I procrastinated myself out of a swim today. I hate it when that happens.
Not like I don't have plenty of other things to get done. The list is constantly long and fluid. But it really irritates me when I have to give one up for the other because I wasted too much time on the computer. Time management is not in my favor today.
Doesn't help either when the swim lanes at the pool are only open until 1pm and the pool is about 20 minutes away.
But, tomorrow is another day.
Note to self: exercise BEFORE plopping in front of the computer.
Friday, April 30
Thursday, April 29
Success
I DID IT!
What?, you ask.
Have you not been paying attention?, I ask.
I swam a full 50 meter freestyle without stopping and without breaking into the breaststroke!
How did you do that?, you ask.
Thanks for asking, I say.
What?, you ask.
Have you not been paying attention?, I ask.
I swam a full 50 meter freestyle without stopping and without breaking into the breaststroke!
How did you do that?, you ask.
Thanks for asking, I say.
It wasn't easy, but it was easier than the last time. I call that progress; I call that success. Movement toward my goal; well, at least one goal.
I focused on two things:
- slow and methodical motion
- link the movement of head to breath with the movement of arm exiting the water
Thanks to the suggestions from the following URL:
http://www.ehow.com/how_2125207_breathe-swimming-freestyle.html
Today, spurred by my freestyle pseudo-success, I uncovered the following URLs. My plan for continued improvement in my freestyle swimming will keep a nice pace with the use of the material on these sites.
http://www.swimsmooth.com/breathing.html
http://swimming.about.com/od/freeandback/a/breath_freestyl.htm
And, last but certainly not least, the bonus. Remember one of last week's posts called "Finding the Zone"?
If your answer is no, please read it before continuing :)
I think I caught a glimpse of "the zone" today while doing the breaststroke. Won't know for sure until I go in search of it again tomorrow.
To be continued....
Wednesday, April 28
Anticipation as Hope
"....is making me wait. It's keeping me waiting...."
Remember that from the 80s Heinz ketchup commercials? A kid sits at the table, head in hand. In his other hand is an upturned ketchup bottle poised over a juicy hot dog or hamburger (can't remember which one it was. Maybe fries?). He (or was it she? PC gender was unimportant back then) knows the stuff is going to come out eventually. He has seen it happen before and he hopes it will again. Does he keep waiting? Or does he give up and eat it dry, or use another condiment? In this Heinz ketchup commercial, he, and us, are a captive audience. We know that the memory of the taste keeps him waiting, anticipating the extra goodness that is to come. The hope that reward is imminent is kept alive.
Can waiting for ketchup be equated with waiting for an injury to fully heal? Let's see. Slow motion of recovery, the memory of a good taste, the satisfaction of satiety and fulfillment. Yep. I think that works.
But what about the hope factor? Hope is the desire for something good in the future. In order to hope for something good, "good" has to be defined. For me, good is not only regaining the full physical use of my leg in order to continue my routine (more to come about the "why" of that routine), but also to regain the emotional freedom I crave that comes only from unfettered movement in the outdoors. No pool schedule, no rude gym people, no waiting for space. That is the good I seek; that is the good for which I hope.
On Sunday, it will be three weeks with neither running nor cycling. I keep active with weight-lifting and swimming. The physical aspect of these is obvious: without them I would inevitably push the needle up on the scale and squeeze myself out of my current size 6. By continuing exercise, I keep hope for my ultimate physical recovery alive. Without that physical recovery, the full extent of my hope for a good outcome cannot be realized. Not to mention that without the physical activity, I might go insane. My family may disown me. Boredom, self-doubt, anxiety, frustration, sadness find a way of taking hold of me without my exercise. All ills of my spirit seem to vanish, or at least mostly dissipate, with regular activity.
I have two more weeks to wait. The anticipation is keeping me waiting and it is trying to crowd out the hope. This is where I am faltering at this late stage in my recovery.
Gorgeous days like today ~crystal and cloudless sky, comfortable temp, slight breeze~ make me want to "not" wait as long as I should to run/cycle on my healing Achille's leg. They lure me into foregoing the hope of a full recovery. I want to go out and just do it early. Take the immediate gratification; so what if the injury comes back. In less than a month, this weather will be but a distant fantasy as I sweat out my run, or cycle. Even 7am, if I can get out of bed that early, will be sticky and miserable...until about October. Ugghh! I want to experience it now. I don't want to wait six more months.
Seeing others on the road ~doing what I so want to do but can't~ irritates me. I'm happy for them. I want to be them. I probably could be them.
This is the point in any recovery period that is the most sinister. This is when the hope starts to fade into arrogance. I liken it to the ketchup bottle metaphor: this would be the point when you can see the ketchup oozing like lava to the mouth of the bottle. And then stopping. You are tempted to shove that knife, or your finger for lack of another tool, into it to loosen it up. What happens then? It comes out in a rush, smothering the target. If the recovery period is pushed too quickly, the injury is not allowed to heal completely and the inevitable re-occurrence is more devastating than before. It will take longer to heal and even longer to get back on track, further forestalling the goal of total good.
With the season practically over, I might be able to take this route. The flipside is, with the season over, I have the luxury of holding out for the entire recovery period and not pushing myself too hard, too soon.
Reluctantly I wait and anticipate the freedom of my first run, my first cycle. As I wait, I plan my steps carefully to avoid re-injury. Re-injury will only lengthen the achievement of good that I desire. Anticipation is a form of hope that allows one to take the necessary steps to ensure success and reward.
Remember that from the 80s Heinz ketchup commercials? A kid sits at the table, head in hand. In his other hand is an upturned ketchup bottle poised over a juicy hot dog or hamburger (can't remember which one it was. Maybe fries?). He (or was it she? PC gender was unimportant back then) knows the stuff is going to come out eventually. He has seen it happen before and he hopes it will again. Does he keep waiting? Or does he give up and eat it dry, or use another condiment? In this Heinz ketchup commercial, he, and us, are a captive audience. We know that the memory of the taste keeps him waiting, anticipating the extra goodness that is to come. The hope that reward is imminent is kept alive.
Can waiting for ketchup be equated with waiting for an injury to fully heal? Let's see. Slow motion of recovery, the memory of a good taste, the satisfaction of satiety and fulfillment. Yep. I think that works.
But what about the hope factor? Hope is the desire for something good in the future. In order to hope for something good, "good" has to be defined. For me, good is not only regaining the full physical use of my leg in order to continue my routine (more to come about the "why" of that routine), but also to regain the emotional freedom I crave that comes only from unfettered movement in the outdoors. No pool schedule, no rude gym people, no waiting for space. That is the good I seek; that is the good for which I hope.
On Sunday, it will be three weeks with neither running nor cycling. I keep active with weight-lifting and swimming. The physical aspect of these is obvious: without them I would inevitably push the needle up on the scale and squeeze myself out of my current size 6. By continuing exercise, I keep hope for my ultimate physical recovery alive. Without that physical recovery, the full extent of my hope for a good outcome cannot be realized. Not to mention that without the physical activity, I might go insane. My family may disown me. Boredom, self-doubt, anxiety, frustration, sadness find a way of taking hold of me without my exercise. All ills of my spirit seem to vanish, or at least mostly dissipate, with regular activity.
I have two more weeks to wait. The anticipation is keeping me waiting and it is trying to crowd out the hope. This is where I am faltering at this late stage in my recovery.
Gorgeous days like today ~crystal and cloudless sky, comfortable temp, slight breeze~ make me want to "not" wait as long as I should to run/cycle on my healing Achille's leg. They lure me into foregoing the hope of a full recovery. I want to go out and just do it early. Take the immediate gratification; so what if the injury comes back. In less than a month, this weather will be but a distant fantasy as I sweat out my run, or cycle. Even 7am, if I can get out of bed that early, will be sticky and miserable...until about October. Ugghh! I want to experience it now. I don't want to wait six more months.
Seeing others on the road ~doing what I so want to do but can't~ irritates me. I'm happy for them. I want to be them. I probably could be them.
This is the point in any recovery period that is the most sinister. This is when the hope starts to fade into arrogance. I liken it to the ketchup bottle metaphor: this would be the point when you can see the ketchup oozing like lava to the mouth of the bottle. And then stopping. You are tempted to shove that knife, or your finger for lack of another tool, into it to loosen it up. What happens then? It comes out in a rush, smothering the target. If the recovery period is pushed too quickly, the injury is not allowed to heal completely and the inevitable re-occurrence is more devastating than before. It will take longer to heal and even longer to get back on track, further forestalling the goal of total good.
With the season practically over, I might be able to take this route. The flipside is, with the season over, I have the luxury of holding out for the entire recovery period and not pushing myself too hard, too soon.
Reluctantly I wait and anticipate the freedom of my first run, my first cycle. As I wait, I plan my steps carefully to avoid re-injury. Re-injury will only lengthen the achievement of good that I desire. Anticipation is a form of hope that allows one to take the necessary steps to ensure success and reward.
Thursday, April 22
Finding the Zone
I never appreciated the extraordinary concentration needed to swim. Lose the concentration on breathing and stroke and you inhale water, flounder, and sink. Believe me, I tried it out and it's true. I scared the lifeguard again; a little less this time though because I think she recognizes me now. I have so much more respect for what Mike Phelps and his kind do.
And this is just freestyle. I cannot even imagine what this is like for the butterfly.
This level of concentration is so unlike running and cycling, even skiing to a certain extent(assuming you are on a fairly broad trail with few other skiers). In those you find your zone, press autopilot, and go on your way while indulging your thoughts.
Is there a "zone" in swimming? Or is the "zone" different?
If there is one, I want to find it; not in the way of the "beyond" in Bed, Bath and Beyond (still haven't found that one, probably because I haven't been trying . But mostly because it is unattainable).
There is always a zone.
Yesterday, I was still unable to complete 1 50 meter lap in freestyle before having to revert to breast stroke, of which I completed 12 laps. I do believe it's all in the breathing. I spent some time googling this morning and found a few pointers, which I will put into practice tomorrow.
And this is just freestyle. I cannot even imagine what this is like for the butterfly.
This level of concentration is so unlike running and cycling, even skiing to a certain extent(assuming you are on a fairly broad trail with few other skiers). In those you find your zone, press autopilot, and go on your way while indulging your thoughts.
Is there a "zone" in swimming? Or is the "zone" different?
If there is one, I want to find it; not in the way of the "beyond" in Bed, Bath and Beyond (still haven't found that one, probably because I haven't been trying . But mostly because it is unattainable).
There is always a zone.
Yesterday, I was still unable to complete 1 50 meter lap in freestyle before having to revert to breast stroke, of which I completed 12 laps. I do believe it's all in the breathing. I spent some time googling this morning and found a few pointers, which I will put into practice tomorrow.
Tuesday, April 20
Self-Absorbed at the Gym
What is so difficult about maintaining awareness of your surroundings? Or about respecting others' space, particularly in a situation where that space is close and it, as well as the things within it, has to be shared?
I ask this question selfishly, I guess. I went to the gym this morning. I was a little early, so it was more crowded. Hence, I needed to chisel out my space and defend it valiantly without seeming rude or possessive. Not an easy task.
I was using one particular machine in my routine. After two activities I moved down about 30 feet to another machine to complete my routine. Back to the first one, three times. Towards the end of the routine, one man came up and took the second machine (e.g. put his towel and water down to mark it as "his") and then walked about 10 feet away to talk to a friend. He actually moved my stuff out. Now, granted, I did not have my towel or water at that particular machine, but my weight was still there waiting.
Now, I was not so pissed off about him usurping "my" machine as I was that he usurped it and then proceeded to walk away from it.
I could have resolved this in a number of ways. Obviously, I could have just gotten in and completed my routine regardless of his stuff there. Not sure what effect that would have had on him and his friend. Anger, annoyance, possibly casual irritation not even strong enough to draw him from his conversation. I could have walked up to him and his friend and browbeat him for being an ignorant, selfish cad. After all, I am aware of people using machines. Before I begin to use one I always look around me to see if someone might be using it. Even past that, I have my routine in my head and keep track of the machines I want to use before I even get to them. If I can treat others with respect, why can't they return the favor?
My last option, wimpy as it may seem, was to just quickly alter my routine and use a different machine. Much to my chagrin, I chose this route. I did another exercise that got me the same result with less conflict. However, I think my choice might have been different if he had stolen my machine early on in my routine as opposed to when he did, which was at the tail end of it.
This is not the first time this has happened to me at this gym. I have even had several circumstances where the trainers have taken my spot, which was clearly marked with my towel and water. I am unsure whether it is this gym or whether it is just self-absorbed, rude people in general. I lean toward the latter. Either way, is it any wonder that I times I feel invisible when there?
The moral of this story for all gym-goers or anyone else who shares space and things where both are limited: move out of your world; be cognizant of those around you; respect everyone's space.
I ask this question selfishly, I guess. I went to the gym this morning. I was a little early, so it was more crowded. Hence, I needed to chisel out my space and defend it valiantly without seeming rude or possessive. Not an easy task.
I was using one particular machine in my routine. After two activities I moved down about 30 feet to another machine to complete my routine. Back to the first one, three times. Towards the end of the routine, one man came up and took the second machine (e.g. put his towel and water down to mark it as "his") and then walked about 10 feet away to talk to a friend. He actually moved my stuff out. Now, granted, I did not have my towel or water at that particular machine, but my weight was still there waiting.
Now, I was not so pissed off about him usurping "my" machine as I was that he usurped it and then proceeded to walk away from it.
I could have resolved this in a number of ways. Obviously, I could have just gotten in and completed my routine regardless of his stuff there. Not sure what effect that would have had on him and his friend. Anger, annoyance, possibly casual irritation not even strong enough to draw him from his conversation. I could have walked up to him and his friend and browbeat him for being an ignorant, selfish cad. After all, I am aware of people using machines. Before I begin to use one I always look around me to see if someone might be using it. Even past that, I have my routine in my head and keep track of the machines I want to use before I even get to them. If I can treat others with respect, why can't they return the favor?
My last option, wimpy as it may seem, was to just quickly alter my routine and use a different machine. Much to my chagrin, I chose this route. I did another exercise that got me the same result with less conflict. However, I think my choice might have been different if he had stolen my machine early on in my routine as opposed to when he did, which was at the tail end of it.
This is not the first time this has happened to me at this gym. I have even had several circumstances where the trainers have taken my spot, which was clearly marked with my towel and water. I am unsure whether it is this gym or whether it is just self-absorbed, rude people in general. I lean toward the latter. Either way, is it any wonder that I times I feel invisible when there?
The moral of this story for all gym-goers or anyone else who shares space and things where both are limited: move out of your world; be cognizant of those around you; respect everyone's space.
Monday, April 19
A New Challenge
New challenges can be disconcerting and scary, filling one with fear of the unknown. Most of these fears are irrational. With luck, they resolve quickly. Others are more entrenched, requiring more work, practice, and concentration. I experienced both of these as I headed to the Natatorium for my first swim. I wasn't paralyzed with fear per se, only inundated with irritating thoughts that kept my mind busy as I drove. These were only process oriented:
- I worried about the earplugs I had bought and if I would be able to get them to work properly. The last thing I need is swimmer's ear.
- I worried about looking lost getting to and through the locker room. This was compounded by my dislike of locker rooms.
- I realized that I only had one pair of flip flops - the ones I was wearing. Oh well, I would have to wear them out wet. Can you hear the squeaking?
- I wondered as I checked the outside temperature - 60 degrees - if I would freeze when I left after swimming because I was only wearing a t-shirt and shorts. Damp skin can do that.
New challenges presented themselves once I got inside:
- I couldn't figure out how to operate the lockers. The new fangled design took me about 2 minutes to figure out. Thankfully the moment of eureka happened before I conceded to leave my bag sitting on the bench during my swim.
- I was happy that the showers were idiot proof so my brain could take a rest.
- I realized I had forgotten to bring a plastic bag to put my wet stuff in after I swam.
All of these minor setbacks were one time occurrences, which I will not have to worry about next time I go. However, in their wake will come the second wave.
General George Patton once said:
"Accept the challenges so that you may feel the exhilaration of victory."
I am sure this was plucked from a speech where he went on to give an idea of how long and how much work such a victory might take. Well, after my swim today, it is clear my victory over this current challenge will take plenty of time.
I have spoiled myself the past few years with my hyper-focus on running, then on cycling. Complacent, possibly arrogant, I pump myself up; don't tolerate any weakness because I have figured out how to extend and endure. No wonder I can run 10, 12, 15 miles and make it look like nothing. Cycling is the same for me. I usually only do about 20 miles for lack of time to do more; I probably could put in 50 because I have been focusing on it. I have learned how to pace myself, how to moderate my stance and posture, and, most importantly, how to breath correctly. The key: the air is always there for me to breath. I just have to figure out how to get enough of it. If only I could somehow apply this principle to my Achille's Leg!
Swimming is a whole different playing field. OK, duh? Land, water. But it is so much more than I ever realized. I went in thinking I could plow through 10 laps (50 meters each)~half breast stroke, half freestyle~ just like I would plow through a 10 mile run. There's that arrogance rearing its contorted head.
What a suprise I got.
My breast stroke was almost a no-brainer. I could do that forever.
It was the freestyle that presented the greatest challenge. I had to switch to breast stroke after only 25 meters. My limbs kept moving even as I gasped for air. My brain had to intervene and remind my limbs that water does not work in the lungs the same way air does. My lungs wanted more air but it was only water that was so close. My limbs continued to be stubborn but finally relinquished. I think the lifeguard was grateful when that battle ended.
In the end, I did about 65 meters total of freestyle and 450 meters of breast stroke.
Which brings me to my new challenge: to improve my swimming enough to be able to do 500 meters of freestyle without that winded feeling. I know this means I will have to continue swimming even after my IT Band heals. This is not a bad proposition. The Natatorium is a beautiful, new facility; it is curiously not crowded. It's cheap and the staff is pleasant to deal with. Better than all, it appears well-ventilated so my chlorine allergy will not get the best of my sinuses. {Check out the pictures. I promise there was no one in the locker room when I took that picture. It would be too weird if there was!}
I see the addition of swimming to my training regimen as only a good thing in several ways: I can conquer another sport; I can improve my overall fitness because of the cross-training; and I can possibly come closer to someday participating in a triathlon.
All of which will contribute to some small personal victory (-ies). Thanks, General Patton!
Thursday, April 15
Swimming for the temporarily disabled
Being disabled sucks, to put it bluntly. No running. It actually still hurts to do the stairs but it's getting better. No cycling. This would just continue to retard the healing process. I guess I can walk. But that is so boring. No speed, no wind through my helmet. The withdrawal that comes from not being able to exercise is kicking in. My muscles are getting sore, my heart is starting to feel achy, and my mood is plummeting. I actually caught myself close to tears yesterday for no apparent reason.
But then I cheered up when I realized that there is an activity, in addition to heading to the gym, I can do while my ITB heals over the next 4-6 weeks.
Swim.
I don't particularly like swimming. I can do it, and usually do at least the breast stroke and the front crawl well, if not slow. I don't know how to do the butterfly, effectively, and I hate the back stroke.
Swimming is just not a sport I seek out.
Maybe it's because I hate getting swimmer's ear and the inevitable ear infection that comes afterward. I know I hate the necessity of trying to hide the razor burn at the top of my legs where I try to stifle my pubic hair from escaping the confines of my bathing suit. I should get it waxed like everyone else does but the razor is so much more convenient, and cheaper.
I like to do things alone. Solo. Did you catch the blog title? It's so true. The reason I like it this way is because I neither wait for nor depend on anyone else but me. Understandably then, waiting for a free lane at the local pool is not a favorite activity of mine. It wastes time and wages battle with my will power to stay and complete my activity. More about this later.
I also do not like having to share a lane. This is a theme with me. Maybe a theme with anyone having to share a confined space. Cyclists are not the best sharers; but neither are drivers, as evidenced by some of the experiences I have had on the open road as both a runner and a cyclist. Sharing is difficult.
Sharing a lane at the pool is more cumbersome than sharing the road. Doing the front crawl is one thing; I can handle that because all the limbs are moving in the same direction front and back. But the breast stroke is a completely different story. Picture a frog in a crowded fish tank. You have to have one or the other. Maybe that's why you never see frogs in fish tanks.
There are a few other reasons I do not prefer to swim: the highly chlorinated water (and things in that water that didn't die with all the chemicals), the locker room, and my slack belly that I still can't get rid of no matter how many ab-crunches I do.
No matter. For my health, and my sanity, I have to throw in {on :) }the towel on this one. In the long run it will benefit me and my family. Who knows? Maybe I can use it to springboard into completing a triathlon soon......nah, maybe not. Open water is not my thing. More on that one later, too.
But then I cheered up when I realized that there is an activity, in addition to heading to the gym, I can do while my ITB heals over the next 4-6 weeks.
Swim.
I don't particularly like swimming. I can do it, and usually do at least the breast stroke and the front crawl well, if not slow. I don't know how to do the butterfly, effectively, and I hate the back stroke.
Swimming is just not a sport I seek out.
Maybe it's because I hate getting swimmer's ear and the inevitable ear infection that comes afterward. I know I hate the necessity of trying to hide the razor burn at the top of my legs where I try to stifle my pubic hair from escaping the confines of my bathing suit. I should get it waxed like everyone else does but the razor is so much more convenient, and cheaper.
I like to do things alone. Solo. Did you catch the blog title? It's so true. The reason I like it this way is because I neither wait for nor depend on anyone else but me. Understandably then, waiting for a free lane at the local pool is not a favorite activity of mine. It wastes time and wages battle with my will power to stay and complete my activity. More about this later.
I also do not like having to share a lane. This is a theme with me. Maybe a theme with anyone having to share a confined space. Cyclists are not the best sharers; but neither are drivers, as evidenced by some of the experiences I have had on the open road as both a runner and a cyclist. Sharing is difficult.
Sharing a lane at the pool is more cumbersome than sharing the road. Doing the front crawl is one thing; I can handle that because all the limbs are moving in the same direction front and back. But the breast stroke is a completely different story. Picture a frog in a crowded fish tank. You have to have one or the other. Maybe that's why you never see frogs in fish tanks.
There are a few other reasons I do not prefer to swim: the highly chlorinated water (and things in that water that didn't die with all the chemicals), the locker room, and my slack belly that I still can't get rid of no matter how many ab-crunches I do.
No matter. For my health, and my sanity, I have to throw in {on :) }the towel on this one. In the long run it will benefit me and my family. Who knows? Maybe I can use it to springboard into completing a triathlon soon......nah, maybe not. Open water is not my thing. More on that one later, too.
Monday, April 12
Finish with a fizzle
I ran the Statesman Capitol 10K in Austin this past Sunday. Ooops - correction - tried to run. I would have, could have, run with a vengeance if my Achilles leg hadn't struck with a vengeance; its intensity a weave of the crippling pain I felt in the San Antonio half and the simply irritating pain of a long run.
The first two miles were comfortable; enough that I began thinking maybe I would get off lucky and not have any ITB problems. I concentrated on my posture and my stride by straightening my spine and widening my stance. The ITB (ilio-timoral band) is a muscle on the outside of the thigh that connects the hip to the knee. It is one of the longer muscles in the body and is very hard to stretch properly. When it gets tight, and with the friction that comes from the motion of both running and cycling, it causes pain and swelling which then can lead to runner's knee. Women are more prone than men because of our wider hips. The ITB tends to be torqued because of that wider angle.
I don't have particularly wide hips but nevertheless I am still in ITB hell and trying everything I can to reduce the pain.
ITB symptoms tend to worsen when running downhill. As I walked the downhills I know the other runners in the field of 20,000 were running past me thinking "Doesn't she have it backwards? The downhill is the easy part." If they thought that, they obviously have never been in ITB hell. Downhill is excruciating; uphill and straightaway are easy. I ran uphill at a not-so-slow but steady pace, trying to make up some time, past the huffing and puffing of those not in shape, only to reach the crest and gauge the grade of the decline to see if it was something I had to walk or could slowly shuffle down. Only once did I have the liberty of choosing the second option.
ITB symptoms tend to be erratic~up to a certain point. I mentioned earlier, everything was fine up to mile 2-ish. That is when the breakdown began. The end of the timed field that I had passed up to mile 2 began to go past me as I had to slow my pace. Around mile 4, as the fun runners (those without a timing chip) began to slowly surge past me, I fought the humiliation of not being able to keep up with my timed group and had to watch them pull away. More and more chipless runners came past around mile 5. Children, the overweight, and the out-of-shape all overtook me, despite my efforts.
Run, walk, run, walk, walk, shuffle, walk, slower, slower, still slower.
The first two miles were comfortable; enough that I began thinking maybe I would get off lucky and not have any ITB problems. I concentrated on my posture and my stride by straightening my spine and widening my stance. The ITB (ilio-timoral band) is a muscle on the outside of the thigh that connects the hip to the knee. It is one of the longer muscles in the body and is very hard to stretch properly. When it gets tight, and with the friction that comes from the motion of both running and cycling, it causes pain and swelling which then can lead to runner's knee. Women are more prone than men because of our wider hips. The ITB tends to be torqued because of that wider angle.
I don't have particularly wide hips but nevertheless I am still in ITB hell and trying everything I can to reduce the pain.
ITB symptoms tend to worsen when running downhill. As I walked the downhills I know the other runners in the field of 20,000 were running past me thinking "Doesn't she have it backwards? The downhill is the easy part." If they thought that, they obviously have never been in ITB hell. Downhill is excruciating; uphill and straightaway are easy. I ran uphill at a not-so-slow but steady pace, trying to make up some time, past the huffing and puffing of those not in shape, only to reach the crest and gauge the grade of the decline to see if it was something I had to walk or could slowly shuffle down. Only once did I have the liberty of choosing the second option.
ITB symptoms tend to be erratic~up to a certain point. I mentioned earlier, everything was fine up to mile 2-ish. That is when the breakdown began. The end of the timed field that I had passed up to mile 2 began to go past me as I had to slow my pace. Around mile 4, as the fun runners (those without a timing chip) began to slowly surge past me, I fought the humiliation of not being able to keep up with my timed group and had to watch them pull away. More and more chipless runners came past around mile 5. Children, the overweight, and the out-of-shape all overtook me, despite my efforts.
Run, walk, run, walk, walk, shuffle, walk, slower, slower, still slower.
The distance between mile 5 and mile 6 was the hardest because by that point I was fighting the urge to just walk the rest of it.... until I rounded the corner at the end of the bridge and eyed the finish line. It was then that I pushed all of the defeating thoughts away. Mustering as much speed as I could I did what any self-respecting runner would do: I ran through the pain regardless of the long lasting effects to my body. I sped up past a very overweight lady shuffling along in too-tight peach capris (and no timing chip!), and crossed the finish line.
I am hobbling today, 24 hours later. With the pain like it is now, I anticipate I will be hobbling through most of this week. Definitely on the DL for at least the next 4 weeks. Then, back to training, slow and steady, in preparation for next running season.
I am hobbling today, 24 hours later. With the pain like it is now, I anticipate I will be hobbling through most of this week. Definitely on the DL for at least the next 4 weeks. Then, back to training, slow and steady, in preparation for next running season.
Tuesday, April 6
My Achilles' leg
Yea, I know it's Achilles' tendon, or Achilles' heel harkening back to Greek mythology. For my issue, I have coined the phrase Achilles' leg. My Achilles' leg is my left leg.
The problems with my left leg run the gamut. The kicker is I never have any problems with my right leg, which I was worried about after my ski accident in 2005 due to the damage to my knee. After all, I suffered a contusion to the lateral femoral condyle, fraying of the lateral meniscus (no tears, thank God), MCL/ACL sprain, and chondromalacia patella. I was in recovery for almost 6 months.
Since then, I have struggled with shin splints. I know now these can result from a variety of issues. In my case it was inadequate training, infreqent and incorrect stretching, and fast bursts of speed at the end of a race. I have modified my routine to train more consistently and taper before a big race, stretch at the right time and in the right manner, and no showing off or hotdogging through the finish line. It was the damn hotdogging that turned minor shin splints into full-on multiple stress fractures in....you guessed it....my left leg at the end of a 10K up in Dallas in 2008. Only 8 weeks before running the Half Marathon in San Antonio.
....where things got so much worse about 8 miles into the race. The stress fractures flared up, which affected my gait, which then had a huge impact on both my knee and my hip. The pain radiating from my ankle to my hip was excruciating enough to contemplate walking through the finish line. Thanks to a nameless lady, whom I mentioned in a previous post, I was able to "run" through the finish line but my time was badly mangled.
I worked very hard on training smartly and I thought I had kicked the problem, up until now, as runner's knee rears its head. For my last Half in New Orleans, I pleaded with my doctor to give me a cortisone injection. He said it may or may not help. It did and I ran all 13.1 miles with NO pain. It was beautiful! Shaved 17 minutes off my previous time. He warned me, however, that I couldn't do that all the time.
Which brings me to where I am now: a race approaching in 5 days with an ITB flare-up and no end in sight to the pain without just staying immobile.
I have 2 other major races I want to run later this year. One is the Ten for Texas 10-miler in October and then the St. Jude Half Marathon in Memphis in December.
My plan is to stay immobile until Sunday, with the exception of some walking. Run the race on Sunday and implement all of my "smart" stretching and strategies. Then take some time off, maybe 2 weeks, before slowly adding on miles again complete with full stretching of the IT band on a regular basis.
Achilles' died as a result of his wound. I hope this injury will not force the same dismal curtain call for my running and cycling, for what would I then do to vent my energies?
The problems with my left leg run the gamut. The kicker is I never have any problems with my right leg, which I was worried about after my ski accident in 2005 due to the damage to my knee. After all, I suffered a contusion to the lateral femoral condyle, fraying of the lateral meniscus (no tears, thank God), MCL/ACL sprain, and chondromalacia patella. I was in recovery for almost 6 months.
Since then, I have struggled with shin splints. I know now these can result from a variety of issues. In my case it was inadequate training, infreqent and incorrect stretching, and fast bursts of speed at the end of a race. I have modified my routine to train more consistently and taper before a big race, stretch at the right time and in the right manner, and no showing off or hotdogging through the finish line. It was the damn hotdogging that turned minor shin splints into full-on multiple stress fractures in....you guessed it....my left leg at the end of a 10K up in Dallas in 2008. Only 8 weeks before running the Half Marathon in San Antonio.
....where things got so much worse about 8 miles into the race. The stress fractures flared up, which affected my gait, which then had a huge impact on both my knee and my hip. The pain radiating from my ankle to my hip was excruciating enough to contemplate walking through the finish line. Thanks to a nameless lady, whom I mentioned in a previous post, I was able to "run" through the finish line but my time was badly mangled.
I worked very hard on training smartly and I thought I had kicked the problem, up until now, as runner's knee rears its head. For my last Half in New Orleans, I pleaded with my doctor to give me a cortisone injection. He said it may or may not help. It did and I ran all 13.1 miles with NO pain. It was beautiful! Shaved 17 minutes off my previous time. He warned me, however, that I couldn't do that all the time.
Which brings me to where I am now: a race approaching in 5 days with an ITB flare-up and no end in sight to the pain without just staying immobile.
I have 2 other major races I want to run later this year. One is the Ten for Texas 10-miler in October and then the St. Jude Half Marathon in Memphis in December.
My plan is to stay immobile until Sunday, with the exception of some walking. Run the race on Sunday and implement all of my "smart" stretching and strategies. Then take some time off, maybe 2 weeks, before slowly adding on miles again complete with full stretching of the IT band on a regular basis.
Achilles' died as a result of his wound. I hope this injury will not force the same dismal curtain call for my running and cycling, for what would I then do to vent my energies?
Thursday, April 1
Bad cyclists
I apologize for giving motorists a hard time yesterday. I felt guilty today. Because of that guilt, I spent much of my time while driving (which I did alot of today) analyzing the etiquette of cyclists on the road and thinking about what cyclists can do to try to move the mountain of bad karma they seem to have created.
So....cyclists: this one's for you.
* Do signal more frequently and at the appropriate time. Remember that your signaling is binary: you do it once, and then stop. However, the signal of a car, those other users of the open road, stays on until disengaged by the correction of the wheel after the turn. What does this mean for you? You may think the cars behind you saw your left turn signal when in reality they missed it because they were too far back or you flicked it once and did not do it again. My suggestion: do it once about 100ft before the turn, then do it again right before and/or through the very beginning of the turn. Same approach applies to lane changes.
*Do ride single file, particularly on crowded roads. If you are riding on a completely open road with no other traffic, stay attuned to traffic behind you and adjust your position accordingly.
*Do use the shoulder if it is there and the surface is smooth.
*Don't cycle on the feeder at rush hour (I actually saw a cyclist doing this tonight). Bad idea for both you and the other motorists. Neither one of you wants to get in a collision. But, let's face it, the consequences of such a thing would be much worse on you. Even if you can avoid a collision, why open yourself up to such a risk? Just not worth pushing your "pedestrian" status around in that venue.
*Do wear bright clothing and a properly fitted helmet. Truthfully, most cyclists follow this rule.
*Don't listen to anything else but the sound of the traffic, e.g. music, books on tape, or anything else can play on standard MP3 devices. You need to be aware of what is going on around you, particularly what is coming up behind you.
*Do use a rear-view mirror. You may still have to turn your head right before you turn to get a full view, but at least you will be able to take a peek while keeping your eyes on the road ahead of you.
*Do yield right of way, even at stop signs. You are expected to follow the same rules of the road as motorists. Not doing so confuses traffic, leads to accidents, and just results in pissing everyone off.
As I commented in yesterday's post, the situation between motorists and cyclists is caused by mutually aggressive behavior and insensitive presumptions. With a little accommodation from both parties that state of affairs might be reversed or at least quelled.
Why not try out some of these ideas the next time you are next out cycling on the open road and report back?
So....cyclists: this one's for you.
* Do signal more frequently and at the appropriate time. Remember that your signaling is binary: you do it once, and then stop. However, the signal of a car, those other users of the open road, stays on until disengaged by the correction of the wheel after the turn. What does this mean for you? You may think the cars behind you saw your left turn signal when in reality they missed it because they were too far back or you flicked it once and did not do it again. My suggestion: do it once about 100ft before the turn, then do it again right before and/or through the very beginning of the turn. Same approach applies to lane changes.
*Do ride single file, particularly on crowded roads. If you are riding on a completely open road with no other traffic, stay attuned to traffic behind you and adjust your position accordingly.
*Do use the shoulder if it is there and the surface is smooth.
*Don't cycle on the feeder at rush hour (I actually saw a cyclist doing this tonight). Bad idea for both you and the other motorists. Neither one of you wants to get in a collision. But, let's face it, the consequences of such a thing would be much worse on you. Even if you can avoid a collision, why open yourself up to such a risk? Just not worth pushing your "pedestrian" status around in that venue.
*Do wear bright clothing and a properly fitted helmet. Truthfully, most cyclists follow this rule.
*Don't listen to anything else but the sound of the traffic, e.g. music, books on tape, or anything else can play on standard MP3 devices. You need to be aware of what is going on around you, particularly what is coming up behind you.
*Do use a rear-view mirror. You may still have to turn your head right before you turn to get a full view, but at least you will be able to take a peek while keeping your eyes on the road ahead of you.
*Do yield right of way, even at stop signs. You are expected to follow the same rules of the road as motorists. Not doing so confuses traffic, leads to accidents, and just results in pissing everyone off.
As I commented in yesterday's post, the situation between motorists and cyclists is caused by mutually aggressive behavior and insensitive presumptions. With a little accommodation from both parties that state of affairs might be reversed or at least quelled.
Why not try out some of these ideas the next time you are next out cycling on the open road and report back?
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