Getting to the Line - Part I

Our friends began to arrive at the house one-by-one, couple-by-couple on New Years Eve.  They swung race bags from their wrists and donned layers of past race shirts, warmup pants, winter hats, and gloves, things that would soon be shed at the start.  I greeted them all and tried my hardest not to look stung by the concerned look that broke across their faces when they saw me.  I traded my race day garb -- those same hats and gloves, the rituals, the nerves -- for a pair of jeans and a sweater.  It was not the New Years Eve I’d envisioned.  It was certainly not the 2010 send off, or the kickoff to my Boston Training Plan I’d imagined.  I was injured.  And I was lost.

* * *

When the “marathon regret” began to seep in after signing up for the 2004 Philadelphia Marathon, I sought advice from anyone and everyone who’d completed the 26.2 miles.  But it was a friend’s dad who said to me, “The hardest part about a marathon is getting to the starting line.”

Toeing the line that cloudy and cold November morning, I realize now that I had taken those words for granted.

Though my blog is called “On the Bus Running...,” the metaphor I often choose to associate with my training is one of a ship sailing.  Each race is a new port of call.  And the waters between each destination can be smooth.   Some days my skiff elides over the glassy surface as I catch a current or a strong breeze that pulls me along with little effort, and we fly.  Others come with white caps or deep swells, where I can only lash myself down and ride out the peaks and troughs, hoping to come out unscathed when it’s all over.

When I crossed the line at the 2010 Boston Marathon, I vowed to return in 364 days: stronger, smarter, ready to sail the course that humbled me.  And I enjoyed a summer of sunny days and calm waters.   All the summer miles.  The endless loops around the track.  The dark, humid morning miles.  The thick afternoons on the heels of a thunderstorm. The strides at the end of workouts when I already looked as though I’d jumped into the pool.  I stayed at sea through those humid Virginia months, waiting to pick my spot to dock.  The first breakthrough came in October when I lowered my 5K PR by 63 seconds.  Two weeks later, I returned to the roads and went sub-60 minutes at the Army Ten Miler.

Emboldened by my success, I raced weekend after weekend.  Fall runs, Turkey Trots, Jingle all the Ways, I signed up for all of them.  I thought I was invincible.  But my times started to reflect my mortality.  Clouds began to gather on the horizon and darken the sky.  The storm moved toward me and brought a chilling wind to let me know that the weather had turned for good.

The winter brought rough seas and a torrent of unending storms, dark days, and darker nights.  

I rested for days at a time.  I consulted my Uncle and dad for coaching advice.  Could I put together a training plan in 14 weeks? In 12 weeks? In 10 weeks?

I went to the doctor who told me nothing was wrong, only overuse.  So I’d try and run, but instead I suffered through two miles at a time on the treadmill.  All the while, Boston hung in the air.  I watched with dread as the weeks wasted away on my training calendar.  ”0s” where “10s” and “12s” should have been in my training log. ”2s” where “16s” should go on the weekends.  

I caught one week where I experienced that brief moment in the Perfect Storm where the eye passes over the lost boat, the clouds part and the sun pours through the opening for one brief, hope shedding second...before getting swallowed up again.  I kicked my training into full gear, going from 10 miles a week to 41 miles a week...only to be hobbled a week later and back in the doctor’s office.  “Why did you think you could do 41 miles?” he asked.

“Because I’m stupid?” I replied.  He smirked, manipulating my knee.  

“I have to tell you,” he said, his voice reassuring, “There’s nothing structurally wrong.  Let’s work on a plan to get you to the line.”

“Get me to the line.”  Those magic words, once so simple, now seemed to hang in the ether.  I laid awake at night thinking about canceling my plane reservations to Boston.  I thought about not being able to slide my arms through a 2011 Boston jacket at the finish line when the medal clangs proudly against my chest.  Will I ever even be able to run pain free again?  With each run, I could only think about the injury:  Was that it? Did I tweak something? Can I continue?  So many questions.  Not many answers.

It used to be so simple: go run the miles, check off the box on your program for 16 weeks, and show up to run.  Not this time.  

So, under doctor’s orders, I ran easy every other day, then started upping the mileage on the weekends.  There’ve been weights, and bands, and stretching, and lots and lots of ice.  

There’ve been sleepless nights after setbacks and ginger steps in the morning, waiting for the pain to come.  

Then one morning, the pain suddenly wasn’t there.  I trotted away from my house without a second thought about it coming back.  It’s as though the sun melted away and the clouds and left a clean palette of blue sky.  

Somehow I knew it had gone for good.  And just as the days began getting longer and the bite left the air, so too did I begin to emerge from that cold storm and set sail for smoother seas.

Busted!

Of the many embarrassing things that one could get caught doing, I never thought stretching would top my list. Today, I had flashbacks to those precious high school years of awkward groping on some couch in the house where your parents aren’t. You know, you’re in the throes of unbridled teenage passion when you suddenly hear footsteps or a door open and your entire body blushes and it gets to be 100 degrees under your shirt (if you’re wearing one)….Wooo. Where was I?

Ah, yes. So, it’s no secret on my blog and for anyone who comes within five meters of me that I’m desperately trying to rehab a nagging knee injury. That’s meant stretching and “active rehab” exercises whenever I get a free minute. This isn’t relegated to home either.

My hamstrings are pulled tight like bow strings and one session of stretching per night isn’t giving me the results I’m after. I’ve been inclined to closing my office door to a crack and dropping down to the floor to get my stretch on. If smokers can have their 10 minute break however many times a day, why can’t I engage in a healthy activity that releases those compressed muscles that die more and more everyday while I go from chair to chair.

I’m also not above one legged squats while standing at the printer or stationary B-skips. In fact, one day recently, Mrs. Onthebusrunning and I were in some clothing store. While she thumbed through hangers, I started doing form drills to loosen up my hips. She did a double take when she noticed what was going on.

“What are you doing?”
“Form drills, my hip flexors feel tight.”
“Well, stop it. You look ridiculous.”

Harrumph.

Ice is a constant. At times, I’ve felt like some sort of cold compress should be surgically sewn to my knee so I don’t have to keep getting up and going to the freezer…although that’s an opportunity for some lunges. I digress.

Last week, I stood in front of the freezer filling a zip lock bag with ice (can’t forget to use the cup or tongs, not your hands), which apparently is not common practice because it aroused quite a commotion.

“What are you doing?”
(Really?) “I need some ice.”
“For what?”
“For my knee.”
(someone else walks by)
“What do you need ice for?”
“My—“
“His knee. Are you still running?”
“I’m trying to.”
“Even though you’re hurt? That doesn’t sound smart. I only run if someone’s chasing me…with a knife.”
(This is where I die a little inside.)
“It’s fine. Or it’s getting better…”
“Well, don’t forget to use the tongs.”

Grrr.

Trying to spring to action when icing your knee is tough as well. “Come on, we have to go the meeting.”

“Ok, I’ll be right there.”
“Oh, are you still icing your knee?”
“Yep.”
“Hope you’re not trying to run on it.”  Everyone's an expert.

Beyond icing and stretching, I’ve taken to doing step ups on the stairwell. The beauty is that if anyone comes, you can just keep walking right on up the stairs. They’ll be so shocked that you’re taking the stairs and not the elevator that it won’t even be an issue.

Back to today, though. Going from meeting to meeting seems to be my new life. I finally got back to my office to sit in my own chair when I felt the cramp coming on in my hamstring. I stood up and just bent over to try and touch my toes (something I’ve never been able to do) and felt that tension start to fade away. I may have groaned, I can’t remember it felt so good. Until…my coworker walked by.

“What are you doing?”

Cue the startled, hot flash surging through me. My ears burnt, instant sweat.

“Oh, ah, I was, um, I was just having a stretch,” because apparently I become Canadian when I’m flustered and I have things instead of do things, like I might have a shower later tonight after the run I probably shouldn't be doing according to everyone who doesn't run.
“Whatever. You still icing that knee of yours?”
“When I can.”
“I hope you’re not sticking your hand in that tray.”

*sigh*

Friday Night Lights

It wasn't your typical Friday night.  No out to dinner.  No movie.  Instead, my date tonight was with the track.  Normally the track means lactic-acid storms and lung-searing intervals.  Tonight was just getting through three miles pain free.  

All week I'd been aiming for this workout.  After my knee flared up again last week, I decided to take a few days, focus on some active rehab, and *gasp* not run.  Hell, it worked.  Suddenly I could go up and down stairs with no pain and wake up in the morning and not have to hobble to the bathroom, waiting for my knee to warm up.

Still, despite feeling better, I was nervous.  My Uncle and I spoke this week and he said, "You need to get to the point where you don't even think about it anymore.  That's when you know it's healed."  Something so simple, yet so right.  I find myself focusing on it, "Was that my knee clicking or my hip? Or ankle?  Does it hurt now? Should I stop? Did I just tweak it?"  And on and on.

Rather than retreat to the treadmill, I remembered that there are other flat, forgiving surfaces out there.  So tonight, I had a date with the track.  I had grand visions of running under the lights, turning quarter after quarter in front of a raucous crowd like I was at Hayward Field.

It was anything but.

First, I never realized that there were no lights around this football field.  Instead, it just became another winter run in the dark.  Or so I thought.

The track bumps up against the outer perimeter of the school's campus.  One side faces a hill that leads up to the lacrosse field.  The other faces woods.  Dusk settled.  The previous few days have been veiled in that flat February light.  Gone are the days when the cold and snow remind us of the holidays, ginger bread lattes, and egg nog.  Instead, we're mired in the gray winter hours that drag on, begging the question of when spring will come.  God, I need a run.  

Today was different.  The sun shone.  The thermometer broke 40.  Not a cloud around.  I laid on the track to stretch out, tilted my head back, and that receding blue sky seemed to reflect the bare black trees as if it were a lake.  

I shed my extra layers and started a slow trot around the track.  The pain I braced for never came.  Coming around the first turn, the ground looked like it started to move.  My heart jumped and I looked over at the pack of deer, more startled than I, leaping back into the woods.

Stars peeked out and though I didn't have the stadium lights, the sliver of half moon lit the path.  

After the first mile, my visitors came back.  Deer made their way across the track to the infield.  When they saw me coming around the turn, a surge of agitation shot the through the group.  Heads lifted, white tails sprung into action.  Some froze.  Others darted for the woods, while more still zig-zagged across the in field.  I thought there were eight to ten, but then realized that the herd was much larger.    Their brown hides were simply camouflaged by the dry, brittle ground.

Daylight disappeared with each lap and as I came to the end of three (relatively) pain free miles, I shut things down, took in the night, and listened to the steady traffic hum far off from the track.  

It had been about 22 minutes of running.  I probably took more time to warmup and cool down then actually workout.  But tonight, this was better than any movie or dinner out.