world, please spare me the cardio machine. Why so difficult? Because you are not moving. You are going through the motions, but you are not in motion. You are gunning the engine, yet you are in park. All of the work, none of the fun. Mt. Bonnell is replaced by a series of bars on the monitor that you stare at. Ooh, here comes the big bar, watch out! Oh no, will I make it over the big bar?! I don’t know! Rather than a view of the lake or trees or the back of a faster runner, you get a tv without sound that, in my gym, is usually turned to Rachael Ray or a show about the world’s toughest prisons. What? Earl spent 36 hours in “The Box” before overpowering his guard and starting a small gang fight? Why, that’s fantastic. I’m so glad there’s video of it.
I want to be free, to run like the wind! And yet my wings are clipped. My calf strain is the issue—relatively minor and fixable, but the timing is terrible. Over the last week and a half I have hobbled onto the trail three times with unacceptable results: 1 mile, 4 miles, 8 miles, each followed by a morale-sapping walk back to my Subaru. I missed the last 20 miler for the New Yorkers and I’m putting all my eggs in a successful solo attempt three weeks out. The folks at SPI, Pieter, Troy, Dr. Spears, Lori the physician’s assistant, Rebecca at the front desk, and the building’s janitor all implored me not to run until I was completely over the strain. Not only am I glum about losing my conditioning, but it’s like I’ve been quarantined, out of the Gazelles loop, unable to run with my buddies. I want Coach to throw a medicine ball at me. I miss that.
I walk over to the stationary bike and try to get in another twenty minutes of extreme annoyance. I start peddling and the lights on the monitor go on. Why does it want my age and weight?? Just start, let’s get this over with. That’s it, ENOUGH, I’m about to lose it! I jump off and kick the stupid hell device. Oww, MY CALF!!! That was retarded.
I find myself completely bereft of satisfying workout options. Sullen, self-pitying, I get back on the bike, but I just sit there watching Rachael Ray.
Pause.
Another pause.
Hey.
Those “hot-dog-a-bobs” look pretty good.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Counting Your Chickens
It seems inevitable that I will never catch up with these entries. Please bear with me as I continue my incredibly thorough documentation of the recent past.
---September 27th long run to Mt. Bonnell---
It’d been a couple months since my last Mt. Bonnell attempt. On the first one, I careened in one split second from gliding along 35th and chatting about Krispy Kreme donuts with Dan Hopper and Karen, to securing handholds on Mt. Bonnell Rd and pulling myself to the summit. Recalling the sight of me on his way down, Scott Miritt said he wanted to say hi, but it looked like I had other things to worry about. Indeed.
Yet today I'm riding high on three recent victories: My first pace run at 7:11, an easy-ish 20 miler nine seconds off MGP, and most recently a round of 800’s averaging 3:03. I am on track, NAY AHEAD of schedule. I’ve more or less put this cranky nerve pain to rest, and me out of my misery. I’m going into this run strong, confident and ready to throw some padding on my New York goal time.
I pull up to RunTex two minutes late. I have to, it’s part of the ritual and I don’t want to mess with it: Coffee, banana, oj, read the morning papers online, look at my watch, panic, scour the house frantically for the sports gels I bought that one time, forget to lube up, arrive late. All timed to perfection. I bolt out of the car while tying my key to my shoe and weave through the maze of runners crowding both directions of Townlake. Where in Austin are there more people awake and ambulatory at 5:45 on a Saturday morning? Dude, it’s all happening at LBL! I pass some familiar faces and by Lake Austin Blvd I’m in a rough and loose crowd with Ivi and Pat. Ivi talks about running 20 or 30 or something ridiculous while I stick to my guns and my 13.3. It’s all looking good as I take in the views cruising down Scenic.
This time I know what to expect on Mt. Bonnell— ungodly incline, little break, another ungodly incline. Accelerade at the end. Possible vomiting. I chug away up the first pitch, slowing but strong, lifting my legs, planting and toeing off like I mean it. The group spreads out, but I’m holding my own. We level off and my body thanks me for the break. I’m actually thinking twenty yards ahead this time and I prepare as the second wall approacheth. A few seconds later, I lean in and start lifting.
Ouch. Whoa, that hurt. What was that? My left calf doesn’t approve. I power on, churning upward, banishing the pain from my consciousness. Out, out, damn pain.
I top out and slog to the water stop with much more composure than before, reaching for a paper cone cup with authority. That’s right, I’m throwing down today. But, lo, who do I see floating, or better yet, skipping up the road to meet us? It would be the tall, lanky ones, they of the extremely long stride, Dan and Karen.
I follow their steps to the true summit and take in Lake Austin in all its development-choked majesty. Aah. Memories of my undergrad days. Except in college we’d be here with book bags full of Shiner and a cassette tape player, jamming to Jane’s Addiction. Oh my god we were so cool. Perry Farrell was speaking to us!
Dan suggests the long way down and we all follow, rockhopping back to the road. He shoots ahead on the asphalt and I try reeling him in. I find I’ve got the lungs for it and I catch him. A RARE MOMENT. But something’s wonky. In fact something’s been wonky for the last twenty minutes.
My calf pain’s not going away.
Karen and a few others catch up while Dan calls out a 6:50 mile. I am keeping up, but this pain is significant. It’s sharp and gets more defined with every footstrike. Like someone's grabbing my calf with both hands and wringing it out. I am favoring that leg considerably now. I stay with the group for another mile.
It continues to get worse. To soften the blow I try running on my toes. A BAD idea. At mile 10 I decide that it’s not worth it to push this and I let them go, slowing to about a 9:00 min/mi. After a few minutes with no improvement, I stop altogether.
I walk the remaining three miles back to RunTex. It takes about 50 minutes. I’ve missed stretching, so I head straight to the Annex. I down some Accelerade and pull a Clif Bar from one of the boxes inside.
I don’t even want to think about what this means right now.
I get in my car, go grab some tacos at Torchy's on South 1st, and drive home.
---September 27th long run to Mt. Bonnell---
It’d been a couple months since my last Mt. Bonnell attempt. On the first one, I careened in one split second from gliding along 35th and chatting about Krispy Kreme donuts with Dan Hopper and Karen, to securing handholds on Mt. Bonnell Rd and pulling myself to the summit. Recalling the sight of me on his way down, Scott Miritt said he wanted to say hi, but it looked like I had other things to worry about. Indeed.
Yet today I'm riding high on three recent victories: My first pace run at 7:11, an easy-ish 20 miler nine seconds off MGP, and most recently a round of 800’s averaging 3:03. I am on track, NAY AHEAD of schedule. I’ve more or less put this cranky nerve pain to rest, and me out of my misery. I’m going into this run strong, confident and ready to throw some padding on my New York goal time.
I pull up to RunTex two minutes late. I have to, it’s part of the ritual and I don’t want to mess with it: Coffee, banana, oj, read the morning papers online, look at my watch, panic, scour the house frantically for the sports gels I bought that one time, forget to lube up, arrive late. All timed to perfection. I bolt out of the car while tying my key to my shoe and weave through the maze of runners crowding both directions of Townlake. Where in Austin are there more people awake and ambulatory at 5:45 on a Saturday morning? Dude, it’s all happening at LBL! I pass some familiar faces and by Lake Austin Blvd I’m in a rough and loose crowd with Ivi and Pat. Ivi talks about running 20 or 30 or something ridiculous while I stick to my guns and my 13.3. It’s all looking good as I take in the views cruising down Scenic.
This time I know what to expect on Mt. Bonnell— ungodly incline, little break, another ungodly incline. Accelerade at the end. Possible vomiting. I chug away up the first pitch, slowing but strong, lifting my legs, planting and toeing off like I mean it. The group spreads out, but I’m holding my own. We level off and my body thanks me for the break. I’m actually thinking twenty yards ahead this time and I prepare as the second wall approacheth. A few seconds later, I lean in and start lifting.
Ouch. Whoa, that hurt. What was that? My left calf doesn’t approve. I power on, churning upward, banishing the pain from my consciousness. Out, out, damn pain.
I top out and slog to the water stop with much more composure than before, reaching for a paper cone cup with authority. That’s right, I’m throwing down today. But, lo, who do I see floating, or better yet, skipping up the road to meet us? It would be the tall, lanky ones, they of the extremely long stride, Dan and Karen.
I follow their steps to the true summit and take in Lake Austin in all its development-choked majesty. Aah. Memories of my undergrad days. Except in college we’d be here with book bags full of Shiner and a cassette tape player, jamming to Jane’s Addiction. Oh my god we were so cool. Perry Farrell was speaking to us!
Dan suggests the long way down and we all follow, rockhopping back to the road. He shoots ahead on the asphalt and I try reeling him in. I find I’ve got the lungs for it and I catch him. A RARE MOMENT. But something’s wonky. In fact something’s been wonky for the last twenty minutes.
My calf pain’s not going away.
Karen and a few others catch up while Dan calls out a 6:50 mile. I am keeping up, but this pain is significant. It’s sharp and gets more defined with every footstrike. Like someone's grabbing my calf with both hands and wringing it out. I am favoring that leg considerably now. I stay with the group for another mile.
It continues to get worse. To soften the blow I try running on my toes. A BAD idea. At mile 10 I decide that it’s not worth it to push this and I let them go, slowing to about a 9:00 min/mi. After a few minutes with no improvement, I stop altogether.
I walk the remaining three miles back to RunTex. It takes about 50 minutes. I’ve missed stretching, so I head straight to the Annex. I down some Accelerade and pull a Clif Bar from one of the boxes inside.
I don’t even want to think about what this means right now.
I get in my car, go grab some tacos at Torchy's on South 1st, and drive home.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Failure to Communicate
Monday morning I walk into the office I share with Lindsey and Allison, a bit of a half-spring, half-limp in my step.
“Good morning, ladies.”
(Overlapping)
“Morning.”
“Morning, Robert.”
I place my travel mug on my desk, pull my Polar Bottle® out of my bag and settle it next to the mug, and in conspicuous fashion nonchalantly slide an energy bar over to the keyboard. I stand and survey the office, reflecting on the day ahead. Feels good.
Lindsey pulls her eyes up from the monitor and stares at me for a second.
“Wow. Pleats.”
“Yep. Thought I’d move my wardrobe into 2008, know what I mean?”
Lindsey and Allison share a look. Lindsey slaps the palm of her hand on her forehead. Allison laughs.
Yeah. Clearly they are impressed.
I settle in, turn on my computer, enter my password.
Waiting for it to boot up, I clasp my hands behind my neck and kick back.
Sigh.
“7:33. Yep. 20 at 7:33. Those are my numbers.”
Lindsey looks up, confused.
“Are you having password trouble?”
“Nope. That’s what I did this weekend. 20 miles at 7:33.”
“You drove 20 miles?”
“No, Lindsey, I ran 20 miles.”
Pause.
“Well, I guess what follows is the obvious question. Why?”
“Why? Why?! How do I even begin to answer that? “
Pause.
Lindsey does not take this as rhetorical and waits for an answer.
“Because, Lindsey, it’s . . . . it’s just awesome, that’s why. “ Flustered, “I . . . I can’t explain it. “
“I see. What’s the big deal about 7:33? Why run at 7:33 in the morning?”
“Oh my god. Lindsey that was my pace. My pace. And the reason why that rocked was that it was a mere nine seconds off my MGP.”
“Uh . . . . MGP?”
Oh my god. I feel so alone.
“Allison, can you help me out here?”
“Don’t ask me, I do Pilates.”
Totally frustrated, I retreat into the computer screen.
Lindsey tries a different tack. “No really. I think that’s a great accomplishment. Just chill, okay? Work with me here. It sounds incredibly difficult.”
I loosen up a bit. “Yeah, it was hard, but I was in control. I didn’t have my GPS, so I didn’t know where the miles were, but I think I had a negative split.”
“Oh, man, sorry.”
“No, negative split is good.”
“Oh.”
Pause.
"And at mile 18 I dropped the bomb."
"That's disgusting. Thanks for sharing."
"It's running terminology, Lindsey."
"Whatever you say."
Pause.
“Are you, uh, sore at all?”
“You know, I don’t feel that bad. Left leg is bothering me a little. Lingering nerve thing I have. And I got some major chafing. I was so worried about getting out the door on time I forgot to lube up.”
Lindsey, startled, with a bit of panic in her voice, “Uh . . . you . . . ‘lube up!?’”
“That’s it, this is pointless. It’s like we’re on different planets, Lindsey! I’m going to go talk to Todd. He’s in Rogue. He’s one of us!”
“Good morning, ladies.”
(Overlapping)
“Morning.”
“Morning, Robert.”
I place my travel mug on my desk, pull my Polar Bottle® out of my bag and settle it next to the mug, and in conspicuous fashion nonchalantly slide an energy bar over to the keyboard. I stand and survey the office, reflecting on the day ahead. Feels good.
Lindsey pulls her eyes up from the monitor and stares at me for a second.
“Wow. Pleats.”
“Yep. Thought I’d move my wardrobe into 2008, know what I mean?”
Lindsey and Allison share a look. Lindsey slaps the palm of her hand on her forehead. Allison laughs.
Yeah. Clearly they are impressed.
I settle in, turn on my computer, enter my password.
Waiting for it to boot up, I clasp my hands behind my neck and kick back.
Sigh.
“7:33. Yep. 20 at 7:33. Those are my numbers.”
Lindsey looks up, confused.
“Are you having password trouble?”
“Nope. That’s what I did this weekend. 20 miles at 7:33.”
“You drove 20 miles?”
“No, Lindsey, I ran 20 miles.”
Pause.
“Well, I guess what follows is the obvious question. Why?”
“Why? Why?! How do I even begin to answer that? “
Pause.
Lindsey does not take this as rhetorical and waits for an answer.
“Because, Lindsey, it’s . . . . it’s just awesome, that’s why. “ Flustered, “I . . . I can’t explain it. “
“I see. What’s the big deal about 7:33? Why run at 7:33 in the morning?”
“Oh my god. Lindsey that was my pace. My pace. And the reason why that rocked was that it was a mere nine seconds off my MGP.”
“Uh . . . . MGP?”
Oh my god. I feel so alone.
“Allison, can you help me out here?”
“Don’t ask me, I do Pilates.”
Totally frustrated, I retreat into the computer screen.
Lindsey tries a different tack. “No really. I think that’s a great accomplishment. Just chill, okay? Work with me here. It sounds incredibly difficult.”
I loosen up a bit. “Yeah, it was hard, but I was in control. I didn’t have my GPS, so I didn’t know where the miles were, but I think I had a negative split.”
“Oh, man, sorry.”
“No, negative split is good.”
“Oh.”
Pause.
"And at mile 18 I dropped the bomb."
"That's disgusting. Thanks for sharing."
"It's running terminology, Lindsey."
"Whatever you say."
Pause.
“Are you, uh, sore at all?”
“You know, I don’t feel that bad. Left leg is bothering me a little. Lingering nerve thing I have. And I got some major chafing. I was so worried about getting out the door on time I forgot to lube up.”
Lindsey, startled, with a bit of panic in her voice, “Uh . . . you . . . ‘lube up!?’”
“That’s it, this is pointless. It’s like we’re on different planets, Lindsey! I’m going to go talk to Todd. He’s in Rogue. He’s one of us!”
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