A Twisted End to Running in 2011

So, this is what cankles look like on me.

Irony can be twisted. And so can ankles.


Saturday began as one of those perfect running days. There was a snap to the air, a clear blue sky, and the promise of chocolate chip pancakes. My running partner Rohan and I set out on the Fairfax Cross County Trail for an easy 10-miler. We settled into an early rhythm and the conversation flowed as easily as our stride.

The trail was damp and muddy and we joked (oh, how we joked) that we could consider this a successful run if neither of us fell as we slipped and slid through the patches of mud.

“Steady climb coming,” I called back to him, as we wove our away along the singletrack that would eventually switch back to the top of the hill looming above us.
“What races are you signed up for in 2012?” he asked, while we bowled along. Little did we know irony lurked near the top of the hill.
“Let’s see, I’ve got the RnR DC Half and the Backyard Burn Trail Series in March as well. I’m pretty stoked to get into a race series and….”

There was a snap! and I lurched out and grabbed on to one of the trees. I braced myself for the delayed pain. When it washed over me in one hot wave, my body flushed and I fought the sudden urge to vomit.

“We’re going back, right?” Rohan said.
“Give me a second,” I said, hands on my knees, swallowing the sour saliva. “Maybe I just tweaked it.”

Then I looked down at the baseball that had suddenly formed where my calf met my ankle. “Yep, we’re going back,” I said.

Except back was 3.2 miles away.

“Ok,” I said, starting to work this one out. “You run back to the car and meet me where the trail intersects Vale road.”
“You sure you’re gonna be ok?” he asked. And then I heard it. It was manliness calling, and I had to answer. Of course it could have just as easily been stupidity, but either way, I had to get back to the road.
“What choice do I have? We're in the middle of the woods.”

I took one step toward him to try and get out of the leaves and back onto the trail. I nearly buckled. We looked at each other. “Um, I’m gonna need your help getting out of here,” I said.

My baseball has now turned into a grapefruit.

I turned my right foot out and stepped gingerly. The pain shot up through my leg and stopped in my stomach. “I’m ok,” I said. “Just meet me at Vale.”

Rohan took off down the hill and I hoped he didn’t sprain his ankle trying to get back, but I waited to share that thought with him until later. I started my roughly one mile journey to the road. I hopped on my good leg. I hobbled, dragging it behind me like some sort of zombie-basement-of-the-science-building-type character.

I came upon a man and his dog. “You need anything?” he asked. Cadaver parts, maybe, I thought.
“Just need to get to Vale road where my friend is going to pick me up.”
“Is it the black guy?”
“Yep.”
“He. Was. Hauling!”

I needed to move faster. I tried to remember how long NHLers were out thanks to sprained ankles and reasoned that I’d probably be out 4-6 weeks. That put me at mid-late January. I could probably still train pretty hard for my half marathon, but, man, the holidays could be dark times. Then I thought about how this would get me out of vacuuming the house this weekend. Hmm, silver lining?

I finally reached the road just as Rohan pulled up. “How’s it feel?” he asked. “Never mind, I just looked at it.”

Great.

We pulled into the ER. I hopped through the doors and to the front desk. As soon as I sat down, the triage nurse called me back. Note to self, if going to the ER, get there at 11:40 on a Saturday morning to reduce the wait. “Do you want a wheelchair?” she asked.
“I just hopped a mile on it. I think I’ll be ok.” Of course then I nearly fell trying to sit in the chair.
“We’ll get you a wheelchair to take you back to your room,” she said. “What’s the prob– whoa! How’d you do that?”

Great.

As soon as I finished my explanation, Rohan jumped in. “Do you have any petroleum jelly?” We all stopped and looked at him. “My lips are really dry.”

I just shook my head at him. He pulled surgical lube from a drawer to which they cautioned him not to get any in his mouth. Before they wheeled me back, we took pictures and I joked that I’d be tagging everyone on Facebook. Hahaha, boo hoo hoo...We laugh to keep from crying.

When I got back to my room, the nurse came in with my chart, “So which ankle is it?”
“Two guesses,” I said.
He took his eyes from the chart. “Jesus!”

Great.

Another nurse (like I said the hospital is light at 11:45 a.m. on a Saturday) started asking me some background questions. Do I use drugs or alcohol? Do I drink everyday or (something inaudible)?
“What was the second choice?” I asked.
She turned and peered at me over her glasses. “Socially.”
“That one.”
“Do you have any petroleum jelly?” Rohan cut in.
“Can this be about me for five minutes?” I asked him.
“Sorry! My lips are dry.”

The murse wheeled me out for x-rays. The tech wheeled me back. “You’re going to live,” he said.
“Is it bad?” I asked, hope in my voice.
“I’ve seen worse.”

I returned to the room to find Rohan twirling a tube between his fingers. “Check it out. Industrial strength,” he said, his lips glistening.
“I’m happy for you.”

We waited for the doctor to come back in. Rohan found a pair of socks in the drawer and slipped them on. I'm giving him a hard time here, but he certainly kept me entertained.
 “They won’t even know they’re gone,” he rationalized.
“Did you hear my ankle pop?” I asked him.
“Wait, that was your ankle? I thought you snapped a branch.”

Great.

Finally the doctor came in. “It’s not broken,” she says. I wait for it. “But.” There it is. “It’s a pretty bad sprain. You’re going to need,” I brace again. “Two weeks until you can run again.”

My face relaxed. “That’s it? I thought you were going to say 4-6 so I’ll gladly take two.”
“Darn it. I should have said longer.”

The nurse came in behind the doctor with some crutches, an air cast, and a horse pill of ibuprofen.

“Do you want a clean sock for your foot?” she asked, sweetly.
“You should take that,” Rohan said, trying not to laugh. “I hear they are pretty comfortable.”
“Is that, right?” I asked.

She rummaged through the drawer. “I know we have a pair of socks in here somewhere.”
I shook my head at Rohan. “Here we are.”

I swung through the hallway to the parking lot and climbed into the car. “Home?” Rohan asked.
“Home? I have a sprained ankle. I’m not sick. We’ve gotta get some food.”
“Thank God,” he said, reapplying the chapstick.

So we bee-lined it for the nearest diner. At least I still got my breakfast and, sticking to our original measuring stick, no one fell. I guess you could call it a successful run.

The Last Mile Post - Part I

The trail turned to the left. My eyes followed the branch-strewn path to the hill’s crest and the reprieve I thought awaited us vanished. There was still more climbing to do. The chain on my bike made an awful jarring sound as I tried to switch to a lower gear. I rose up out of my saddle and willed my burning quads to turn over. The tires bumped over rocks and roots and split the fallen branches. With an 18 mile run just over 24 hours ago in my rearview, I thought, “This was supposed to be a recovery day.”

We crested the hill and sat back, letting gravity pull us down the declivity and stretching our legs out over the pedals. A breeze cooled the sweat running down my face and I felt euphoria wash over me in one delicious, satisfying moment of exhaustion.

Then something sounded horribly wrong.

* * *

For the last few weeks, my friend Joe and I have made steady progress toward reaching the end of the Fairfax Cross County Trail (CCT). The CCT twists, climbs, and descends through 18 miles of trail carved into the Fairfax County Woods.

Looking muddy and bad ass after our
first adventure.

Our last adventure, just one week ago, found us mud splattered and verifiably “bad-assed” when we returned to his truck. That 14 mile trip took us through stream and thunderstorm. We spent the ride home and the subsequent days throughout the week talking about “next Sunday’s ride” and where we’d set out from and how we’d finally see “mile post 0.”

Then there was an earthquake. Then there was a hurricane. Still…

With our wives at work, and Tropical Storm Irene’s bands lashing at the D.C. area Saturday afternoon, Joe and I tuned up my bike in his basement in anticipation of the muddy jaunt the next day. We ventured out to Target for supplies and spent the remainder of the day drinking beer (combining carb-loading and hydration) and watching “Band of Brothers.”

I went to bed that night with a heavy head, heavy eyes, and Irene rapping at the windows.

I awoke Sunday morning to a cloudless, wind-washed sky. A cool, heavy breeze blew through the trees and from the window, you’d swear it was fall outside. In my beer-fogged brain, one thought became clear: We were going riding.

Each ride has delivered a dose of nostalgia, back to my youth, back to times when we’d spend our Saturdays as explorers around the neighborhood, splashing through creeks, jumping over logs, venturing into uncharted territory before returning home with muddied shoes, fresh cuts and the occasional crop of poison ivy.

I find, however, that the reckless abandon with which I used to attack trails, hills, creeks, has been replaced by a much more cautious, “Holy shit, if I fall, it’s going to hurt and I’m probably not going to be running New York.”

So, Joe and I set off to find the last mile post of the CCT.

We started from the back of an ice skating rink parking lot in Reston and pedaled away from the world. It had all the markings of boyhood adventure, reminiscent of “Stand by Me” ... minus the dead body at the end of the trail but including things crawling up our clothes.

We imagined a muddy, soupy mess of a trail given the amount of rain that fell the day before. What we saw instead was a few puddles and stray fallen branches, which we happily crunched with our tires. However, neither of us had accounted for the speed of the stream.

The First Crossing

We reached the first crossing and watched the swollen creek surge through the stone pylons. We put our bikes down and began searching for a way around. Joe unlaced his shoes and headed into the current, made a face, and turned to me, “It’s pretty strong,” he said.

I trekked down the trail some and looked for a smoother place to cross, but the speed was replaced only by depth.

“Looks like there’s a dam down there that we could walk across,” he said, pointing downstream.

So, barefoot, Joe trudged through the high grass and disappeared around the bend. He shook his head as he made his way back across, then jumped. “What?!” I called.

“Definitely just saw a snake.”
“A snake?”
“I don’t feel good about this.” His pace quickened with the thorns and prickers raking at his legs and bare feet.

When he made it back to me, we stood, hands on hips. Suddenly our weekend adventure had turned into a team-building, problem solving situation. It was a corporate nightmare.

“If we were in Oregon Trail,” I said, “We could pay the Indian to get us across.” Joe snickered then started jumping up and down and swatting at his shorts. A praying mantis fell out and scurried off, as fast as a praying mantis can.

“Jesus!” he said. “It’s wild kingdom out here.” Joe gathered himself and I decided I’d see how strong the current was. I waded in and felt the tug at my ankles.

“What if we each grabbed an end and shuffled one bike across at a time?” he said.

Joe gets ready to check out
the Second Crossing

“Let’s try it,” I said.

So, we heft my bike up and took tiny shuffles across the stream until we got to the other side. Then, we shuffled back, and with much more confidence, did the same with Joe’s bike. With soggy feet and wet socks, we were riding again.

The trail turned to single track and matched what our original expectations had been. We bounced over roots, over rocks, through waterlogged banks, spraying mud onto our backs, up our legs and into our mouths. It was glorious.

That is until we hit the second crossing.

Check back tomorrow for Part II to see if we made it through the second crossing and to the end of the trail.

Mother Nature, What Did I Do?

All signs pointed to a good run. My legs felt limber.  The fatigue from Tuesday's hill workout had vanished.  Two fauns grazed at the trailhead and did little more than eye me with a courteous acknowledgement as if to say, "Isn't being out in nature wonderful?"  

"Eat a sandwich, Sasquatch," the deer said.

Turns out what they were really saying was: "Stay out of the woods...and for God's sake, put a shirt on!"  If anything, I thought that might help me assimilate further.  Anyhow...

I've taken to parking about three miles away from my local track and covering those miles along the Fairfax Cross County trail as a forced warmup/cool down.  That was my plan last night, and the workout would bring me a mere 12 miles away from my 400 mile goal.

Apparently, though, I had done something to upset the balance of nature because she had most assuredly turned her creatures against me this week.

Let's put the record setting high temps and the stifling humidity aside.  This is a Virginia summer after all, and it's to be expected.  Sure, when I set out on a 7.5 mile run on Monday night, the air hung heavy from an afternoon's worth of thunderstorms, and the air was so thick (how thick was it?!), let me tell ya, the air was so thick, I could have used a machete to carve my way through.  And, "Air Quality Alert" means the "Air is ripe for a quality workout," right?

The conflict, though, really began the night before.  I slogged my way through 10 miles.  My body was wringing sweat, my hip flexors tightening, and I ached for sleep.  With just under three miles to go, I pounded way through the woods of the Big Rocky Run trail.  My mouth slightly agape both from exhaustion and to taste that thick summer air.  

Mother nature: Beautiful sunrise in the morning;
Death in the afternoon. 

Then I saw it.  The world nearly came to a stand still.  It descended from the hanging treetops...and landed perfectly between my bottom lip and gums.  The world was no longer in slow motion.

I dug my tongue into the once vacant space as though I were trying to work out a dollop of peanut butter or fig newton, and promptly spit the intruder out.  Then I spit some more.  Then I started feeling the cuts along the inside of my mouth and the tip of my tongue.  Then I started to panic. Then I started running scenarios through my head.  A spider bite? Poisonous venom now coursing through me?  I could drop dead two miles from the house.  I'd be 23 miles short of 400!

It couldn't have been in my mouth more than three seconds, yet the battle we raged was epic.  However, I'm happy to report the damage was no more than what you might sustain after eating a sandwich on toasted sourdough.

Yet, I returned to the woods the following day.  Remember the deer?  I trotted off down the path, enchanted by my surroundings.  The woods crooned with the rhythmic humming of insects, the leaves rustling as squirrels darted over the fallen leaves.  Then, nature bit me.  

Now, I've been bit by mosquitos before, a horsefly once, a bee sting once (during a race actually).  They were all uncomfortable. But this is pain I have not felt before.  

About 400m into the run, a hot, searing pain shot into the small of my back.  I arched as though electricity had just passed through my body.  Whatever it was, "it" was still there.  I plucked it from the hot spot and sent it tumbling into the woods.  

I continued on and with each step, I could feel the spot getting hotter.  Then I felt the welt rise.  Then, again, I thought I might die.  

Thereafter, each spider web I ran through (and there were many) prompted a mid-stride, full-body scan for insects.  I'm sure I looked like I was having a bad trip or was sexing myself up.  Neither could have been farther from the truth.

So, Mother Nature, I ask you, what have I done? And perhaps more importantly, what can I do to get back in your good graces?

Deer Chaser

The Deer Hunter

With about two miles left in a scheduled five mile run, I picked my way over the Fairfax Cross County Trail, careful not to turn an ankle on a hidden root or ill-placed rock.  There was nothing special about this run, except perhaps to mention that the 2-5" of snow called for turned into a half inch, and did more to muddy the trail rather than add any other real hindrance.

My dog, Mattie, and I had just crossed the critical creep jump where she gets let off leash to go for an icy plunge and steal a few gulps of water while I tiptoe across the rocks.  Except this time, rather than hooking her back up, I decided to let her stay off leash with full knowledge that dusk had started to settle and the deer may be brave enough to step out into the clearings.  

Mattie generally does well off leash, only going a 100 feet ahead or so before waiting for me to catch up.  And this time, she stayed right behind me on the single track...until her jingling collar started to recede farther behind me. A new smell? I thought.  Something else's pee?  Only when I turned to call for her did I hear the sharp snap of branches and crunch of the brittle grass.  

Mattie was gone.

For the past two weeks, my dog and I have hopped into the car, driven the few miles down the road to the trailhead, and raced the sunset.  My wife and I have what we like to call "shelter moments" with the dog.  These are snapshots we mentally take of the dog doing outdoorsy things with us that we would -- in our imagination -- send to the shelter to show them what a good life we're giving Mattie.

I was not impressed.

However, these moments usually end in disasters that we wouldn't want the shelter to see.  For example, hiking down the backside of a mountain, feeling euphoric in the Shenandoah sunshine, we had one of these "shelter moments."  We let Mattie off leash, and true to the tale above, she stayed with us.  Life was good.  Until a deer got spooked and took off into the woods...and Mattie after her.  We had instant terrors of combing the woods for our dog...and never finding her again.  Of course she came back -- twigs hanging off her and prickers velcroed to her fur -- because let's face it, she's never going to catch the deer, and if by some miracle she did, well...then what?  And to add injury to insult, Mrs. Onthebusrunning sprained her ankle shortly thereafter.

Mattie's favorite things: chasing deer
and rolling in poop.

Cast against the brown landscape, she was still easy to see, her white coat flashing between the trees.  Then I saw the shock of white on the backside of the deer clustered on the creek's shoreline.  And those same shocks of white lifting and bounding deep into the woods. 

I became the moron yelling, "Maaaaaaatttttiiiiiie! Mattie come!"

Finally, with the deer out of reach, Mattie gave up the hunt and came trotting back to me, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth and head hung between her shoulders.  The look was not one of "I'm sorry I ran off," rather, "I'm sorry I didn't get them, Dad."

A very dirty dog.

Before she returned to me, I noticed that she was no longer the white dog I remembered just minutes ago.  Instead, she'd camouflaged herself with the mud, gravel, and grass native to the trail.  As I went to her, leash at the ready, she dove neck first into the grass to ground whatever deer, rabbit, or goose poop she'd found into her and her collar.  It should be noted that aside from being fed, these are Mattie's two favorite past times: chasing deer and rolling in poo.

"All right, you," I found myself saying out loud.  "I bet you're pretty proud of yourself aren't you?"  She snorted and rolled again.  I clipped the leash back onto her collar and we trotted back to the car...less careful about where we stepped or what we stepped in.