Boldly running where I've never gone before

The 39^th annual Mayor’s Marathon was held on June 24, 2012, in Anchorage on one of the hottest race days in memory (according to a few local runners), and I couldn’t help but feel it was my fault.  After all, when I ran the January 2010 Walt Disney World Half in Orlando, it ended up 34 degrees with sleet in supposedly balmy Florida.  Go figure!  I guess if I was a mutant, I’d have to be Storm.

Race weekend, as always, started with the Expo.  Unlike the Rock & Roll Series or some of the large events in Chicago (where I live about 50 miles outside the city), this was a modest affair held at the Sheraton in Anchorage.  A handful of booths promoted the usual attire, products and services, but the coolest attraction was the chance to be photographed with a real live moose.  Sort of.

Along with a Youth Cup, contests on race day included a full marathon (individual as well as 4-person relay), a half and a five mile race.  I did the half-marathon which started, along with the 5 miler, at the West High School at 9:00 a.m. Saturday.  The marathon’s starting point was located at Bartlett High School a few miles away.  Although the half and the full marathon started in different locations, they shared a common finish line.

I got to the venue at about 8:00 in order to scope things out and warm up.  As my fellow runners gathered and we clustered near the start, the first thing  I noticed was porta potty lines long and number of facilities a bit short so I made sure to get nature’s call sorted out before joining the crowd.  Soon the emcee began the standard announcements and indicated that 48 states as well as D.C. were represented at this year’s event with the largest number ever of Alaskan runners present.  A cheer spread throughout the crowd and the enthusiasm made me smile.  At about 8 minutes before the gun, we stopped to listen to a recording of possibly the Alaska state song (since we don’t do this in Illinois, I wasn’t sure what was going on at first) followed by the Star Spangled Banner.  Then the surge of participants continued toward the start line to wait for the race to begin.

I had read a race report a few months earlier which commented on lack of organization among runners at the line and how tough it was to wade through the charity walkers scattered at the starting area.  Finding this to be true, I tried to squeeze in somewhere near the back without getting stuck in the last tiers.  I am not fast by any means but I didn’t want to lose time by having to fight my way to my own pace group.  It seemed like people were spread out all over the place and it wasn’t easy to decide where to stand.  As we neared the final moments before the gun, they played “We Are the Champions” by Queen and “Rock & Roll” by Gary Glitter, two great songs to rev up that running motor.  Immediately before the gun sounded, the actual Mayor of Anchorage turned up to announce the start.  I was pleasantly surprised by that.  Even with the moniker of “Mayor’s” race I would never expect to see Rahm Emanuel if it was held in Chicago, so I found it quite nice (and his hair was perfect).

Gun having fired, off we went.  Runners, walkers and crazy moms with jog strollers, we sorted ourselves out and took off through the neighborhood.  As the crowd thinned out, we wound down Northern Lights Boulevard for probably about three miles.  I spotted several people in costume:  the usual tutus and fairy princesses among the girls and a variety of animals among the guys, including Mr. Moose here who posed for several fellow runners:

 At Mile 2  was an orchestra ensemble serenading us on a corner.

Closing in on Mile 3, I noticed people stopping and snapping photos at the sky.  There was an eagle on the utility pole.

My cell phone camera doesn’t have a good zoom but I tried:  

A short distance more and we turned off along the Coastal Trail and the vista changed from urban to glorious Alaskan countryside.  Despite all the photo ops, I was still making decent time at this point.  It was warm for Alaska (with a high of 72 degrees on June’s hottest day) but the sun wasn’t at its peak yet and the few early hills were modest.  Aid stations were plentiful, being located at 2.6, 4.8, 6.5, 8.2, 10, and 11.5 miles, and each participated in a contest for originality and enthusiasm which could gain them a $500 prize.  It was nice to be offered pretzels and orange slices along with sports drink and water.  A couple of stations had gummy bears, and one even featured a singer wailing a version of “Dream On” a la Steven Tyler.

It must have been somewhere around mile 7 that we passed the airport runway and the muscle cramps began.  I had done well in the increasing heat and was careful to drink enough, but I really hadn’t had much for breakfast and I was starting to get hungry.  My food focus this entire year has been on weight loss and it was thus a bit of a task for me to increase calories in the days preceding the race.  Both thighs began to curse me for that poor choice at around this point in the run.

After passing the airport we continued on for some time and then turned off into a forest where we left the road entirely and took to the trails.  I scarfed down a Clif Bar which brought me respite from fatigue but my legs were still painful  – not so severe as to stop me but enough to dampen my spirits a bit.  The cool and shade of the forest was refreshing and kept the heat at bay for a few miles.

At one point we found ourselves on a crowded paved path which was shared with the general public, and a disconcerting dance with the bicyclists began.  Approaching us from both front and rear, they zoomed past leaving breezes and sometimes impatience in their wake.  Unfortunately, a teenage girl riding with her family tried to weave between the runners but lost control and fell to the ground with a pitiful shriek.  Several runners and I turned to help her but her mom waved us off, saying “it’s okay, I’ve got it, I’ve got it.”  So awkwardly forward we went.

Mile 10 arrived to find me walking more than running.  I was hot and tired and my left IT band felt like someone was holding a cheese grater to it.  The marathoners’ course had merged with ours and an aid station volunteer cheerily called out to them: “only 16 more miles to go!”  For a split second, my blood ran cold.  “16 miles!” I thought, “are you freakin kidding me?!”  Then my mind registered reality and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Passing the mile marker, a girl asked me to take her photo beside it.  I obliged and we fell in together for a short distance.  She was visiting from Washington DC and, like me, was a “slow runner” who enjoyed destination races.  We chatted a while and walked along but I soon felt the urge to push on at a faster clip.  Cramps be damned, I just needed to finish.  So I picked up the pace and bade her farewell heading along solo for the final 5k.

Onward I went running and walking in no specific pattern, all thoughts of a PR having wilted under the sun many miles previous.  The final ½ mile of the course was a steep uphill dichotomy, brutal and hopeful all at the same time.  And then there it was:  the finish line.

I cruised across the finish as the announcer mispronounced my name and a volunteer handed me a medal.  Fatigued and exhilarated, hungry and happy, I ambled off toward cold water bottles and a large chunk of cinnamon bread with butter from Great Harvest Bakery.  There was a beer garden and plenty of festivities to enjoy but I had a cabin waiting for me at Denali and therefore no time to tarry.

Overall, the Mayor’s Marathon proved to be a fun outing and a race I would consider again if I didn’t have 38 more states on my bucket list.  Despite the crowded start line, annoying moms with jog strollers and dangerous mingling with leisure bikers, the route was a pleasant one (even with the killer hill at the end).  The scenery was gorgeous, the aid stations were plentiful and the after party looked promising.  Other than a bit more typical Alaska weather, I couldn’t have asked for more.  How did I do timewise?  I really couldn’t say.  My bib chip didn’t register and I wasn’t accurate with my Garmin so I simply must assume that it was “good enough.”

Bones McCoy, where the hell are ya?!

Yep, believe it or not, I’m sick again — gradually getting better, but sick nonetheless with yet another cold.  My entire life I’ve gotten frequent upper respiratory infections.  I guess it’s just my personal physical weakness and I haven’t let it sidetrack me for too long, but here we go again.

TRAINING DIARY FROM THE PAST WEEK:

Saturday 6/9/12
After a suddent sneezing fit yesterday, my left nostril began to burn in that familiar fashion that always heralds the onset of a respiratory bug.  But that couldn’t be, I thought.  I hadn’t treated a sick patient in well over a week, was as careful as usual about handwashing, and didn’t think I had been overtraining to thus weaken my immune system.  Regardless, there it all was this morning:  stuffy nose, raw throat, fatigue and achiness.  Feh!  The day had originally called for a 12 mile training run, but with the weather forecasting a very hot and windy day combined with the way I felt, I moved that workout forward to Tuesday, June 12, which would hopefully find me feeling better on a cooler day.  Instead I spent 45 minutes easy running followed by 45 minutes on the bike.  Then I went into the City to hang out with a friend, ate a lot of meat and drank too much beer.  That part was fun.

Sunday 6/10/12
A much-needed rest day after my Bacchanalian blowout.

Monday 6/11/12
A sick day.  A snot-slinging, glazed-eye, stuffy headed sick day.  Phooey.

Tuesday 6/12/12
Still sick.  But I had to do something….anything.  So after sulking for about an hour, I looked back over my training blog for the year of my first half-marathon in December 2009 (which was my best-timed half marathon as it was just before the stress-eating and weight gain that started when my life went cuckoo).  I never ran more than 10 miles when training for that race either.  My long run plans were derailed by snowy weather — because it was a winter race and back then that stuff bothered me — yet I did better than I’ve done since.  So I made myself a big bowl of what I call “decadent oatmeal”, 1 and ½ portions of thick cut oats with butter, brown sugar, walnuts and Silk soy creamer, and washed it down with 16 ounces of water.  Then I dressed, laced up the running shoes, and set out to walk, just WALK no matter how fast or slow, for as long as I could.  After the walk I would end all thought of the 12-miler and any regret for not doing it.  When misery threatens to eclipse the progress you have worked so long to nurture, it must be banished.  It can’t be given a nano-molecule of power lest it overtake you completely.  Hell, I’ve never done a race I felt prepared for anyway.  Why start now?

Despite my best intentions, I didn’t make it very far before I completely pooped out.  I felt weak and devoid of energy, and I couldn’t talk myself into pushing ahead.  Another day of rest was needed.  Bleh

Wednesday 6/13/12
Feeling slightly better, I gave myself a goal of 3 miles, no matter what the speed.  I walked the first mile then tried to run, making it only several steps before needing to slack off.  After walking a bit, I repeated the same effort and was able to run a little longer.  I figured I would just do this as many times as I could and continued.  By the end of the outing, I was able to run about 1/4  to 1/2 block without feeling too bad.  Recovery was well on the way.

Thursday 6/14/12
Feeling a bit more improved today, despite a night of sketchy sleep, I covered the same 3 miles of road this morning.  I felt stronger from the start and finished almost 7 minutes faster than yesterday.  I’m still not at 100% and COMPLETELY unsure if I am up to the 15k I have planned for this coming Saturday but I’m heading down to Peoria anyway.  There is a 4 miler on the same course as the 15k, so if I can’t do the very hilly 9.3 miles I signed up for, I’ll do the 4.  I’m hoping better sleep tonight and tomorrow combined with an extra 24 hours of healing time will power me through the longer distance.  But we’ll see.

More to come….

***********************************************

Edited to include sessions up to the Half Marathon in Anchorage:

6/15 — 45 MINUTE bike ride

6/16 — PEORIA STEAMBOAT CLASSIC:  dumbed down to the 4 miler.  It was brutally hot and I wasn’t up to a 9 miler.  I did okay but not stellar.  Main goal at this point was rest and readiness for the half marathon.  In considering two years of running Peoria, I’ve decided I might not do this race again.  It was a long way to go for what is not an exceptional event.  Water stations were sparse and one was merely a table with some lady’s garden hose nearby to fill cups.  The after party was nice but I can drink beer at home.

6/17 — a day of unanticipated REST.  The “cold”, instead of healing, at this point turned nasty.  Chills, thick green snot and a bowling ball seemingly rolling in my sinuses.  The second true sinus infection of my life!  Phoeey!  I called myself in a Z-pack and decided to take it easier for a few days.

6/18 — 60 minutes slow, mostly walking, some running

6/19 — 35 minutes easy pedaling on the bike

6/20 and 6/21 — days OFF; 6/20 I spent my extra time packing and 6/21 was a full day spent flying from Chicago to Anchorage (via DFW….go figure)

6/22 — lots of walking around Anchorage, including a walk from midtown to downtown (approximately 3 miles)

Half Marathon Race Report next.

These words, which closed the movie “Star Trek IV:  The Undiscovered Country”, were actually paraphrased from “Peter Pan” where they indicated the direction of Neverland.  I find them also to be apt descriptors of how I would like to run:  as far as I can go for as long as my legs will carry me, through the night and to the stars if possible.  Thus LSD, the “long slow distance”, is definitely my run of choice.  So it was with more than a bit of wonder that I found myself at a 5k this past Sunday.  If not a charity event or leisurely outing with friends, I see the 5k as a venue for the hare-footed to showcase their speed and therefore I tend to do few of them.

Being a larger runner, I belong to a special category called “Athena” class and my running club, CARA, has a separate circuit competition for us which requires an annual weigh-in.  I neglected to do so at the Soldier Field race and the next opportunity was the Roselle Run for the Roses on June 3, so I signed up.  I hadn’t run a 5k in well over a year (unless you count the snowshoe races), and I had forgotten what fun they can be.  Arriving early to pick up my packet, I had plenty of time to mill around and watch the crowd.  There were serious athletes — barely dressed and dashing to and fro as they warmed their impressive fast-twitch muscle fibers — alongside fun runners chatting in groups, some with race-bibbed children in tow.  Near the pick-up kiosk I spied a trio of very tan silver haired gents leaning lazily against a car, a young woman even doughier than myself, and a middle-aged couple contentedly waiting on a bench.  So many different agendas all in the same place.  Could I beat any of them today, I wondered.  Would I even try?  After all, I was really there just to weigh and didn’t particularly feel like leaving my slow-plodding comfort zone by attempting a sprint.

Eventually we all gathered at the start line and the air horn sounded.  A DJ with a stereo set-up nearby was blaring the song from Rocky over a loudspeaker:  “gonna fly now, flying high now….”  It gave me an unexpected boost of energy and I laughed as I contemplated bellowing Stallone-style “Yo Adrian!” as I passed, but resisted the temptation.

The course was a pleasant meander through an older neighborhood with huge trees and gently rolling hills.  The crowd thinned out when the speedsters charged ahead, and I was able to take stock of my surroundings as I loped along via my disorganized mix of running, racewalking and brisk long strides.  At one point, I noticed two girls of about 10 or 12 years racing each other while Dad cruised alongside on a bicycle shouting encouragement.  Their genial competition made me smile.

Unlike the larger races I tend to gravitate toward, there were no throngs of cheering spectators or sideshows of entertainment along the route.  It was a simple Sunday morning run. As we passed spacious old homes where porch sitters watched, some shouting encouragement while others stared bemusedly over their coffee cups, the sun began to beat oppressively upon my exposed head and my legs felt heavy.  I don’t run well in the heat.  Having lined up as always in the back of the pack, I found myself amidst walkers and others like myself whose speed is substantially less than warp drive.  I had originally intended not to care about this but soon found myself wanting to push through the casual amblers and run with the faster crowd.  And thus the advance began.

Jogging on the flat, scurrying up the inclines and then letting gravity power me downhill, I charged ahead.  Mile One came and the split clock said 14:something.  That wasn’t good enough.   I challenged myself a little more.  Shrugging off the doldrums brought on by the heat, I began the mental conversation that always urges me along farther.  Debating the merits of a so-so finish vs. the accomplishment of doing better than expected, I forged onward.  Mile Two.  Another burst of speed from tired legs.  2.33 miles on the Garmin. Keep going. A little more weight in the heels for the next hill, driving with the hamstrings to rest the tired quads.  Go.  And then Nickelback on the Ipod:  “My best friend gave me the best advice.   He said each day’s a gift and not a given right.  Leave no stone unturned, leave your fears behind….”  Come on girl, push.

We rounded a corner and one of the volunteers said, “not much more now, just about a quarter mile!”  But I was tired. And then I looked up and there was one of the old silver foxes I had seen before the start of the race.  He had evidently finished and walked back through part of the course, dripping sweat and sipping a cold bottle of water.  “Hey, you waited for me, huh?” I shouted with a smile.  He said “I sure did!” and trotted alongside me.  He linked an arm in mine and said “come on, let’s go”.  We both laughed and off we went.  I didn’t really expect him to follow me to the finish line, but he seemed happy to chat about the race and the life of an older athlete as I made my way to the end.  We talked about our youth, at times misspent on bar stools, a middle-aged love/hate for sofas, and how happy we were to be able to run at all much less devote excess worry to speed and distance.  One of the last comments he made was, “I like doing these races because you meet a better class of people.” I felt complimented by that.  Then the finish line was in sight and he encouraged me to “kick in those afterburners” and leave him behind.  So I did.

I finished faster in that 5k than I have in any other over the past 2 years.  Not “fast” in many people’s book, but fast enough for me.  And yes, I did meet a better class of person that day—and had an absolute blast while doing it.

***************************************

Other training over the past weeks:

May 26-27 weekend:  action-packed.
First the Soldier Field 10 Miler followed by Bike the Drive the next day.  18 miles on the bicycle, happy as a fat kid eating cake.  My first bicycle event and what a great time it was.

May 28 — a day off for Memorial Day with the family
May 29 — another day off; too many chores
May 30 — ran 4 miles of speed intervals outdoors
May 31 —  11 miles on the bike in the morning (1 hour) followed by a Jazzercise class in the evening (1 hour);  this year’s first attempt at two-a-days.  I survived!
June 1 —  ran/walked 5 miles easy
June 2 — 13.5 miles on the bike followed by an afternoon of gardening.
June 3 — Run for the Roses 5k

June 4 —  took the day off
June 5 — 5 miles run/walk easy; too slow; I was tired
June 6 — 30 minutes on the bike in the morning; ran out of time because I woke up late;  walked the dogs in the evening
June 7 — first ever brick….more like a pebble:  3.6 miles running followed by 6 mile bike ride in the morning; strength training class at the Jazzercise studio in the evening.  Thursday is the official Two-a-Day day, I guess.

And that is all for now.

2012 = one year older, twenty pounds lighter, almost a full minute per mile faster, and not even trying as hard as I could have.

2011 = reluctant, slightly discouraged, too slow, and not sure where I was going.

Last year, I was a rudderless runner scrambling for direction.  A lot of transitions had taken place in my life:  unexpected job change, starting my own business, a stress-eating generated weight gain, training for a marathon I wasn’t sure I wanted to run and uncertain about the future.

From the day I finished the Couch to 5k program in December 2008, I knew running would be an integral part of my existence for as long as I had the legs to do it.  I just hadn’t anticipated how to manage it when life turned upside down.  “Fun running” has never been my thing, and I’m always training for an event.  Having a deadline keeps me going and signing up for races is now as automatic as breathing.  Choosing the 26.2 distance when I was ill-suited to take on any extra challenge was not the wisest decision to make, and it didn’t take me long to realize that.  An excerpt from my 2011 blog entry speaks to my disconcerted mindset:

• “… lining up in my corral behind the “14:00/mile” sign, I note that I am ensconced by the rest of the old, the fat and the slow. Or to quote one of my favorite movies:  Mohammed, Jugdish, Clayton, Sidney and Flounder.
• “It reminds me that although I am extremely grateful to this old body for getting me here and that just by showing up I have already bested those who never left the couch, I still have a long way to go.
• “Being back here in what is tantamount to the short bus of running at once comforts and shames me.  Two years ago I ran 12:00-13:00 paces depending upon the distance.  Now I’m older, fatter, slower — both embarrassed and determined to get fast enough again to return to this event or another with a better position next year.”

The 2:32:23 finish (15:15 per hour) was one of many moments in 2011 when I learned what it felt like to fall short of my own expectations.

Flash forward one year, and many things have changed.  Financial issues remain in the mix and being my own boss is a roller coaster ride but at least I’m used to it now.  Twenty of the unwanted pounds have been shed through a 180 turn from fast food and junk.  I’m training for a half marathon that I am looking very forward to, and running is back where it belongs as a central focus of my life.  Without so many other matters in flux, I have more resilience for the ups and downs of being an elderly newbie in the world of competitive athletics.

So I showed up at the 2012 Soldier Field 10 Miler on a day predicted to be uncomfortably warm with a left ankle/Achilles tendon that might have been equally uncomfortable with the distance.  I’ve had tendonitis intermittently for years due to a succession of bad sprains and strains which has bequeathed me a calcific network of scar tissue that occasionally becomes problematic.  A recent jump in long run miles caused the sleeping injury to awaken and it has become colicky baby of my life once again.  But on this day it wasn’t.

Standing in the corrals behind the “14:00/mile” sign this year, I felt neither regret nor resentment.  I was just there and ready to make the best of it, which turned out to be the perfect mindset.  When we finally got underway I resisted the temptation to start out too quickly, remembering my intention to use the first mile as a warm-up to save extra strain on the tendon.  I looked around as I usually do and picked out a few runners to use as inspiration, some of whom I wanted to pass and others merely to keep pace with.  In the back of my mind, I hoped to beat my previous finish by a full ten minutes – one minute per mile – but I knew that might be an issue for the tendon.

The day was cool and overcast:  a true gift from the weather deities since the forecast had been for mid-80s.  As the first 5 miles passed under my feet and my energy level remained steady, I began to hopefully calculate my mileage splits.  I didn’t want to get too ambitious and push the tendon so hard as to endanger a healthy arrival at the start of the Anchorage half-marathon.

By mile 6, I began to feel some fatigue but I shook it off and kept on going.  I’d done a few 10k races in recent months and my body was used to that distance.  Mile 7 came and the thought that I was just 5k away from the finish kept me shoving my body along.  “You can do a 5k in your sleep,” I told myself.  I was passing some of the runners I’d started with and this gave me cautious courage.  Then at Mile 8, I could hear the music from the stadium.  I let visions of the finish block out how badly I wanted to slack off.  By Mile 9, I was really pushing.  The easy run at 12:00/mile and walk at 14:30 had fallen apart miles ago.  I would sprint a bit and then walk along further.  When I caught myself walking too slowly, I would surge forward again.  I was beating last year’s finish and there would be no shame this year.  Short of a screaming pain from my leg, there was no way I was going to let myself stop.  Finally there it was: the entrance to Soldier Field and a mere sprint through the underground to finish on the 50.

2:23:33 after starting, with a pace of 14:22 per mile, I hopped across the finish line and curtseyed for the crowd as they announced my name on the loudspeaker.  Almost ten minutes faster than 2011 and without aggravating a nagging injury, I wiped the slate clean of last year’s embarrassment.  I’m ready for anything now.  And I think I even looked cute on the Jumbotron.

In the Star Trek original series episode called “Bread and Circuses”, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy are captured on a planet that resembles a Roman Empire with 20th-century technology. They are set to die at the hands of gladiators for the sake of public spectacle.  One of the gladiators named Achilles was assigned to fight Spock.

Spock holds his own against Achilles, but McCoy is severely outmatched and Spock overpowers both opponents, saving the day for our Starfleet heroes.

Once again, for maybe the third time in the past six years, I find myself in a battle with my own enemy called Achilles and I could really use a Vulcan hero to come swooping in and save me from this dreaded combatant.  However rather than an extraterrestrial opponent to contend with, my Achilles lies between my left heel and calf.

My first run-in with this Achilles tendon was in 2006 when I had the misfortune of prescribing myself a course of Levaquin for an infection.  My reason for choosing the drug was mere expediency because the clinic where I was working happened to have a supply of samples in the closet.  About the fourth day into the course, I was doing step aerobics when I suddenly felt left Achilles tendon pain.  I thought I must have tied my shoes too tight so I loosened them and kept stepping.  No change.  A few minutes later, I abandoned my workout and began what would become five months of intermittent pain and limping.  I knew from the med school mnemonic that “quinolones hurt the attachments to the bones”, but I never thought it would happen to me so easily and last so long.  I have continued to have 1-2 out of 10 pain on a daily basis ever since but have lived with it and worked out in spite of it, including running three half-marathons.

Flash forward four years and a bad left ankle sprain (with inevitable scar tissue) later to August of 2010 when I began to experience twinges during speedwork while training for the Rock and Roll Las Vegas half marathon.  Naturally, I ignored the pain at first but it persisted.  And then it worsened.  And then I was sidelined for another five months.  I never did get to Vegas that December, and didn’t even start running again until February of 2011.

Moving yet ahead in time we come to the present day whereupon I recently advanced my Long Run mileage from 6 to 8 to 10 miles within a matter of 15 days, with two of the occasions being races rather than leisurely Long Slow Distance runs.  Even still….I was okay after that 10 mile race and the Achilles didn’t bother me any more than usual.  It was after last Saturday’s Lake Bloomington 12k (7.44 miles), done on a day I likely should have rested or severely cut back mileage instead of racing, that I heard the familiar short sharp shriek of the left Achilles tendon piercing the pleasant soundtrack of my life.

And so here I am again locked in battle with Achilles, and trying to strategize my way to victory.

I have registered and paid entry for a 10 mile race this Saturday in Lemont which I will not be running.  In fact, I will not even be walking.  There is a 5k portion still tempting me, but we’ll see about that later.  I didn’t run a step after Saturday.  Instead I rested and stretched, finally venturing out this morning for a quick 3-miler of walk/run intervals (75% of which I walked) just to see what I could do.  The pain is not horrible but it’s there.  I’ve been wearing a plantar fasciitis night splint to bed every night to keep the tendon lengthened and massaging the living daylights out of in between sporadic stretching throughout the day.  I REFUSE to let this get the better of me!

I know an Achilles injury is one of the few that you just don’t “run through.  Thus I have respect for the healing process required to ensure I make it to the start line of the half marathon in good enough shape to rock the damn thing.  But I want to run.  I really really really want to run.  Even though I know I shouldn’t and can’t.  And it’s killing me.

I was thinking today during my outing that if I lost my legs, I’d get a wheelchair and race by pedaling it with my arms.  If I lost my arms, I’d find a device that I could power by blowing through a straw.  And if I lose my whole body, it will because I won’t need it anymore and will be able to leap like a gazelle in the realm of the spirits.  Nothing short of death will keep me from running.  But it’s driving me CRAZY to have to take this break and heal.

I could really use Mr. Spock right about now to come beaming down, Deus Ex-Machina, with a solution to my quandary that would fit neatly within a 42-minute episode of my life.  Ah, if only…

…just like Kirk, Spock, Bones, Chekhov and Scotty at the O.K. Corral.  Only not as
the result of a Melkotian death sentence, even if some of my abs videos might feel like it sometimes.

The second full week back into training  has been enlightening as well as encouraging.  The elephant in the room (“how the hell am I going to go from 6 miles to 10 in a month without losing more speed AND without injuring myself”) is a little less scary.  The amount of fitness which has slipped away in the past 6 weeks is a little more obvious.  And the determination to move forward over the next four weeks – regardless – is a lot more deeply entrenched and will serve to shake off the mantle of laziness that sometimes settles on my shoulders.

Races planned for this month are the Rockdale Ramble 10k on April 14 and the Lakefront 10 Miler on April 28.   I have no major travel or social plans.  The weather is generally good for running in April.  I am in a reasonable state of good health, despite the recent flu.  So it’s time for an all out push which, given my age and weight, means longer and higher quality runs rather than more days of running.

After the fairly difficult but confidence-building five miler on Sunday the 25th (on the day I would have done the Shamrock Shuffle in Chicago had I not cancelled the weekend trip there due to the events of the previous month), I had a fairly decent week.

Monday — I did a cardio video with lots of lateral motion which serves to balance out the constant forward motion of running and helps prevent overuse injuries.
Tuesday — I walked about a mile and a half with the dogs, then went out for a sumptuous lunch with a friend.
Wednesday — I ran 2.7 miles.
Thursday — A day off; I worked 12 hours.
Friday — Another day off; I was just too tired, having slept badly the night before.
Saturday —  I ran 6 miles at an average of 14:14 pace per mile.  After starting off slow, I picked up a lot of energy over the course of the run and ended up doing really well.
Sunday — I had a hangover.  Big mistake to drink with friends on Saturday night, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.  🙂

So, the goal for the next week will be to work out 5 days instead of 4 and to give a strong effort no matter how I feel.  Sleep is often the determining factor, so getting good sleep will be Job One.

As if life hadn’t already held enough distraction, I ended up with the flu two weeks ago.  On Friday, March 10, I started coughing around midday.  By the evening, body aches and fatigue had set in.  At nightfall chills and fever followed, and then it went downhill from there.  Man, did that shit suck!  Despite having gotten a flu shot in October, illness ate up the next ten days of my life and I ended up not being able to run the St. Paddy’s race I had planned.  Having spent more than another week recuperating, I now find myself set back more than a bit in my training plan (which has now been completely scrapped and retooled).  As a result, I am behind where I hoped the unseasonably warm winter would have allowed me to go and have started over once again as of this past week.

But what the hell.  C’est la vie.  At least I finally feel like I am back to health and freed from the clutches of Sick Bay.

St. Patrick’s Day races always kick off the spring running season, the culminating event of which will be (for me anyway) the Mayor’s Half Marathon on June 24 in Anchorage, Alaska.   My original plan was to try to finally finish a Half in less than 3 hours.  This would have mandated achieving a distance goal early in the season to ensure stamina while working on speed throughout.  Accordingly, my original training calendar had the distance of my weekly Long Run topping out at 7 miles to end this month and 10 miles by the end of April.

After the layoff due to my Dad’s death followed by my 10 days of flu, I have now modified the plan to play catch up on miles and pretty much forego the speed goal.   Having been knocked back to practically Square One, I will do 6 miles next weekend and jump up to 10 miles by April 28 when I run the Lakefront 10 Miler in downtown Chicago.  I can’t remember the last time I did any speedwork.  I think it might have been January.

In any event, today’s run was 5 fairly tough miles that reminded me how much further I still have to go, while providing plenty of fun and entertainment along the way.  It was a beautifully sunny 67 degree day, and my iPod was programmed with my favorite 80s dance tunes to add extra energy to my step.  Birds were singing everywhere and there was a cool breeze.  Even when I was tired (which happened about halfway through) and it was hard to keep pace, I was glad to be out there.  It was sweet.  Nothing clears the mind like a challenging run.  And I saw this gigantic rat that probably weighed as much as my husband’s cat!  I actually tried to chase it but it ran away.

Workouts this past week included:
Saturday — segments of Cathe Friedrich’s Push Pull DVD interspersed with Gilad’s Express (and I’m still sore because she kills me every time)
Friday — 2 miles   (would have done more but ran out of time before work)
Thursday — about 15 minutes of upper body weights while watching the morning news
Wednesday — 4 miles ridiculously slow, mostly walking (crappy sleep, really tired)
Tuesday — nothing; I watched a lot of TV
Monday — 2 and 1/2 miles (nice pace, abundant energy…I was so happy with this run)

For several of the weeks before that, I didn’t really do much of anything due to life’s events.  I managed a decent four mile run in L.A. when I was there for my Dad’s funeral, but I can’t even remember what else might have gone into my training journal if I had been keeping track.  However it’s forward we go now and on to the next goal, no matter where the hell it is I’m starting from today.

Seen here in a 2007 photo from my wedding on the bridge of the Enterprise at the Star Trek Experience (formerly located at the Las Vegas Hilton) is my father, Red Holloway, wearing Starfleet Admiral’s garb as he gives my hand over to my husband.  It was a wonderful day for all of us and nobody had more of a blast than my Dad.  He was not even a Trekkie and had no idea what he was getting himself into, but cheerfully joined in the craziness without so much as a second thought.

My 84-year-old father passed away on February 25 after several years of renal failure requiring thrice-weekly dialysis, most recently complicated by a series of strokes that occurred over the previous three months.  Despite valiant initial efforts at rehab and recovery, he left us in his sleep after a mere two days on hospice care.  Over his final weeks, he had faded away slowly — gradually spending more hours asleep than awake and finally not eating enough to sustain himself (while steadfastly refusing offers of tube-feedings and other extreme interventions) — and I believe his passing was peaceful.

Like a Starfleet Admiral or any other thrilling fictional character, my Dad always seemed larger than life to me.  He was a professional musician whose career kept him on the road hobnobbing with famous people and visiting exciting places around the world for over 60 years.  I wrote in his funeral program that he “came and went through my life like a comet, leaving a trail of stardust on my ordinary existence” because that was how I saw him in my early years:  always dashing off to the next adventure, doing things a kid like me could only dream of.  Then came a period of resentment as I sought to understand why it was necessary to give so much of himself to strangers instead of to me.  But finally there was acceptance after I began to carve out my own place in the world and came to understand what it meant to create an identity and goals, then bust your ass and sacrifice anything-and-everything to achieve them.

Eventually we developed a friendship that both of us found special for probably the last 30 years, one which saw us exchange confidences, give advice, gossip, share laughter and even occasionally travel together.  After having seemed the absentee father who I thought too busy to give me my due, he later showed up for every important occasion of my adult life — my college graduation, my medical school graduation, my wedding — which more than made up for the misperceptions of the past.  And we found similarities in ourselves which could only have come from nature rather than nurture, and we realized how these qualities bound us together as family:  our passion for new experiences, dedication to achievement, fierce independence, levelheaded “no bullshit” approach to life, outspokenness (perhaps too much sometimes) and relentlessly optimistic joie de vivre.   I realized over time that these were my inheritance, my Dad’s greatest gifts to me.   As much as oxygen, they have sustained me over the years and will continue to be my life force forever.

So instead of writing about my training plan and how well I did (or did not) adhere to it in the past few weeks surrounding my Dad’s passing I wanted to put forth just a few words about him, since this has been the main focus of my existence in the last month or so.  Next narrative I’ll get back to mileage counts and cross-training efforts and angsty tirades about my old body refusing to keep pace with my childlike mind.  For now, I will just bid The Admiral farewell and let the world know how I will miss him for easily the next million years.  But I will continue to forge onward in the fashion which would make him proud:  attentively, dedicatedly, and with gusto.