Still not running, which is no fun.
Yesterday I had my first-ever acupuncture treatment. It was interesting. I’ve typically put myself in the hands of sports med doctors, but in general I find that they lack imagination and the treatment is always the same:
1. Stop running.
2. Go to physical therapy twice per week for two months.
3. In PT, they stretch, massage, and apply ultrasound to the injured muscle. It won’t work.
4. After two months, we'll give you a shot of cortisone and you’ll be fine.
5. However, we won’t ever discover any underlying issues and you’ll be injured again soon.
6. Go to Step 1, repeat.
As far as acupuncture, well, at least it’s not going to make it worse, right? And perhaps it will work. I think, after all, that the problem is a gluteus muscle in spasm, which is irritating the sciatic nerve and causing me to favor it, which in turn messes up all kinds of supporting muscles.
Nothing else has worked so far, including:
· Complete and utter denial, pretending that nothing is wrong
· Stretching
· Not stretching
· Taking anti-inflammatories
· Not taking anti-inflammatories
· Running
· Not running
· Cycling
· Not cycling
· Moping around feeling sorry for myself
· Grousing, whining, complaining, grumbling, etc.
After one acupuncture treatment, I have no idea if it’s working. It was kind of fun though. I laid face-down on a massage-type table, and the practitioner stuck about 25 needles into my lower back, legs, and hip. None of it hurt at all; in fact I could barely feel anything except when he put the very last one into my hip, near the injured muscle. That one caused a kind of twinge … not painful, but sort of uncomfortable, only for a moment. Then I lay on the table, a heat lamp shining on my lower back and backside, soothing music playing, for about 30 minutes. I have to say that part was nice. I slipped into a relaxed semi-meditative state, and just concentrated on breathing slowly and deeply.
Today my hip is still sore, but I think the pain may be a little less site-specific, so maybe the acupuncture did something good. I will go back for two more treatments over the next four days, as recommended. What the heck. I also think I could use a chiropractic adjustment, I know I’m not aligned properly even if only because of my slightly gimpy right leg (following Achilles tendon reconstruction in 2003). I don’t want to add another variable, so I’m going to stick with the acupuncture for the time being, look into chiropractor afterward.
My plans for early summer racing are basically cancelled at this point. Oh, well, I always run better in the fall anyway.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
On Being Injured
If you are a runner, you are going to deal with being injured. I hope that you are very durable, or at least a fast healer, so that your need to cope with running-related injuries is minor. But, trust me, if you are in this for the long term you are going to get hurt. Like I am right now.
Left hip, back side, probably gluteus medius. It’s inflamed, and in spasm. Therefore it irritates my sciatic nerve, so I get the occasional shooting pain down my left hamstring and ITB. Running more than a couple of steps is painful. Sigh.
As an endurance sport, running is essentially a long series of physical stresses followed by periods of recovery. In order to be a runner, you will be testing your body’s capacity to adapt to your workouts and races. That repetitive process, whether played out over minutes, hours, days, weeks, or years, will eventually lead to a break down, or two, or three or more. It is inevitable.
In her seminal 1969 book “On Death and Dying", Elisabeth Kubler-Ross first introduced the now-famous concept of the five distinct stages of grief. At first she intended to apply these stages to those with terminal illness, but she later postulated that the very same coping model applied to anyone suffering a loss that was felt deeply on a personal level. I can’t imagine a better definition of how we runners react to injury.
Stage One: Denial.
You think that the pains you feel couldn’t possibly indicate an injury; after all, this can’t be happening to you. You run, you recover, you do it over and over, so this just can’t be an injury, and it will just go away if you ignore it. You keep running.
Stage Two: Anger.
Of course, the pain intensifies, to the point where you can’t ignore it any longer. You think (and maybe even shout out loud, enraged), “Why me?” At this point your fellow runners and loved ones find it difficult to deal with you. You simmer and seethe; words of encouragement sound as if they are mocking you, and anyone who is running is subject to your resentment, envy, and displaced rage. Of course, you keep running, with gritted teeth and an edge to your attitude.
Stage Three: Bargaining.
Whether you are religious or not, you begin to negotiate your case with a higher power, muttering things like, “Please, just let me get through the next race, then I promise I’ll take some time off and I’ll start stretching regularly and eating right and everything else I should have been doing.” At this point you also start impulsively improving other habits, in the desperate hope that doing right by your body in other ways will magically heal the running-related injury. You make sure to brush twice a day, you eat better, you remember to take your vitamins, and you get to bed earlier. Eventually, you try taking one day off from running, as if you can trade just one workout for a clean bill of health. But, of course, you go right back and you keep running.
Stage Four: Depression.
The pain of the injury has now compromised your ability to run. You take one day off, then two, then suddenly a week has gone by and you haven’t logged a single mile. You stay in bed a little longer in the morning, thinking “That’s it, I’m finished, I’ll never run again.” You find yourself lingering in the ice cream section at the grocery store. Your running shoes are now tossed into the back of the closet; you can’t stand to see them. The latest issue of your favorite running magazine arrives, and you toss it into the recycling bin without even opening the cover. Nothing can cheer you up. You’ve stopped running and you think you don’t care.
Stage Five: Acceptance.
Finally, one day, you look at yourself in the mirror, and you admit, “It’s true, I’m injured.” You feel slightly ashamed at having taken all this time before admitting to the obvious … again! You also start to listen to your family and friends, who have known all along that you probably just needed some rest, or maybe a visit or two to your physician/chiropractor/acupuncturist. While you don’t quite see light at the end of the tunnel, at least you admit that you are in the tunnel. And you stop despairing, and start making the adjustments necessary to get back on your feet. After all, you haven’t lost your identity, you’re just injured. That’s right, JUST injured. You know you need to be patient, and you finally begin the healing process.
Ironically, I’ve been through this more times than I care to count, and yet I fall victim to the same pattern almost every time. You could take my running log, page back through it, and discern the stages as I plodded through them over and over again. Take this latest injury, for example. It was over eight weeks ago that I first wrote “left hip tight and sore”. Did I change anything? Nope. That’s stage one. Then you see the tone of the log entries change, and the stray comment appears such as “damn hip still sore, WTF?” Yep, stage two. Then there are some embarrassingly sincere comments like “need to stretch more” and “taking anti-inflammatories”, and (rolling my eyes as I type this), “just need to get through the 50k at Bear Mountain”. Right … stage three. Of course, I managed to get through the 50k race, despite limping along the entire way. Immediately thereafter I stopped running entirely. Sure, I got on my bike and did some half-hearted pedaling last week, but I also “overslept” a couple of times and missed the bike workout completely. My wife tried to be sympathetic, but I was moping around and detaching. Tsk, tsk, stage four. Then, at the end of last week, I finally faced the music and just admitted that I’m hurt. I also began to recall in more detail the time two years ago when I had a very similar injury in my right hip. I eventually overcame that one, and my right side is completely fine now. Given the right amount rest and easy stretching, I’ll get the left side back in shape someday too. Made it to stage five.
Kubler-Ross emphasized that not only is there nothing wrong with going through these phases, but in fact it is necessary, on a psychological level, to move through them as part of the normal process of coping with loss. She also pointed out that not everyone experiences all of the stages, and not everyone goes through them in the very same order, but to my estimation they remain an elegant and resonant way to describe a very common experience.
May you never be injured. But, if you should fall victim to the rigors of our running lifestyle, try not to beat yourself up too badly for being, well, human.
Left hip, back side, probably gluteus medius. It’s inflamed, and in spasm. Therefore it irritates my sciatic nerve, so I get the occasional shooting pain down my left hamstring and ITB. Running more than a couple of steps is painful. Sigh.
As an endurance sport, running is essentially a long series of physical stresses followed by periods of recovery. In order to be a runner, you will be testing your body’s capacity to adapt to your workouts and races. That repetitive process, whether played out over minutes, hours, days, weeks, or years, will eventually lead to a break down, or two, or three or more. It is inevitable.
In her seminal 1969 book “On Death and Dying", Elisabeth Kubler-Ross first introduced the now-famous concept of the five distinct stages of grief. At first she intended to apply these stages to those with terminal illness, but she later postulated that the very same coping model applied to anyone suffering a loss that was felt deeply on a personal level. I can’t imagine a better definition of how we runners react to injury.
Stage One: Denial.
You think that the pains you feel couldn’t possibly indicate an injury; after all, this can’t be happening to you. You run, you recover, you do it over and over, so this just can’t be an injury, and it will just go away if you ignore it. You keep running.
Stage Two: Anger.
Of course, the pain intensifies, to the point where you can’t ignore it any longer. You think (and maybe even shout out loud, enraged), “Why me?” At this point your fellow runners and loved ones find it difficult to deal with you. You simmer and seethe; words of encouragement sound as if they are mocking you, and anyone who is running is subject to your resentment, envy, and displaced rage. Of course, you keep running, with gritted teeth and an edge to your attitude.
Stage Three: Bargaining.
Whether you are religious or not, you begin to negotiate your case with a higher power, muttering things like, “Please, just let me get through the next race, then I promise I’ll take some time off and I’ll start stretching regularly and eating right and everything else I should have been doing.” At this point you also start impulsively improving other habits, in the desperate hope that doing right by your body in other ways will magically heal the running-related injury. You make sure to brush twice a day, you eat better, you remember to take your vitamins, and you get to bed earlier. Eventually, you try taking one day off from running, as if you can trade just one workout for a clean bill of health. But, of course, you go right back and you keep running.
Stage Four: Depression.
The pain of the injury has now compromised your ability to run. You take one day off, then two, then suddenly a week has gone by and you haven’t logged a single mile. You stay in bed a little longer in the morning, thinking “That’s it, I’m finished, I’ll never run again.” You find yourself lingering in the ice cream section at the grocery store. Your running shoes are now tossed into the back of the closet; you can’t stand to see them. The latest issue of your favorite running magazine arrives, and you toss it into the recycling bin without even opening the cover. Nothing can cheer you up. You’ve stopped running and you think you don’t care.
Stage Five: Acceptance.
Finally, one day, you look at yourself in the mirror, and you admit, “It’s true, I’m injured.” You feel slightly ashamed at having taken all this time before admitting to the obvious … again! You also start to listen to your family and friends, who have known all along that you probably just needed some rest, or maybe a visit or two to your physician/chiropractor/acupuncturist. While you don’t quite see light at the end of the tunnel, at least you admit that you are in the tunnel. And you stop despairing, and start making the adjustments necessary to get back on your feet. After all, you haven’t lost your identity, you’re just injured. That’s right, JUST injured. You know you need to be patient, and you finally begin the healing process.
Ironically, I’ve been through this more times than I care to count, and yet I fall victim to the same pattern almost every time. You could take my running log, page back through it, and discern the stages as I plodded through them over and over again. Take this latest injury, for example. It was over eight weeks ago that I first wrote “left hip tight and sore”. Did I change anything? Nope. That’s stage one. Then you see the tone of the log entries change, and the stray comment appears such as “damn hip still sore, WTF?” Yep, stage two. Then there are some embarrassingly sincere comments like “need to stretch more” and “taking anti-inflammatories”, and (rolling my eyes as I type this), “just need to get through the 50k at Bear Mountain”. Right … stage three. Of course, I managed to get through the 50k race, despite limping along the entire way. Immediately thereafter I stopped running entirely. Sure, I got on my bike and did some half-hearted pedaling last week, but I also “overslept” a couple of times and missed the bike workout completely. My wife tried to be sympathetic, but I was moping around and detaching. Tsk, tsk, stage four. Then, at the end of last week, I finally faced the music and just admitted that I’m hurt. I also began to recall in more detail the time two years ago when I had a very similar injury in my right hip. I eventually overcame that one, and my right side is completely fine now. Given the right amount rest and easy stretching, I’ll get the left side back in shape someday too. Made it to stage five.
Kubler-Ross emphasized that not only is there nothing wrong with going through these phases, but in fact it is necessary, on a psychological level, to move through them as part of the normal process of coping with loss. She also pointed out that not everyone experiences all of the stages, and not everyone goes through them in the very same order, but to my estimation they remain an elegant and resonant way to describe a very common experience.
May you never be injured. But, if you should fall victim to the rigors of our running lifestyle, try not to beat yourself up too badly for being, well, human.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Bear Mtn Trail Races: Another Look Back
The race organizers of the North Face Endurance Challenge trail races at Bear Mountain did finally get results posted on the web. Scroll down to find the Bear Mountain races from May 9, 2009, each distance listed separately.
I wanted to make sure to recognize a few other performances by friends of mine that I failed to mention in my last blog post:
Cassandra Miller, 1st female in the half-marathon
Clint Earnhart, 3rd overall in the half-marathon
James Redmond, 21st in half-marathon
Bobby Hutton, 23rd in the half, the only other New York Harrier .
Lou Pahnke, 79th in the 50k (his first 50k, I believe, same as me)
Carrie Gatlin, 95th (15th woman) in the 50k
Two other friends of mine, Eric and Mark, were pulled from the 50 miler at about 34 miles for not making the time cutoff. They were disappointed, but seemed to take it in stride. It would seem that the time cutoffs for the 50 miler remain rather aggressive, given the technical and difficult nature of the trails in use. Nice work, everyone. I'm sure I missed a few other Reservoir Dogs who were running, there seemed to be a lot of them out there, that's only because I just don't know everyone on that team.
I've been analyzing my own race over the past couple of days, trying to see if my subjective experience matched my actual performance. Here is a breakdown of my splits from aid station to aid station, along with paces for each and cumulatives:
It's obvious that my pace varied quite a bit, probably in correlation with the terrain and technical nature of the various sections of the race. I also spent more time in aid stations progressively until after 21 mile station, where I ate so much that I felt full the rest of the way (so I paused only briefly for a quick drink at the last two stations). Obviously, I struggled to get from 25 to 28 miles. This section of the course included the climb up and over the Timp Pass, which was the steepest in the race. I walked most of it, and I was so tired that I ran poorly on the rocky descent (sort of race-walking , more than running). Once I got past that section, I rallied a bit on the final 3 miles or so, running my second-fastest miles splits on the day (admittedly, that section was less-technical, although it did have three uphills worth note and I was definitely plodding along with neither grace nor style at that point).
I liked Ben's comment to my last post, that these races are more about mental anguish than physical pain. I wish I could claim it was true for me. If you look at the photos of me nearing the finish line (from my previous post), you can probably notice that I'm favoring my left leg, limping slightly (hips dropping in, lower back a little stiff, shoulders uneven). I wish that my hip had felt better, then I could have faced the mental pain differently ... as it was, I was all-too-focused on dealing with a nagging injury (physical pain with every step).
I feel a little better today, in retrospect, about simply finishing the race. I can't say that I'm measurably proud, because I honestly think I should have been running at least a minute per mile faster ... but I can admit that there is something to be said about not giving up. I also have to be sensitive to the fact that, despite feeling like I struggled all day long, I managed to finish 25th out of 161, which comparatively is not all that bad. Plus, I'm sure those behind me were giving it their best, and suffering with their own injuries, demons, doubts, and challenges.
Funny (ironic) that I can truly say that everyone who completed that course should be proud, and yet not feel quite that way about my own performance. I suppose it's part of the character trait that makes us runners: always hungry, never quite satisfied, always anticipating a better race next time.
I wanted to make sure to recognize a few other performances by friends of mine that I failed to mention in my last blog post:
Cassandra Miller, 1st female in the half-marathon
Clint Earnhart, 3rd overall in the half-marathon
James Redmond, 21st in half-marathon
Bobby Hutton, 23rd in the half, the only other New York Harrier .
Lou Pahnke, 79th in the 50k (his first 50k, I believe, same as me)
Carrie Gatlin, 95th (15th woman) in the 50k
Two other friends of mine, Eric and Mark, were pulled from the 50 miler at about 34 miles for not making the time cutoff. They were disappointed, but seemed to take it in stride. It would seem that the time cutoffs for the 50 miler remain rather aggressive, given the technical and difficult nature of the trails in use. Nice work, everyone. I'm sure I missed a few other Reservoir Dogs who were running, there seemed to be a lot of them out there, that's only because I just don't know everyone on that team.
I've been analyzing my own race over the past couple of days, trying to see if my subjective experience matched my actual performance. Here is a breakdown of my splits from aid station to aid station, along with paces for each and cumulatives:
It's obvious that my pace varied quite a bit, probably in correlation with the terrain and technical nature of the various sections of the race. I also spent more time in aid stations progressively until after 21 mile station, where I ate so much that I felt full the rest of the way (so I paused only briefly for a quick drink at the last two stations). Obviously, I struggled to get from 25 to 28 miles. This section of the course included the climb up and over the Timp Pass, which was the steepest in the race. I walked most of it, and I was so tired that I ran poorly on the rocky descent (sort of race-walking , more than running). Once I got past that section, I rallied a bit on the final 3 miles or so, running my second-fastest miles splits on the day (admittedly, that section was less-technical, although it did have three uphills worth note and I was definitely plodding along with neither grace nor style at that point).
I liked Ben's comment to my last post, that these races are more about mental anguish than physical pain. I wish I could claim it was true for me. If you look at the photos of me nearing the finish line (from my previous post), you can probably notice that I'm favoring my left leg, limping slightly (hips dropping in, lower back a little stiff, shoulders uneven). I wish that my hip had felt better, then I could have faced the mental pain differently ... as it was, I was all-too-focused on dealing with a nagging injury (physical pain with every step).
I feel a little better today, in retrospect, about simply finishing the race. I can't say that I'm measurably proud, because I honestly think I should have been running at least a minute per mile faster ... but I can admit that there is something to be said about not giving up. I also have to be sensitive to the fact that, despite feeling like I struggled all day long, I managed to finish 25th out of 161, which comparatively is not all that bad. Plus, I'm sure those behind me were giving it their best, and suffering with their own injuries, demons, doubts, and challenges.
Funny (ironic) that I can truly say that everyone who completed that course should be proud, and yet not feel quite that way about my own performance. I suppose it's part of the character trait that makes us runners: always hungry, never quite satisfied, always anticipating a better race next time.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Race Report: North Face 50k
Thanks to Andel and Dima from the Reservoir Dogs for these photos
“Oh, I’ve had better days”
That was my response to the question, “How’s it going” at the 21 mile support station during Saturday’s North Face Endurance Challenge 50k trail race. Admittedly, I was playing the line for mild comic relief, but I also have to say that it was the truth.
I suppose we’d all prefer that our experiences could be easily classified into clear, separate categories, such as: unqualified success v. abysmal failure. The fact is that my race on Saturday was neither, or maybe both … but I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.
I am not the superstitious sort, but even I have to admit that I was surrounded by portents of doom that morning. When my alarm fired at 4:20am, I stole a furtive glance out the back door to see that it was absolutely pouring rain, with occasional flashes of lightning. Of course, my left hip (which has been stiff and sore for over a month) was tight and bothering me already, not a good sign. I wolfed down some breakfast, grabbed my gear and a large umbrella, and managed to speed walk to my car without getting completely drenched. The northbound Westside Highway was partially flooded, and certainly had more traffic than one would expect for 5:00 am on a Saturday ... all of us creeping along in the middle lane, except for the homeless guy pushing an empty shopping cart up the highway in the dark in the pouring rain ... only in New York. I managed to get across the George Washington Bridge okay, but the Palisades Parkway heading north was shrouded in dense fog, a dangerous accompaniment to the still-pounding rain. My hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, I kept telling myself to relax, go with the flow, I’d get there eventually, etc. Luckily, as dawn began to break, both the rain and fog let up, so I managed to arrive at the Bear Mountain parking lot more-or-less on time. However, as I pulled in, four vultures were standing on the ground just in front of my car, staring at me. I could only imagine that they had heard about that day’s race schedule, and that they had made plans to feast on the carcass of any runner who would fall exhausted upon the trail … perhaps they were sizing me up for a potential meal later in the day.
After the requisite pre-race rituals (bathroom, petroleum jelly, re-tying shoelaces, bathroom, loading up the Fuel Belt, bathroom … you know the drill), I headed to the start area and greeted several friends from the Reservoir Dogs, a ‘sister team’ to my NYC racing team the New York Harriers. It was nice to know that I’d have friends out on the course, and it was a bonus to see that a few others had come along to spectate and support (thanks for the encouragement guys, it made a huge difference on such a long day). I was also pleasantly surprised to be approached by a couple of you who said that you’d been following this blog! Thank you, kind readers. I hope to continue to interest and inspire you.
I was determined to start slowly and run at a pace that I could sustain for about six hours, but this is new territory for me so all I could do was take my best guess. As the eager leaders bounded up the first hill, I hung back and relaxed, chatting with a couple of happy if sarcastic lads from Ireland, who eventually disappeared up the trail never to be seen by me again.
From the gun, my left hip and hamstring were bothering me so much that I could sense myself limping slightly. Not good. The fact is that I limped all day, not really what you want to be doing for an ultra. Sigh. I caught and passed an old teammate, Mike V, who was doing the race with his son. We ran together for about a mile, but eventually lost contact and I was surprised not to see them as the day wore on. I hope they had success and finished strong.
The course was, as expected, wet and rather mucky in parts. While the rain had stopped, there was still a bit of fog and mist in the air, and the trees continued to drip for most of the day. Lovely, really. The overcast skies were a godsend, because the air was quite humid and felt rather warm … sun would have led to overheating and dehydration. I enjoyed the first 16 or 17 miles, running slowly, walking the steeper uphills, trading places back and forth with a few other runners. With the exception of the lead female runner, most of us knew we weren’t competing for any prizes, we were just looking to go the distance.
Results from the race still aren’t posted (almost two days later – c’mon guys, get it together), so when they are I’ll come back to this blog and do a more detailed analysis of my race. For now, I can say that the aid stations were positioned perfectly, and well-stocked with both goodies and volunteers. I broke my race up into sections based on making it efficiently from aid station to aid station, monitoring my effort level and any potential problems along the way. I am proud not to have hit the wall or suffered a major bonk, which I chalk up to having had a large pre-race breakfast and to making sure to top off calories at each chance I got. Between aid stations, I sipped Cytomax, nibbled SportBeans, and sucked on Rolaids (good for keeping the stomach settled and for preventing muscle cramps). At the mile 21 aid station, as I tore into my drop bag and refueled, I apparently won the award for the most-food-eaten-at-an-aid-station-all-day, at least according to friends from the Reservoir Dogs.
But I’ve left out the negatives so far, I suppose I’d rather not even mention them, but then the story would be only half-told. Simply put, my left hip hurt all day. I couldn’t run normally, I had to shorten my stride and concentrate a lot of energy to prevent myself from limping. That was no fun. As the day wore on, I started to wear out. Honestly, I was good for about 20 miles. No, I didn’t drop out of the race, but after mile 20 I was clearly not the same as I was before. I was walking more frequently, my legs were feeling a bit dead, and I was basically in the just-keep-moving mode.
We never like to admit our limits. I think there is a deeply-ingrained aspect of the American ethos (mythology?) that is instilled in us from the moment we arrive: you can do anything you want if you just try hard enough. The question: is that really true? Or, more poignantly and philosophically, how could we possibly be so naïve to think that it could be true?
I’ve run 15 races of marathon length or longer. In all of them, without exception, I find that I can hold everything together pretty well until about 20-22 miles, then it all starts to unravel. The objective observer would ask, “When are you going to admit that your physiology just isn’t made for going past 22 miles?”
Someday, perhaps.
As I get older, and slower, I have begun to hang my hat on the thought that I can just move up in distance, and still be competitive. You know what? It’s not really happening.
I completed the 50k race on my feet, a bit stiff but still moving. I think I can take pride in having finished a tough course on a wet, muddy day. Okay, so it took me 6 hours and 13 minutes. Not exactly what I had in mind. I really don’t know what place I finished, but I’d guess around 30th to 40th. Hopefully they’ll get results posted before too long, because I’m curious about it. When they do finally get published, make sure to take a look at the excellent races run by Ryan and Ben from the Reservoir Dogs, who garnered first and second places overall, and by their teammate Silke, who was third woman overall. Truly impressive running, and results they can be proud of for a very long time.
Post-race, I sat at a picnic table with those three and other enthusiastic friends, and we recounted our experiences in short bursts between sips of water and bites of salty food. I had ambivalent feelings about the day. I’d made it, that was an accomplishment. But I’d walked more than I’d wanted to, and I’d just plain felt tired and worn out for the last third of the race. I wondered then, as I still do now, if perhaps I’m just not cut out for doing events of this kind of distance and duration. Truth be told, I enjoy more, and have had more success, at trail races between 15k and 25k in length … and if I just had enough sense to remember that I’d be in good stead, right?
Ah, but I’m just another stubborn runner. I’ll quite probably never learn.
Congrats to everyone who conquered that course yesterday, whether fast or slow. You deserve to feel good about what you accomplished. I’ll be back with more on this event once results are posted.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Hip pains and anxiety dreams
With only three days to go before the 50k trail race at Bear Mountain/Harriman State Park, the clock is ticking loudly. Meanwhile, my left hip is tight and sore and I find that I’m plagued with anxiety dreams … you know, like when you dream that you are suddenly thrust into a situation that you should have prepared for, but you didn’t, and you start to panic because you don’t know what to do – even though you should – and everyone is looking at you with disdain … and then you realize that you forgot to wear pants.
I know it’s just pre-race jitters, and you’d think after over 700 races in my running career that I would never feel this way anymore. But I do. And to be honest I kind of enjoy it. It’s actually uplifting in a way, energizing. I don’t wake up from those dreams in a cold sweat; instead I wake up and start chuckling. Pre-race jitters means that I still care, truly and deeply, about the race that is pending. It still MATTERS to me. I think that’s kind of cool, and I think it keeps me young.
My hip: I don’t think it’s anything major. Just all the miles I’ve run in the past six months and the fact that I’m all out of whack. The reconstructive surgery on my Achilles tendon 5.5 years ago has left me unbalanced, and it shows when I pile on the miles. Right after the 50k, I’ll get back to some cross-training and see if I can calm down that hip/hamstring over time. For now, I’m just taking it very easy pre-race (a couple days off even), and dropping some ibuprofen and bromelain.
It’s been raining all week, and although the latest forecast says 20% chance of rain on Saturday (race day), it could be a bit wet and muddy out on the course … that’s to my liking. I’d much rather have overcast skies and wet shoes than the opposite: hot sun with a dry, dehydrating wind.
I’ll be back to blog my race report next week. Good luck to all of you on your individual running adventures this weekend. Wish me a bit of luck too, seems clear I’ll need it.
I know it’s just pre-race jitters, and you’d think after over 700 races in my running career that I would never feel this way anymore. But I do. And to be honest I kind of enjoy it. It’s actually uplifting in a way, energizing. I don’t wake up from those dreams in a cold sweat; instead I wake up and start chuckling. Pre-race jitters means that I still care, truly and deeply, about the race that is pending. It still MATTERS to me. I think that’s kind of cool, and I think it keeps me young.
My hip: I don’t think it’s anything major. Just all the miles I’ve run in the past six months and the fact that I’m all out of whack. The reconstructive surgery on my Achilles tendon 5.5 years ago has left me unbalanced, and it shows when I pile on the miles. Right after the 50k, I’ll get back to some cross-training and see if I can calm down that hip/hamstring over time. For now, I’m just taking it very easy pre-race (a couple days off even), and dropping some ibuprofen and bromelain.
It’s been raining all week, and although the latest forecast says 20% chance of rain on Saturday (race day), it could be a bit wet and muddy out on the course … that’s to my liking. I’d much rather have overcast skies and wet shoes than the opposite: hot sun with a dry, dehydrating wind.
I’ll be back to blog my race report next week. Good luck to all of you on your individual running adventures this weekend. Wish me a bit of luck too, seems clear I’ll need it.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Race Report: 2009 Leatherman’s Loop
Helter skelter in a summer swelter
An angry sun rose over Pound Ridge Reservation yesterday morning, squeezing every bit of burning heat from its nuclear furnace, hell bent on sizzling the flesh of we mortals as we lined up to start the 23rd edition of this great tradition of prancing through the mud. As I did my final pre-race sprint to try to awaken my aging legs, I gazed back at the assembled horde crowding the line under the flapping plastic flags. I’d never seen so many folks at this race, and the summer-vacation-like weather added a significant number of supporters in a concentric ring: spouses, kids, dogs, friends, and assorted curious onlookers. What a scene!
We jostled cordially for starting position and listened to the long list of stars (past and present) who were venturing once more into the fray. Then the traditional blessing was recited (… beauty above me as I run, beauty within me as I run …). I felt a rivulet of sweat already trickling down the nape of my neck and knew we were all in for a hot one. The scene felt so incongruous, because I associate the Loop with windy, gray, cold, rainy weather and shivering competitors huddled together for warmth and freezing cold, black, soupy mud … not smears of SPF 70 sun block and dry hot gusty breezes.
Just as my skin began to sizzle like cheap bacon, the horn sounded and we were off, in the most-chaotic start I can remember in years. I was pushed, elbowed, and stepped on repeatedly, while the sprinting masses closed in from both sides, shutting me off from contact with the lead pack. Uh oh. My work was going to be cut out for me in the woods. We turned downhill into the first muddy (barely) patch, and that bunch of macho dudes who shot out at the start all suddenly downshifted in unison … so I ran right into them, literally. Sorry, my fellow Loopers, no ill will intended on my part, I didn’t plan to bump and touch any of you at that point in the race, but these old legs of mine were still actually accelerating (it takes me awhile!), and all of you suddenly slowed down. I managed to weave through without major incident. My two older sons were counting runners at the first little stream crossing, and they had me at around 20th place, give or take a few.
The next mile or so of the course stays fairly narrow, with rocks and roots, and goes up and down a couple of times before hitting the first river crossing. I found myself trying to pass one particular runner who was already wheezing with effort, but he just would not let me go by. I tried three times to get around him, but each time he accelerated (wasting both his effort and mine). I backed off and waited about two minutes, until the river, when I shot past him and hit the water hard. I actually passed 4 runners who were wallowing about in the water (although one other guy passed me, nicely done). Up and out over the slimy rocks, and into mud we went. On this warm day, I was already cotton-mouthed and red in the face. Ugh.
An angry sun rose over Pound Ridge Reservation yesterday morning, squeezing every bit of burning heat from its nuclear furnace, hell bent on sizzling the flesh of we mortals as we lined up to start the 23rd edition of this great tradition of prancing through the mud. As I did my final pre-race sprint to try to awaken my aging legs, I gazed back at the assembled horde crowding the line under the flapping plastic flags. I’d never seen so many folks at this race, and the summer-vacation-like weather added a significant number of supporters in a concentric ring: spouses, kids, dogs, friends, and assorted curious onlookers. What a scene!
We jostled cordially for starting position and listened to the long list of stars (past and present) who were venturing once more into the fray. Then the traditional blessing was recited (… beauty above me as I run, beauty within me as I run …). I felt a rivulet of sweat already trickling down the nape of my neck and knew we were all in for a hot one. The scene felt so incongruous, because I associate the Loop with windy, gray, cold, rainy weather and shivering competitors huddled together for warmth and freezing cold, black, soupy mud … not smears of SPF 70 sun block and dry hot gusty breezes.
Just as my skin began to sizzle like cheap bacon, the horn sounded and we were off, in the most-chaotic start I can remember in years. I was pushed, elbowed, and stepped on repeatedly, while the sprinting masses closed in from both sides, shutting me off from contact with the lead pack. Uh oh. My work was going to be cut out for me in the woods. We turned downhill into the first muddy (barely) patch, and that bunch of macho dudes who shot out at the start all suddenly downshifted in unison … so I ran right into them, literally. Sorry, my fellow Loopers, no ill will intended on my part, I didn’t plan to bump and touch any of you at that point in the race, but these old legs of mine were still actually accelerating (it takes me awhile!), and all of you suddenly slowed down. I managed to weave through without major incident. My two older sons were counting runners at the first little stream crossing, and they had me at around 20th place, give or take a few.
The next mile or so of the course stays fairly narrow, with rocks and roots, and goes up and down a couple of times before hitting the first river crossing. I found myself trying to pass one particular runner who was already wheezing with effort, but he just would not let me go by. I tried three times to get around him, but each time he accelerated (wasting both his effort and mine). I backed off and waited about two minutes, until the river, when I shot past him and hit the water hard. I actually passed 4 runners who were wallowing about in the water (although one other guy passed me, nicely done). Up and out over the slimy rocks, and into mud we went. On this warm day, I was already cotton-mouthed and red in the face. Ugh.
The sand hill was just a tough as ever, with an added ‘bonus’ this year: the sand was palpably hot! With the unbroken blazing sun on our backs and the steaming sand radiating heat from below, it was like trying to climb the wall of a sauna. It was so hot that my visual cortex malfunctioned, I swear, all I could see was about 2 feet in front of me as I tried to find footholds and get over that monster.
I had been working my way through the field (“on your left, thanks … on your right, thanks …”) steadily, and there was Tony at the top of the sand hill announcing that I’d managed to get back to 9th place. Okay, not bad, but I’m melting!
The second half of the course is less technical than the first, and it’s all about maintaining your power as long as you can, and trying to reel in those in front of you. I could see old friends Steve Calidonna and George Buchanon up there, and did what I could to join them so that we could be a merry trio. I also assumed that my old pal and teammate Stephen Marsalese would eventually pull up on us from behind, and maybe we could call ourselves the Fearsome Foursome. But alas, on this day Steve was feeling the heat (and hallucinating that the course was somehow stretched half a mile too long), old Cannonball was busy chasing a young guy just ahead of him so I never did close that gap, and Stats Marsalese had his own duel going on behind me and never quite caught up with us. We were all doing our own thing, together but separate.
I was looking forward to the final river crossing near the finish like never before. In fact, for at least 10 minutes prior, I had been fantasizing about performing a perfect belly flop into the cool waters, then maybe spending 5-10 seconds underwater, anything to cool off my core just a little. That day-dreaming might have been just what I needed to motivate me to stagger through the final stretch of tall meadow grasses and jump into the not-so-raging torrent. An impressive gaggle of spectators had gathered, all hoping for us to trip up and fall flat on our faces in the murky water, cheering mercilessly. It’s funny, in trail racing you never expect to have any noise like that. If you are lucky there might be half a dozen hearty souls clapping politely along the home stretch. This was more like the crowd at a high school cross country meet, complete with screaming and clapping and shouting. Brought back some very old memories.
I pushed the final uphill stretch to the finish (into the relentless sun) the best that I could, somewhat confused that so many people in attendance actually knew my name as they urged me on to the line. Of course, post-race, I remembered that race organizers had printed our first names in bold letters on our bib numbers. Duh.
It was a tough, hot day, but I had somehow managed to finish in 7th place overall out of 955 finishers (see results here). That gave me first place in my age group, but only because Tommy Nohilly won the race outright (he’s 42), and George Buchanon just turned 50, so both were removed from my age group technically, even though they finished ahead of me. Rest assured, that technicality will not hinder the enjoyment I get from eating the cherry pie that was my reward (yes, pies as prizes, not silly trophies … after all, you can’t eat a trophy, or share it with your family … all races should give baked desserts as awards).
No amount of water could slake my thirst after the finish, as I tried in vain to rehydrate. But once my stomach was sloshing about adequately, I wobbled over to the nearest stream bed with my sons. While they waded around barefoot, I sat right down in the cold water and soaked my weary legs. My older son Max remarked about how calm and peaceful it was to just sit in the woods, with no distractions and no reason to rush anywhere. Well put, my boy, well put. The truth is, even while racing in the woods, and even while giving it all I’ve got, I don’t actually feel “rushed”. In fact, and this may sound odd, I often find myself wishing the race could go on longer. I know that’s not a practical thought, and the truth is that my effort-level yesterday was geared toward a distance of 6.2 miles, so I would have completely unraveled if my wish had come true. So it’s not really about wanting the race itself to suddenly, magically be longer, it’s just the feeling of wanting the EXPERIENCE to continue, the wish to capture the moment and surround myself with it, the old dream that was expressed in song with “… catch a falling star and put it on your pocket, never let it fade away”. Corny and sentimental? Yes, but still true.
A huge thanks to the race organizers and everyone else involved with this great event. I heard a rumor that there might be an autumn race on these trails, I hope that it turns out to be true. Count me in. My one suggestion: use the entire set of trails available in that area and make it a nice and LONG race!
I had been working my way through the field (“on your left, thanks … on your right, thanks …”) steadily, and there was Tony at the top of the sand hill announcing that I’d managed to get back to 9th place. Okay, not bad, but I’m melting!
The second half of the course is less technical than the first, and it’s all about maintaining your power as long as you can, and trying to reel in those in front of you. I could see old friends Steve Calidonna and George Buchanon up there, and did what I could to join them so that we could be a merry trio. I also assumed that my old pal and teammate Stephen Marsalese would eventually pull up on us from behind, and maybe we could call ourselves the Fearsome Foursome. But alas, on this day Steve was feeling the heat (and hallucinating that the course was somehow stretched half a mile too long), old Cannonball was busy chasing a young guy just ahead of him so I never did close that gap, and Stats Marsalese had his own duel going on behind me and never quite caught up with us. We were all doing our own thing, together but separate.
I was looking forward to the final river crossing near the finish like never before. In fact, for at least 10 minutes prior, I had been fantasizing about performing a perfect belly flop into the cool waters, then maybe spending 5-10 seconds underwater, anything to cool off my core just a little. That day-dreaming might have been just what I needed to motivate me to stagger through the final stretch of tall meadow grasses and jump into the not-so-raging torrent. An impressive gaggle of spectators had gathered, all hoping for us to trip up and fall flat on our faces in the murky water, cheering mercilessly. It’s funny, in trail racing you never expect to have any noise like that. If you are lucky there might be half a dozen hearty souls clapping politely along the home stretch. This was more like the crowd at a high school cross country meet, complete with screaming and clapping and shouting. Brought back some very old memories.
I pushed the final uphill stretch to the finish (into the relentless sun) the best that I could, somewhat confused that so many people in attendance actually knew my name as they urged me on to the line. Of course, post-race, I remembered that race organizers had printed our first names in bold letters on our bib numbers. Duh.
It was a tough, hot day, but I had somehow managed to finish in 7th place overall out of 955 finishers (see results here). That gave me first place in my age group, but only because Tommy Nohilly won the race outright (he’s 42), and George Buchanon just turned 50, so both were removed from my age group technically, even though they finished ahead of me. Rest assured, that technicality will not hinder the enjoyment I get from eating the cherry pie that was my reward (yes, pies as prizes, not silly trophies … after all, you can’t eat a trophy, or share it with your family … all races should give baked desserts as awards).No amount of water could slake my thirst after the finish, as I tried in vain to rehydrate. But once my stomach was sloshing about adequately, I wobbled over to the nearest stream bed with my sons. While they waded around barefoot, I sat right down in the cold water and soaked my weary legs. My older son Max remarked about how calm and peaceful it was to just sit in the woods, with no distractions and no reason to rush anywhere. Well put, my boy, well put. The truth is, even while racing in the woods, and even while giving it all I’ve got, I don’t actually feel “rushed”. In fact, and this may sound odd, I often find myself wishing the race could go on longer. I know that’s not a practical thought, and the truth is that my effort-level yesterday was geared toward a distance of 6.2 miles, so I would have completely unraveled if my wish had come true. So it’s not really about wanting the race itself to suddenly, magically be longer, it’s just the feeling of wanting the EXPERIENCE to continue, the wish to capture the moment and surround myself with it, the old dream that was expressed in song with “… catch a falling star and put it on your pocket, never let it fade away”. Corny and sentimental? Yes, but still true.
A huge thanks to the race organizers and everyone else involved with this great event. I heard a rumor that there might be an autumn race on these trails, I hope that it turns out to be true. Count me in. My one suggestion: use the entire set of trails available in that area and make it a nice and LONG race!
Friday, April 24, 2009
Race Preview: Leatherman’s Loop
This Sunday (April 26, 2009) I’ll head north to Ward Pound Ridge Reservation to take on the Leatherman’s Loop, one of the most-popular (and muddy, and wet) trail races in this area. Shockingly, this race filled up with it’s limit of 900 entrants only 16 hours after online registration opened this year. I wonder if race organizers will need to start going to a lottery system soon.
It’s well worth browsing around the race website, it’s a bit irreverent and includes a video of parts of the course shot from the runner’s perspective. The most ironic thing about the video is that it doesn’t even really show how difficult some parts of the course actually can be on race day. Crossing rivers and splashing through mud aside, it’s that darned sand hill climb that really does you in. I used to run up the thing (in fact, years ago there were TWO of these, but one was found to contain a rare species of plant and is now off-limits), now I power-walk it (and sometimes pass people ahead of me who are trying to run).
I’m not sure how many times I’ve run this race, the online archive of results is sadly incomplete. I’ve got all my races recorded in my running log, I should go back through and count them up. It’s got to be close to ten times (update: I counted ... it's actually only five times, which surprised me, seems like I've run it more times than that ... maybe just because I like it so much). I’ve managed to slip into the top 10 a few times, and I think I won the masters division once or twice, but I don’t expect anything like that this weekend. Not only am I getting just a wee bit older, but my training is focused on longer distances right now, and my left hip has been rather tight lately. At this point, I’m no speed-demon and I won’t be able to keep up with the young turks who can attack and accelerate for this short distance of only 10 kilometers. But I’ll give it my best shot.
One worry is the heat. Looks like it could be record high temperatures this Sunday, possibly near 90 degrees F. Horrible. Stupid global warming. I can’t recall ever running Leatherman’s Loop while wearing sunscreen. Usually it’s rainy, windy, and miserable (i.e., perfect). I’m not well-adapted to running in the heat, especially when it comes on suddenly. At least it will make the river crossings feel deliciously cool!
My favorite memory of Leatherman’s Loop? One year I was running strong and working my way through the field. At about the halfway mark, I put in a 300 meter surge and barely managed to pass three runners just before we dipped left down into a particularly swampy section (just before the sand hill). No sooner had I made my move when I found myself face down in a mud puddle, maybe 5-6 inches deep : black, slimy, stinky swamp mud. I had tripped over some hidden obstacle, probably just a root. I didn’t even really have time to get my arms out, so I was literally flat on my belly and slurping mud. Of course, all three of those guys went right past me while I was lolling about in the mire, so all that work I’d done to reel them in and pass them had gone for naught. What could I do? I just got up and got after them again. I managed to reel them all back in, one at a time, the last one right after the sand hill. But I finished that race with black mud caked all over me, even in my hair.
I look forward to this race every year for the spirit, the course, and the friends I see at the start and during the race. Of course, I’d like it even more if it was 10 or 12 (or more) miles longer …
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