Beware: Stupidity Ahead

It's been awhile since I've blogged. Finishing another grueling round of marathon training then topping it off with a successful race apparently puts me in automatic vacation mode. Not the lounging-on-a-sandy-white-beach-listening-to-the-waves-and-sipping-piña-coladas kind of vacation mode. More like the shutting-off-the-alarm-clock-instead-of-getting-up-to-run-in-the-cold-dark-because-I'm-not-training-and-don't-have-to-run-anyway kind of vacation mode. It's no fruity drink with a miniature umbrella, but it's a pretty good place to be nonetheless.

Truth be told, I've never been much for recovery. Three days after my marathon, when I was finally able to move forward more than three steps at a time, I naturally felt like I was due for a run. That weekend, I ran eight miles of rolling hills. The next weekend, I ran 12 miles of flat country roads. And the next weekend, I was nursing an injury.

Well, surprise, surprise.

Sustaining a post-marathon injury is as inevitable for me as Kanye West making a fool of himself in public. It's just bound to happen.

Of course, I'm no stranger to injury. In my relatively short running career, I've injured everything there is to injure. More than once. I've been there, done that. And because I've been there, done that, I know exactly how to treat an injury. Forget resting and taking time off in order to heal, blah blah blah. Nooo... the way to treat an injury is with ice. Lots and lots of ice. There's just no such thing as too much ice.

Except... apparently, there is.

I'm the kind of person who scoffs at printed warnings because they obviously only pertain to stupid people. Don't put ice pack directly on skin? Pfftt... that's for stupid people. Don't leave ice pack on skin for more than 15-20 minutes at a time? Whatever. Only a moron would need to be told that.

Anyway, I'm done blogging now. Show's over. You folks go back to what you were doing.

The frostbite on my thigh needs another antibiotic treatment.

Top of Utah: Take Two

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. Seems to me that's one good reason why marathon runners are considered insane (besides the obvious ones, of course).

Saturday morning, I ran my fourth marathon and for the first time, I ran a marathon I'd already run before. A marathon that'd already kicked my butt before. And yet, there I was again... begging for more.

Insanity at its finest.

To be fair, the technical results this time actually were different... 14 minutes and 35 seconds different, to be exact (which was the improvement I made on the same course from two years ago). Even better, I set a new marathon PR on Saturday as well by clocking in at 4:19:22, more than seven minutes faster than my previous personal record.

I should be ecstatic, right? Well... I am. Sort of. But here's where the insanity comes into play.

At mile 20, I was on course to shatter my PR, not just clip it. The first 18 miles of the course were downhill and despite my efforts to keep my legs in check, they were on fire. Even the weather was working against me with a strong 15mph tailwind pushing me even faster down the canyon. Over and over again, I checked my GPS for my pace and over and over again, I had to force myself to SLOW DOWN. It was all an effort in vain, however, and although I managed to keep things from going wildly out of control, I failed miserably at disciplining myself enough to stick to the negative split strategy in order to finish strong.

It all felt sickeningly familiar.

Two years ago, I did the exact same thing. I built up a full head of steam the first 18 miles running downhill only to crash and burn and lose a PR in the final six miles. For all intents and purposes, it should have been a lesson learned... if I were sane, that is.

In the end, I still got the PR I was coveting on Saturday morning, one that has eluded me since I ran my first marathon more than three years ago. And while I'm annoyed with myself that I can't seem to find the necessary discipline to avoid the Crash and Burn that would've resulted in a much bigger PR, I'm still supremely pleased with my accomplishment. Perhaps I'm the kind of runner that will only make PR's in small chunks at a time... and that's okay. At least the numbers are going in the right direction and that's reason enough to keep trying.

I don't know if I'll be back to Top of Utah. Although I love the event, I just don't get along with the course. I'll be researching marathons in the coming months that will be much more forgiving of my insistence to start out too fast. If it has to be an uphill marathon, so be it, as long as there's enough flat or downhill at the end of it to finally turn my legs loose.

It's the least I can do to repay them for all the hard work they do at the hands of a lunatic.
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Warm orange Powerade never tasted so good. If my tank top seems a little... errr... off kilter, it's because my last energy gel (out of four total) is still stuffed in the right side. I've never felt so voluptuous.

An impromptu "ice bath" after the race (hopefully the last time I'll be pictured lying in a gutter). My Garmin registered a total of 26.5 miles, no doubt a result of my inefficiency in running the tangents down the winding canyon road. No wonder I'm still so sore today... stinkin' extra three tenths of a mile!

Mission Accomplished

I snagged myself a brand new marathon PR yesterday morning. Could've been by seven or eight more minutes than it was but bonkers can't be choosers.

Details and pictures to come soon.

Ready to Rumble

This will be a short post since I'm incredibly busy resting and carbo-loading right now. My marathon is Saturday morning and the last thing I want to do is come down with a last-minute finger injury from typing up a long blog post... not to mention the brain power it requires to come up with the stuff I do. Right now, I'm trying to use as few of my bodily functions as possible.

Turns out the last few weeks of marathon training had one more little trick up its sleeve to play on me. Somehow, I fell victim to a strained hip flexor two weeks ago. It was one of those muscles I didn't realize I even had until it started hurting. I think it happened during a long tempo run on the treadmill but not realizing the severity of it, I went and exacerbated it a few days later by running 22 miles. I exacerbate quite a lot... but that's a post for another day.

Long story short (saving the fingers, you know), I've been having to constantly baby my hip flexor for a couple of weeks. That's a tricky spot to stretch, let me tell ya, and icing it... well... let's just say my walking around with an ice pack stuffed down the front of my pants doesn't raise a single eyebrow in my house.

I think-- I hope-- I have it under control. No doubt I'll be doped up on ibuprofen come race morning but I'm still confident there's a PR waiting for me at the finish line, assuming everything else goes in my favor.

If not, I might have to exacerbate something and it ain't gonna be pretty.

Dose of Humility

It never fails.

The last few weeks of marathon training always fool with me. They're like that prankster in grade school who thinks it's hilarious to pull out a chair from underneath you then laugh maniacally while you lie on the ground clutching your tailbone. Simply put, the last few weeks of marathon training are pure evil. If something goes wrong, you can bet your kids' college funds the last few weeks of marathon training have something to do with it.

Usually it's not until the taper when they really start messing with you. You've survived the worst of the training and the end is in sight. All you've got to do is run a few miles here and there to keep your legs fresh, the kind of workouts you can do in your sleep. You can guiltlessly eat and sleep in copious amounts and just put your feet up until the day comes when a measly 26.2 miles are on the schedule. But that's the cue for the last few weeks of marathon training to move in and stir up some trouble. You start feeling anxious about not running as much or as long. Little niggling worries and doubts take hold in your head like a thistle in a patch of weeds. And of course, the most cunning trick of the last few weeks of marathon training: the phantom injuries. The ache in your calf you wake up with one morning that you've never felt before. The sore ankle you notice when all you've been doing is keeping the couch warm. It takes very little pain to throw you into a wild state of panic.

Oh, the clever and wily ways of the last few weeks of marathon training.

I've fallen prey to them time and again and this training round is no different. Except this time it was with a twist. The last few weeks of marathon training must have realized I was onto them and their insidious ruse because they went out of their way to throw me a curve ball-- even employing the help of an outside and equally shrewd force.

The other night, on a day when I hadn't even run, I felt a tingle in the middle toe on my right foot. My toes have certainly been a source of trouble the last few months, what with shedding their nails and all, but this was a different sensation. Instinctively, I looked down to see my toe was noticeably red and swollen.

"Last few weeks of marathon training!", I instantly hissed.

Sure enough, upon further inspection, my toe hurt. I poked and prodded to survey the extent of the damage and sure enough, it hurt a lot. I began mentally backtracking what'd I'd done in the last 24 hours that could have possibly caused my toe to behave this way and I couldn't think of a single thing. I hadn't stubbed it on anything; I hadn't stepped on anything. And it'd been days since I kicked any stray cats. I was truly perplexed.

The next morning when I swung my feet around to get out of bed to run, I stood up and nearly crumpled. I let out a moan as the pain traveled six feet from the nerves in my foot up to the nerves in my brain.

"That the best you got?", I taunted the last few weeks of marathon training as I defiantly laced up my running shoes. Without hesitation, I headed out the door and ran six miles of speedwork drills while ignoring the occasional needle stabs that were going on within my sock.

Apparently, that pissed the last few weeks of marathon training off big time. I barely made it to work that day. When my boss (a chiropractor) took a look at my toe and pulled on it, I came within just millimeters of knocking his teeth out of his head with my knee.

I went to bed that night pretty sure I had a broken toe. With a new respect for the last few weeks of marathon training, I begged for forgiveness and promised to acknowledge and subject myself to its majesty for the remainder of my days if only I was spared to be capable of running my marathon.

The next morning, the pain was gone. Completely gone. I would have suspected it was all a bad dream if my toe wasn't still a little red and swollen. It ocurred to me not long aftewards that it was never a broken toe at all but most likely a bad spider bite that nearly brought me to my knees begging the last few weeks of marathon training for mercy.

Humility is a humbling thing.

I have no mind to tempt the last few weeks of marathon training again, especially now that after one more long training run this weekend I'm officially starting my taper. I possess no such reverence for its shady wingmen, however. The next spider I see in my house will not get the customary swirl job in the toilet. Oh no. I'll be pinning the repugnant arachnid on a piece of cardboard and pulling its eight legs off its body one at a time while I watch it squirm. Nobody messes with me during the last few weeks of marathon training.

Except, of course, the last few weeks of marathon training.

De-Monkeyed

It's a few weeks after the fact but I suppose it would be appropriate to report here on my so-called "running blog" the new half-marathon PR I pulled off at my last race. This was the PR that has haunted me for over two years. The one that followed me around like hungry stray dog, taunting me as I attempted over and over again--and failed over and over again-- to claim it.

I'm pleased to report not only did I best my previous half-marathon PR by three minutes, but for the first time in my illustrious running career, I brought in 13.1 miles under two hours. 1:58:35, to be exact... and you'd better believe I'm counting that extra minute and 25 seconds as further reason to gloat. Not only did I shake that monkey off my back once and for all but I spit in his monkey face and kicked it in its monkey nuts. Never before in my life has beating up a monkey been so fun.

As it turns out, I run pretty darn fast after getting a root canal. Whoulda thunk? Maybe it's not the most conventional of strategies, but hey, to each their own. Of course, I might have a hard time ponying up the $800 it requires each time I race, but then again, those race fees are getting a little hefty themselves. Pretty soon, I'll have to offer my children to enter a marathon and since I only have so many of them, I guess I'd better choose my races wisely.

As for this race, it really just boiled down to gutting it out. It was a late start-- 7:30a.m.-- and for someone used to training while the sun is barely peeking above the eastern horizon, it felt warm and muggy before I even took my first steps. The course was tricky with lots of rolling hills, starting two miles into the run and ending at the finish line. And then there was the issue at mile 9 of inadvertently nudging my contact lens up into my eyelid when I reached to wipe some sweat off my brow. It was insult to injury as the lens in my other eye had already clouded over with sweat a couple miles prior. At mile 9, I was exactly on my target PR pace and knew I couldn't stop for even a minute if I wanted to get it. Despite being nearly blind in one eye and might-as-well-be blind in the other, I forged ahead, able to see only enough to stay on course and not get hit by a car (although I had a close call with a six-year old on his bicycle).

For the first time in a race, I nearly spewed my innards while approaching the finish line. I wasn't more than a tenth of a mile away when I felt a wave of dizziness pass over me. My body swayed a little to the left and I imagine I looked a lot like a drunkard trying to walk a straight line. I teetered and tottered for a few seconds until I regained some balance then somehow managed to continue moving forward until I saw someone with a watch who told me I could stop. Once I did, I stepped aside enough to avoid getting run over by anyone coming up from behind me to put my hands on my knees and dry heave a couple times. Thankfully, I managed to hold it in and felt better after getting some water and sitting down. Actual vomiting before, during or after a race is something I will have to look forward to another day.

Once I'd recovered and caught my breath, my predominant feeling (other than exhaustion) was sheer satisfaction. I'd spent the last seven months training like a fool. I followed a program that made me faster and kept me injury-free and I put my pedal to the metal and floored it week after week. To see the hard work pay off in the form of attaining such a coveted PR was extremely satisfying to me. I drove home that day with the smuggest of smiles on my face.

Not even the pathetic whimpering moans of the monkey tied up and gagged in the back seat of my car could erase it.
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For anyone keeping track of me, my next race is a full marathon the third Saturday in September. I've already knocked out a strong 20-mile training run with a 22-miler still to come. I don't want to jinx myself by being too cocky, but I'm feeling quite confident about this race. I think another PR just might be biting the dust soon.

T-Pain

My face has been a source of severe frustration lately... and not just because of the reflection in the mirror.

A couple of months ago, I started feeling some pain in the left side of my face. It would migrate from my lower teeth into my upper jaw, toward my ear and inevitably into my temple. Some days it would just be a minor nuisance but others would find me wincing in pain throughout the day.

Since I'm a woman, nobody really knew about it. I kept it quiet and went about my daily business as if nothing was wrong. Incidentally, during that time, my husband strained his back moving a piece of furniture and I was reminded about it for days while he was convinced he was bound for his deathbed any moment.

Since I'm generally a pretty healthy horse (not so much as a cold in the last three years!), I figured whatever it was would ride its course and then leave me alone. I was too busy to get sick and since things like this obviously happen only when it's convenient, I was certain I was going to be just fine. Imagine my sheer annoyance when several weeks after it began, the pain not only didn't go away and leave me alone, it got exponentially worse.

What the what?!

Suddenly I was popping ibuprofen like it was pez candy and curling up in the fetal position for hours at a time. The pain was still resonating all over the left side of my face, making me feel like Arnold in The Terminator. Any minute, it seemed my skin was going to peel back off my skull to reveal something hideous (like The Terminator half, not the Arnold half).

With a potential PR opportunity in a half-marathon coming up quickly, I decided to do something crazy: I went to see a doctor. I pointed out all my boo-boos; he looked up my nose. Together, we determined it was a bad sinus infection. He sent me off with a prescription for a super-potency, high-octane augmented antiobiotic guaranteed to clear up the sinus infection, fix my face and grow back my toenails in no time. Immediately after returning home from the pharmacy, I threw back the first pill and went about my normal business.

A week later, after spending the night visiting the bathroom over and over again because the meds were making me so sick while my face still pounded in agony, I resigned myself to calling the dentist. I knew it was one of my options in the first place but figured I'd start inexpensively and work my way up as needed.

Thankfully, my dentist was able to squeeze me in that same day. I plopped down in the chair and pointed to the tooth that seemed to be hurting the most. That's when I got a root canal.

Turns out the root system underneath my molar was so badly infected it was causing pain throughout my whole face. As opposed to learning I had just days to live, that was nice to hear.

I can't say the root canal was horrible; in fact, it really wasn't a whole lot worse than getting a cavity filled. I think that's because I was on the laughing gas, which I happen to believe is almost as good as dying in my sleep and going to heaven. (I grew up in a very conservative community so I was never really exposed to alcohol or drugs. My first time on laughing gas I was riding rollercoasters in the sky and recounting all the classic knock-knock jokes in my head. I may have even told the doctor a few of them while he was drilling.)

I've got to go back next week to have the root canal finished. Apparently, the doctor only had time to do half of it, which seems a little odd. Would an OB/GYN only have time to deliver half a baby? In any case, I'm stuck in a little bit of limbo until that happens. Doc predicted I'd have some soreness the next couple of days but then promised I'd start feeling better. Hopefully the feeling better part will come just in time for my race on Saturday morning. My training has been going really well and I think I've got a good shot at snagging that half-marathon PR I've been coveting for so long. I don't want to have to blame missing it on a bum tooth, although I most definitely will if I fall short.

Then again, maybe I'll just sneak some of the happy gas and ride a rollercoaster in the sky on my way to a guaranteed PR while I distract everyone I pass in my wake with knock-knock jokes.

I think I just found myself a race strategy.