Nail in the Coffin

My toenail has been trying to emancipate itself from the second toe of my right foot for a few months now.  I have been fighting its exodus valiantly, babying the nail with scented lotions and trimming it delicately to stave off further damage.  I’ve even foregone my beloved self-painted pedicures (and thereby open-toed shoes) so I could best monitor the situation.

The bruised area was slowly regaining life, and the small part that had lifted from the nail bed was almost past the quick.  I thought my efforts would be victorious.  This weekend, sadly, a lack of good judgment led to a likely insurmountable setback.

As it was, the nail had not taken too kindly to my new shoes.  After my 20-miler, I worried that another bruise was developing lower down the nail.  This in and of itself was still a salvageable situation, but on Saturday I unwisely decided to hit a few shots on the paddle tennis court.  One wayward pivot, and my poor toenail was done for with one quick rip.  I hobbled off the court and inspected the damage.

The center of the nail has fully risen off the nail bed.  The sides are still attached, but probably won’t be for long since everything else is white and ridged.  Now begins the process of cutting away the dead nail and teasing away the parts that are still connected to the skin so the new nail underneath can grow out.  It’s sort of like a baby tooth falling away to make room for a brand new incisor, except instead of a cute, mischievous Jack O’Lantern smile, I have a gnarly toe with a crusty yellow nail on the veiny foot of a middle-aged runner.

Something tells me that sandal season is going to come really late this year.

Spare Me

Yesterday, I vindicated myself after Saturday’s aborted 20-miler.  Ignoring fears of overtraining and insufficient recovery time, I decided it was more important to build confidence in order to build mileage.  A and I have a 21-miler on our training schedule in two weekends, and to me it felt crucial to first succeed at 20 before attempting 21.

Since A finished his 20, yesterday’s outing was all by my lonesome.  I’ve never run that far by myself, and I had some trepidation.  But I was also excited to try out a few things I couldn’t otherwise do running with a partner, like change the course on a whim, listen to music, or follow my progress on the running watch.  A wore our watch in long runs past, and if I we didn’t stay together, I wouldn’t know what pace I ended up running or the mileage I did if I veered off course.

I planned a route that consisted of two 6-mile loops followed by two 4-mile loops, with pit stops at my car in between.  I was dismayed to find that my feet started to hurt really early on.  It felt like there was nothing separating my feet from the cement but a thin sheet of cardboard.  I was slapping the ground so hard I might as well have been barefoot.  I sought out patches of dirt for a softer impact, even if for just a few steps.  That’s when I decided it was time to break out the new pair of shoes I had in my car.

Many months ago, I had a stroke of genius.  Because A opted to go with a more minimal shoe that had a lifespan of about 300 miles, I suggested he buy two pairs so that he’d have a relatively fresh pair for the marathon.  Likewise, the shoe that I wear was being phased out for a newer version, so I too decided to buy another identical pair of my current style while I had a chance.  Thus both of us had auxiliary pairs of our running shoes in the closet, waiting at the ready.

After a run a few weeks ago that left him with sore knees, A decided it was time to pull his spare out of reserve.  His next run was great, proof that he was right to retire the old pair.  One would think that I would take a cue from his example and realize my problem on previous long runs was that I too needed new shoes.  And if that wasn’t enough, the fact that my feet were sore and felt unshielded from the concrete should have been another clue.  Even though it was my brilliant idea to buy extra pairs in the first place, my genius was limited by the fact that I’m a cheapskate and wanted to keep my new pair new for as long as possible.

Returning to the car after my first loop, I promptly switched to the new pair.  It was a revelation.  I felt like a stubborn idiot having waited so long to make a switch.  I wonder how much I suffered needlessly on previous runs for lack of sufficient cushioning.  I am convinced that it was my over-worn shoes that felled my last attempt at 20.

Feeling renewed, I altered the course a little and did 8 miles before returning to my car.  That left only 6 miles, which I did with the aid of my iPod.  The music helped drown out the negative thoughts that pervaded the final miles of my previous long runs.  I felt like I was finally developing a race strategy that could work for me.

My last 6 miles were significantly slower than the first 14, and the even those weren’t fast enough to keep pace with A till the half, but I still felt good about what I accomplished.  The whole run was at a pace fast enough to make my goal (if you don’t count the pit stops).  I’m still anxious that I won’t get there come race time, but I am encouraged that at least I feel ready to face the 21-miler that’s coming up next.

Happiness Is a Warm Run

Last Sunday found A and I following a friend on Facebook who was running the Maui Oceanfront Marathon.  She posted a picture of herself giving the thumbs up at the halfway mark, and A shook his head, bemused.  “We are such different runners than M.”

It’s true, we would never burn precious minutes taking photos on the course, much less posting race updates in real time on Facebook.  I don’t even run with a phone because I don’t want to be weighed down.  But even though her time was slow and the weather was hot and humid, M seemed so happy to be running in a way that I haven’t been in a very long time.

During our long runs, A has taken to reminding me (and himself as well) that we are choosing to do this, that running is supposed to be something we enjoy.  I’ve forgotten that running isn’t work – it’s play.  So, on my next long run my focus will be on being playful and light.

Who knows, maybe I’ll stop to blog at the halfway point, just for the heck of it.

Doubting, Pouting, Figure it Outing

Saturday’s long run didn’t go so well for me.  The goal was to run 20 miles.  I had hoped to keep pace with A for the first 16 miles before slowing for the last 4.  It seemed doable since we’ve run 14 miles together not too long ago, and we finished under our target pace.

Sadly, I started to break down at the start of mile 11 and once I wasn’t feeling good, it was a precipitous fall.  Little maladies now became serious infirmities.  My jaw hurt because of a minor bout of TMJ, and while it doesn’t affect my running at all, it was reason enough to stop.  My legs felt weak and I blamed the fast 6-miler we did just 2 days before, which I now was convinced was a bad decision.  And I managed to diagnose myself as anemic.  I kept trying to focus on each step and quiet the negativity, but ultimately I did not succeed.

I was struggling.   A tried his best to be encouraging, but the fact that he didn’t seem to be having any problems at all only compounded my frustration.  I finally told him to run ahead.  I had decided to dissect a loop and cut my run short.  I told A I would wait for him back at the car. 

I have no idea how slowly I was going once we separated, but I did have sporadic boosts of energy at moments along the run.  When I finally reached the car, after stretching for a few minutes I realized I actually felt well enough to continue running.  But I wasn’t sure if I should since A was still on the road and expecting to see me when he finished.  Since I had the key, I couldn’t just up and leave him tired and waterless at his finish.  So I waited, deflated at my subpar performance.

I had about twenty minutes to ponder what went wrong.  It all seemed to boil down to me not being mentally tough.  After A came in (20 miles done all at his target pace), I was in a complete state of self-loathing.  A suggested I run to our neighborhood Trader Joe’s since I told him I might have a few more miles in me, so I did.  My legs weren’t as spry as I had hoped and the soles of my shoes felt paper thin, but I was glad to get that little bit in just to know that I could.  And we got our weekly grocery shop done a day early. 

After mapping my total mileage back home, I did 16 miles and then tacked on another 1.75 after about a thirty minute rest.

A friend of ours thought I might be overtraining.  I think really I’m just over training.  I’m over the long runs.  I’m over the austerity of watching my food intake, forcing down water, running during my lunch hour, avoiding wine on a Friday night.  I’m bummed we’ve stopped playing paddle tennis because the risk of injury is too high.  I’m bummed I don’t have as much time to swim.  I'm bummed that I'm gaining weight.  I’m really bummed we can’t go to Maui with friends the week before the marathon.  I’m frustrated at all the things I’ve had to give up these many months, and if I don’t make my time goal, I’ll have to ask myself if it was worth it.

Since I was unable to complete the long run, I now feel I’m at a deficit in our training.  I am trying to figure out if running a solo 20-miler on our off week would help or hinder me.  On the one hand, accomplishing it would give me confidence, but on the other, I’d run the risk of overtraining as my friend already suggested I might be doing.  I’ve decided to see how I feel towards the end of the week before I make up my mind.

18 and Life To Go

After running a more-or-less successful 16 miles, 18 miles was our goal last Saturday.  Our format was the same: 4 loops with brief stops at the car to fuel up in between.  This time we rotated between a 5-mile loop and the same 4-miler we did before.  We ran each twice, one after the other.

Deviating from our usual bread and cheese carbo-load the night before, A and I instead enjoyed a big veggie burrito with lots of guacamole and chips.  I felt painfully full going to bed, but woke up hungry Saturday morning.  This was a worrying sign.  I ate some bites of a protein bar and banana and hoped it would do the trick.

To prevent the energy crash on the final lap that happened to me last Saturday, A started us off much slower this time around.  The idea was to run the first 3 loops almost a minute slower than our target speed and then run the last loop at pace.  I wasn’t sure if conserving energy early on would increase my stamina, but I crossed my fingers and hoped it would work.

Thanks to the slower pace, I felt good for the first two loops.  A had to repeatedly remind me to slow down since I’m so used to hurrying to get it over with.  I tried to tell myself the first 14 miles were just a warm-up for the last, fast 4.

Even though I felt good, I still felt low on energy after lap 2, so instead of a sports chew, I took a few more big bites of the protein bar I started before the run.  This turned out to be a poor decision.  The extreme sweetness was almost nauseating and it felt like a brick in my stomach.

With my hoped-for energy source weighing me down, the third lap felt like a grind.  Even though we were much slower than the weekend before, I started to really tire around the middle of the 14^th mile.  Unfortunately, we were on a crowded stretch of sidewalk and were slowly creeping up on a runner who was just a hair slower than us.  Trying to negotiate a pass with so many oncoming strollers, dogwalkers and bikers on the narrow sidewalk was difficult and annoying, so I pushed the pace just to get around her quickly.  This was my last burst of energy and I only had fumes to run on after that.

Sadly, we still had 1 lap to go.  I told A that I couldn’t run it at pace as was the plan; I was spent.  He said I could do it.  I said I could not.  I told him I would finish the run, but it had to be at my own speed.  He wanted to talk me through it, but in the end he went ahead.

For me, the last 4 miles became just about finishing.  I kept reminding myself to stay efficient and light on my feet, but I was neither.  I kept plotting the next water stop, basically willing myself from one fountain to the next.  I kept telling myself I was almost done.  I finished 4 minutes behind A, although that includes an extremely long stoplight that I could have sprinted to cross but chose to hang back for.

After the run, I came to a few conclusions:

1) For about a half-marathon distance, I can happily survive on a few sips of water every few miles.  After that, I become absolutely desperate for water.  It doesn’t matter how well-hydrated I am beforehand.  I need large gulps every mile or so and when I can’t find any water, I almost start to panic.  I’m not sure if this is mental or physical, but it’s something I need to better manage since I’m not planning on buying a water belt before the race.

2) Dense protein bars work for me before the run, but not during.  I still prefer the gels above all, but the chews are great, too, especially when I don’t have to carry them.

3) My body just shuts down after a certain amount of time on the road.  I feel I would have broken down around the same time even if we had run the first 3 loops at pace.  If my premise is correct, that means that running slower initially won’t pay dividends later on.  I’m considering a race day strategy that consists of running at A’s pace for the first half of the marathon and hopefully when I inevitably tire, at least I’ll have had the head start I need and I can hopefully will myself to the finish line.

4) The next day after a long run I’m perfectly fine.  In fact, after both long runs I’m able to run a fast 4 miles 2 days later.  This makes me feel like I’m not putting in enough effort during our long training runs, like I’m not leaving it all out on the road.  I don’t know if that’s what I should be doing, but considering I need very little recovery time, I wonder if I’m not working hard enough.

A ended up doing the last 4 miles at exactly the speed he wanted.  And since my mapping was a little off, we both ended up running a half-mile longer than intended.  I was happy to have 18.5 under my belt, but more importantly, I’m glad we’re trying out different strategies on our long runs to figure out what kind of race we’ll need to run to meet our goals.

Four Squared

After our unintentionally shortened "long" run last weekend, A and I felt like we'd hit a wall.  We hadn't built on our distance for weeks, and our longest run to date was only 15 miles.  Last Saturday we set out to run 16, and we picked a foolproof route to make it happen.

Actually, I had mapped out 16 miles on streets we know well earlier in the week, but Friday night A had an inspired idea while sitting on the toilet (hallowed ground where he usually does his most inspired thinking).  He emerged from the bathroom and said, "Why don't we do our 4-mile run 4 times?"

While this might sound arduous, it felt like exactly what the doctor ordered.  This is a route that I could (and have, in fact) run in the dark.  It's our go-to run when it has been a long day and we want to knock something out just to get it over with.  It’s our path of least resistance.  It's what we call our "Level 1".

Familiarity aside, another benefit was we that could quickly refuel at the car with water and chews after completing each loop.  It felt liberating to know I didn’t have to sherpa a bra full of energy gels over a 16-mile slog.

The one negative was that A had complained before that he was sick of running this same street over and over again.  But since this loopy plan was his idea, I figured I would run with it.

I was nervous when we began, and that translated into running faster than advised.  This was also a course we were used to doing quickly, which probably didn’t help us modulate our speed.  All through the first 4 miles, I felt great.  I even arrogantly entertained the idea of doing an extra loop.  Wouldn’t that be a kick if we just knocked out 20 right here and now as if it was nothing?

I thought the second lap felt than the first, but our running watch data shows that we maintained our pace.  The third lap I started to get weary, especially around mile 10.  I suggested to A that we do the loop clockwise instead of our standard direction, just for a slightly different view.  By the time we hit the car after mile 12, I was pretty disheartened by how exhausted I was and we hadn’t even finished a half marathon distance.  That being said, A tracked our time at the 13.1 mark and we bested our official half marathon time from last January, the second time in our training that we have done so.  But it was all for naught since at that point I was completely zonked.  I begged A to slow down at the start of the 15th mile, even though we had already slowed significantly.  At a water stop, I told A I was losing it.  Eventually I told him to run ahead.  I didn’t stop running, but I was substantially slower than A as he grew tinier with every step he ran ahead of me.  We met back up at the car, where I finished about two minutes behind.  My pace for the last 3 miles was a full minute slower than the first 10.

My struggles at the finish aside, I did like the format.  We both felt it was successful enough to try it again this weekend.  We’re adding a new loop to incrementally increase our mileage, but keeping the same basic premise.  The challenge this Saturday will be to start slow enough to conserve energy and not lose steam once I get into double digits.  A is even dreaming of a negative split, which I’m dubious about but we’ll see.  If we start slow enough, I guess anything is possible.

Stuffing My Bra

I have rashes and scratches all over my chest.  In fact, they run down the center of my sternum like a totem pole of war wounds.

Unfortunately, I have a bad habit of stuffing things down my sports bra when I run because I like to have my hands free.  Now that our mileage has increased, this strategy is proving to be less than wise.  The raw edges from our little packs of gel and chews are now rubbing my skin raw.  On a 10-miler, our house key that was hanging on a lanyard around my neck and tucked into my bra actually fell through the bottom and scraped up my abdomen.  And then there's the regular chafing around the elastic that's going to happen even if one's bra isn't stuffed with keys, food, and sometimes an iPod and credit cards.

I told a friend of ours my ill-advised practice and it reminded him of a funny story he heard while living in Kenya in the sixties.  At the time, the first lady of Kenya was a glamorous woman named Ngina Kenyatta, known there as "Mama Ngina" (she is in fact also the mother of Kenya's current president).  During her tenure, Queen Elizabeth visited Kenya for the first time, and Mama Ngina invited her over for tea.

Mama Ngina pulled out all the stops to impress the royals with an elaborate tea service fit for, well, a queen. At the last minute, Mama Ngina realized she forgot the sugar, so in her haste, she grabbed a few sugar cubes, wrapped them in a handkerchief, and shoved it down her bosom.  My friend said that this wasn't so unusual.  It was a common practice for Kenyan women to shove sweets down their blouses to have on hand to quickly feed their children and whatnot.

When the tea was poured, Mama Ngina asked Her Majesty if she'd like some sugar.  Queen Elizabeth declined.  Prince Phillip, however, said he would like some.  So Mama Ngina walks over to where he is sitting, whips out the sugar from her bra, leans over and offers him a cube, saying, "Would you also like some milk?"

"He most certainly does not!" the Queen replied.

It's the Little Things That Matter Most

I recently finished reading a great book: Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer.  It's about his 1996 climb up Mt. Everest.  On the day he reached the summit, there was a horrific storm and many people died, including a number of experienced climbers.

While the unexpected weather was clearly to blame, Krakauer's book lays out the myriad little mistakes that aggregated into disaster.  Last Saturday, I learned that lesson for myself, although my outcome was fortunately significantly less tragic.

Our goal was to run 16 miles around Mission Bay in San Diego.  Having navigated portions of the paved bike bath before, I thought the route would be pretty cut and dry (my first mistake).  I researched on Google Maps and saw that the southern portion by Sea World seemed like it could be a little hairy.  The bike path diverted from the water and ran along a few large boulevards, but it looked like once we were over the Ventura Bridge on Mission Bay Drive, we'd pick up the route easily enough (my second mistake).

I thought my third mistake would have been running the day after eating Chinese food for dinner, but all the steamed white rice I ate proved to be decent fuel.  So instead I'll assign mistake number three to trying out a new energy shot during the run.  A likes chews; I prefer gels.  We compromised and got chews with gel inside, specifically Powerbar Energy Blasts.  I do not recommend.  They don't go down well.  As with most compromises, no one ended up happy.

Our fourth mistake was forgetting our Garmin running watch.  I was upset when I realized I left it at home, but I tried to find the silver lining by thinking at least it would take the pressure off us regarding pace and we could work on form and stamina.

The run started off well.  It was overcast and cold, perfect conditions for me.  I was also pleased to see that the bike path unfolded seamlessly before us like a road of yellow bricks.  We turned onto Fiesta Island, still running strong.  As we ran along the eastern side of the island, we could see in the near distance the bridge we would soon be crossing, the foot of which would be the 10 mile mark.

After finishing the Fiesta Island loop, we rejoined the bike path and headed along Sea World Drive, the area I thought would be problematic.  Instead, the bike path was well marked and lead us right to the bridge, which we ran with happy hearts, thinking we only had 6 miles to go.  Little did we know that we just made our fifth and most fatal mistake.

After crossing the bridge, I immediately saw another bridge ahead but no turn-off to rejoin the bike path.  This was alarming since when I mapped our route I vaguely remembered we were only supposed to cross one bridge (the bridge to Fiesta Island notwithstanding), and certainly not two in succession.

Instead of crossing the second bridge, we ran across a lawn to reach the water and resume the bike path.  I soon had second thoughts because I couldn't figure out how we would get across the body of water that the second bridge traversed.  So I told A I was probably misremembering and that we should cross the second bridge after all.  We ran back and got to the apex, where A surveyed the situation and said that he thought the bike path was right because he saw where the land connected in the distance.  So we turned around again and ran down the bridge and back onto the bike path.

We ran for a while but the landscape quickly changed.  The path had disintegrated into patches of cracked concrete covered by sand.  Suddenly we were running behind fancy patios belonging to units of a beachfront resort.  This wasn't concerning since I vaguely thought I remembered rollerblading around this area years ago, although I could be thinking of another place entirely.

Finally, we had to acknowledge there was no bike path left and we could run no further.  A turned into the resort, still running, and tried to lead the way back to the public domain.  Instead, we jogging straight into the heart of privilege, ending up smack dab in the middle of the outdoor dining area of the resort's "legendary beachfront restaurant".

After dodging a waiter with a tray full of mimosas and being gawked at by a diner whose fork was stopped dead in its tracks en route to his mouth, still dripping with the runny yolk of his eggs benedict, we finally accepted the fact that we probably didn't belong here.  We asked the hostess to point us in the direction of the bike path and she asked, "You mean, you want to leave the resort?" as if it was completely natural to do laps during the crowded brunch service.  She suggested we visit the taxi stand, where the drivers waiting for big ticket fares directed us to the boulevard that led back to the errant bridge.

We crossed the second bridge.  I knew something was wrong, but at this point I was so mentally spent that once we found the semblance of a bike path that seemed to be in the right direction, we jumped on.  I knew it was far short of our 16 miles, but I was hoping to have run at least 14.5.

We eventually made it back to our starting place.  While A was showering, I did the forensics of what went wrong.  Turns out we did get lost along the southern route and took the wrong bridge entirely, bisecting the bay instead of running around it.  We only ran 13 miles, dishearteningly low considering how tired we were.  Another point Krakauer makes in his book is how one's mental state affects physical stamina.

All the little mistakes - not reading the map properly, not notating what street we were on, not having the Garmin to let us know our mileage wasn't where it should be - lead to our busted run.  this weekend we're not leaving much up to chance, planning a fool-proof route that you don't need to be an expert mountain climber to navigate.  Hopefully we won't get lost.