Here we go again

I had been looking forward to today for about the last six months.  When I gave into the realization that I shouldn’t run Chicago, I decided to shut it down until January 1st to give my body the best chance to heal.  Other than my ceremonial 5K on October 10th, I have done nothing physically constructive whatsoever (although, excessive drinking contributing to my ever-expanding gut is technically “physically constructive” I suppose…).  It was a fantastic excuse if I do say so myself (“I’m trying to heal”), but the fact is that it was still an excuse.  I could have ridden my bike or lifted weights, but I just needed to head to the basement (as boxer Andrew Toney once described his withdrawal from media scrutiny) to sulk, feel sorry for myself, and let all that bitterness marinate.

Being at the park this afternoon was great in a bizarre way.  Since it had been raining off and on all night, there was almost no one at McKinley (except for a group of teenagers playing football in the mud), and I had the track pretty much to myself.  As I walked the first mile as a warm-up, I got lost in my thoughts as I normally do — everything from my job and my family to this weekend’s Bears game in Lambeau Field.  Some people go blank when they run, but I think my brain goes into overdrive.

By the time I finished my warmup, the rain started falling pretty heavily, and I decided I better start running.  My trusty iPod again welcomed me back with some fantastically motivating songs, and I ended up exceeding my planned half-mile run and running a full circuit of the track.  And, as fate would have it, the second I stopped running, the rain stopped as well.

On the drive home, I thought about the 2011 Chicago Marathon, which is now the new goal.  Over the last month or so, I’ve been bothered by continued leg pain, despite my best attempts to let things heal.  I can still feel the fractures pretty much every day.  It’s nothing too terribly painful, more like a gentle reminder, “Hey, we’re still here.”  The truth is, that running Chicago (or any marathon, for that matter) is more-than-likely one helluva long shot.  I’ve had two doctors tell me that I’m just not built for long distance running.  I think I’m finally coming to terms with that.  So, instead of putting another 10 months of pressure on myself, I’m going to simply try to enjoy myself and appreciate whatever miles I can run.

Even today’s 1-mile run in the rain made me smile.

10.10.10

Today was a tough one for me.  This was the day I tabbed so many months ago as the day I was going to participate in (and hopefully complete) my first marathon.  Hell, it was the reason I started writing this blog.  Unfortunately, stubborn injuries to both my tibias made my trip to Chicago impossible, and I’ve been having a hard time accepting it.

Yesterday, my friend Laura*, the initial inspiration for me even considering the Chicago Marathon as a possibility, sent me a photo of my name on a wall of runners she saw in Chicago.  As cool as it was to see (and I’m glad she sent it), it felt like another punch to the gut, another reminder of my failure to attain this goal I set.

At least they spelled it right…

When I woke up this morning, I was well-aware of the fact that the runners in Chicago had already started, and I was insanely depressed that I wasn’t one of the 40,000+.  Since I had always planned on running on 10.10.10, I decided I would suit up and head over to McKinley–even if it was just to walk the track.  As I was getting ready, it felt pretty weird putting my gear on that’s been sitting in my closet for the last few months.  It was almost like I was getting ready for a costume party, pretending to be a runner.  As I parked in my usual spot at the park, I actually felt a little embarrassed watching the “real” runners putting in their miles.

Walking around the track, trying to loosen up joints that haven’t been asked to do anything but walk from the parking structure to my office, I couldn’t help but crack the smallest of smiles.  It was nice to be back in the park.  I missed the sights and sounds.  I missed the muddy sections that I used to curse from overwatering.  I missed seeing the folks doing yoga.  And most of all, I missed the routine.

After walking the first mile, I decided to stretch my legs and see if I could stand quickening my pace.  The first quarter mile or so was pretty rough.  I could still feel the stress fractures complaining, and the rest of my body was wondering what the hell I was asking it to do.  I kept reminding myself of all the little things I had to work on while running: keep your chin down, don’t hunch your shoulders, keep your hands loose, don’t tense up, breathe slowly, don’t overstride, focus on the forefoot strike.

Then, something really cool happened: my iPod welcomed me back.

Months ago, I had collected about 7 hours of music together for a running playlist, knowing I would need a bunch the keep my brain distracted when I ran the marathon.  Maybe that music, which had been sitting unlistened to since my last run in August, felt sorry for me (or was just really excited to be listened to again), but some of my very favorite tracks kept popping up while on shuffle.  Music that had funny stories or significant meaning or just a great motivational thump played, one after the other.  The Foo Fighters reminded me that “all my life I’ve been waiting for something” and Muse echoed that “I want it now.”  The Blues Brothers sang of “Sweet Home, Chicago” and Chicago pumped me up with “25 or 6 to 4.”

Needless to say, my run in McKinley Park was a wonderful cathartic thing.

I got home, and was mildly surprised how quickly my body rebelled against me.  Feet, ankles, knees, quads, hamstrings, hip flexors and shoulders stiffened up something fierce on my 8-minute drive home, but I didn’t care.  My soul, even if just for a bit, felt rejuvenated.

Back in February, I decided that I wanted to run on October 10, 2010.  I had hoped it would be in 26.2 miles in Chicago.  But a 5K in Sacramento wasn’t too bad at all.

* To read the exploits of someone who actually ran the Chicago Marathon, check out Laura’s blog.

The dream is dead (and other stuff)

Wow.  That was an ominous start.  :)

I logged in the other day only to realize that I haven’t written anything since the end of May.  Reading over that post, I commented that I’ve been too busy to write, and here I am nearly three months later with no updates.  Needless to say things have been a little crazy.

Running down a dream (poorly)

First and foremost, I think it’s safe to say that my goal of running in the 2010 Chicago Marathon, and my inspiration for occupying this little corner of the introweb, is pretty much dead at this point.  No matter how I try to convince myself otherwise, the truth is that I haven’t healed properly or, more to the point, completely from the stress fractures I’ve been dealing with this year.  Whether it was me being stubborn and trying to come back too quickly, or that my body decided to give me the big finger and laugh at me, I’m still struggling with pain daily.  It’s not unbearable.  But it is most certainly nagging (and pisses me off somethin’ fierce).

I’ve toyed with the idea of trying to run the marathon anyway.  I’ve done the math more than a few times to try to figure out how many miles I’d have to run out of the 26.2 in order to be able to finish in the required 6 hours and 30 minutes.  Given my history of pushing through injury to do completely stupid things, until October 11 rolls around and I’m not sitting in a Chicagoland bathtub full of ice, it IS a possibility.  But I’m trying to be more mature and pragmatic in my approach now that I’m almost an adult.  ;)

I know that there’s always next year.  I realize I can shut it down, stick with low-impact training and come back prepared to beat the crap out of the marathon in 2011.  Even though I try to talk myself out of feeling this way, I can’t suggest “next year” and not feel like a failure.

But, my ego is my cross to bear.  And I’m just going to see how long I make myself carry it before I give permission to set it down.

In the meantime, I’ve shifted (some of) my focus to a 5K at the end of August in support of the local arts.  Given my struggles over the last number of months, simply finishing that run in a reasonable time would be a welcome boost to my psyche.

87.4%

The other BIG thing that’s gone on since my last post is my employment situation.  When last I left you, I had just received the news that I was joining the uncomfortably large group of unemployed workers out there, just as I was leaving for vacation.  While I was gone, my employer asked that I stay on payroll when I returned, “to help with the transition.”  There was more than a big part of me that wanted to respond with a number of four-letter retorts, but I reminded myself that I’ve got a mortgage to pay, and another two weeks of employment would help immeasurably.

I spent those next two weeks talking to as many folks in my industry as I could.  I visited as many shops as possible and sat down with some of the most creative minds Sacramento has to offer.  After all the meetings, and after all my performances of Show-and-Tell, I was offered a job by the one place I truly wanted to work for.

Serendipity, it seems, isn’t just a John Cusack film.

In the end, I was unemployed for exactly two days (Saturday and Sunday).  There’s a sizable part of me that just can’t fathom that in a depressed economy like this, in an industry that’s volatile and insane in the best of times, that I was able to find a job with an agency who’s work I’ve admired for a number of years.  Words cannot say how blessed and fortunate I feel for this opportunity.

As I sit here tonight, writing the Cliffs Notes versions of two of the more important things to happen to me recently, a certain misquotation of the Bible comes to mind (though in a fittingly backwards, Wonkian, “Strike that. Flip it.” sort of way):

“The Lord taketh away, and the Lord giveth.”

So, I might have lost Chicago 2010, but I got a great job instead.  Not a terrible trade, if you ask me.

The dream might be dead, but it’s just one dream.  Maybe tonight, I’ll have another.  :)

My fresh new hell

As I’m sitting in the Sacramento International Airport’s Terminal B waiting for my ridiculously delayed flight to Chicago, I’ve had a little time to think.  It’s amazing how many things can happen in less than a month.  I’ve been too busy to write anything new over these last few weeks, but as thought about what I wanted to post, there was simply too much.  Here are a few of them:

Spoonman

As my Doctor/Physical Therapist friend recently released me from my 10-week time-out from running, she gave me the green light to run (wait for it) a half-mile at a time.  As excited as I was for this new-found freedom, I was still very nervous about running in the wrong shoes (since that’s what got us here in the first place).  I spoke to another physical therapist who specializes in runners and their shoes.  He informed me that 3% of the runners he sees exhibit the pathology that I do when I run, making it that much more difficult to find the right shoes to correct my seeming myriad of problems.

In addition to the number of different exercises and stretches he tasked me with doing, he told me I needed to break up the scar tissue that’s developed along both of my tibias. And how was I to break up said tissue, you ask?  By grinding a spoon along the bone on the area of soreness.  It’s not fun.

It’s the shoes

As I stated above, apparently I have special, mutant feet that have so many things wrong with them (while running) that there are too many problems for normal running shoes to correct.

The first shoes I used gave me shin splints that turned into stress fractures which have kept me from seriously running for the last 12 weeks now.  The second pair of shoes I tried felt like they were spraining my ankles with every step over the 2-mile run I took them out on.  Based on the second physical therapist and the third person I spoke to at Fleet Feet, I took aim at a new pair, the Asics Gel Nimbus 12.

And, of course, I had to special order them because no one carries my size/width.

These will be waiting for me when I return to Sacramento, and I’ve got my fingers crossed that these will work out.  If not, I’ve already got pair #4 lined up.  I just hope that it doesn’t come to that.

12.6%

This past Tuesday, I walked into work to find that the Creative department I’ve worked in over the last four years had been dissolved, my position along with it.  I am now a part of the unlucky 12.6%.  There are about 17 million things I would like to write about this particular happening, but I’m going to wait a little on this one for a number of reasons.

What I will touch on, however, is the amazing outpouring of support and love I received the instant the news was made public.  My cell phone blew up with texts and calls to the point where I had to plug it in before noon to keep the battery from dying.  My email box was flooded with seemingly endless messages and requests for my portfolio.  Friends, contacts and old co-workers alike banded together in an unknown-to-each-other Super Team to console me, inspire me and push me forward.  And within hours, multiple people at other companies who I’ve competed hammer-and-tong with for business over the last four years had already agreed to sit down with me over coffee when I returned from my trip to Chicago.

Honestly, I’m not expecting anything crazy out of all of these requests for my portfolio and these meetings over coffee: it could be people just trying to be nice.  It would blow my mind if I was able to be lucky enough to be gainfully employed so quickly in such a difficult time to find yourself unemployed.

But even if it’s just that, even if it’s people just being nice, it’s so much more than any one of these people had to do.  No one had to call me.  No one had to email me.  And no one had to agree to meet with me (and trust me, I know how difficult it can be to make time to meet with someone when you have no immediate position to fill).

It shows me how similar we all are.  That despite whatever battles we’ve waged over potential clients, regardless of what disagreements we’ve had while working together, we are all part of the same community.  And that’s so much stronger than what name is on the door of wherever we happen to be working.

For those of you that are reading this, I want to thank each and every one of you for your support and encouragement. As hard as this has been, this outpouring of support has overwhelmed me and touched me very deeply.

I’m honored you’re all in my life.

It’s true: I’m a cheater

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again:

Running is stupid.

What’s even more stupid is the mental shift that’s taken place over the last few months that makes me consider running cheating.

My recent struggles with tibial stress fractures are well-documented.  Right after I decided to commit to Chicago, my legs took a dive (thanks, in large part to Fleet Feet misfitting me for shoes).  The last 10 weeks have been one serious test of patience, but I’ve been fairly “good” in my rehab.  I’ve walked daily.  I’ve gone to physical therapy for the near-miraculous healing power of ultrasound and ice massage.  I’ve learned new stretches that are supposed to help keep these injuries from happening again, and I’ve participated in Dr. Worman’s “back class” to give me an outlet of training that’s both high-intensity and low-impact.

Over the last 10 weeks, I’ve also run a handful of times.

The doctor told me not to.  She said, unequivocally and without lack of clarity, “No running for 6-8 weeks.”  At the 4-week mark, I felt fantastic and hit up McKinley for a controlled 1-mile run.  I took a week off and did it again.  After a third run, I confessed my transgressions and got an additional 2-week penance with the reprimand, “Do you think it’s smart to run on broken legs?”

Tomorrow marks 10 weeks since I (sort of) shut it down, and I admit, I’ve cheated two more times — the last one coming this morning (but, hey what’s one day?).  What’s surprising is that I’ve gotten to a place where running is something I have to hide and feel bad about.  Don’t get me wrong: I realize that in this instance, NOT running is good for me (I mean, I do need to heal correctly to even have a shot at Chicago), but it’s a little funny nonetheless.

Running was always that thing I loathed.  When I was playing sports in high school, it was a necessary evil, and sometimes, it was even a punishment.

Now, it feels like punishment when I can’t go out and get a few miles in.  And if I do sneak out, I feel guilty for doing it.

Bizarre.

As I said before, this week marks 10-weeks of (near) time off from running.  The doc wants to see how I do on a treadmill before giving me clearance to re-start my training.  I hope that after reading this blog she doesn’t get too mad at me:

I really, REALLY tried to be good.

And before I sign off, I want to take this opportunity to again thank Dr. Worman for everything she’s done for me so far.  Words can’t describe the gratitude I have, and I wish there was something I could do to properly repay her.

So long as it doesn’t include not running.

I am not Ricky Martin

(And this has less than nothing to do with his recent announcement.)

I’ve recently started receiving ultrasound treatment for my shin splints from my doctor-and-physical-therapist-extraordinaire friend.  During one of my office visits, she suggested that I take one of her “back classes” as a way to keep active while I heal.  So, I made arrangements to leave work early in order to make it out to Folsom in time for my first class.

When I got there, I felt like an absolute intruder.  Most of the people in the room have been through the class a number of times and knew each other.  People were smiling and laughing as they warmed up, and I was completely lost (as I’ve never toured the facility or the area where the class was going to take place).  While I’ve been in fitness gyms before, I was unfamiliar with some of the equipment and did my best not to look like a complete tool as I waited for my friend to start her session.

What happened over the next 60+ minutes was one of the most humbling (and fun) experiences I’ve had in a long time.  For the first 30 or so minutes, we did high-intensity, low-impact interval training with very specific ways you needed to position and hold your body.  When on the treadmill, the machine was cranked to a 15% incline with a 3.5mph speed.  I know it doesn’t sound that hard.  But mix in squatting down, aligning your pelvic bone in some way I have yet to completely understand and holding your frame in such a way that your head doesn’t bob at all, and you get one helluva burn.  Jump to the floor to rock some hill climbers (again with requisite alien-to-me body positioning).  Pop onto a bike, stay out of the saddle and again hold your frame so that you’re not moving up and down as you climb. Switch to a ladder machine, again squat down, keep your body parallel to the machine and just work your arms and legs (minimal body movement).  Add in a multitude of squats and swiss ball excercises, things that resemble defensive slides from my days playing basketball, locking yourself into the back trainer while you rock some air punches like Rocky training to kick the crap out of Drago for smoking Apollo, and you get one heck of an amazing workout.  Just about every one of these exercises required as much thinking about what you were doing as physical effort.  Think back to the first time you tried driving a manual transmission car.  You may have known the steps you were supposed to take, but it was a struggle until you got used to doing it.

Within the first two minutes, I was pouring sweat.  After five minutes, my shirt was soaking through.  When I dropped down to the floor for hill climbers, sweat kept running into my eyes and blinding me. And a number of times during various exercises, my friend kept grabbing my midsection or my ass and exclaiming “Ricky Mar-TEEN! Ricky Mar-TEEN!” to illustrate how I was not moving my hips or pelvis the required way.

My “I am not Latino” retort did get a chuckle out of the otherwise quiet class, though.

As the class began and I felt out-of-shape and completely lost and thought, “I am never coming back here again.”  But as the hour went on, I caught myself starting to smile.  I enjoyed pushing my body.  I found that I really missed sweating and feeling like I was accomplishing something.  And even after I got in trouble for bending over to get a sip from the water fountain (you’re required to squat down or suffer public ridicule), I started looking forward to the next week’s class.

(Right up until I walked outside and almost fell down the stairs with my post-workout wobbly legs.)

The light at the end of the tunnel

Today, I am a 35-year-old corpse.

(And that’s about all I’m going to say about that.)  

Instead, I’m excited to say that I’ve been able to run my first continuous mile in over a month this week.

I’ve been walking diligently with Madison just about every day, stretching and performing the ice massages as I’ve been instructed.  I’ve kept my eye on the proverbial prize and waited a full four weeks before trying to hit the trail at McKinley again.  I wore my compression sleeves to increase blood flow and decrease recovery time.  I was patient through the beautiful turn in the weather and stayed the course, sticking to my walks around the Med Center with the faith that my body wouldn’t let me down as long as I gave it the time it needed.

A mile is such a small step in the journey ahead of me, but the one I ran on Sunday (the first one I attempted since I shut it down) felt like a huge victory.  I kept telling myself to slow down, to keep it barely faster than a walk.  I was hyper-conscious of every step I took, waiting for any sense of pain at all as a warning to stop.

Happily enough, none came (well, until some slight soreness the next day).

I finished my mile in a much-faster-than-I-wanted 9’30″ with a huge smile and a welcome bead of sweat running down my face.

After the constant test of patience I’ve endured over the last month, I feel like I’m just about ready to start moving forward again.  Even though I’m starting from scratch again and have to (very slowly) work back up to where I left off a month ago, I’m excited.

I’m getting back on the road to Chicago.

I can see the light at the end of my tunnel.