Lame

It’s been an eventful few days around here. To start, I threw out my back last week. Aside from being extraordinarily uncomfortable and extremely inconvenient, this injury (likely caused by improper bending at the waist to pick up my chunky monkey of a son) brought into sharp relief the fact that I am, sadly, getting old. Back injuries?! Really? Aren’t those reserved for weight lifters and geriatrics?

After cabbing it to my doctor on Thursday to confirm that I did not, thankfully, slip a disk, I heeded the doctor’s advice to remain as active as possible, and shuffled home. Bent at an approximately 70 degree angle, it took me about 90 minutes to traverse 12 short New York City blocks, and I found myself impatient, tired, and incredulous at the fact that not a single person had stopped to ask me whether I was okay or needed help (though I was later reminded by Ryder’s nanny that, in NYC, such inquiries to total strangers are typically ill-advised). With about two blocks to go, I slipped inside a nail salon for an impromptu pedicure -- the only highlight in an otherwise painful and frustrating day.

I seem to be on the mend now, and was able to eek out a very slow three miles yesterday morning, and an equally slow four miles this morning. The humidity in New York seems to be abating, and this is the perfect running (shuffle?) weather. Unfortunately, on the same day that I injured my back, my poor Zdenek confirmed that he has suffered his second broken bone in both 2011 and his life. It seems that his quick dirt-biking jaunt with my seven year-old niece on our recent trip home did some serious damage when he was thrown to the pavement, and Zdenek must now contend with a fractured elbow for the next six weeks. On Thursday morning we sat together, relatively lame and unable to throw Ryder around in the style to which he’s now accustomed (in fact, I could barely pick the kid up until yesterday), and feeling like useless old horses waiting to be put out of their misery. And much to Zdenek’s chagrin, he can’t even fit his torn-up toes into his cycling shoes without experiencing severe pain. But at least he can run.

And so just as Zdenek and I are once again ready to feel the ground move beneath our feet, the ground actually did move beneath my feet today. Around 2 pm, high up in my 31st floor office, I experienced a “boom” and then a few, relatively big shakes of my office building. I was forced to evacuate via the stairs, every muscle in my lower back resonating on each step of the 31 flights that I had to descend.

It was later confirmed that an earthquake struck the East Coast today, and, to be honest, it was a pretty cool sensation. It was, however, something I’m in no hurry to experience again. Zdenek and I are getting old and lame. We need to be careful with every bend we make and every step we take. I don’t need any ground tremors complicating matters further.

Mobile

"Mobile" seems to be the word of the day around here. We can use it in many different ways:

* Last week was a great week to be MOBILE. I actually hit 40 miles, thanks to some awesome babysitting help from Baba.

* Sadly, Baba is no longer around. Earlier this week, we were MOBILE by flying back to NYC. To say that I was overwhelmed / nervous / petrified about finally being left entirely on my own with the babe would be an understatement.

* On Monday evening -- his birthday, no less -- Zdenek decided to run a Ryder-related errand at the hospital administration office. On the way there, he managed to step wrong and break two bones in his foot, landing himself a trip to the ER (good thing it was only down the hallway). My husband is now completely imMOBILE for the next six weeks. (Once again, though, Zdenek has proven himself to be a champ. Not one utterance of a complaint or whine has crossed his lips, despite the fact that he's been instructed to not walk more than 15 city blocks per day for the next month and a half. I don't know how he does it, but my husband has the most outstanding attitude of anyone I know.)

* Yesterday, leaving my imMOBILE husband at home with Ryder (which made me feel very badly), I ran 8 minute miles in the Park. Perhaps the higher altitude training + a few days off from running gave me an extra boost (because it definitely wasn't due to being well-rested!).

* I just managed to put Ryder down for a nap all by himself (i.e. no holding, rocking, shushing, etc.), and I think the magic touch was the bassinet MOBILE. As soon as I put it over his little head, he was mesmerized. And soon, asleep. Ah, small victories...

Not with a bang but a whimper

I laughed out loud this morning reading a NY Times article about cycling and running injuries. The author, who compares the mental and physical tolls of cycling and running injuries, describes her recent cycling accident (emphasis mine):

My crash came 8.9 miles into a 100-mile ride (of course I knew the distance, because of course I was watching my bicycle computer). My friend Jen Davis was taking a turn leading; my husband, Bill, was drafting — riding close behind her. I was drafting Bill when a slower rider meandered into his path. Bill swerved and I hit his wheel. Down I went.

The first thing I did when I hit the ground was turn off my stopwatch — I did not want accident time to count toward our riding time. Then I sat on a curb, dazed. My head had hit the road, but my helmet saved me. My left thigh was so bruised it was hard to walk. Worst of all was a searing pain in my left shoulder. I could hardly move my arm. But since it hurt whether I rode or not, I decided, like an idiot, to finish the ride.

The next day I went to a doctor and learned, to my shock, that my collarbone was broken. Running is my sport, I thought, and no ride is worth this.

It appears that the author and I share more than our love of biking and running. We also seem to share an obsession with times and logs, and, of course, a sometimes tragic inability to know when to call it a day.

My own story began last Sunday during my usual long weekend run. I have happily kept up 30-40 miles per week through this whole pregnancy, and my long runs have averaged 10-12 miles without any apparent consequences (other than a voracious appetite). Beginning around week 25 (for the uninitiated, a pregnancy is meant to be 40 weeks), I started to think of my running in terms of weekly goals: Just get to week 26. Okay, see if you can still be running at week 27. Wouldn’t it be amazing to run 10K at week 30?

So there I was, at 34 weeks and a few days, enjoying some beautiful weather and the company of my husband in Central Park. Only the week prior I had run over 11 miles in one shot and felt great, and I had already put in 17 miles over the course of the current week, with a full rest day on Saturday. Sunday’s run was sure to be a breeze.

And it was, until about mile seven, when I stopped for a drink of water. Suddenly, I felt a stiff pain creep through my pelvis and down the fronts of my legs. I tried to start running again, but it took some time to get the gears going. Once I was moving, though, the pain went away, and I was running carefree for a couple more miles. But then, at the next water break, I again was overtaken by a crippling stiffness, bordering on pain. I started moving again, ever so slowly. Within a few hundred feet, I was feeling fine, and vowed to not stop again for the rest of the run. (In fact, when Zdenek and I needed to fill up our water bottles, I asked him to run ahead and do so quickly so that I wouldn’t need to break my stride.)

Over 10 miles later, I returned home for a pancake breakfast and cup of coffee. Everything seemed okay, until I tried to get up from the table and found that I couldn't. Once I finally did manage to prop myself up, I could barely walk. I spent the rest of Sunday immobile on the recliner until we finally made it out for a 20 minute walk at 6 pm at a pace that would be too slow for most 90 year-olds with walkers.

For the next three days, I rested completely, waiting for the ability to bend over to put on my socks to gradually return. On Thanksgiving Thursday, feeling mostly better, I headed out for a very cautious two mile “run,” but found myself once again in the chair for the rest of the day (this time even worse off than Sunday). For the following three days, I returned to the gym that I haven’t set foot in since May and set myself up on the elliptical machine for 45-50 minutes at a time. I tried to convince myself that I can enjoy working out indoors (I can’t, but I can tolerate it when I have no other option).

Fast forward to today and I am finally feeling 95% heeled. I rolled out of bed in the darkness of the early morning and ran another slow two miles (this time with Zdenek, who is battling his own injuries these days!). I confirmed that I can still run, but it’s at such a slow pace that it hardly seems worth it. I am actually at the point where I can get a far better workout inside four walls, and running isn’t as fun as it should be. While I might still log some miles between now and "the end," I'm guessing they will be few and slow. I suppose I overdid it, and now I have to pay the price.

But I take solace in the same NY Times article, in which the author goes on to say:

With running, even though I realize that I and others who got injured could not have prevented our injuries, somehow I blamed myself. It was “overuse,” even though overuse is apparent only in retrospect, as you cast about for a reason why you got injured.

Yes, I could have taken it easier and perhaps gotten three or four more weeks of increasingly slow running in return. Maybe if I had stopped when the pain kicked in at seven miles last week, I’d still be running three or more today. But the past eight months have been some of the most enjoyable and rewarding running I’ve ever known. Running frequently and long has kept me sane and happy and given me a sense of control that I thought pregnancy would surely rob me of. I never imagined I’d be in this kind of shape heading into the final stretch, and I’m thankful for every 10 mile run that got me here.

I got injured because I love running and how it makes me feel. And that's okay by me.

My little piggies

In preparation for the NYC marathon this Sunday, the NY Times has been printing a range of running- and marathon-related articles over the past several months. I can relate to many of these articles: running in bad weather, nightmares on the night before the big day, fueling strategies, and, of course, injuries. Although I've never been sidelined by a serious injury, I've had my fair share of sore knees and quads. Perhaps the most annoying recurring injury I seem to suffer, though, afflicts my little piggies.

It all began after my inaugural long distance race, the Race Around the Bay, when I removed my shoes to find that several of my toenails had gorged up with blood blisters. Not really knowing what to do about these blisters, I opted to simply lance them to relieve the pressure. The blisters shrunk and my toenails remained attached. (Hurrah!) A few weeks later, the salesperson at my local running store advised me to go up one-half size in my running shoes to prevent toe jamming. I did, and have been wearing an 8.5 running shoe ever since.

Several months later, after my first marathon (the Toronto International), I was again stricken with Bruised and Bloody Toe Syndrome. Larger running shoes had provided some relief during regular training runs but, it seemed, failed to solve the problem on the much more vigorous and demanding race day. I conceded that my anatomical defects -- my second toe is longer than my big toe -- were always going to cause me problems in races. Because popping the blisters seemed to work so well before, I conducted a second round of bathroom surgery.

All went well for a day or two, but soon my toes were hot, red, swollen, and sore. I was convinced that I had badly bruised them. This being the start of the Toronto winter, wearing flip flops to and from work was not an option, and so I made an appointment with the doctor to have my piggies checked out. And thank goodness for that! My self-performed surgery had, in fact, given me a bad case of cellulitis, a bacterial skin infection that, if not properly treated, can actually kill a person. The doctor promptly prescribed antibiotics and a topical cream and sent me on my way.

Since that day more than five years ago, I have been afflicted with cellulitis two more times (and, in the process, discovered my allergy to penicillin). I have bruised my toes in almost every race. I've lost several toenails when all was said and run (including this most recent one). (This is saying nothing of my other toe afflictions, including plantar capsitus.) My toes destroy any chance I might have for a good finish line photo. My toenails are now a bit misshapen and bumpy. They don't grow quite right. They still ache after a long run. Unfortunately, I imagine they'll be like this for the rest of my life.

But things would have to get pretty bad (or my running habits pretty insane) before I'd consider the solution highlighted by the most recent NY Times article, which filled me with both intrigue and disgust: permanent removal of one's toenails (view the photo if you dare). This was printed in the "Fashion and Style" section of the paper, and I do admit to being a bit dull in the "style" department. It's possible that I'm missing something. But the thought of permanently removing my toenails makes me love them all the more for what they have endured. My little piggies -- in their entirety -- are here to stay.

I (heart) Tim

Recently I received a message from my very injured Canadian running coach, Kevin, describing the extent and impact of his running-related injuries. Here in New York, I have an American friend, Caitlin, who describes herself as a "running, swimming, biking, squash-playing, cooking, nature-loving, early-morning-rising" kind of girl. Caitlin has also recently suffered a string of terrible injuries. Only she can relay the series of events correctly, but I think it started with sciatica and ended with her in physio every other day for three hours at a time (I've been known to exaggerate, but this is no exaggeration), being treated for everything from a stress reaction in her foot to a bum hip. Because she's had to lay off the running (and even forgo a planned marathon this spring), cycling, and squash, her injuries have been the source of both physical and emotional distress. I can only imagine her frustration; the most serious injury I've suffered to-date is a swollen second toe -- apparently diagnosed as plantar capsilitus by my celebrity podiatrist (that is, a podiatrist to the celebrities of running), and which I will no doubt get to at some point in a future post -- and though I've had the occasional shin pain or sore knee or tight plantar fascia, I've never had to take a day off of running because of a running-related injury (which is quite amazing, all things considered).

Note: not my foot

It is therefore with much sympathy that I've been following Caitlin's injury rehabilitation. So when, a few days ago, I received an email from Kevin describing his litany of injuries and the associated sadness/pain/frustration/anger that goes with them, I thought Caitlin might like to know that she's not the only one out there who is suffering. I excerpted a part of his email to show to her, which included the following line: "I can't do ANYTHING without intense pain--inline skate, elliptical, cycle...even a 1 mile walk to Tim Hortons has me in tears (from the pain, but also from the hopelessness and powerlessness of not being able or allowed to even TRY at anything)." While Cailtin replied that she could most definitely relate to Kevin's pain and frustration, she added at the end, "I like that he walks a mile to eat donuts at Tim Horton's, hehe." But as any Canadian reader would have already understood, it's highly unlikely that Kevin was trying to walk a mile for donuts. Though I haven't confirmed this with him, I'm guessing that he was attempting the trek for the sake of Tim Hortons coffee.


Tim's is something of an institution in Canada. It's eponymous Canadian founder was a former NHL player for teams that included the Toronto Maple Leafs and the New York Rangers, but, for most Canadians today, Tim Horton's is synonymous with deliciously wonderful coffee. It has an earthy richness to it that goes down like a warm embrace in your belly, and, in my house, Tim's is all my husband and I drink. About two years ago, we began hauling it back with us to NYC every time we visited Canada, and we now try to buy a sufficient number of tins to hold us through to our next planned trip. (Canadian visitors to our humble abode are encouraged to bring a tin, too.) My family, who are also Tim's devotees, drinks several cups of the stuff each day. Last summer, on vacation with my parents in Ecuador, it was amusing to find my java-loving dad drinking only tea for two weeks: they don't have Tim's in South America.

While I normally enjoy my Tim's after my morning run and before heading to work, there have been an increasing number of studies over the last few months documenting the positive effect of caffeine on athletic performance. Apparently all one needs is about one mg of caffeine per one kg of body weight to see a beneficial effect on endurance and performance; five or six mgs/kg is probably okay, but nine mgs/kg can actually be detrimental. Since the average 12 oz cup of drip coffee contains about 200 mg of caffeine, that means I'm pretty much good to go with one cup of coffee before my run. So over the last few months, I have changed my Saturday morning long run routine to include rolling out of bed at 7 am to brew half a pot of Tim's (I don't have time to brew, drink, and let the "gastrointestinal effect" of coffee kick in before my weekday runs). Every 50-60 minutes during my long runs, I also typically ingest a chocolate-flavored Power Gel that contains 25 mg of caffeine (I recommend Power Gel, not GU, because the former has a 4:1 sodium:potassium ratio while the latter does not, and I've read that this is the optimal ratio for achieving optimal performance).

I can't say that the extra caffeine has had much, if any, positive effect on my performance, but I don't think it's harming it, either. I do remember a few long runs over the last few years, though, on which I was so tired that I thought I might be able to shut my eyes and doze off for a few minutes while still plodding along. I haven't felt that way this season, so maybe the caffeine actually is doing something. (This would make some sense, since I often run on Saturdays until 11:30 am, and by this time of the morning on any other day I would already have two cups of Joe -- excuse me, Tim's -- under my belt.) On the other hand, back when I was young and foolish and first started running routinely, I typically partied away my Friday nights and would roll out of bed hungover and on a few hours of sleep to begin Saturday morning's run. Over the last year, I've become a bit of an old fart, and I'm now pretty vigilant about 10:30 pm bedtimes on Fridays. So it may not be the caffeine at work, but rather the extra dose of prudence.

The jury is still out on whether my pre-run cup of Tim's is actually helping me to run faster, further, or stronger on Saturday mornings. It does, however, provide a good incentive to get out of bed on a weekend morning. And I imagine that, God forbid I should ever end up as injured as Caitlin or Kevin, walking to get a freshly brewed cup at the nearest store will provide a good form of cross-training -- especially if I have to walk all the way to Canada!

Painful reminders

One of the golden rules of marathon training (or, I imagine, training for any specific race or event) is to do all of your experimentation during your training program so that race day simply becomes a matter of executing what's already been tried and tested. This applies to fueling and hydrating yourself before and during the event, testing every last item of clothing that you think you may possibly need to wear on race day, knowing how many hours of sleep you need for optimal performance on the road, and properly estimating how much time and coffee you need to get ready and achieve optimal performance in the bathroom. A related rule states that you should probably refrain from trying any new activities or sports during the few crucial weeks before race day, lest you tear a muscle, break a leg, or otherwise injure yourself. Skiing is bad because you could really mess up your knee (I have a few too many coworkers who have suffered meniscus tears on the slopes for my liking), and cycling could land you with a broken wrist or severely torn elbow (been there, done that). As I learned this weekend, you should also refrain from trying any new dance moves during marathon training, because (a) you'll look like an idiot, and (b) it can really hurt your calves.

We just returned from a lovely Easter weekend north of the border where we mostly ate, drank, laughed, talked, and, as it happened, danced with my in-laws. It was a great weekend and we were blessed with superbly sunny skies for both Saturday and Sunday. On Friday I managed to lay pretty low and kept to a two drink maximum on the eve of our long run. Even a 20 minute walk on Friday seemed like a lot of work to me -- it's amusing that I can be so lazy when my schedule permits it! Saturday morning turned out to be a gloriously sunny day and, best of all, this was a recovery week that called for a simple 13 miles. It's pretty amazing how, after weeks of 18+ mile long runs (and every third one at race pace), an easy 13 miles truly feels like a walk in the park. Zdenek and I ran together, in equal measure against the wind and with the breeze at our backs, and the beautiful sunshine and fact that we were, technically, "on vacation," propelled us to a pace that was a good 20 seconds per mile faster than necessary. Finishing 13 miles together feeling refreshed and happy was a lovely treat!

Since the rest of the weekend was scheduled "rest time" (I jammed all of my runs and cross-training sessions into the week before), the end of that 13 miles was the green light to eat, drink, and be merry. After a relaxing day filled with delicious food and drink, Saturday night found us slightly tipsy and looking to make fools of ourselves. Well, we didn't set out to make fools of ourselves, but that's what ended up happening. As is usually the case at my in-laws' house, we migrated down to the basement bar shortly after dinner. There, my father-in-law proceeded to pump out some combination of Neil Diamond, Eddie Money, and Boney M, while a strobe light pulsated in the corner (I kid you not). And we danced. Or at least, jumped around and threw our hands in the air in some form of movement that approximated a mixture of polka and Sweatin' to the Oldies. And for some reason, I felt that the more air I got, the better I must have been "dancing", and so I pretty much jumped around the room until my arches hurt (a mild nag in my plantar fascia which I've been stretching and icing to keep at bay) and I decided that I needed another drink. It continued on like this for some time, until the drinking periods started to outlast the dancing ones.



Sunday morning found my calves permanently clenched into some sort of tight mass, a feeling I've never once experienced in training, no matter how many miles I log in one week. I winced getting out of bed, I thanked my lucky stars that I didn't have to run that day, and sometime at around 4 am this morning, the nagging tightness caused me to readjust my weekly schedule in a half-awake state. Rather than subjecting my legs to further torture with a scheduled 11 miler this morning, I made the decision to try to ease my damaged gastrocnemius muscles back into running with a five mile fartlek. (Tomorrow, 11 miles, whether I like it or not.) In fact, I only remember ever feeling this type of pain in my calves back when I first started running routinely, somewhere around 2001. Back then I believed that the more I bounced, the more gazelle-like -- and therefore graceful -- I must have appeared. I continued on this way for a couple of years until I realized that my sore calves and aching knees were probably due to all the unnecessary air time. There's a different cause for my tight calves this time around, but it's no less painful. In any case, it was a relatively safe reminder that it's best not to try anything new in the weeks before the race, and that, as captured in these photos, I still have a long way to go in the "grace" department.