Recent Races: Injuries And Insults

I just did something I’ve never done before. Two 10K races in six days. The first one was practice for the second one. The second one was a bucket-list race I’d always wanted to do. Sounds like a fairly sensible plan.

Until it wasn’t. I got hurt at race #1.

It wasn’t my fault, really. I was trying to do the right thing (avoid another runner). It was in mile five of six-point-two (a lucky thing, as opposed to happening in mile one). My toe caught the grate of the drawbridge and I body-planted on the metal grate. Lacerated both knees, both hands, forehead and nose, plus a nosebleed, plus monumental pain in my biceps and triceps, which took the brunt of the fall (sparing the rest of my body and likely my teeth and eyes) from serious damage.

It was the most serious competition accident I’ve ever had. I bounced up and endorphins raging, finished the race. I couldn’t imagine why no one wanted to look at me at the finish line. Until I found a restroom and took a look at myself. I don’t bleed much, so once cleaned up, it wasn’t that bad. Add a severe toe blister to the list and the overall damage was considerable, but could have been far worse.

Jump ahead to the next race; still bruised, but the cuts have closed. I have a blister bandage on the toe. On line to use the restroom at race #2, I overhear the usual pre-race banter, and a couple of perfectly coiffed and glammed-up gals complaining how they expect their time to be slow today due to the inclusion of a bridge in the route. How their eight-minute mile pace will suffer.

That’s the insulting part of this. All of it, really.

The not-a-hair-out-of-place updos, the totally matched running outfits, flawless skin, jewelry,  but worst of all, the fact that you’re upset about your eight-minute mile slowing slightly. Honey, the race route was published when the race was first announced. The bridge was not added as a last-minute surprise. I’m doing this as an old, injured person. I’m pretty sure old enough to be at least your mom. And probably injured enough to think better of this, but not smart enough to do so.

It was a good race. Challenging, but in a sense, fueled by those same endorphins that got me through race #1. I felt decent enough today to work in the yard this morning. And tomorrow will be better, and back to workouts. After all, there’s a triathlon and an ocean swim and a 5K coming up next month.

 

 

I Thought I Knew Parkland. I Was Wrong

I did a five-mile race today in Parkland. I thought I knew everything I needed to know about the shooting, and what the effect on the community before I got there.

Turns out I had no idea.

Yes, they are all that.

I knew the clinical details, of course. Who did it, how many were killed and injured and the protests and movements that have followed. What I did not know was the community itself. I’d been there only once before, years ago, when it was as it still is  —   green with trees and lawns, wide roads and sidewalks, expensive houses grouped in mostly gated communities, very clean and tidy without industry or even strip malls to sully the appearance of a perfect place to live.

When it all changed at 3:18 p.m. on February 14, nothing on the surface was likely any different. The homes are still where people live, work, play, eat, sleep and raise families. The landscaping still looks fantastic, there’s no trash on the streets and commercial shopping is still located east of the Sawgrass Expressway.

But you cannot get away from what happened here.  The maroon ribbons , faded and shredded, are still tied to trees near the high school. And as much as you want to look past the school, you can’t. It’s very large, the buildings are very conspicuously painted bright white and the surrounding fencing boasts dozens of mostly maroon advertising and support signs and banners. Local businesses who proclaimed their wares here before are especially proud to do so now. At today’s race, just shy of the seven-month anniversary, people wore #MSD Strong shirts, the city’s commissioners and mayor posed for photos with all the race winners and the girls from the school’s cross-country team helped present the age-group and overall winner awards.

In Parkland, everyone knows. Everyone cares. No one forgets.  And city staff, runners and volunteers understood that this was not just a race. It was a step to something more. Maybe not forward or better yet, though I did see joy and smiles. It is not normal in Parkland, but I don’t know when or if it ever will be. I do know it is a great place to spend a race morning, and nothing can ever change that.

 

Feel Free To Finally Call Me Bigfeet

It happened this week. My feet got older and bigger.  I went to my favorite local running shoe store (still love Linda, George and all the gang at Tri Bike Run, even after this), and found out that there’s no way around it. I am now a double-digit shoe size.

Turns out this is not unusual: our feet gain as much as a size every decade after age 40. The tendons and ligaments lose elasticity,  lowering the arches and flattening the feet. For the record, I’ve always had flat feet, so how much lower can they possibly go? Am I looking at the possibility of rolling along on concave arches? And if I live to 100, I would be a size 14 foot. That’s NBA player territory, house-building material, floorboards for the Ark. How do I stop this? Do I sit down for the rest of my life, risking a heart attack and growing to the size of an office building, but preventing further foot growth? Do I engage in the ancient Chinese ritual of foot binding, an excruciatingly painful practice involving the breaking of toes and wrapping them to create the small feet deemed desirable and beautiful? No option is a good one, but the idea of showing up at a race among all those prettily shod feminine feet, clad in their racing flats of fluorescent pink, yellow, green, orange, white and lavender makes a person want to start way in the back of the pack and stay there.

Getting older is inevitable, but I hoped I would outrun the signs of aging for awhile. Not this one. So if anyone doubts the existence of Bigfeet, they need only catch a glimpse of my closet, where my size 10 Brooks reside. Unless of course, I am out running. Then just listen for the pitter-patter of some not-so-tiny feet behind you.

Love, Peanut Butter, Bucket List

The competitive swimming list is complete. I entered and swam the 400 IM at my most recent swim meet, which means I’ve done all the events from the 25s to the mile in yards, long or short course meters, and many of them I’ve done at all three distances. I’ve done the 5K swim (my 10K attempt ended with Hurricane Irma’s arrival). That does not mean I’m done swimming, only that I need a new

Make new friends, see new places, one state at a time.

challenge.

I’ve decided to start the “Old Is A Four-Letter Word” Tour. No, I’m not heading out as a Rolling Stones groupie. My goal is to race once in all 50 states. The type of race – a 5K, 10K, swim meet, bike event or triathlon – is immaterial. I have to pick one and do it once in every state. Aside from Florida, I have Massachusetts and Delaware done. Next up is Louisiana, piggybacked onto a car club event. Next year: Colorado (the Cherry Creek Sneak in mid-April looks like fun) and the Maryland/D.C. area (too many to count, but the Fort McHenry Tunnel Run is interesting). I have family in both places, so there’s my other excuse to go.

Why bother to do this? Why train, eat right and deal with travel and packing and all the details? The adult in me knows better, but the kid in me wants something more. Because keeping the body good and the brain active requires regular workouts. I’ve said this before: I don’t want to be the old rocking-chair type, waiting for Death to stop by and pick me up for that final ride to whatever is waiting after this life ends. If I’m going (and at this stage, I am more than halfway there), then I’ll meet Fate head-on, no cane, walker or wheelchair at hand. I’d rather go out on my bike, or with my running shoes tied tight, than age away slowly.

In case you’re wondering, my doctor has no idea about my new plans. I see him before the end of the year, and I’ll try to explain it to him. Not planning on asking his permission. Just planning to let him know what I’ve decided. It’s an ambitious plan for an (almost) 60-year-old. And don’t ask me how I’ll manage Alaska and Hawaii yet.  For now, I’m thinking of stocking up on peanut butter and getting a T-shirt to wear in honor of this quest. Printed on it: “I’m running through 50 states. This might take a while.”

Back on the training treadmill

I don’t normally compete in July and August. For one thing, it’s stupid insane hot here.

And I have time to get caught up on other things, like doctor appointments, writing and maybe some real rest time.

But as that famous blonde singer once warbled, “Oops, I did it again.”

I signed up for another half-marathon. It’s not until next March, but ten months goes by faster than you want it to. One month you’re a lane lizard in the pool or strolling on beach sand like a tourist without a timetable, and the next thing you know, it’s time to pick up the race packet and goodie bag.

I have other events before March: a few swim meets, road races and three triathlons. Those need care, feeding and training, too. But the half-marathon was an event I swore I’d never do again after I did the Daytona Speedway-to-The-Beach-And-Back half a few years ago. It was a nice race (if you ignore the 3:30 a.m. wake up time to be parked by 4:30 a.m. for a 6 a.m. start thing, along with the 38-degree temperatures), but I figured by then, my distance days ought to be over. I was hurting so much at the end of that race, The Husband’s hope for a photo of me at the top of the track’s 31-degree banked Turn 1 was just that – a hope.

Why do another half? A small desire for redemption mixed with a decent dose of insanity plus a need to defy the onslaught of age. I want to do a better job on the finishing time. And all of us who run are at least a little left or right of the center line of normal anyway. It’s not that age is showing or catching up. But little things are noticeable – injuries take longer to heal than they used to, and while I don’t require more rest, I seem to benefit from more of it.

I look at some of my friends, a few my age and some a little older, who are becoming burdened with the ailments of oncoming years. I don’t want life to get like that. I’m all for taking advantage of medical specialists, both Western and non-traditional practitioners, but I want to make the decision to do so because I am maintaining good health, not because I am fundamentally hurting.

Training has started, or in my case, just kicked up to a slightly higher level. I bow to all those who improbably and insanely choose to go back on their word and try something again, just one more time. I am one of you now. The Never Say Never Brigade.

 

I missed the hardware (this time)

Good news and bad news about the 5K I ran today.

Good news: it was my first 5K of the year, after doing 10Ks, swim meets and triathlons to start the year.

Really good news: I finally broke my old personal best time and set a new one.

Sort of bad news: no medal this time. I finished fourth in my age group, forty seconds behind third place. No medal for fourth, which is disappointing, as this particular race had especially nice hardware.

But I’m happy with the new PR time, as that old one was from two age groups ago, and set on a flat course (today’s race had three small hills and a persistent headwind). Also old for this race: my current running shoes, which are retired from regular use as of today. I’ve been saving for a new pair, and got the money together yesterday, even though I have still not found full-time employment.

Being out of work has made me healthier, because I force myself to get up and move around more often. I’m not sedentary for eight hours a day. The weekly track workouts, with the bleacher climbs and sprints, have helped as well. And competition has kept me focused on not getting depressed and caught up in the frustration of not having a job just yet. It’s also something of a social outlet, after sitting in front of my home computer working on the job search, or freelance writing, or both.

I plan to keep competing, though not spending hog-wild on it at this point. I realize this is not the ideal time to be spending money on these endeavors. But I consider regular racing, whether it be running, swimming or triathlons, a reasonable investment in my health and my sanity. At this point, it’s hard to tell whether I am chasing what’s left of my mental marbles, or they are rolling behind me, trying to catch up. Either way, the personal race should be at least as interesting as my next event.And a note to my friend Steve, who suggested that I “throw a little chocolate into every day”: my friend, I know you meant that literally, because you know how I feel about chocolate. But I’m going to consider your advice in the figurative sense as well. I’ll consider a good competition day to like a piece of the best chocolate: sweet, satisfying and a tonic for the senses.

What first place feels like

This was the wettest race I’ve ever done, other than a race in a pool. And I’ve seen rainstorms before. This was epic, however. Short in duration (about a half-hour), but epic. Blinding sideways rain that left you wondering if your next step was a safe one, and howling wind that brought down tree limbs. The kind of weather that makes people not show up, or quit after a mile.

And I have to admit, that’s how I got my first place division win at a 10K this morning. My competition showed up, and was ahead of me, but the rain annoyed them enough to DNF.

On the one hand, a win is a win, right? On the other hand, I would have preferred to get this the right way, by beating my opponents outright. But there was no give up and go home for me. It was a long drive there and a long drive back. Too many miles to live with disappointment.

And compared to being laid off (which occurred two weeks ago, for the first time in my forty-plus years of working), running in a driving rain and howling wind isn’t that bad. It pushes you mentally and physically, especially when there are what we call “hills” down here (AKA the causeway drawbridges) to climb.

I’m still looking for work, but not panicking at this point. I have options and the word is out that I am available. Meanwhile, I have this accomplishment done and the medal is on the rack, not hanging with any others at the moment. It’s just on a hook by itself. I’d like to tell you that I plan to rest and enjoy this one, but there are more runs on the schedule. And training resumes as soon as my shoes dry out.

We saw a bit of blue sky, but not enough to call it a nice day today.

First Race Done and in the (Digital) Books

Humans using a running gait. Note the “suspended phase” in which neither foot touches the ground. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

The road running racing season has started, and I got my first race for the year out of the way. Not a pretty race, but it’s over.

 

I chose a five-miler, because that’s a distance that does not come up often around here. And considering there isn’t much racing from June through September, it’s nice to get a long one out of the way first.

 

It was a big race, by my standards: about 1,600 runners, split very unevenly between the five-mile course and the five-kilometer course. Two elevation changes (a drawbridge out and back), but otherwise flat and fairly shady.

 

No crowd control at the end, so no breakfast left for the later runners. And the post-race beverage was just weird – an electrolyte water beverage no amount of chilling could help. The Husband tried what was left in the bottle, and remarked that it tasted like flat seltzer water.

 

No sense in waiting around for results, now that everything is digitized and computerized. Unless you know you are in the top three or an overall winner, you go home and check results online later, after a shower, a meal and a lot of fluids. I remember a time when race organizers had to make tons of copies, or you had to wait until the next day to see the results in the local newspaper. Now race results are as close as your favorite running app or the timing website. In my case, I get to find out faster how much slower I was than everyone else.

 

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Bike Shop Blues: You Didn’t Have To Be So Obvious

Why you should support your local bike shop (Photo credit: timmycorkery)

I stopped into a local bike shop today, to finally order my new bike. For those of you who don’t recall, I had a little accident last November. I was fine (eventually), but the bike was not. And I’ve wanted to move up to a nicer, more lightweight bike;  something I could hopefully use for triathlons after the eye surgery is done.

The good news: the bike is coming in next week, and I even get a choice of two colors (hey, it’s not a component bike; you don’t get a lot of cool stuff to pick from on a racing bike, unless you’re choosing the parts yourself and shelling out thousands).

The bad news: I didn’t rate a whole lot of respect at the bike shop. I’m thinking it has to do with the way I look. The disdain and the brush-off were fairly obvious from the salesperson, whom I happen to know from participation in another sport.

If you see me in person, your first thought isn’t going to be, “Looks like a triathlete to me.” I look more like a spectator. That I have a share of medals and ribbons for running and swimming (none for cycling) isn’t something you’d know about, unless you know me AND you’ve been in my house. The fact is, the size zero, rail-thin athletes among you might be very surprised to find out some interesting things about the rest of us:

1. we may not look like you, but we still want to play like you.
2. we’re not as good as you, but we’re pretty good at it.
3. we’d like a shot at looking and dressing the part, even if it makes people point, laugh, hyperventilate or faint
4. we’d prefer to be treated like any other customer. We may not look like a Tour de France rider, but our money’s just as green.

I should be used to this, since I’ve been teased and picked on from a very early age. Usually chosen last for any team game and left to play third string as a kid; harassed from cars while running and ignored everywhere from retail stores to restaurants. It’s a strange thing that while our society is getting heavier (and no, I don’t consider this a good thing, because of the attendant health issues), heavier people are being marginalized more. I cannot fix what society chooses to do. I can fight back and get respect, or I can withhold my patronage of any business that decides my looks mean I don’t belong there.

I do plan on going back and getting the bike, by the way. It’s a small shop, and I happen to like the owner. As it happens, she was not there today, but next week, I’ll be sure she is when I stop in. Will I have “the conversation” with her? Should I?

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And In This Corner…Stands Another Race Trophy

OK, this one isn’t standing. Actually, it’s on a very nice pink-and-black ribbon, and it’s sitting on my desk, awaiting a frame.

I almost did not get this award. It’s for finishing third in my age category at the Mother’s Day five-mile road race I wrote about recently. Problem is, I left the event before the awards were presented. I thought I did so poorly there was no shot at a medal. Plus, I had other plans. Plus, it was hot.

Fortunately, a polite and apologetic email to the race organizers resulted in getting the medal sent to me, and they even refused my offer of postage. I did send a check for the race cause (pediatric cancer) and promised to run next year (all the while wondering when to start praying for better weather conditions for a year hence).

You’re probably wondering why a middle-aged woman would care about a bit of metal with a few words of commendation on it, suspended on a piece of fabric. It’s not that I missed athletic competition as a child. I played if I was picked for someone’s team. Mostly I sat on the stoop and watched. In school,  I played softball, volleyball and lacrosse, but I was purely third-string material.  Ribbons and medals didn’t figure into my life until I was close to fifty years of age, and then they were not awarded for team sports, but for endeavors I could pursue by pitting myself against a clock and other people (swimming and running).

I don’t resent the past. I would not care to go back and find those mean kids who would not play with me, poke them with a sharp stick and say, “See this trophy? I got it in spite of you!” But every ribbon and every top three finish means a lot to me. It puts those days sitting on the stoop farther in the past, and when I see a child in tears, sitting alone and watching the other kids play, I can relate. I can let them know it doesn’t have to be like this. They can find an endeavor they love, athletic or otherwise, and earn their own accolades and rewards. And those are important, whether they are the kind to be framed and admired, or simply remembered and enjoyed.

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