#482: Limp, Walk, Run... and Fly Just a Little

RICE: Rest, Ice, Compress, Elevate

The thing that's most aggravating is that I've made this mistake before. Last year, while training the Flying Pig Marathon, I got it into my head that I was so much stronger than I had been the year previous, I no longer needed the Run, Walk, Run method helped me to finish my first marathon in Pittsburgh. A few weeks into my training, I started feeling aches and pains I wasn't used to. I immediately resumed the old intervals, and the pains went away. Well this year, when I started my 2014 reboot, I made the same stupid decision. I was going to train to run a PR in next year's Horse Capital Marathon. I had 15 months to get there, and I was going to run the whole way. So far, my longest training run has been only 4 miles, but my left knee finally let me know just how much that ambition could cost me.

It's ironic that a bone-headed macho stunt would bring me down. I'm about the least macho man you'll ever meet. A beautiful wife and mother who is a dear friend once complained about my driving saying, "You know, you're about 50% woman." Another recently told me tenderly, "I think you are much sweeter than I am." So parading manly prowess has never been my strong suit. On the other hand, ego has been my stumbling block, and my most unattractive personality trait since I was a fourth grader, singing in the youth choir in church. And it was pure ego that made me think I should be running at the same level as people a third my age, or with five times my experience. It's finally sinking in... the back of the pack is where I belong.

I knew that. And I really thought I was OK with it. But something made me want more this time. And the result was a big, frosty serving of RICE. That's the acronym for runners who get stupid. It stands for

• Rest
• Ice
• Compressing
• Elevation

It's the go-to treatment for muscle injury and inflammation. And in my case, it has kept me from training seriously for two weeks.

Ironically, the first time I noticed anything peculiar, I was in the pool, the last place in the world you would expect to have knee trouble. I was climbing out of the water on the ladder when I felt a little click, like a rubber band snapping back into place. Now, I have taken pretty strenuous water fitness classes, but mine is not one of them. We do some strength exercises, about 15 minutes of cardio, a 10 minute free-swim, then about 20 minutes of core, cool down, and flexibility training. Nobody ever comes out of there feeling like they've had their butt kicked. It's just not that kind of class. So I did what every idiot does when his body gives him a warning sign. I ignored it.

My long run that weekend was 4 miles, and it felt, well, OK. The knee complained a little, but didn't really pain me. I took some Tylenol when I got home, and didn't think about it again. I noticed it was making crackling noises when I stood up and was a little stiff if I sat in a chair for a long time to write, but again... I ignored it. Until that Monday, running with the kids at the Y.

First mistake: I skipped my recovery day. I don't remember why, but I did my weekend run on Sunday instead of Saturday. Maybe the weather. Maybe a long night on Friday. Whatever the reason, I wound up running two days in a row, breaking one of my cardinal training rules. I never run on back to back days. I just don't. And I wasn't ten steps into the run that evening when I realized I was not ready for two miles with the kids.

Three times a week, I am on the trail with a group of kids, 9-13 year olds, in a program at the Y called Run This Town. We started in late March, and will finish the spring with a 10K race in May. It's a great program that involves running, good conversation, and mentoring for a diverse bunch of kids. Some of them are highly motivated. some have learning disabilities. One or two run like they're being punished. And right around the one mile turn, I found myself right beside one of the most profoundly unmotivated boys in the group.

He's a fast kid. Plays sports at school. Loads of potential. Zero desire. His mom has been dragging him out for a couple years. And he runs, walks, or just dawdles along like he hates every minute on the trail. For some reason, at the half-way point on this day, he decided he was going to run. And I decided I would run with him. I slipped just ahead of him. My thinking was that being passed by a fat old man might tweak his pride enough to keep him going, and for a change it worked. I could hear his footsteps behind me the whole way. Every time he got closer, I would pick up my tempo a little. I knew that if I stopped to walk, he would stop and not run again. I also knew, from my long run the day before, that I could finish this mile at a good clip. No problem. And that's just what happened. I ran my fastest two miles so far this year. He cruised in right behind me. Still much slower than he could have run, but at least he kept running. I felt like I had really achieved something with him. Then I felt that little click again. And this time, it would not be ignored.

I stretched with the kids, then limped to the car. Climbed in with pain that told me something was really wrong. When I got home, the climb to my second floor apartment looked like a scene in a nursing home. I dug the blue ice packs out of the freezer, found a couple of elastic bandages in a box in the closet, wrapped up, and laid down on the couch to watch the Wildcats lose to the Huskies in the NCAA finals. A little RICE, a little wine, a little Tylenol. Everything would be fine.

The knee was still stiff in the morning, but the pool loosened it up. It ached a bit after I taught SilverSneakers CardioCircuits, but felt better than the night before. Back home. Put it up. Don't worry about it. Ran two with the kids the next night. Slow. Put in a couple of walk breaks. Classes again Thursday. Skipped my leg workout in the gym on Friday. Three with the kids on Saturday. I finally smartened up, and brought my interval timer. Would have been really smart to have had it with me right from my first run of the year. My time was better with the intervals, but the knee was really sore after. This week, I made it until Wednesday, but I just had to take the night off. There was no more denying it. I was injured. The result of overuse of the legs, and under use of the brain.

I wore a brace for class the next day. Kept the leg up. Iced it frequently.It's been feeling a little better each day, but this morning, when I stood up out of the bed, it immediately made that little popping sound that told me everything was still not all right.

Four miles to run with the kids this morning. I suppose it would have been really sensible to take another day off. But skipping the long runs, especially a month from race day, can really set your training back. And I didn't want to disappoint the kids. To be honest, I'm probably overestimating how much the kids would miss me. But, I would really miss them. So I showered, pulled on the big black brace, slipped into my lucky racing shoes, and headed for the car with a pronounced 'hitch in my gittyup."

We had a good sized group of kids today. Eight of them had managed to get out of bed in time for our 8:00 run. 48°. Gorgeous blue Kentucky skies. Just a light breeze. Perfect running weather. Three adults and Scooby the Labradoodle rounded out the team. I assigned the other two mentors to groups by speed... one for the burners, and one for the middle of the pack gang. I would be running 30 seconds and walking 30 seconds, bringing up the rear. Off we went.

The weather was fantastic. Just enough people on the trail to feel like a community, without us having to duck and dodge other, faster runners and cyclists. I started out at a pathetic, halting jog, and wondered how in the world I was going to be able to keep this up the whole way. Maybe I'd bail at the one mile point. The first walk break was heavenly, and much too short. Up ahead, the middle of the pack were pulling away quickly, leaving me and three stragglers in their wake. By the crest of the first hill, I started to close in on the straggling group, and at a half mile I caught them. Two girls and a Mom. I was surprised to see Speedy. She's the youngest, but one of the stronger runners. She had stayed back with M who was having a rough day, and Mom had kept back with the two of them, not wanting to leave them behind. Once I caught up, Mom and Speedy felt better about setting a quicker pace, and M and I brought up the rear.

M is a smart kid. Scary smart. She's voracious reader, loves the books about Percy Jackson, who is much cooler than (blech) Harry Potter. She has a terrific vocabulary and a wise-ass attitude that probably gets her into trouble now and then. She usually walks more than runs, and it's hard to tell if she's having a rough time or just being stubborn. She's a pretty willful kid. I asked if she'd like to run my intervals with me, and she shook her head. Her stomach hurt today. She had oatmeal for breakfast, and put milk on it, which she was sure was a mistake. I decided not to tell her that that was exactly what I had eaten for breakfast. We poked along for a couple of tenths of a mile, then I had an idea.

"What if we walk fast for 30 seconds, then slow for 30?"

"I love to walk fast," she perked up. "Let's do it." So, off we went. The funny thing was, that second mile was only about half a minute slower than I had been going with my run walk run intervals. After we made the turn, we did both of the final miles faster then I had started. And my knee felt surprisingly good. When we started the final quarter mile, we agreed to turn off the timer, and just walk fast the rest of the way. And then something kind of unforgettable happened.

I was a little worried about two things. First, that parents would have taken the faster kids home already, and second, that the tangerines I had brought for a post-run snack would all be gone. As we rounded the turn, and the pavillion at the Y where we assemble came into sight, we saw a crowd of brightly dressed runners heading our way, led by a small, black dog. Scooby and the gang were running our way. All of them. They were hooting, clapping, and waving.

"What are they doing?" M asked.

"They're cheering you home," I answered, proud enough to bust. "We're a team."

Kids can be pretty mean. That's what they tell me, anyway. But these kids shouted M's name, gave her high fives, danced and jogged around her, and wouldn't you know it, the whole bunch of them, including my pokey partner sprinted the last 50 yards, leaving me laughing and limping to the finish.

When we got to the picnic table where the sign-out sheet was, there were two tangerines waiting for us.

Yeah, my knee could feel better. And yeah, I may wind up walking that 10K in May instead of running it. But right now, typing by my window with the sun beaming in and my leg wrapped in ice... I sure am happy that I didn't take the morning off. Somebody asked me a couple weeks ago, "So why do you do this program? What's the point?" Well that's the point. Seven kids, running up a hill, congratulating their friend because she didn't give up. Making sure she wouldn't have to finish alone or go without a drink of water and a piece of fruit after a rough workout. Nobody coached them to do that. That's just who they are.

They're my kids.

And they're pretty damn cool.

After stretches, we circle up in the pavillion. One of them crouches in the center, while the rest reach in and join hands for our closing cheer. It's one of the highlights of my week.

"Shoes on the ground... Run This Town!"

Peace,
Pennsy

#391: Walk Before You Run Before You Walk, etc.

Living Strong at the Y
I launched a fundraiser yesterday, to coincide with my preparations for the Pittsburgh Marathon in May. I hope to raise $11,000 for LIVESTRONG at the YMCA. It's a program that helps cancer patients, survivors, and fighters like me to take control of our lives and wellness through exercise, nutrition, and education. This program has meant so much to me over the past year, and I want to help make sure it is available for many more cancer fighters after me. I'll be bombarding everybody who will listen with pleas for money over the next two months, so keep an open mind... and an open check book!

Training Week
It's been a pretty good training week, now that the great Groin Fest is over. I took a couple days off,. and the rest did me good. Not many miles, but I felt very strong and faster than I have been in a while. Looking for some Long Slow Miles this weekend when I hit the Run the Bluegrass course with the Striders. My cross-training included a great Zumba class on Sunday before work, and some quality laps in the pool. My stroke is getting stronger, but my endurance still leaves a lot to be desired. I'm doing my workouts 50m at a time, which is fine until the 9 year-olds come in and start swimming 500's.

In Praise of Walk Breaks
I have two friends at the YMCA who are training for upcoming races, one is a 3K, and one a half-marathon. At one time or another they have both expressed anxiety and frustration to me because they still can't "run the whole way." They really don't want to have to stop running and walk. And I have to ask myself, "Why?" Here's my tale of two Fat Men Running.

Before I bought into the Jeff Galloway Run/Walk/Run schtick, I logged fewer miles, I ran them more slowly, and they hurt more. The idea of completing a 10K was beyond my imagination. I didn't have many serious injuries, but I was sore a lot. I still took walk breaks... I just waited until I was too tired to run before I would take them. I didn't walk to recover, I walked to surrender.

Today, before I start a run, I set my watch to beep out the intervals I want to run/walk. If I feel like superman, I might take a break every 10 minutes. Once, when I felt especially bad, I set it to go off every 30 seconds. And I have to tell you, both felt like really good runs. When I know I'm going to be running for 3 or 4 hours, that first break after 4 minutes can seem a little goofy, but I know I'm saving gas for the end of the workout when the minutes are longer and the hills steeper. I'm not afraid to press my pace a little, because I know there's a walk break coming in just a few seconds. I can maintain good form after several miles, so I don't get as sore and tired in my upper body as I used to.

The bottom line for me is, I can run as often as I want to run, and I can enjoy every single step. I'm not going to be an elite runner. I will probably never win my age group, no matter how old I get. But I will be able to keep running and feeling great about it. I don't mind taking walk breaks at 51, if it means I can still be running when I'm 91, and that's my plan.

The secret to exercise success is finding something you love to do. Until you do that, you won't feel drawn to a workout, you'll have to push yourself toward it. But once you find that thing that makes you want to pack the bag, pull on the fins, or lace up the shoes and go, then by all means find a way to do it that doesn't turn your love into an obligation. I would never run if it were a chore. No sane person would do something that hurt every time they did it.

Take it from someone who lives at the back of the pack. The scenery is still beautiful, the cheers at the finish line are still sweet, and that medal still  feels great around your neck, even if you don't have to crawl to the stand to receive it.

Peace,
Pennsy

#387: Long, Slow, Chilly Run

As my marathon training turns serious, I want to make blogging a more consistent part of the process, so here's today's run report...

52° - 43°, 15.8 mi/3:41:09 @ 3:09 PM. Arboretum. Red Pegasus. 1:00 run/1:00 walk for 8 miles, then 1:30 run/1:00 walk. Splits 13:41, 13:21, 13:47, 13:22, 14:02, 13:23, 12:56, 13:17, 13:17, 13:02, 14:35, 14:08, 14:51, 14:53, 15:04. Lost my key. M saved me.

All of which means I had a really beautiful, sometimes puzzling, and ultimately weird run today.


And in case you're wondering, the answer is yes, 3:00 in the afternoon is a really stupid time to start a long run in the middle of winter. I slept in this morning, and had a serious dearth of gumption so I put it off for way too long. Then, when I saw that the temperature was 52°, I just couldn't stay inside.


I intended to make this a very long run. I had fantasies of 20 miles dancing in my head, but given my speed and the lateness of the hour, I would have been running until bedtime. My most recent long run was 11 decent miles followed by 3 miserable ones, followed by 2 miles of wishing someone would put a bullet in my head. I decided to just try and improve on that and see how far my legs would carry me.


I chose the Arboretum because a) it's a trail in a park, so there's no traffic to deal with, and b) I had nearly collapsed on my last long run, and the Arboretum trail is a circle, so you're never more than a quarter mile from the car if things turn weird. Which they did.


I used a very conservative Run/Walk interval: 1:00/1:00 for the first eight miles, then 1:30/1:00 for the last 8. This worked really well for me. The short run interval at the beginning forced me to hold back on the early miles. Now that I get a good look at my splits, I'm thinking that stretching out the run to 1:30 might have been a mistake. I certainly started slowing down at 10 miles, which will be a problem in Pittsburgh, where the toughest part of the course is around mile 11. I need to be training so I'm very strong at 10 miles, not starting to fade. My plan is to have no more long runs any shorter than 11 miles. I'll need both conditioning and pacing to climb that hill on May 6.


At mile 11, I felt great. At mile 12, my calves started hurting a little but had recovered well after the minute walk breaks. I was running happy after mile 13, knowing that I had completed the half marathon distance without misery. By mile 14, I could tell I was slowing, but I still felt strong. I knew I could go on for a few more miles. I said out loud, "I feel good. I'm going for 17." I got to 15 in good form, feeling prettier than I probably was. 


Then, at around 15.2 miles, my phone rang. It was Mrs P's ring, and I noticed it was really getting dark out, so I knew she was calling to check up on me. I assured her that I was feeling great, going for a new personal record for distance, and would be home soon. Yes, it was dark. No there were no lights on the path. No, I wasn't wearing my little flashing lights. I was fine. Don't worry. Love you. Buh-bye. And as I closed my phone and slipped it back into my pocket, I realized that my car key was gone.


So here's where I am. It's dark. The temperature has dropped almost 10 degrees since I set off in shorts and a long sleeved tech shirt. I own only one key to my car. We lost the duplicate years ago and added replacing it to that long list of things we ought to take care of some day. It's Saturday night. It's a three-day weekend. And I'm wandering back and forth on the path looking for a single key, in the dark, using my cell phone as a flashlight. #fail. 


I called Mrs P for help. She brought me warm, dry clothes and a flash light. We hiked the .25 miles to where my phone rang, and found the key easily. Then we walked back to the parking lot holding hands in the cold Kentucky night. It was much more romantic than you might imagine under the circumstances.


Which made me kind of glad that I dropped my key. Even if I didn't run 20 miles today.


Peace,
Pennsy

#384: From the Rubber to the Road - Leaving the Treadmill

A friend writes:

Hey, Pennsy. If you get a minute, could you reflect on your transition from the tredmill to hitting the open road? How far were you enduring inside before you went out? Is one easier for you than the other?

It's taken me a while to remember those first steps without the "training wheels." As always, I'm telling the story I recall, not necessarily the one that actually happened. Your mileage may vary.


In my younger days, I always tried running outside, on the streets or on an available track like the big cinder oval at my high school. I can't say for certain why the habit never "took" for me back then, but it never did. For one thing, I never had the right clothes. I would wear basketball shoes and my feet would blister. Or I would wear sweat pants and my thighs would chafe. Like any rational person, I didn't like doing something that hurt me. I was probably feeling self-conscious, too. A Fat Man Jogging is always a potential target for the judgement and taunts of strangers. I was still young enough for those things to bother me, I guess. Sooner or later, my excuses always out weighed my good intentions.


Back in December of 2007, I developed a painful, hot spot on the inside of my leg, just above the knee. Mrs P was concerned, so I called the nurse hotline and the lady told me to get to the emergency room NOW! Turned out I had cellulitis, but given my 400+ lbs and sedentary lifestyle, it could have been a blood clot. The experience spooked me, and we decided to jump on a New Years special at a local gym. It was a great decision. They got me lifting weights again, and taught me how to use the cardio machines: bike, elliptical, stairmaster, and treadmill. 


I walked for a long time on the mill, always trying to go a few minutes longer, a little bit faster. Now and then, I would try to trot, but neither my wind or my knees were ready for the challenge. One night, while Mrs P was in her spinning class, I started jogging and was able to keep it up for a minute. I never changed the speed on the belt. It was probably about 4 mph. I walked till I felt ok, then started jogging again, knocking off portions of 15 minute miles. I was gasping for air and sweating rivers, but for some reason, my feet kept going. I closed my eyes, and felt myself running for the first time in years. When I opened them, Mrs P was standing there in front of the treadmill, weeping and proud. 


After that, I jogged the same way I had walked: patiently adding time and speed. Not much speed. I could run at 4.5 mph max, but I was running, and I was happy.


Sometime in early Spring, I noticed a poster on the gym bulletin board advertising a 5K race to support a local shelter for women in recovery. I liked the idea of running for a cause that mattered to me, and Mrs P and I talked about whether or not I was ready to take on the challenge. I had never run that far, and I had not run outside yet. She encouraged me, and I sent in my registration. 


I took my first steps outdoors early in the morning, running the sidewalks around our neighborhood. Jogging before sunrise gave me a little anonymity, and the only other runners I encountered were always friendly and encouraging. I ran too fast and too far. I still hadn't discovered the magic of walk breaks. My knees and ankles ached. I went back to the treadmill till I felt better, then tried again. Went a little farther, this time. I know now what a dangerous approach this was: running till you get hurt, then waiting till you get better. Knowing that the race was out there, (and that I had paid to run in it,) kept me motivated to keep going. Eventually, I could run 3 miles on the mill, and three days before the race, I decided I should go out to Coldstream Park and run the course. It was cold and rainy. The hills were much harder than I expected. An old man passed me twice while I   navigated the 1.5 mile circle. I felt pretty good.


The day of the race, I started too fast. Around the 2.5 mile mark, I felt a sharp pain in both Achilles tendons. I had strained both of them and would be limping for weeks. I thought they were just cramping, so I stopped to stretch (bad plan) then continued jogging along. I saw the 3 mile marker (the one in my profile picture) and knew the finish line was just around the bend. Running as fast as my fat, crippled legs would carry me, I reached the chute, high-fived the supporters lining the path, and handed in my bib stub to record my finish order. Mrs P was weeping again, of course. 


It was the greatest feeling.


The pain went away, eventually, but the pride in my accomplishment never did. I will never be a speedy runner, but I will always love running, I think. I'm hooked. I like the treadmill because it offers simplicity. I can set the speed and incline, put in my headphones, close my eyes, and go. I have also come to love the road. A lot of that has to do with living in the Bluegrass. I can leave my driveway and be running beside horse pastures in about 15 minutes. You have to be more alert on the road. I never wear my iPod there, but the music of the morning more than makes up for it. 


So back to the question... I guess I just stayed on the treadmill until my body told me it was time to leave. Having an event to prepare for helped. Seeing myself get stronger helped. At some point, I found the courage to try something new, just like joining the gym had been new. I could have been smarter about the way I made the transition, and after my cancer, I used Run/Walk/Run to train more safely, but I liked the feeling of running outside.  I like them both. The treadmill is easier, but road running can be heavenly. 

Trust your spirit. You'll know when it's time. One step at a time.

Peace,

Pennsy