A Plica for Your Thoughts

"Floor hockey has betrayed me," I wrote in my last blog.  Upon further inspection, this is not the case.  Apparently, this whole time, my right knee has been a ticking time bomb waiting to go off for some 29 years.  Who constructed this bomb you might ask?  Who could be so devious as to want the inside of my knee to swell up leaving me frustrated, face itchy, and holding my breath?  

It was me.  

But not the me of today.  Not the me of yesterday or even the me of five years ago.  The answer lies in the womb.  Let me explain.

This morning, I went through the motions of an arm/ab session at the gym.  And while drifting from machine to machine, taking time to stroke the beard of my discontent between sets, I did some dynamic running stretches to test the waters.  Everything appeared to be ok, save for the normal morning stiffness that I'll just chalk up to "getting old."  

However, when I get stressed, it pools in my stomach as an acidic, nausea-inducing puddle of bile.  I imagine it to be a mustardy-brown cesspool with gloppy bubbles inflating and popping on the surface and....I digress.  Let's just say, I was nervous about my upcoming doctor's appointment. 

Finally, the hour of reckoning was upon me.  I swung my legs back and forth on the table while waiting for the doctor.  My eyes darted around those pristine white walls at the various framed accolades and athlete signatures.  Anything to calm my nerves and try not to feel as ridiculous as, well, I felt in the oversized shorts they made me slide on.

The doctor entered.  We shook hands and did the quick chit-chat that I'm sure they've heard a thousand times a day: "Haven't see you since May...but I guess that's a good thing, right?"

"I hoped it would be longer," I said back.  Yuck yuck yuck.

Down to business.  He listened to my plight.  Knew to ask how the summer training went, when Boston was in April exactly.  Then the manipulation.  "If I press here, if I turn it this way, push down, pull up..." and so on.

My favorite exchange came while I was lying on my back, right leg bent at 90 degrees.  "Ok, now straighten that leg...straighten that...I said straighten your leg."

"I am straightening it...that's as far as it goes."

*loud exhale*

"You've got some tight hamstrings, my friend."

Indeed.

And after much poking and prodding, after the realization nothing he could do hurt, the verdict came down: I have plica knee syndrome.  

He explained it as the thickening of the joint fluid, which causes inflammation, which irritates other areas of the knee, which means back off of running, ice, and anti-inflammatories.

The all important question came next: "When can I run again?"

"Take a couple more days and get after it on Sunday or Monday."  

It's as if he pulled the plug on my cesspool.  Relief washed over.  No meniscus tear, no ligament damage, no structural damage.  Only orders were to incorporate some quad and hamstring weights into my routine to strengthen the areas around my knee to hopefully prevent this type of flare up.  

But, we of course live in the age of information, and wikipedia, and WebMD.  I had to look up more info on plica knee syndrome.  Here's the sabotage part: 

Often called "synovial plica syndrome," this is a condition that is the result of a remnant of fetal tissue in the knee. The synovial plica are membranes that separate the knee into compartments during fetal development. These plica normally diminish in size during the second trimester of fetal development. 

My fetal development has failed me.  I am as yet undeveloped and am forced to now deal with these sacs that are prone to inflammation.  Curse you, fetus!

But, barring the discovery of the flux capacitor and any other form of time travel, it sounds avoidable with a little preventative exercise, some strength training, and some iburprofen.  

My running partner and I were e-mailing today about this and he summed it up best saying, "It makes sense.  We're at a level now where we need to get stronger to maintain this."  Amen.

In the meantime, I'm getting the shaving cream lathered up for Sunday.

Growing Good Karma

I'll be the first to admit that I'm superstitious. As an ice hockey goalie for more than 17 years, I suppose it comes with the territory. I used to take painstaking care to dress a certain way (there were good luck socks, and good luck ties, good luck t-shirts), put my pads on in a certain order (left-to-right), even the route I took to the rink or the boxers I wore to bed...it all mattered. In fact the cosmic order of the universe depended on it.

I like to think that since I stopped playing hockey, the superstitions have disappeared, but be careful not to step in the bullshit. There was a time at work I wouldn't change pens or the background on my computer because I was in the zone when it came to writing assignments...every word that dripped from that pen or onto that screen was gold, Jerry, gold!

In the NHL playoffs, it's a long standing tradition for players to grow playoff beards. Players come to resemble Scandinavian Norse Myth-men, or maybe more appropriately, Canadian lumberjacks. Some are good (thank you, Lanny MacDonald -right), some are bad (see Sidney Crosby's wispy-stache).

After battling a summer's-worth of frustration due to a recurring IT band injury, I started getting nervous that I wouldn't be ready for this weekend's Army Ten-Miler. That is until my friend and I took a hiking/camping trip out to Utah and Arizona. We piled on 51 miles of hiking and more than 2,000 miles on the car. Through it all, each morning, like Adam Banks in D-2: The Mighty Ducks,"I woke up, and the pain was gone." There was also no showering, which meant, no shaving. Thus, a beard was born.

And so, I submit to you what one of my co-workers has dubbed, "the Good Karma beard." I'm three weeks strong into this thick, coarse - and dare I say distinguished - ritual. It's been met with mixed reactions. Generally, any dudes who lay eyes on it are all for it. Is it admiration in their eyes or is that jealousy? I offer the following exchange from the elevator today, "I love that beard, man." "Thanks. It dies on Sunday night." "That is so sad to hear. Every time I tell my wife I'm going to grow a beard, she says, 'No, you're not.' Grow it for all of us." Indeed, it has taken on William Wallace proportions.

And the ladies? Well, there are two types of women in this world, those in favor of the beard and those who are not. From, "Hey, the beard is back!" to "Oh...I see the beard is back." How can such similar sentences carry such different messages. There is no middle ground with women and facial hair. Check out this Runner's World forum, spawned after one simple question, "Should I grow my beard back?"

Of course, many runners have sported the beard. Look no further than U.S. Olympic marathoner Brian Sell - he's extra bad ass because he shaves things into it. Pre didn't have the beard but he did rock a killer 70s mustache -- I think I was born in the wrong decade but that's a different blog post. There's even a group called Bearded Runners Unite, you can't make this shit up.

The real question is, "Is it working?" Of course it's working. Not only did I put in a 35 mile week two weeks ago, but I went long two weekends in a row. And the topper? How about a 32:41 five mile tempo run this evening, BY ACCIDENT? I, or should I say the beard, suddenly channeled Dathan Ritzenheim. Ladies and gentlemen, the defense rests.

I haven't told my beard yet that its time is limited, t-minus five days and counting. I prefer to let it carry on and continue to work it's good karma until after race day. Only then will I reflect on the good times we've had together. This beard has seen the Grand Canyon, L.A., been stroked in ponderous times and tugged at in stressful times. But on Sunday, as the saying goes, "If you love something, you must let it go..." And when I look down in the sink to see what's left, that may just be a single tear in my eye, shed for the good karma this beard has brought me. It shall always live on. A moment of silence please before you click on.