Screwed

I am screwed. Literally. A 3" piece of metal hardware, more than slightly resembling a dry wall stud, lives in the fifth metatarsal of my left foot. We joined forces during my junior year of high school after the second time that bone broke during a soccer game. Weeks in a cast after the first break didn't leave it strong enough and the orthopedist suggested "open reduction internal fixation" or ORIF surgery. Why do I remember this? I am a nerd.

I liked the doc; he had already fixed Olympic gymnast Shannon Miller's elbow. (She is a Big Deal in Oklahoma, as the most decorated American gymnast in history. I think she even has a highway named after her.)

Anyway, we did have one point of contention: He said the screw should be removed, eventually.

"When?" I asked.

"When you're older...after you're finished being active," was his reply.

So that'll be ummmm, never.

I plan to be moving, running, biking, swimming, paddling, climbing, jumping, scrambling....playing....for as long as I am able, and I'll remain grateful for the opportunity every minute.

When I am an old woman, I will wear purple. And at a very minimum, you will find me in one of those water aerobics classes, or doing tai chi, or out in my kayak talking with God and nature.

That said, the screw gets irritated during these long-mileage days nearing the race. After last Saturday's 16-miler, both feet were more tender than normal, thanks to a decision I made to wear thin socks (thinking it would be raining but it wasn't), but the top of the screw foot was especially sensitive and in need of ice and rest.

It could partly be mental. During the last mile of our run, my pal Jenna started talking about these winter races she used to do in her hometown in Canada, where they'd run on so much ice and snow they had to purchase special screws to put in the bottoms of their shoes. Like cleats, only grippier. I swear my left foot throbbed a little extra when she started describing how the screws worked, how they had to carefully put them in and only up to a certain insertion point so as to not harm the sole of the shoe (not to mention the sole of the foot!)

Regardless of whether it's in my head or not, my feet hurt. In our freezer, I keep a 20-ounce bottle of water mixed with rubbing alcohol. It makes an excellent foot massager...after a run I can put it on the floor and roll my feet over it, slowly, back and forth, for an easy, icy stretch while reading or watching tv.

The race is getting closer. We'll do 18 this Saturday, then drop back to 14 the next week, followed by the big 20-miler the weekend after. Then, it's taper-down time and the big day, the 26.2, is the first weekend in March. So far this year I've stayed on top of illness, injury, and the mind games that can keep my from my goals.



I'll be kicking back and putting my feet up every chance I get, because I'm not going to let being screwed get me screwed.

On the Road Again

Last week, I taught a four-day class at Village Creek State Park in eastern AR. I love being a trainer and this is one of my favorite workshops to teach. We had a neat bunch of people. Unfortunately, the schedule is rigorous enough to sap me from feeling like running much. I went once in the span between Monday and Friday--a 5-ish-miler after work on Tuesday.

A big cold front had moved in, leaving the air around 26 degrees--meaning short tights, long tights, two layers of long sleeves, hat, and gloves. Also, it's DARK at this park after sundown (A good thing, really, in this age of light pollution. It made me miss, sort of, the dark parks where J and I have worked and lived). Since I didn't know the road surface well, and planned a route around an open field where a deer herd plays, I wore a headlamp. And, for no particular reason, I decided to try carrying water in a Camelbak rather than my trusty ol' Fuelbelt. So lots of things were out of the ordinary for this run. Excited to be out of my usual routine, I set out from cabin #2, headed down to the campground, around the big meadow, past the visitor center, up to the flag complex, and back. Good route.

It was surreal. Cold enough to see my breath, which fogged up around my face, filling the headlamp's light. Quiet. Cold, but not so much once I got moving. Just enough hills to challenge body and mind.

This is the kind of run in which you don't really care about keeping time. (But I did anyway, :48).

Wet Weekend

Last weekend was a wet one. Over 6" of rain fell in the Little Rock area between Friday and Sunday, and although that's a lot of water, we were grateful it wasn't frozen. Since ice and lightning weren't involved, training was on for Saturday morning. Fourteen miles, the schedule called for...fourteen hilly miles of Oucho Gaucho in West Little Rock. Fortunately, the temperature made it bearable, hovering in the upper '50s. Still, rain is rain. Rain means all the things I've mentioned here in the past...wet socks, heavy shoes, chafing, annoying raincoat swish-swish. Even being the addict that I am to this strange sport, I had a hard time getting psyched up for this run.

I chuckled when I drove up and saw a crowd of 50 runners, all decked out in rain gear and blinky lights, huddled up under the awning of whatever restaurant replaced Gaucho's Grill. They were staying as close to the building as possible, trying not to get wet, as though two+ hours in the pouring rain wasn't about to drench us.

Tom sidled up and asked how long I was going. "Fourteen," I said, "Isn't everyone?"

Tom is smart, see. He knew good and well that I would not really be awake at 5:45 a.m. and that he could pretty much talk me into anything at that time. "Well," he began, "Chris and I thought we'd just do 9 today and then do about 10 tomorrow out on the Ouachita Trail....Wanna?"

"Let me think about it," I said, already knowing in my mind that I was sold. Hmmm...pouring rain, hilly course, sleepy...not a tough choice. Nine instead of fourteen?

"Ok," I said, when I found Tom again in the huddle.

"Ok?!?" he grinned.

"Ok," I admitted.

The nine Oucho Gaucho miles were alright. I headed out with Tom, Chris, and a new team member, Jenna. I had to work to keep up, but am used to that and despite it, feel I am getting stronger. I was glad I'd worn tights and gloves because wind and water made me colder than expected. As usual, Chris and Tom sped up all the hills. Also as usual, I pushed to keep them in view and then caught them on the way down. For a long while, Chris and Jenna chatted, trotting along at a steadily faster clip as they went. Tom dropped back to hang with me, which was nice of him, and the four of us stayed within 10-20 ft. of each other the whole route. We ended up with about 9.5 miles, 1:36. After stretching, it didn't take me long to get freezing cold, so I headed home. The remainder of the day, I made a point of eating right and trying to stay off my feet.

(Note to self: It's tricky to drive across town with the heat on full blast after a run, because although I feel cold, my body is warm, and the windows constantly fog up. Each time I put the thermostat on defrost instead of heat, I began shivering like crazy, causing me to switch it back to full heat. This went on the whole way. Bring more towels and dry clothes.)



Sunday, I drove to our meeting place out on Highway 10, chowing down on PB&J, pretty much regretting my decision. We'd agreed to meet at 7:30 a.m., so at least it wasn't dark, but it was raining and it had dropped about 20 degrees and of course I was sleepy. Tom and Chris were giddy as kids at a playground, though, and their attitude was infectious. I started getting excited. We set out from a turnout by Lake Maumelle, on Highway 10 near Ouachita Trail mile 202. It was our plan to run from 202 to mile marker 197 and back. Within two minutes we were soaked.


The first mile, I just followed them and tried to get a feel for the trail. I've done a little trail running, in the parks where I've worked, but in those cases I knew the trails intimately after leading countless guided hikes on them. Today I was in new territory and totally dependent on Tom and Chris to take the lead. A welcome and refreshing situation for me. They may not realize what a treat it is, for someone in my line of work, to just be in the back and have no part of finding the way.


Question of the day: Is it called a creek crossing if the trail is just a big long pool of ankle-deep water for quarter miles at a time?


If so, creek crossings were countless. The trail was flooded in numerous places, and it was easier (and less of an impact) to just push through the puddles instead of going around. Knee-high crossings were also aplenty.


In the last year, land surrounding this area has been in the spotlight as our city deals with threats to our supply of drinking water. Developers want to build on pieces of land that are sensitive pieces of the watershed of Lake Maumelle. As I ran through the woods, I wished that the builders and legislators and leaders who make decisions about these things could be out here. Anyone who doesn't comprehend how a watershed works would have no trouble getting it on a day like this. Anyplace water could run on, it did. It ran in big valleys, little valleys, and anyplace with any decline in elevation.


This land is beautiful. Thickly wooded glades. Moss-covered rock outcroppings. Quiet, save the sound of water rushing, all around.


Not counting the myriad sections of flooded trail, we made at least three waist-high swiftwater crossings. Imagine wading into a swimming pool, a still-freezing-cold pool on one of the first days of summer. You've opted not to just get it over with by launching yourself cannonball-style into the deep end, but instead to subject yourself to slow and agonizing suffering by inching in.


First, your feet are cold, then your calves tighten up, then your knees feel like twisty-turny knots inside your legs. Then, comes Critical Point Number One. You know the spot. This is a point of no return. A part of you that is exponentially more sensitive than other parts of you.


So we went into the first creek past Critical Point Number One. With one misstep into a sinky muddy spot, I quickly advanced to Critical Point Number Two. I don't know why my belly button is such a significant spot, but I sure do know it doesn't like to be submerged in cold water.


"You know," I hollered at Tom, who at 6'-something was not dealing with the same situation faced by Chris and I (Chris is my height),"I've passed Critical Points One and Two, and if we get in over Critical Point Three, I will seriously begin to question this decision."


We all laughed. Tom pointed out that I am for sure a crackhead, noting the fact that I didn't say "I will turn back" or "I will hate you for getting me into this" but simply "I will begin to question this decision."


When you're dressed right, being wet isn't a big problem, and if you can keep moving, you won't get too cold. Technical clothing is wicking, quick-drying, and insulating. The only thing that consistently stayed cold on me was my hands, which I could deal with. Feeling in my feet kind of came and went....mostly went...considering they were underwater most of the time. The neatest thing was how warm and tingly my quads and trunk would feel each time we came up out of the water and kept running. Hot and cold at once. Interesting. Strangely pleasant.


We did cross the path of a pissed-off looking cottonmouth snake, who lay coiled on the side of the trail. Each of us came within inches of stepping on it because it blended into the wet leaf litter so well.


Our average pace was 15-20 minutes per mile. Trail running is much different than roads; you slow down to deal with terrain, water, and lots and lots of uphills. Somewhere around what should have been mile 195 we realized we must have missed 197. We wondered if we could talk Tom's wife Hobbit into picking us up at Highway 9, giving us a straight shot 10-miler rather than an out-and-back like we'd started out doing. Tom pulled out his phone, found that he had a signal, and called. Hobbit is the coolest. She agreed to come. We pushed on.


It's been a long time since I felt like such a kid. Since I didn't have to lead the way, I was free to just scramble through the woods. Another thing about trail running that's different than roads is that on the road, my mind goes to a place of reflection and meditation. In the woods, I can't. Trail running calls for a higher level of alertness, a focus on everything out in front of me in the big picture and immediately at my feet. It's a constant processing of information about my surroundings. It's freeing. There's not time or space for stress to think about anything else. Rarely have I been so present in the moments of living life.


Too soon, we came to the trailhead at Highway 9. No Hobbit. Knowing we'd quickly get chilled, we started running up the road in the direction she would come. Tom was sure there was a store just up the road, perhaps a mile or so. After 20 minutes, no store and no Hobbit. We were having fun, but didn't want her to miss us, so Tom called again. She agreed to pick us up at the store at the junction of Highways 9 and 10.


Finally, the store came into view when we rounded a bend. Chris said, "I can't run any more" and started walking. We all did. I studied the distance; we were maybe 100 yards from the end.


"You can't run that last little bit to that store?" I teased, knowing that Chris is as competitive as I am. She smirked at me, we both looked at Tom, he grinned, and off we went.


A man and woman running the store thought we were nuts, I'm sure, but we were grateful for their heat. Tom wanted sugar and was excited to buy some Gatorade. When Hobbit pulled up, my opinion about her being the coolest person around compounded. Not only did she get up our of bed on a lazy rainy Sunday and drive 40 miles to come get us, she had the heat in her truck on high and brought towels, Pringles, pretzels, and cookies. Gourmet food to people craving sugar and salt. Even better, she is a runner herself, meaning: She understood.


Later that day I got a voicemail from Tom. He'd been studying his maps and just wanted to let me know that officially, the section of trail we ran was 10.2 and the section of road was 2.7.


A 22-mile weekend. Not bad for two days in the rain.

Out of the Way

The lack of posts isn't because I haven't been running. It's because I have.



From Saturday, 1.6.06:
Team run, 10 from the Art Center. About a zillion people showed up for an easy outing in nice weather (50's, overcast, no wind). I heard today that the sign-in sheet showed 180; that plus those who never sign in puts the crowd over 200 for the day. Tom was out of town, I never saw Chris, and in all those people I didn't really find anyone that I knew who was running my pace, so I headed out alone. Thought I'd take advantage of the easy distance by making it an easy run at my own pace.



You'd think I would have learned my lesson last year, when on the 20-miler training day a buddy and I accidentally went 22: We followed people in front of us instead of following our printed directions, giving us an extra 2 in North Little Rock. (Which we realized at about mile 4, making for a tough day physically and mentally). Well, on Saturday a few of us missed our turn on 16th and found ourselves running west on busy Daisy Bates.

Just as I was thinking "This is new," I heard chatter behind me from some other regulars, saying, "We've never gone this way before." We quickly got it straightened out by cutting over to 16th, and only ended up going a few blocks out of the way.

The rest of the run was uneventful. I caught up with the Miller family and crew down on the NLR River Trail and chased them a while, which was a good pick-up-the-pace exercise.

1:38. Ten miles seems so short these days.

Following My Compass in the Dark

Tuesday after work I headed out for an easy 4 on the Kavanaugh loop. Didn't even wear a watch. The run was fine. Uneventful. The usual post-work, head-clearing jaunt through the darkness. Sometimes I go straight up Kavanaugh and back, other days I branch off away from the traffic to explore quiet streets. There's less light but also less cars and more solitude.

Often on these nights, a favorite Kristen Hall song floats in the back of my thoughts.

"The wind is with me under coral skies
and in my wake I leave behind,
a trail of others who will never seek
and because they never seek, they never find
and they argue that
it's all a waste of time...
I'm just following my compass,
following my compass
in the dark."

There's nights when I am alert to everything around, keenly aware of sights, sounds, and smells. Other days, not so much.

Take Tuesday.

I'd come up out of the capitol parking lot and was cruising along Markham on the south sidewalk. There's no standard place where I cross Markham; usually I just wait and watch until traffic is way clear in both directions and get across wherever possible. There's sidewalk on both sides of the road so it doesn't really matter which side I'm on. Until Dennison. At the intersection of Dennison and Markham, the south sidewalk comes to an abrupt end at the 8-foot retaining wall of a house high above. So on Tuesday, since I was running right at 5 o'clockish, traffic was heavy and I just kept pacing along until I got to the sidewalk's end.

I waited to cross. And waited. You know how it feels to wait? It was probably two or three whole minutes but it felt like ten. "Someone left the gate open," my dad always used to say. I hoppity hopped. I paced a little. I peeked out around the bend to look for headlights. Steady.

Just as I was about to get really impatient, I looked up. And laughed out loud. And hollered "DAMN IT!"

Those who know this route may have already realized what was right overhead, at the intersection of Dennison and Markham: A pedestrian bridge.



Yup, an ungated, free-to-the-public, safe, bridge over trafficky water. I drive this route all the time. I run this route at least three times a week. I know this bridge. The bridge where, during last year's race, two friends bundled up in the cold to cheer and hold up signs and drop confetti on my head. I am such a doofus. Emily Saliers says, "You have to laugh at yourself, because you'd cry your eyes out if you didn't."

Just then, though, there was a break in traffic, so I darted across the street and headed uphill, into the night.

Fueled by Frustration

Five flat miles on the gym treadmill, in traditional fashion, 48:38. Much as I'd like to do the "Let's Go" exercise routine, I already am a geek without starting that. (Not to mention I don't think they'd allow it).

Negative splits today, fueled not by good intentions but rather a cocktail of frustration and boredom. My mp3's battery died between guess which miles:

1--10:00
2--10:00
3--10:00
4--9:22
5--9:16

Treadmill Techniques

Until now, it's been my position that treadmills are boring. I obviously haven't been using them to their maximum fun potential:

An Observation

Lots of people in Hillcrest cook with garlic.
I can smell it all up and down Kavanaugh.

(Hey, every run can't be filled with wonder and spiritual revelation).

Today, 1.4.07:
6 miles, from work to Mount St. Mary's and back. 0:58.

Yesterday, 1.3.07:
5 miles on the treadmill at War Memorial Fitness Center. 0:47.

51%

From Saturday, 12.22.2006:
My plan was to run a 16-miler with the team, shower, get in the car, and be in OKC by 4 p.m. for Christmas with the Farrells. A tight schedule, but doable.

A River Market run is among my favorites. It's pleasant to start and finish in the hustle and bustle of downtown. When we head out in the dark at 6 a.m., vendors are just arriving with their wares. Upon return, the market is hopping with customers. Runners trickle in and then linger, debating about what treat to buy inside...cookies from Community Bakery? Mochas from Andina's? It's all so tempting when you've created a 1000+ calorie deficit by 9 a.m.

Also, on a long route like this, we get up into the hills of Cammack Village, which are literally a pain in the butt, but rewarding to conquer.

Tom and Chris were both there and I ran with them. Despite a comfortable 11:00 first mile, followed by a relatively easy 10: pace up Markham and Kavanaugh, it took an awfully long time to get loose. Hamstrings were tight. Not painful...they just felt like rubber band balls in the backs of my legs instead of the long, sinewy, graceful muscles I wish them to be.

Somewhere in Hillcrest, around mile 5, we had fun testing the digital speed warning sign on Kavanaugh (in the big uphill curve before Cantrell). It blinked back and forth between 5 and 6 mph as our group passed. Still, I was thinking pretty hard about turning around. "Screw this," I thought, "It's Christmas. I'm not feeling great and I need to get on the road anyway." (Little did I know I was probably carrying cold virus germs that day).

Fortunately, when running with others, I can't wallow in self-pity very long or I won't keep up. Keeping up takes as much mental focus as it does physical discipline. I shoved the whiny voice to the back of my mind and kept going.

Up on Sunset, around mile 7, the voice piped up again. This wasn't fun and I still wasn't loose. I said something about this out loud and Tom smarted back:

"Farrell, you know what your problem is? You always feel bad and act all slow and stiff until halfway. As soon as you hit that mark, though, and your brain knows that we're no longer running away from the car, but toward it, you get all cheery and feel just fine."

He grinned. I grinned. He was right. I'd never really noticed it. It's good to know. If I can complete 51% of any course, I can hang.

I need to remember this when we hit the 13.1 mark at the Capitol on race day and start that steady 3-mile elevation gain up Markham and Kavanaugh to the Mount.

At mile 9, I "miraculously" felt better. Found a groove. Even with a long water/stretch stop at Kavanaugh and Cantrell and a long walk up the Markham hill in front of the School for the Deaf (Chris was having a cramp), we did our 16--16.2 actually, because I believe Tom's Garmin--in 2:47.

There really aren't words for the sense of accomplishment I feel on days like this. It's not about bragging rights for completing the mileage or hitting any certain pace time. This just about me beating me. It feels amazing when I am able to overcome all the doubts and anxiety that creep in and tell me to give it up.

I owe a ton of gratitude to Tom and Chris, for letting me tag along with them this year, and for pushing me. Especially to Tom for all the encouragement. I am so fortunate to be able to run, and to have the opportunity to train with good people who will stick with me 100% of the way even though I'm only decent company for the second half.

Finally

Saturday morning I woke up at 7 a.m. to the sound of rain. And wind. Well, and my alarm of course. I never wake up without the alarm. We were enjoying a New Year's getaway at Pond Mountain Lodge near Eureka Springs. To stay on the LRM training team schedule, I'd planned a good, hilly 16-mile route around town and was really looking forward to it, even though it meant running solo instead of in LR with the team. I'd run long around Eureka before and really enjoyed the interesting scenery and change of routine.

_________________

The day looked nothing like this stock photo of Eureka Springs.
It was cloudy, rainy, and cold.
_________________

I lay in bed thinking about whether to go or not. I had so been looking forward to this run, having missed a week's worth of mileage during the holidays in OKC. Really, I knew I should just get on with it and go. We're supposed to train in the rain and all other elements nature throws at us, save lightning or serious ice, because who knows what Arkansas's skies will offer on race day? Running in the rain is a chance to learn how you'll handle wet shoes, water in your eyes, the very annoying swish-swish sound of a windbreaker/rain jacket, and high humidity. It follows--and I bet you already thought of this--that this is also a time to discover new and valuable information about where your body chafes when it has more-than-just-sweaty clothing rubbing allll your special places for hours on end. These are the days when you thank the goddess for a wonderful product called BodyGlide.

Actually, it wasn't the rain that had me worried, it was the sound of our awnings whipping in the wind. Wind plus hills = harder than I wanted to run. Grumbling, I got up and dressed, going back in forth in my mind all along about what I'd do.

"You could go tomorrow," I thought, "Watch, it'll probably be perfect weather tomorrow."

"Yeah, but then you'd have to eat right all day and not drink tonight, when really you want to eat junk and enjoy a bottle of wine with friends."

"You're supposed to train in the rain. Just go."

"Damn it."

It would be prudent to add here that I was then on about Day 4 of the snothead cold that's going around. It settled into my head, sinuses, and chest the day after Christmas and has stayed around since. Early in the week, those days when we sat around the hospital all day waiting on the doc to see my grandmother, it was a throat-chest thing. You know how hospitals feel germy, even on a good day? Try sniffling or coughing or blowing your nose in a waiting room. You can literally see people cringing and squirming. They can't get away from you fast enough.

By Saturday, it had moved up out of my chest--hallelujah for Advair--but was still doing a steady job of clogging my nose and head. From what I've learned, you can run when you're sick if you don't have a fever and the crud is above the neck. Stuffy sinuses, runny nose, itchy throat, etc. are going to make for a nasty, uncomfortable run, but you won't do any harm other than chapping your nostrils a little more than normal. However, if the mucus has set up camp anywhere below the neck (e.g. congested cough and non-running-related body aches) you're a no go.

So there I was, fully dressed. Tights, two light layers of long-sleeved shirts, socks, shoes, fluorescent yellow reflective windbreaker, hat, gloves. Ready to go.

Not quite. The whiny voice in my head said it didn't want to go, that it wanted to crawl back in bed and stay warm and dry. Sleeeeeeeeeeepy.

I lay down on the wood floor. I'm sure this looked ridiculous. It felt ridiculous.

What the heck? Maybe the rain would stop. Maybe at least one of my stuffy sinuses would open up so I could breathe.

I can sleep anywhere.

The next thing I knew it was 8:20 and I'd apparently argued myself right back to dreamland for an extra 45 minutes. On a wood floor.

However, the rain HAD stopped. Mostly. It was down to a light drizzle, which I could totally handle. The wind came and went, but I decided to get over it. Down went a PB&J sandwich and I was out the door. Sometimes getting that far is harder than the whole run itself.

I've done it before, but it's crazy dangerous to run on the shoulders of Highway 23 outside Pond Mountain, so I drove the short distance into town to do a route I'd clocked the day before using the car's odometer. From the Best Western parking lot at the intersection of 62 and the Historic Loop, it's 6 miles roundtrip to run the loop up through town, around by the Crescent Hotel, back through the housing area to the intersection where the other Best Western is, and back. It's easy to tack on 2-mile out-and-backs on Main Street--it's a mile from where it splits off Spring in town, down to the old train depot.

The run wasn't bad. Most of it was nice even, although I'd overdressed and was hot. And extremely annoyed with the raincoat sound. By starting at 8:30 though, I was out before most of the Saturday tourist traffic got going, meaning I was free to run down the middle of the roads, where there's zero cant. Happy shins and knees.

By the time I got to mile 8, though, I was realizing that I wasn't as close to being over the cold as I'd thought. Despite proper fueling and hydration and being mentally and somewhat physically prepared for the hills, I was out of energy. This was tot my usual "I'm getting tired and cranky around mile 8" feeling, but a more serious "This doesn't feel right...maybe you ought to call it a day and try to get healthy."

Time to evaluate the big picture. I was tired and achy, and traffic had picked up. Knowing from experience that my level of alertness would decrease dramatically during the 13-16 mile range, I decided that it would not be safe or wise to continue the full route.

Feeling defeated, but knowing it was the right decision, I finished out the last two uphill miles to the car, making the outing a round 10-miler. 1:42.

At least I'd gotten to run. Finally.

On the bright side, I'm pleased to report zero chafing. After all, I've had three years to devise a successful Body Glide defense strategy, details of which are not appropriate for sharing on the world wide web. If you are a new runner who needs to know more about this sensitive subject, talk to me in person.