Few things provoke ennui if not outright boredom like watching grass grow, paint dry or the light change going North on Locust Road at Lake Avenue (that's a really long light even if there is no east-west traffic on Lake). Ah, but there is one and that is watching an injured, now ostensibly healed, runner restart a running program. The Internets are chocked full of begin-to-run and return-to-run plans. Most boil down to some mixture of walking and running. No sane doctor or physical therapist would offer any alternate plan. No one varies from the tried and true cliche that insists that one must walk before one runs.
I wish I were here to report radical progress on this oft-repeated trope, but, alas, I cannot. I suppose my contribution to the process is a constitution that doesn't allow for the rapid start/stop of walk one minute, run one minute, repeat. Instead, last week I was run 5 minutes while reaffirming faith in higher being, or minimally the running gods, then walk 5 minutes, repeat. On Saturday, I ramped it up to run 10minutes, walk 5 minutes, repeat, once.
Today, dressed for November, in wind brief, long sleeves, shorts, hat and gloves, I ran for fifteen minutes, walked 5 minutes and ran 15 more. Legs are still attached. By my calculation, I ran for a half hour today. No parties yet, this is the building of a foundation. It isn't exciting, but if it keeps up, it will be.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Dress Rehearsal
I awoke early today to the sound of a suburban bird choir. Spring now enters its first week of 70 degree temps and I was planning a walk today. I stretched for a few minutes, gave attention to my core and dressed in "running" clothes -- to go for a walk. I went downstairs, looked at the outdoor thermometer and saw something above 5 degrees, a good sign. I sat down and put on "running" shoes -- to go for a walk.
At just after 6:00 I left the house and began a spirited walk. As I walked, dressed as a runner, I thought about knee and foot pain and a doctor's appointment I have later today to look over my healing. As I neared the one mile mark in my walk, I began to wonder if I should try to run, just for the sake of collecting data for my doctor. I wondered, too, whether I would remember how to run. Everyone knows that you don't forget how to ride a bicycle, and I certainly didn't and have the grime on my chain to prove it, but what about running? I began to run, uneasily at first and then continued. It was pretty cool. Nothing immediately hurt. My expectation that my foot, would be still unhealed despite the passage of five months since I broke it, would crack was never met. My thought that my knee would seize up, lock in place and not allow me to go forward also never happened. I was running. Wow!
And, after 5 minutes, I stopped and resumed walking.
I walked for 5 minutes and then ran for 5 more minutes. No disaster. I walked 5 more minutes and then ran, again, for 5 minutes. All corners (ankle, hip, knee, and really foot) still attached and working.
And that was that. Three runs of 5 minutes each, had I even run a full mile in total, were now concluded. The data was collected and the experiment had been a success. As I walked home, I held out my hand and counted months to the dates of known marathons and had the thought that maybe I could be ready in time for October, or November or, how about maybe next February for the big birthday? What a fool. Those thoughts will have to wait, but what a nice way to spend a spring morning.
To be continued . . . .
At just after 6:00 I left the house and began a spirited walk. As I walked, dressed as a runner, I thought about knee and foot pain and a doctor's appointment I have later today to look over my healing. As I neared the one mile mark in my walk, I began to wonder if I should try to run, just for the sake of collecting data for my doctor. I wondered, too, whether I would remember how to run. Everyone knows that you don't forget how to ride a bicycle, and I certainly didn't and have the grime on my chain to prove it, but what about running? I began to run, uneasily at first and then continued. It was pretty cool. Nothing immediately hurt. My expectation that my foot, would be still unhealed despite the passage of five months since I broke it, would crack was never met. My thought that my knee would seize up, lock in place and not allow me to go forward also never happened. I was running. Wow!
And, after 5 minutes, I stopped and resumed walking.
I walked for 5 minutes and then ran for 5 more minutes. No disaster. I walked 5 more minutes and then ran, again, for 5 minutes. All corners (ankle, hip, knee, and really foot) still attached and working.
And that was that. Three runs of 5 minutes each, had I even run a full mile in total, were now concluded. The data was collected and the experiment had been a success. As I walked home, I held out my hand and counted months to the dates of known marathons and had the thought that maybe I could be ready in time for October, or November or, how about maybe next February for the big birthday? What a fool. Those thoughts will have to wait, but what a nice way to spend a spring morning.
To be continued . . . .
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Patriot Act - Part 2 - The Race
I found my spot in the corral for my bib and awaited the start. I was in pain, sweating and doubting my sanity. This was the Boston Marathon, a dreamed of event, and I was waiting for the gun with my back in spasm. My plan, long before the spasm echoed the plan many runners who line up for Boston have -- to requalify. To do that, I needed to run a 3:15, give or take 7:30 pace. With thoughts of limping my way through the day, I tossed that thought from my mind and decided to try to run eight minutes per mile for as long as I could.
The gun went off and the pack surged forward. I gingerly put one foot in front of the other as I worked my way down the first Boston hill. Few runners who haven't run Boston or read about it in some detail know it for the big downhill at the start, but there it was. I reached Mile 1 in just under 8 minutes. I was shocked. I kept thinking any wrong move could put my back over the edge and yet, I had just run a mile faster than my plan. Oh, boy. I kept going and played tricks on my mind to pass the miles. One good one was to count the number of businesses that included one of the following: Patriot, Puritan or Yankee. There was no shortgage of any of those. I wonder how many of the Puritan named businesses realized what they were really doing.
Without letting this get too long, I reached the halfway point with my pace still below eight minutes. Each step sent tremors through my aching back, but I was running. I began to think I was living a miracle. I had experienced terrible back problems for years (still do), but never in my wildest dreams did I think I could keep running as my back tried to persuade me not to.
My pace stayed below 8:00 until Mile 23 when, finally, exhausted and undertrained, I began to slow. I climbed hill after hill. I maneuvered past a guantlet of fans and finally made the last turn that lifted me up the one block long hill that brought me to the finish line. I crossed the line, received my medal and then began to sob. Tears streamed down my face as I realized that with my back in spasm I had run a marathon in 3:24 minutes, give or take. It was a world record, it wasn't even a personal record at the time, but it was a testement to, well, to both my stupidity and my strength. A spring classic, by the measure of the day.
Ten minutes after I finished, I made my way to the runner reunite area and found the "F" heading. Debbie and the baby were not yet there and so I stood, baking in a 70 degree Boston April day, listening to a cover band play a song by the band Cake and cried. I was happy, I was sad and I was in pain (as evidenced by the giant bags of ice that would be my companion all through the night), but I had done.
And then, there was the flight home . . . .
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Patriot Act -- Part 1
I awoke early on Monday morning April 19, 1999 in a hotel room in Cambridge, MA. I ate quietly in the living room of our one bedroom suite as my wife and then 10 month old daughter slept in the bedroom. I was tingling with excitement as I dressed and looked down at my shirt and saw a bib with the Citgo logo on it and knew that in a few short hours I would be running my first (and to date only) Boston Marathon.
I became a marathoner in Chicago in October 1997. On that day, my goal and focus had been to run three hours ten minutes and qualify for Boston. It didn't happen. My debut fell short by four minutes. A small amount of time when you are late to meet a friend for lunch, but an absolute eternity stretched over a 26.2 mile marathon course. A year later, October 1998, I ran 3:09 and I set my date with Boston.
The training over the winter didn't go as planned.
I decided to let that sentence have its own paragraph because I can imagine any number of stories I could write that could include that sentence. So there it is. In this case it meant a lot of cycling for a (then) non-cyclist and a long run, that is solely one long run of 17 miles. I don't recommend this, but that was what I had.
Boston, the Marathon, in those days required all runners to show up in downtown Boston and board a bus to Hopkinton. There was an athletes village where runners hung out from around 9:00 AM or so until the noon start of the race. Thoughts are on the event as the bus rolls toward Hopkinton. The excitement of being there coupled with the nervousness of running Boston. So much has been written about running Boston, the only marathon with a qualifying time, that there is little need to write a thing about it here beyond this mention. But those thoughts filled my head.
If you follow the link above, you will read about the warmth of the day. It was a classic day for the spectators. Warm and sunny. Maybe it hit 65 or 70. I need to double check this. The heat wasn't my issue that day.
With just over two hours to go before the start, I sought out a port-a-potty to take a natural break. As I rose to my feet (oh, you say, that natural break, my back seized up on me into an eye watering spasm. I clung to the cable that doubled as a door hinge and cried out in pain. I could barely finish pulling up my shorts and warm-up clothes because of the pain. I tried to breathe slowly as thoughts raced through my head of what my day would be. As I left the port-a-potty my entire body was listing to the right. My head was filled with rain clouds, dark awful thoughts about "now what?" I flashed to the agony of defeat footage in the old ABC Wide World of Sports intro.
The next fifteen minutes were excruciating. I painfully walked, limped actually, around the infield of the school. I think I was looking for a friendly face, but I didn't find one. I tried lying on the ground with my feet in the air thinking that might relieve the pressure in my back, but it failed miserably. I rose, slowly, and felt pain course through my body. I wanted to scream, it was fight or flight, I really couldn't imagine what I would do. And all around me, runners sat in the grass, enjoying the sun, imbibing in Gatorade and readying themselves. No one spoke to me and I couldn't imagine how the day would unfold.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that my wife had no idea that I wouldn't be where I said I would be when I said I would be there. In 1999, few people carried a phone, I sure didn't. How to contact my wife? I walked around a bit and saw a line of people queuing for a pay phone. I knew I needed to join that line. I did and the wait for the phone was 45 minutes. For forty-five minutes I stood in a line, clutching my lower back and inching forward, just waiting to deliver bad news to my wife. I was aching and nearly crying as I wondered what I would say. Finally, it was my turn to use the phone. I called the hotel -- she wasn't there. I called 411 and got the number for Debbie's friend who lived in Boston. She was there. When she first came to the phone, I was greeted by "what's wrong? What happened?" I told her what happened and how much pain I was in. I said I didn't know if I could run, or walk or where I would be. I said I might just get on the bus -- the broom wagon -- and ride into Boston. I told her to meet me in the runner reunite area, but I didn't really know when I would be there, or how I would get there.
I hung up the phone and resolved to at least start the race.
In Part 2, the Race.
I became a marathoner in Chicago in October 1997. On that day, my goal and focus had been to run three hours ten minutes and qualify for Boston. It didn't happen. My debut fell short by four minutes. A small amount of time when you are late to meet a friend for lunch, but an absolute eternity stretched over a 26.2 mile marathon course. A year later, October 1998, I ran 3:09 and I set my date with Boston.
The training over the winter didn't go as planned.
I decided to let that sentence have its own paragraph because I can imagine any number of stories I could write that could include that sentence. So there it is. In this case it meant a lot of cycling for a (then) non-cyclist and a long run, that is solely one long run of 17 miles. I don't recommend this, but that was what I had.
Boston, the Marathon, in those days required all runners to show up in downtown Boston and board a bus to Hopkinton. There was an athletes village where runners hung out from around 9:00 AM or so until the noon start of the race. Thoughts are on the event as the bus rolls toward Hopkinton. The excitement of being there coupled with the nervousness of running Boston. So much has been written about running Boston, the only marathon with a qualifying time, that there is little need to write a thing about it here beyond this mention. But those thoughts filled my head.
If you follow the link above, you will read about the warmth of the day. It was a classic day for the spectators. Warm and sunny. Maybe it hit 65 or 70. I need to double check this. The heat wasn't my issue that day.
With just over two hours to go before the start, I sought out a port-a-potty to take a natural break. As I rose to my feet (oh, you say, that natural break, my back seized up on me into an eye watering spasm. I clung to the cable that doubled as a door hinge and cried out in pain. I could barely finish pulling up my shorts and warm-up clothes because of the pain. I tried to breathe slowly as thoughts raced through my head of what my day would be. As I left the port-a-potty my entire body was listing to the right. My head was filled with rain clouds, dark awful thoughts about "now what?" I flashed to the agony of defeat footage in the old ABC Wide World of Sports intro.
The next fifteen minutes were excruciating. I painfully walked, limped actually, around the infield of the school. I think I was looking for a friendly face, but I didn't find one. I tried lying on the ground with my feet in the air thinking that might relieve the pressure in my back, but it failed miserably. I rose, slowly, and felt pain course through my body. I wanted to scream, it was fight or flight, I really couldn't imagine what I would do. And all around me, runners sat in the grass, enjoying the sun, imbibing in Gatorade and readying themselves. No one spoke to me and I couldn't imagine how the day would unfold.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that my wife had no idea that I wouldn't be where I said I would be when I said I would be there. In 1999, few people carried a phone, I sure didn't. How to contact my wife? I walked around a bit and saw a line of people queuing for a pay phone. I knew I needed to join that line. I did and the wait for the phone was 45 minutes. For forty-five minutes I stood in a line, clutching my lower back and inching forward, just waiting to deliver bad news to my wife. I was aching and nearly crying as I wondered what I would say. Finally, it was my turn to use the phone. I called the hotel -- she wasn't there. I called 411 and got the number for Debbie's friend who lived in Boston. She was there. When she first came to the phone, I was greeted by "what's wrong? What happened?" I told her what happened and how much pain I was in. I said I didn't know if I could run, or walk or where I would be. I said I might just get on the bus -- the broom wagon -- and ride into Boston. I told her to meet me in the runner reunite area, but I didn't really know when I would be there, or how I would get there.
I hung up the phone and resolved to at least start the race.
In Part 2, the Race.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Quad Pain - A Primer
I awoke yesterday to a strange, yet familiar feeling in my thighs. As I walked the dog around the neighborhood I felt a faint tightness in my thighs that bordered on burning.
Without closing my eyes, I was immediately transported to the day before, to the Sheridan Road double ravine between Dean and St. Johns. The first quick descent that requires quick effective pedalling to generate the velocity to climb the first hill that ends at Roger Williams. That was the easy one. Then as the next climb, the one that never seems to end, came, Virgil came storming by like a runaway locomotive. (I don't understand how a train could run away given that it is on a track, but hey I am not here to dissect idioms). I picked an easier gear and gave chase. Silly me. He rode me, and Neal, off his newly spring cleaned (tweaked, lubricated, newly cabled, you name it) wheel and left me panting and coughing and singing "the hills are alive with the sound of mucus." That mildly amusing pun allowed me to catch some part of my breath as I spun furiously in what seemed like my 11 when in fact it was something in the 22 or 23 neighborhood. As I tried to catch up and Neal pulled even (before passing me too), I said I was "willing, but not able." Finally, I caught Virgil and admonished (as if I had the right), that it might take until July or August, but I would make him pay for that. Dream within a dream, I thought back to that perfect September day at the Harmon Hundred when, for the final 30 miles I danced on the pedals as we climbed and had to be constantly reined in for my late ride strength. Wake up, Dan.
Back to the walk with my dog. I felt the pain in my quads, fatigue is perhaps a better word. Later yesterday I saw the sports medicine guru and told him about it. He congratulated me.
If the runners' high exists, and I submit that it does, then quad fatigue is the gateway drug that gets you to the hard stuff.
Without closing my eyes, I was immediately transported to the day before, to the Sheridan Road double ravine between Dean and St. Johns. The first quick descent that requires quick effective pedalling to generate the velocity to climb the first hill that ends at Roger Williams. That was the easy one. Then as the next climb, the one that never seems to end, came, Virgil came storming by like a runaway locomotive. (I don't understand how a train could run away given that it is on a track, but hey I am not here to dissect idioms). I picked an easier gear and gave chase. Silly me. He rode me, and Neal, off his newly spring cleaned (tweaked, lubricated, newly cabled, you name it) wheel and left me panting and coughing and singing "the hills are alive with the sound of mucus." That mildly amusing pun allowed me to catch some part of my breath as I spun furiously in what seemed like my 11 when in fact it was something in the 22 or 23 neighborhood. As I tried to catch up and Neal pulled even (before passing me too), I said I was "willing, but not able." Finally, I caught Virgil and admonished (as if I had the right), that it might take until July or August, but I would make him pay for that. Dream within a dream, I thought back to that perfect September day at the Harmon Hundred when, for the final 30 miles I danced on the pedals as we climbed and had to be constantly reined in for my late ride strength. Wake up, Dan.
Back to the walk with my dog. I felt the pain in my quads, fatigue is perhaps a better word. Later yesterday I saw the sports medicine guru and told him about it. He congratulated me.
If the runners' high exists, and I submit that it does, then quad fatigue is the gateway drug that gets you to the hard stuff.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
A Day for Arm Warmers
Spring in Chicago. If you know it, you know it. It comes late, doesn't stay long and regularly juxtaposes cold against extreme heat.
Today was instead moderate. Warm in the sun, I have rosy cheeks to show for it, and cool near the Lake. It was in most ways a copy of yesterday with the addition of a strong south to north wind. I know this why? Because, this weekend, I twice rode my bike outside in the burgeoning spring that so reluctantly has taken up residence here in northern Illinois.
My adventures in the saddle are momentous and my absence from this page has left me without a marker for the day, now just over two weeks ago when I removed my incarcerating boot -- for good. The early days after removal were tense as I felt pain in the foot and questioned my recovery. Rather than dive into activity, I chose to just walk through my daily, even weekly routines, to allow the foot to get stronger. And it has. Sometime last week, I began lightly spinning on my trainer and felt sweat bead on my brow for the first time in four months. When the weekend weather forecast called for sun, few clouds and temperatures near 60, I knew I would ride outside. Thanks to the wise counsel of a close cycling friend, well, really friend who also cycles. He warned me to not overdo it. I followed this advice to a T.
On Saturday, I rode the legendary Gumby for just over 40 minutes. I stayed in the small ring and pedalled easily. It was glorious. No bike I have ridden absorbs road shock in the manner Gumby does. The bike is a tank and yet, at speed the bike glides effortlessly up hills and down.
Sunday, I joined two mates for a 21 mile ride where I was rarely called upon to lead. The air's chill was immediately apparent as we rode east to Sheridan Road. I was outfitted in my favorite cycling togs: shorts (bibs in this instance), jersey and arm warmers. It was perfect and I can think of no better way to ride. The ride itself revealed my lack of fitness but it featured, well, it featured riding, sometimes it was hard, often it wasn't and that was a pleasant surprise. I am ready for more.
Earlier in the day I bought a new pair of running shoes that I walked around the house in all evening to begin the break in. Preparation for trying to return to running. A familiar trope, I concede. But today was not about running shoes, it was a day for arm warmers.
Today was instead moderate. Warm in the sun, I have rosy cheeks to show for it, and cool near the Lake. It was in most ways a copy of yesterday with the addition of a strong south to north wind. I know this why? Because, this weekend, I twice rode my bike outside in the burgeoning spring that so reluctantly has taken up residence here in northern Illinois.
My adventures in the saddle are momentous and my absence from this page has left me without a marker for the day, now just over two weeks ago when I removed my incarcerating boot -- for good. The early days after removal were tense as I felt pain in the foot and questioned my recovery. Rather than dive into activity, I chose to just walk through my daily, even weekly routines, to allow the foot to get stronger. And it has. Sometime last week, I began lightly spinning on my trainer and felt sweat bead on my brow for the first time in four months. When the weekend weather forecast called for sun, few clouds and temperatures near 60, I knew I would ride outside. Thanks to the wise counsel of a close cycling friend, well, really friend who also cycles. He warned me to not overdo it. I followed this advice to a T.
On Saturday, I rode the legendary Gumby for just over 40 minutes. I stayed in the small ring and pedalled easily. It was glorious. No bike I have ridden absorbs road shock in the manner Gumby does. The bike is a tank and yet, at speed the bike glides effortlessly up hills and down.
Sunday, I joined two mates for a 21 mile ride where I was rarely called upon to lead. The air's chill was immediately apparent as we rode east to Sheridan Road. I was outfitted in my favorite cycling togs: shorts (bibs in this instance), jersey and arm warmers. It was perfect and I can think of no better way to ride. The ride itself revealed my lack of fitness but it featured, well, it featured riding, sometimes it was hard, often it wasn't and that was a pleasant surprise. I am ready for more.
Earlier in the day I bought a new pair of running shoes that I walked around the house in all evening to begin the break in. Preparation for trying to return to running. A familiar trope, I concede. But today was not about running shoes, it was a day for arm warmers.
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