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Archive for the tag “marathon”

13 May 2013

OCD much?

Hubs and I were out of town last week. You might think I would feel completely free to leave town now the kids are grown and gone, no worries, enjoy the trip, relax, eat drink and be merry.

But, no. First, I no longer have that burning desire to desert Rome as it burns, my mother and four children waving forlornly as we back down the drive, desperately repressing the jiggling as my legs begin the Happy Dance under the dashboard. NO VOMIT! NO DIAPERS! NO CRYING AND FIGHTING AND STEPPING ON DEADLY LEGOS! I’m FREE!

I can lazily drink coffee and read the paper daily now. I don’t have to put on adult clothes to take the kids to school and work the phones in the office from 8am to noon or help in the clinic wiping snot and blood. I don’t have to camp out in a hotel to have a bathroom all to myself. I don’t have to hide the chocolates in a tampon box. I don’t have to worry about organizing soccer/cheer/homework/scouts/cupcakes for the birthday party before leaving everyone. No worries, now. Free Free Free.

Instead I spent three days prior to leaving town waking at 3 and 4am worrying about — The Damn Cats. What if they refuse to eat? What if they pee on the bed? What if they … I don’t know … jeeze, they’re CATS – how much could go wrong?? But, no…wake, roll over, worry.

Obsess much?

Meanwhile – no pressure here – every damn day hubs insists that I need to try on his wetsuit and be sure it fits. Fine, I tried it on. OK, right, it was on backward but what the hell. It’s not like it’s gender specific. If it fits backwards it should fit frontwards. No, apparently it didn’t count, backwards negates the experience so now I have to try it on … again.

Then, after I try it on again, he thinks I need to take it to the Center and swim in the damn thing. Remember the pool running incident (here)? Where all the senior water exercise class people glared at Becky and me in shock and awe? What do you think it will do to them if I show up at the pool in a f*cking wetsuit? How long will it take management to get all the exploded brain matter out of that water? And can they sue me for the damages?

Still hubs remains – daily – sincere in his insistent insistence that I must absolutely without doubt swim in water with the wetsuit. I pointed out that if I fail to do so prior to the race, and it is a wetsuit legal race, I will swim in the water to warm up and I will be wearing the wetsuit. I think that counts as swimming before the race. I mean, what if I swim in the wetsuit at the Center and I find out it doesn’t work so well? Is that going to change the temperature of the water Saturday?

Last week I ordered a tri-suit. It was in the mail when we got home. I pulled it out of the packaging. This sucker will not fit a skinny pre-pubescent 13-year-old. I don’t know why they wasted a 9×13 envelope to send it to me, it would have fit fine in a letter sized and saved some postage, which they handily charged me. Now I’ve spent $79 + tax, shipping and handling on something that weighs about four ounces and I may wear only once in my life – if I can even get it on. And hubs is happy I spent the money. If I buy a new lipstick and he sees it he asks me how much it cost. Tri-suit? Wet-suit? Bike? Helmet? Bike shoes? He’s throwing money at it like it was beads in New Orleans and he might see some boobs.

I spent one morning at the hotel swimming, then got on the spin bike and did 13 miles, then ran three. There, I’ve done the distance, so mentally I got that out of the way. What I realized is that I do not care at all about this triathlon like I have all the races I’ve trained for. I’m just as obsessive about getting everything organized, not forgetting anything, hoping I don’t bonk, but I don’t really care about doing the event. All I really care about is getting it over with.

Training for halves, fulls, 50K’s, I check weather for weeks, mentally preparing for wind/rain/floods/solar flares and meteors. I’m scared, nervous – but it’s an excited nervous fright. It can still get ugly – marathoniritationitis (with a graphic, here) is nothing to laugh at, but there’s still an excitement about the whole thing. This one: if it rains, oh well. If it’s hot, well damn. If it’s cold, well sh*t. Oh, well. If I get there, and I don’t like the weather, I might just decide not to do the event, and right now I cannot dredge up any impending regret, other than I’d be forced to register for another one and go through all this again.

Last night I dreamed I had a curse that if I talked to someone it would take away one of their powers. Unfortunately Becky asked me a question in my dream. I replied without thinking and it stripped her power to do triathlons.

Obsess much?? This is going to be a bitch of a week…

You can’t fall off a marathon, and you can’t sink in a 50K, and all you need is some shorts, a shirt and some shoes.

The truth is: I’m cranky and pissed and obsessed about the cats because I’m scared of this one and it’s not an excited nervousness. It’s just fear.

Posted in Triathlon and tagged 50K, bike, biking, cat, exercise, Felt F80, fitness, half marathon, healthy-living, Journey, marathon, marathonirritationitis, mental-health, Run, running, tri-suit, triathlon, wetsuit

05 Mar 2013

7 Comments

Calories Calories everywhere…

Since I’m so ecstatic about being out of shape so I can burn more calories, calories now show up everywhere. It’s like when you get dressed up all nice to go out to dinner. Then, on the way to the restaurant to meet your friends, you realize that the rogue chin hair you’ve been waging battle with for so many years it’s gone and turned grey – but hasn’t died – has suddenly sprouted to 1/2″ in length. Overnight. Now all you can think of is this stupid thing sticking out of your chin like a lighthouse beam. You’re pretty sure it’s picking up signals from Jupiter. Others in the restaurant seem to be staring at you. Your chin, specifically. Although certainly you are just being paranoid.

Not that it’s ever happened to me, like, Friday night.

Meanwhile it’s become obvious that the kitty chow I got last month was very yummy and loved greatly by Munker and Mo, who were asking me about every 90 minutes for more. Even more obvious than the frequency of the requests was the unmistakable thickening of kitty waistlines and the greatly more audible THUMP of Chunker hitting the floor. I have responsibilities here. We do live in an earthquake zone.

Yesterday we ran out of the Crack Kitty Chow. I bought some ‘Adult’ cat food with reduced calories. Now the kitty food bowls remain full while cats look at me questioningly. ”Mom? What happened to our food?” Fortunately they don’t seem to connect the crappy new food to me and Kroger.

I told Hubs I’d bought adult diet cat food and not only did I think the reduced calories would help them slim down, the fact they wouldn’t eat it would probably rapidly increase the weight loss. Hubs thinks this is a great policy to pursue with the cats and not at all optional for humans. I don’t think it’s very workable anyway, since basically the only thing I won’t eat is Brussels Sprouts and slimy stuff like eels. I haven’t seen eels at Kroger.

So, the calorie thing now seems to be lit up like a Vegas show. As evidenced by this post, which popped up a while ago:

What. The. Heck? That SUCKS. 674?? that’s all??

However, my good running buddy (and Mo’s first stepmom), Elizabeth, turned to Al Gore’s most awesome creation, the Inter Net Web Thingie, uncovering the data that an M&M has, in fact, 3.44 calories, making the total amount of M&M’s you can eat after running a marathon and burning 2900 calories 843.02325 and not 674 lousy candies.

The good news here is that, probably, if you are out of shape but still manage to stumble through a marathon, you might could eat even more M&M’s. If you had enough energy left to chew. Maybe you could just lie down face first in a pile of them, then you could eat them without any extra energy expenditure. Perhaps the RD’s of marathons should consider a pit of M&M’s like the pit of colored balls in the kiddie section of McDonald’s. Runners could finish the race and jump in, swimming through the M&M’s, chomping away.

Also I did the math, if you burned 2900 calories on a marathon you could eat 6.17 servings of an Enchirito and a Mexican Pizza. If you called it even and only ate 6 servings you’d be at a net calorie loss.

And people think runners and marathoners are crazy.

Posted in Running and tagged brussels sprouts, calories, cat, cat food, Enchirito, exercise, fitness, food, healthy-living, M&M, marathon, Mexican Pizza, Pet, Run, running, Taco Bell, training

13 Feb 2013

23 Comments

What special stoopid pills did you take this morning??

Anne set her alarm for 4am.

Just as the identity of the rapist/murderer roaming the campus trying to find me was being revealed a kleighorn began blaring. I levitated and hung suspended in the air for a moment before I fell back onto the bed.

“What the holy hell was that??” I yelled, as Anne laughed.

“I told you, you wouldn’t sleep through my alarm.”

No shit. I almost didn’t LIVE through it. Between the murdering rapist in my nightmare and the Q.E. 2 barreling across the waves for me I knew I wasn’t going to have to worry too much about porta johns on the course.

Sleepy-faced runners roamed the kitchen in the rental house. Apparently worried about famine, five people had brought 21 bananas, two packages of bagels, one package of English muffins, a personal Keurig, two dozen assorted K-Cups, peanut butter, honey, oatmeal, juice, creamer, and a grocery sack full of protein and trail mix bars. This does not include the Gatorade being mixed and Gu’s being shoved in pockets.

What I’d been casually thinking of as a longer training run than usual suddenly became a lot more real. Everyone else was there for a marathon, and there is a whole big wide world of difference between 26.2 miles and 13.1. Everyone visited quietly and went about the business of fueling the machine that was their body.

I love that part of a race morning. Focused, calm, centered, carefully considering the fuel needed, what to put in your body during the three hours between now and the race start. Not too much, but enough. Tying and retying shoes. Adjusting hats, shorts, socks, HR monitors; Garmins beeping in the quiet dark morning.

This time we drove on a real road into town which didn’t dead end and had no ancient graveyards full of dead trees and broken headstones with murder rapists hiding behind them waiting to jump out while dueling on banjoes. We parked on the levee in downtown Greenville. It was dark, cold and breezy, but this race buses you to the start line and you run back to town, so we had warm buses to sit in.

I didn’t know anyone on my bus so I settled back in the seat (first seat on the first bus going to the half) and daydreamed with my eyes half-open. A police cruiser pulled up in front of the marathon buses, lights flashing. The buses started up, their lights now flashing and beaming and they began rolling forward. I thought of the runners in there, all their goals and hopes; of my friends, all the training they’d put in, how the adrenaline would be starting for them now as the buses’ tail lights receded in the distance.

There was a BEEP and the radio announced to our driver it was time to head out – and suddenly it became real. I’m running a half marathon.

What. The. Hell. Was I thinking?

I’m a certified running coach. I know better than this. If one of the Women Run ladies came to me after five weeks of training for the 5K and glibly announced they were heading out for a nice 10 miler Saturday I’d drop my teeth and mentally call them playground names (are you an idjit?? dummy! doodoo head! What special stoopid pills did you take this morning??)

I’m going to run a Half Marathon on a training base of sixty-three miles??

The furthest I’ve run in five months is 7 miles and that was last week!

I’m an idjit! A dummy! A doodoo head! What special stoopid pills did I take this morning??

“STOP THE BUS!!! I have to get off!!!” I could hear the screaming in my head but nothing was coming out of my mouth. Odd, but fortunate. Usually my mute button doesn’t work.

I gave myself a mental slap and closed my eyes. In…Out…In…Out I breathed. Look, Terri, you start slow, you walk the water stops, you’re just out there for a little jog, not a big deal. Just go slow. Walk the water stops. You can always walk off the course if you need. Dr. K said you’re good to go.

The slowest hour of the year went by in about 13 minutes and I found myself at the starting line with two friends from home, all three of us surprised to see the others there. The horn sounded and we started up and over the Mississippi River Bridge.

Stock photo I got from the race website

The sun was rising and there was a mist in the lowlands along the bridge. We could see a barge disappearing in the fog downriver. It was quiet, not a lot of talk, the huff of breath, the shuffle of feet, cars and semi’s going by in the other lane. It was windy and I thought of Becky, Anne, and Heather, fighting this wind for 26 miles.

My goal had been to walk every mile at the water stops but they had decided at the last minute not to do the stop at the top of the bridge. At 30-something degrees those tossed cups could leave a lot of frozen liquid on the course. I ended up doing the first three miles non-stop. I picked out someone in front of me and made myself stay behind them. That sounds real good on paper, but if that girl with the backside like a 25 pound bag of potatoes in the flowered tights got in front of me all bets were off. Which is totally not PC and is mean so I probably should not have admitted it. But it is true.

Since I’m newly concentrating on my form I watched the runners pass me, and I began to see two types of stride. Some were running from their hips and glutes, hips swaying slightly to and fro. Others ran with their legs; their glutes and hip flexors stationary. Following Dr. K’s advice, I was trying to fire my glutes. It was harder than usual to make an ass of myself but I was trying. And then, it clicked. Sometimes I’d lose form. Immediately my hamstring would shout at me and I’d adjust.

I relaxed, enjoying the little boy scouts and girl scouts shouting, the middle school cheer team, the high school band. I ran by each, cheering back, slapping palms and high-fiving them. There was an old couple sitting in a truck at an intersection. I thought they were mad, waiting to cross – no – they waved and yelled as everyone came by, their cheers muffled by the rolled up windows but the enthusiasm evident.

There I was - 4 miles – 7 miles – 9 miles! I’m almost done!

I enjoyed every single step I took on that course. I thanked every volunteer and police officer I could see. I high-fived little kids and yelled Hotty Toddy at the adults but passed on the actual toddy.

John and I hung around the finish line visiting with the surprising number of people we knew from Memphis. Heather came in three minutes under her BQ time and also placed! Becky and Anne came in looking great although completely worn out from battling that wind. Becky said this about the wind, and I quote, (*&$$ (*)(%’ing #*&$ damn #$*&(&) son of *&$%&^^. Then she said this about Anne, and I quote, )(*$%* good idea )*(&$#%)*(&’ing run a &*#(*$&^ marathon in the (*)&#)*(&$ Land of your (*&&^% PEEPLES. Anne sipped her Mick Ultra, unpreturbed. Hey, the beer was free.

They refueled, we all grabbed a baby Mick Ultra and headed home; John at the wheel, Becky, Anne, Maggie and I slumped in the seats. Becky mumbled something that sounded like ^%$$ never again &*)*&*( Anne &*^%* but probably it wasn’t.

We stopped for gas at a little quick mart between the Wishy Washy Washateria and the Nette Belle Boutique and Tax Service. We looked at the tamales, the potato logs and the cajun fried popcorn, but in the end we opted for, as Anne referred to it, 22 ounces of icy cold deliciousness (Becky and I went for the 12 ounce option) and we each bought a Bud Light Lime. John got a red powerade and some crackers.

We are wild and crazy and there is no stopping us.

Betcha thought I’d made it up.

Posted in Running and tagged coffee, exercise, fitness, Gu, half marathon, healthy-living, Keurig, marathon, Mississippi River Marathon, Run, running

11 Feb 2013

9 Comments

Sorry, I half to run.

(Names have been changed and details obfuscated to protect the not-so-innocent because the Home is still looking for them after that last breakout)

It was dusk and we were following Heather and Maggie along a quiet, lonely, deserted, dusty, rocky Delta road. We’d been detoured when the original path ended, blocked with large signs covered in X’s. A dry creek bed had, at one point in the past, been full enough of raging water to wash the road out. Judging by the quantity, size and condition of the signs some people had managed to miss the message anyway.

Becky and I were trying to call Heather to tell her to turn around and come back as we watched her tailights recede in the dust and distance. I finally got through. “Heather, you need to turn back, I think we’ve found another way to get to their house.”

“No, it’s OK,” she replied, “David told me to drive until the road dead ends and then turn left. Then when that road dead ends, turn left again.”

When the road ends, turn left. As the sun quickly disappeared on the horizon, looking around at the silent, barren fields, the twisted grey-brown trees, and the leaning, rotted, empty shacks, I asked Heather if she and Maggie heard banjos.

Now it’s Sunday morning – a steady grey rainy downpour outside my window.

I can hear birds chirping, flitting about while I watch the surface of the lake bounce with the rain. A large blackbird is hugely pissed and hopping from limb to limb purveying his destroyed beginnings of a nest, screeching at the offending squirrel who apparently misjudged his leap from my roof to the tree, landing smack on the foundations the bird had carefully laid. Murphy’s cowering under my chair. He’s going to be staying close to me for the day, I expect, between the thunder, which he abhors, and the fact that I abandoned him and the cats overnight Friday. Yesterday evening when I got home Mo wouldn’t come out from behind the dryer while Chunk jumped up on the counter and kept grabbing my arm if I started to walk away.

I have Dumper Soup on the stove as I’m (oddly) craving healthy food, and I’m looking back at both the last five months and the last 48 hours, shaking my head in disbelief.

I ran a half marathon yesterday.

Crazy running nutjobs and beer.

Shortly after the awesome adventure of their first marathon last December my friends Becky and Anne were discussing their next goals. Anne had discovered the Mississippi River Marathon & Half Marathon in Greenville, MS in February. I believe beer had to have been involved; she talked Becky into training for it. Why lose the fitness so diligently obtained training up for the first marathon? they most likely reasoned, probably nodding in sloppy agreement over their cups at the Flying Saucer.

I thought they should. What would it hurt? I didn’t have to do the race.

Anne was beside herself happy to show her best running buddy the Land of Her Peoples, having been born and bred in the Mississippi Delta. An Italian from the heart of the Delta. She talks fast and southern.

At some point I got tapped to be the DD on the journey, as Becky doubted their ability to run 26.2 miles in the Land of Anne’s Peoples and then drive home. Later Becky’s hubs, John, decided to come along and do the half also, effectively making him the DD, a fortunate occurence for all involved.

Last Monday after running the furthest I have gone since 9.9.2012 – 7 miles – on the previous Saturday, I asked Dr. Krackurback if I needed to be scaling back, hanging with the same mileage or if I should try pushing it. He paused for a moment and looked at me. “I think I’d like to see you try pushing it.”

Dr. K doesn’t know me very well.

Thursday night at Flying Saucer while celebrating a birthday we discussed the next day’s plans, in which John would take Anne, Becky and me while Heather and Maggie drove separately to Greenville. John and I would try to register for the Half, having learned that 100 extra regs had been opened.

Friday morning I laid out my running gear. I was a Newbie all over again. Shorts. No, not those shorts. Those. Shirt. Short sleeve. No, long sleeve. No, both. No, not those shorts after all. Those. Garmin, charger, HR monitor, gear bag, socks, chews, trail mix bar, lucky hat…for hours I laid things out, looked them over, wandered about the house. Returning, I looked over everything. Add, subtract. Search frantically to see if I’d remembered socks. Yes, four pair should be enough. I was going to be gone a whole night, after all.

John helped me load everything in Becky’s car and we picked up Anne.

You can buy freshly made tamales at gas stations on Highway 61 in Mississippi. I didn’t.

We drove directly to registration and I nearly bowled over three people in my rush to see if I could still register. Clutching my race bag I ran to Becky and Anne. I’m IN!

Posted in Running and tagged beer, exercise, fitness, half marathon, healthy-living, marathon, Mississippi River Marathon, Run, running, training

04 Dec 2012

9 Comments

We’re all talking monkeys on an organic spaceship.

It’s possible, anyway. I figure whatever we are, that’s what God (or First Cause, or Creator, or whatever name you use) decided is best so if some monkey in the past began to evolve, and now this is what we are, well, who are we to argue? We’re not monkeys now, right? I mean, just look around you at how well we all behave, no screeching unintelligibly because someone stole our banana, no running around aimlessly in circles while scratching our head, no shoving each other out of the tree, no shunning the least because they don’t fit in our tribe.

Had the big visit with my new BRDr.FF, Dr. L, yesterday to find out about the MRI. I don’t want to borrow trouble, but at this point, to tell you the truth, she and I both thought it was going to be the S1 herniated; send me off to the neuro and scoop the damn little thing out. I was really hoping so. Easy fix. Just pull the stinking little SOB out.

You two know how I always do things the easy way. I’m a rule follower. I’m a follow-the-packer, just let me sit back here and watch. Straight line, easy breezy lemon squeezy, no arguing, no questioning WhyHowWhen.

Dr. L reviewed the results of the MRI with us. A few little things in L1-L-4, but nothing – not a thing – no thing – nothing – that could be the cause. And the S1? Absolutely normal. Finally. What I’ve dreamed of since I knew the term: ”normal” + “Terri” in the same sentence. Just when it helps least.

God bless Dr. L flying around on the organic spaceship, she is trying so hard to figure what is going on. Guess what? And you will both spit your coffee on the screen so I’m just warning you right now to put the mug down and swallow before you finish reading this sentence: she said I’m currently one of the most complicated cases she has. Meanwhile I’m beginning to fear I’m just a hypochondriac or a nutjob.

Hubs probably heard the Hallelujah Chorus repeating in stereo in his head when heard her say that. COMPLICATED. It’s official. Terri makes no sense. Thank you thank you little baby Jesus in your crib, listening to the cows moo you to sleep, THANK YOU.

She did an ultrasound on my hamstring hoping to see if there were some trigger there, but no luck. I’ll have another MRI Saturday to look over the entire length of the hamstring and I will freeze to death on Pluto (sorry Pluto. To me you will always be a planet and if I have to freeze to death I want it to be on you) before I get a copy of that damn thing. If BRDrFF Dr. L finds that it shows nothing I’m off to the neuro. Hopefully the neuro will only look at my back and legs because if he looks inside my head he’ll charge us a finder’s fee.

Saturday was the St. Jude Memphis Marathon weekend. A friend of mine is injured and couldn’t do the marathon she’d registered for. She is also a St. Jude Hero, having raised money for the kids. We kept ending up in the same volunteer spots throughout the day, a lot of it on the field at the two finish lines, watching the runners come in, both of us so happy for them. But even though it made me feel like a complete jerk, I was jealous. No matter how horrid the run, I wanted it. I wanted to be coming across that finish line, happy, exhausted, hurt, disgusted, anything. I just wanted to feel that sweat and the hum in my muscles (not the electricity). To enjoy the sweetness of finally stopping, the first taste of water – even lukewarm – that tastes like nectar.

Now I’m going to admit that I’m an idiot. Again. Why Why Why (OMG there’s that word again) do I always end up an idiot? After the race I did something stupid: I went by the MRI place and got a copy of my report. I didn’t know I could do that. So I read it and googled all the terms and stuff, and of course I saw words like andycondializing scuppernongs and blerferating hagis and thought well sh*t my back is totally screwed. My brain was flying through the universe on an organic spaceship in hyperdrive and it was taking me along.

Hubs is feeling pretty frustrated. This is not unusual, of course. But maybe he’s like a couple thousand points higher on the frustrated scale right now. I’m guessing this based on how red his face gets and the frequency and duration of his tongue biting. Sunday morning when I woke in the middle of the night I was about as down as I’ve been about all this. Lying there in bed at 2am trying to go back to sleep all I knew were pictures in my mind of race finishers, the shouts of their families, bispurtilizing discotomies and the little spasms in my leg. I thought about what I could post to the MRTC FB page in the morning, something about the race, of course, since so many Memphis runners had done it. And I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to see all the FB posts and emails and joyjoyjoy about their race or the sorrow of a missed PR or sore quads. I was turbo charged by the steroid shot(s) and frustrated.

When I could no longer stand it I got up and went to the kitchen. My Garmin was on the counter in its charger. And right there, encompassed in a half-charged Garmin, were all the long runs and short runs, tempo runs and speedwork, heartrates and elevation maps of all the runs I haven’t done and as embarrassed as I am to tell you this, I sobbed. I sobbed and snotted and hiccupped and sniffed while tears ran down my face and neck and cried that I just want to run.

Let me tell you both something right here, especially if one of you is a husband. Maybe someday your wife, in the morning, sober, after having coffee, takes you by the shoulders and states, “next time I go bat sh*t crazy crying and sobbing, I want you to come to me, ask me what is wrong, try to understand what I’m saying and then try to fix it.” You should then get that in writing, drive immediately to someone who can notarize it, get it framed and hang it prominently in your house. That way she will know where to find it to throw at you next time she melts down.

I know – pull up the big girl panties – and I have, it just took me a couple of days. Apparently I’m a slow responder.

Someone mentioned recently that I have not drawn any pics lately. I thought this might be particularly helpful for any husbands out there, and so I will close with this. As always, copies are available for $25 and if you’d like it autographed let me know, prices have gone up, I’m sorry, but what with being the National Posterchild and Spokesperson for the BFOS I’m getting a bit busier and my time is valuable. Drive the picture over to my house and I’ll autograph it for $37.82. No tax, we’re a nonprofit.

Posted in Running and tagged BFOS, Butt Falling off Syndrome, cat, Christmas tree, coffee, dog, exercise, fitness, Garmin, have spacesuit will travel, healthy-living, marathon, MRI, national spokesperson, Pet, posterchild, Run, running, spaceship flying through the universe, training

17 Nov 2012

12 Comments

The new normal

4am Saturday. Apparently 36 hours of sleep out of 48 is quite enough.

The second SI joint injection, while it did make it much less painful to sit, has not solved the problem.

Natural Childbirth was newly the rage when I was having my first child. It was all new news; if you took so much as an aspirin while pregnant you risked terrors unknown for your unborn. My mom drank coffee and ate sugar and took aspirin and look how well that turned out. What’s everyone worried about?

I slept, cocooned around the life in me, planning the joy of birth, all natural: breathe innnnnnnnnn breathe ouuuuuuuuuuut. Soon out would pop a pink face resembling the Gerber baby. Labor and delivery revealed to me a different world. And, yet, when my second child came along I repeated the process. This time there was no rosy glow surrounding my daydreams but I knew it was probably best for the baby.

When the twins came along, rosy glow or no, it was epidural time. One of them was crossways and he had two choices: breech or transverse, and the doctor didn’t consider either option optional. Loaded up with an epidural I gave birth pain-free. (This could explain why the carpet, 14 years later, ended up on fire. Small fire, quickly extinguished, but, still, fire. On my carpet. In the middle of the den.)

Cue the robins and rainbows and clouds: la-la-la-la wow. That didn’t hurt a bit.

For the intervening decades pain level for me has always been compared to childbirth. Am I being torn apart limb by limb? No? Ok, give me some ibuprofen. I may still hurt, and I may not be a happy camper, but just leave me alone to get through whatever’s going on, and I will.

It took me until this morning to put together this week’s clues. Like the Sunday puzzler, right?

1. Tuesday and Wednesday I walked 3 miles each day. Agonizingly slow miles (and please, no one get offended if they are walkers, because taking an hour to walk three miles when I did 10K in that time ten weeks ago, including allowing for the limping to the finish line the last two miles of the race, is a blow to my ego even though I should be above that type of thing. I’m a shallow, vain person.) I’m also impatient and stubborn, which is one of the reasons I run. Every time I walk I think, I could be done now…I could be done now… In fact, I’m going to admit something else that shames me. On Wednesday as I trudged along I saw a guy running past me in the neighborhood. I always try to make contact with other people out running and walking, a little wave, a little ‘hi’ if I have enough breath. No. I trudged along, head down, refusing to look up. I was mad. He was running. I was not. Nice attitude, eh?

2. (Here’s where genius comes in, see if you can figure it out before I did) Tuesday and Wednesday nights I had spasms in both legs – dozens, all night long – which would grab my legs and freeze them with electricity so hard that two days later my muscles are still sore.

3. Thursday morning after a night of pain I woke, exhausted. ”I don’t feel so good,” I thought. I started to sit up. Ohhh, noooo …. and I hit a pace to the bathroom which would shame Usain Bolt, where I was immediately and completely assaulted with the worst stomach virus I’ve had in at least a couple of years. This set the day’s pattern. Sleep like the dead, awake, beat Usain to the throne. Twelve hours later, both Usain and I exhausted with the intervals, the last of the virus had been exorcised.

4. How sick was I? I never had any coffee all day. Yes. Now you understand the seriousness of the situation. Mere mortals fear to tread.

5. Thursday night I slept like Eric Northman in daylight. Another twelve hours and I woke, Friday morning, wondering why there was roadkill in my mouth and how I could possibly have actually melded to the mattress. And, yet, initial consultation revealed both seemed to be true. Further rumination revealed that I’d had no leg spasms. None. Oh, sure, twitches but that’s always there.

6. All this meant that Thursday’s follow-up visit to the ortho was, understandably, postponed to yesterday afternoon. After a lunch of Ramen noodles and sipping a Route 44 Diet Cherry Limeade, nectar of the Virus Gods, I headed to the Doc. Driving was not very painful. I didn’t find myself shifting restlessly in the seat, spasms in my hamstrings. Odd.

7. All Together Now: Why did I not have spasms?

8. Because lying around all day long is good for not having pain.

9. I refuse to accept a lifestyle that includes that as an option without exploring every other option possible. (see 1, above)

10. This has nothing to do with my back, but I have to tell you both about Murphy Munker and Mo. The entire time I was sick they would not leave me. Ok, well, Munker and Mo ran down the hallway like their butts were on fire every time I jumped out of the bed and bolted for the bathroom but that was just the suddenness of movement. Murphy, who will spend 8 hours outside in 40 degree weather if he can just find a squirrel to hate or a 24″x 24″ patch of sun to lie in, would not leave the bed. He went outside for a couple of minutes twice in 24 hours. If I moved to the couch, he moved to the couch. Munk and Mo followed. It was cute. Like a sick little parade. Me, wrapped in a blankie, shuffling downstairs, Murphy running ahead to clear the path: Make Way — Make Way — Munk and Mo following, occasionally stopping to playfully bat one another in the head. Once in the den they would put on a little cat show, running back and forth, hiding behind the plants or the chair, jumping out to pounce on each other. Look, Mom! Funny, Right? Smile? If you have an empty nest, I recommend you find some good used animals. You cannot overestimate the joy they add.

New Normal continues as we continue to puzzle out my Falling off Butt: My new BRDr.FF has scheduled me for another epidural which should happen next week. She said we’ll give it a week or so; unless I call her singing the Hallelujah Chorus and already planning my next marathon training schedule we will move into Plan B, Operation Save the World from Terrilee: visit the Neuro.

NEXT WEEK IS THANKSGIVING! What are you two planning? Regardless of my back and my whiny little tiny baby issues, I am blessed. I have many wonderful friends whom I love, and who seem to love me even without their drugs, a fantastic, wonderful, supportive, loving family, a job that’s out of this world and, of course, Murphy Munker and Mo. I could want more – and usually do – but I know the truth: I’m incredibly blessed.

Posted in Pets, Running and tagged BFOS, Butt Falling off Syndrome, cat, coffee, dog, Eric Northman, exercise, fitness, Herniated Disc, marathon, natural childbirth, Pet, pinched nerve, Run, running, S1 Radiculopathy, SI joint

03 Sep 2012

14 Comments

The get ‘er done run.

Success! I hung with one of my BRFF’s ever, DJ, who is training for Chicago and doing a 4/1 run/walk program right now. I knew if I hung with her I would not be tempted to go out too fast and maybe my hamstring would not try to desert me. I’m pretty sure it’s trying to jump ship; it certainly feels like it’s trying to crawl right out of my skin. Luckily its attempts so far have been thwarted by Ligaments and Skin. Thank you, Ligaments and Skin, for hanging tight. Please don’t let go.

All I wanted was to see the finish line. I didn’t care time, I just wanted to go 14 miles. I needed it, mentally. I needed to blow off energy and I needed an accomplishment in my running. It took 3 hours to go 14.2 miles between walking the water stops, doing the run/walk and the porta john stops, and I didn’t care one bit. I can wear the shirt, now. You can see this is a shirt that should be worn often and handled with care so it can be worn for many years - how cool is this shirt!? Oh, and we made up a poem: ON ON! to the Portajohn! At least I was hydrated.

Last year after Tupelo I wrote this (below). I know you’ve both read it before but I don’t care. As I’ve noted, it’s my blog and I can do anything I want. Or I can not post anything I don’t want to post. For instance, I’m never posting Brussel Sprouts recipes, because there is not a recipe in the entire world which can make a Brussels Sprout taste good except a garbage disposal so that would be a waste of typing.

++++++++++++++++

Sunday I ran Crazy Jimmy’s Tupelo Half Marathon which is not even a half but is a Half + 1.1 miles. The race is every Labor Day Sunday, and if you’ve never run in Mississippi the end of August you won’t appreciate the race’s 5am start — but if you have experienced its soul sucking humidity and heat you are happy for even one hour’s reprieve from the sun.

5am in the Mississippi countryside is dark. No atmospheric reflection of glimmering city lights, no reflected porch lights of houses sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the neighborhoods, no glow of business signs and lit front windows. Houses are spread apart, set back; porch lights shine further from the street; street lights are distant from each other. The race begins quietly, no gun, no siren, no shouts. Garmins and Timexes beep shedding greenish light. The figures ahead of us start bobbing, their shadows outlined by the small flashlights held by the other runners in front of them.

I run the first 5 miles with an MRTC friend but can’t keep his pace. I’ve been out a lot the past couple years; a couple injuries, a couple family issues, some happy, some not so much. It’s great to be racing. I find that I don’t mind having no one to talk to. I like it, this bobbing along in the dark as it begins to lighten. I listen to the softness of the footfalls, my raspy breathing, crickets. A dog whines from someone’s house. At mile 6 we turn east and I notice the horizon is lightening. The shapes of country houses take form, still and flat, one-dimensional in the semi-darkness. Rolling fences appear and I can see the fields now, see the ponds in the fields, and the treerows further back. The colors change, from the bluish-black of night to dark shades of greens, then browns, and soon the runners around me aren’t just bobbing shapes but bright yellows and reds and blues and greens.

We run along in the day as it wakes. I see the road now, and I see my feet as they push the distance behind me. I look at the faces of the people around me, I hear mutters of conversation; over and under and around all that I hear, constantly, the soft shuffle of feet, the measured breathing of everyone around me, and I know that they are celebrating, as I am, the incredible knowledge that we live, that we exist and we are incredibly, gloriously alive in this brand new day which birth we just witnessed.

Runners may be many different things, but one thing we hold in common: We are celebratory people.

++++++++++++++++

Unfortunately, however, this year after the race ended there was a very very sad incident in which my Former BRFF ever, DJ, tried to steal my beer. B*tch. You can’t trust blonde German women when a beer shows up, it’s a throw down looking for a place to happen. Fortunately right after this photo was taken we were directed to the cooler chest containing about 157 more beers and we kissed and made up. I no longer hope her keg explodes. Just a small, slow leak would be fine.

Posted in Running and tagged beer, BFOS, Butt Falling off Syndrome, exercise, finish line, fitness, half marathon, hamstrings, healthy-living, marathon, porta john, Run, running, stealing my beer, training

01 Sep 2012

21 Comments

BFOS – The Saga Continues

Last Sunday’s run sucked like a Dyson on steroids. I’d had a great tempo run last Wednesday and had a target pace in mind, which I held for exactly 2 miles and then the Butt fell off the bus. I ran, I walked, I cussed, I hurt, I limped. I’d done two slow miles to warm up before the race, did the 5 Miler and gave up. My butt was trying to fall off and I was about fed up with it. I’d hoped to do twelve last Sunday since I’ve got the Tupelo run this weekend; unless I wanted to run the final 5 hopping on one foot – and I didn’t – I needed to bag it for the day.

This race, btw, is my absolute favorite, check it out: http://tupelorunningclub.homestead.com/tupelomarathon.html. The race starts at 5am – pitch dark – from a huge furniture facility and is an out-and-back course through the Mississippi farmland. The half is actually 14.2 miles. The turnaround is 1.1 miles from the start/finish, so the halvers have to run an extra 1.1 to the finish line. They didn’t do medals for the halvers until a few years ago. You could do the half, but no medal. And the medal is awesome, you do want one: a skull with gleaming red enamel eyes. The half medal is even better: it’s a little bigger than a half a skull, with ragged edges as though it were torn in half. The t-shirt is always a long sleeve tie-dye with a skull and crossbones on the front and the race’s motto: “Hurdle the Dead. Trample the Weak.” Last week the RD sent the following announcement, in view of possible bad weather due to Isaac:

Special notice: Tupelo Marathon and 14.2 Miler Contingency plans regarding Hurricane Isaac

After consulting with Tupelo Running club Staff Meteorologist Michelle Rupp and long time, former Race Director Mike Lail I am announcing the contingency plan for this year’s race:

A. In the event of rain we will get wet
B. In the case of heavy rain we will get really wet
C. In the case of REALLY heavy rain I will wait in the building until you’re all back

I’m concerned about the run tomorrow, I haven’t done more than 10 in a few weeks, and my butt tried to fall off yesterday at 6 miles. I’ve been doing some BFOS research and will report in later; I’m hopeful I’ve found some help but I doubt it’s going to work within 24 hours.

After the pain of Sunday I took Monday off and woke Tuesday with a plan. I was going to run four miles.

And….

Then….

I was going to….

RIDE MATILDA!!!!!! This was the day. This was the plan. I was firm in my resolve and when Brain tried to squeak in my ear that maybe we should wait until tomorrow I squished him firmly back into his little dark corner and told him in no uncertain terms to Shut. Up.

I put her in the car and drove to a church about a mile from our house. It’s a great little church, very traditional Episcopalian church, white boxy old-fashioned building with a little steeple on the top, rather like Little House on the Prairie. They are really nice people, allowing a 5k/10k race to be held on their grounds every year, and they don’t mind runners using their parking lot to meet up and head out for a run so I figured they would not mind if I rode my bike in circles in their grass. Plus with it being a church and all, maybe God would be extra close at hand to rescue crazy women learning to ride a bike.

I took a deep breath and saddled up. We can do this. Just stay focused and stay calm. No panicking allowed. One thing I’d noticed when I was practicing clipping the last time is that I tend to stop my bike while still on the seat and then put my feet down. This worked fine when I was 12 and riding my Schwinn Stingray with the banana seat. On a street bike you can’t do that, the seat is too high, you can’t reach the ground. I’d never thought about it, though, when using the regular pedals as my foot was freer to pop off at the last second and land. Voilà – there was the main issue: I was trying to stop first and then unclip.

The ladies coming out of the exercise class at the church looked at me a bit funny as I pedaled in circles, focused: pedalpedalpedal, unclip, brake, slow almost to a stop, put foot down, unclip left foot. I did it! Look, Ma! No Cavities!

Emboldened by my success I decided to take a spin around the parking lot. Two exercise ladies were standing by their cars talking as I wobbled around the corner and almost took them both out – my bad, sorry! I told them I was just learning. They looked a bit alarmed and asked if they were going to have to scrape me off the asphalt, but I wobbled onward, thanking them.

12.5 miles and 51 minutes later I returned to the parking lot, unclipped and glided to a stop. I am a cyclist.

I am a runner, and I am a cyclist. And since I swam 10 laps last week, I’m claiming that, too.

I am not, however, a triathlete. nopenopenopenopenope.

Posted in Biking, Running and tagged BFOS, bike, biking, Butt Falling off Syndrome, exercise, Felt F80, fitness, half marathon, healthy-living, marathon, Run, running, training, triathlete

05 Aug 2012

11 Comments

The Miracle of the Racquet Ball

Our Lady Queen of Pain has repeatedly encouraged me to use a racquet ball on my back, piriformis and hip flexors. I dutifully go home clutching my new toy and do everything as instructed. For, like, a day.

I wake.

“You should find that racquet ball and roll and stretch,” Brain says.

“You should shut up until I have coffee,” I reply.

“A tad touchy today, eh?” Brain replies, not realizing it’s very very close to a near death experience.

“Shut. Up. I have to feed cat.”

While I’m downstairs feeding the cat I might as well check email. Oh – look at that cute kitten pic on FB! HAHAHA that’s funny, better tag Sallysue in that one, she loves vodka.

Three days later Brain remembers it was successfully distracted in under a minute. (yes, I’m just that good.)

“Remember – you should find that racquet ball and roll & stretch,” Brain pops up. Brain is like a Whack a Mole game. And I’d pay money to whack it.

I sigh. I know Brain is right. I go directly to the drawer in which I firmly promised myself I would place the ball every time and immediately after using it. Here’s a surprise: it’s not there (never saw that coming, huh?) A thorough search of the house revealed that I need to vacuum and dust. I could knit a friend for Chunk.

Never, ever make the mistake of thinking you can outwit Brain. Brain was right, I should have been rolling and stretching – and what you get for being a lazy smart ass is eventually waking with muscle spasms in your butt and hamstrings. Last Sunday morning I was jerking like Pinocchio on strings. We went to church and I sat there twitching and jumping, my leg kicking forward spasmodically as though it had Tourette’s. Fellow pew mates appeared frightened that any minute I was going to start running down the aisle with a tambourine screaming PRAIZE JAYZUSS ALL-LAY-LOO-YAH!!! To put it mildly, we do. not. do. that. in my church.

Monday I had a visit scheduled with the chiro and then back to visit Our Lady Queen of Pain, whom you may also know as The Exorcist but I’ve decided to elevate her status. Just because it’s my blog so I can do that. I can do whatever I like on my blog. nanner nanner boo-boo. For instance, if I wanted, I could do this:

Nope, that clip is entirely too small.

Daniel Craig James Bond Swimsuit Suit

Oh, that’s better then. AND HE’S RUNNING! And I blog about RUNNING! omg!!!! Probably someday Daniel Craig will google himself and this picture will pop up connected to my blog and he’ll read my blog and start following it. Probably he’ll post comments too. This is awesome. I’m really excited now and for just a moment there I forgot my butt hurts.

“um, Terri?” queries Brain.

“SHIT. WHAT?”

“You need to quit staring at Daniel Craig and finish your blog. Both of your faithful followers of your World Famous Blog have been sitting in front of their computers for hours waiting for the end.”

Ah. Good point, sorry -

Our Lady of Joe Lewis worked me over for about 3 hours and sent me home with the admonition to use the racquet ball. This time, I believed her. I’m really hopeful none of our neighbors can ever see into our hallway where I position myself 2-3 times a day cramming that ball up into my piriformis, then rolling back and forth against the wall with the ball between my hip flexors and the wall, stopping and grimacing every 1/2 inch while I count to 20 and attempt to breathe.

Ouch.

Wednesday I ran two very slow miles. Nothing hurt! ALLELUIA! (don’t sing that in the neighborhood while you’re running. For some reason dogs hate that song and howl really loudly).

It’s a slow journey, I did three miles yesterday and felt it a bit in the last mile. I felt good this morning so I did five and to hell with it, and since then I’ve had some electricity smacking me around from my butt to my calf. I’ll roll on the ball and see Our Lady tomorrow. I’ll stretch and I’ll keep trying to figure it out and I’ll be damned if I give up.

Just to add a bit of incentive, I recorded the women’s Olympic marathon this morning. After dinner I’ll sit on my ice and do the rolling/stretching thing while I watch, knowing those ladies hurt far worse than I do.

Posted in Running and tagged BFOS, Butt Falling off Syndrome, cat, coffee, exercise, fitness, healthy-living, marathon, Olympic women's marathon, Pet, Run, running, Shalane Flanagan, training

25 Jun 2012

6 Comments

I feel kinda like Sally Field

You like me! You really like me!

On June 7th and again on June 13th two different bloggers nominated me for the “Inspiring Blog Award”. Apparently having your butt fall off does have its advantages, even though they are seldom very obvious. Thank you both, I’m very pleased to know my falling off a$$ has inspired you. Or perhaps it was my very favorable review of the psycho spinning instructor. It’s always good to have an inspiring psychosis, I always say. Right after I was nominated I fell into a Black Hole and didn’t get to write for two weeks. I waited to post on this because I wanted to be sure to give proper attention to these two bloggers who, seriously, really made me feel special with their very nice words and nomination.

As with anything, there are Rules.

1) Nominate fellow bloggers for this award and state why
2) Give seven personal revelations about myself that would not ordinarily appear on my blog
3) publicly thank my nominator(s)

The blogs I follow most often (and I’d like to follow more but my time is limited now) are, in no particular order other than the order they are currently open in my browser:

http://runninginmommyland.com/ A mom of twins who completed her first marathon this past Spring, I am inspired by a mom who manages to fit in parenting twins and training for a marathon, something I could not accomplish until my guys were 16 years old. She openly and lovingly shares her struggles and her joys; I love reading her posts and remembering the times of my children’s youth.

http://kittybloger.wordpress.com/author/quetal2/ I guess in the strictest sense someone posting cute and funny pics of cats and kittens isn’t incredibly inspiring like training for marathons – but she makes my day! I don’t know where she finds these pics and vids but they are always good for a smile in the morning.

http://inspiringandhealthyrunninginlondon.wordpress.com Here’s inspiring: She runs for Team in Training. AWE.SOME. And lives in London. Which means she types with an English accent. I try to read her blog with an English accent but mine is deplorable. My southern accent isn’t much better.

http://annewoodman.wordpress.com/ Whom I believe I’ve nominated before, if so sorry for the duplication, but I love her blogs, love her style and love interacting with her. I think if we lived next door to each other we’d be talking over the fence every day.

The nominators, and two ladies whom I follow regularly, are (in order of date nominating me)

http://rebuildingholly.wordpress.com/ Another writer I’ve been following almost since I started blogging, altho I’m not sure how she found me, I think if we met over drinks we’d immediately be friends and within 15 minutes laughing at inside jokes.

http://middleagedwomanontherun.com/ This lady I do know personally and she’s quite a go-getter. Joining the Women Run/Walk Memphis program last year, she took off like a shot, almost immediately started planning a race to benefit the Ronald McDonald House for St. Jude and is now planning to do her first marathon for St. Jude in December. WHOA. Sometimes after I read her I need nap. She’s on FIRE.

Seven things that do not ordinarily appear in my blog (who are we kidding? Everything ends up in my blog. I’ll just fake some stuff.)

1. My real name. Hermione Bloodstone Smythe-Hawke

2. I lie. But I’ve always liked the sound of Hermione Bloodstone Smythe-Hawke which I would pronounce with a long “I” in Smythe.

3. If I were Hermione Bloodstone Smythe-Hawk I would have long, curling, wild red hair which would always be coming loose from its pinnings.

4. If I were HBSH I would run wild through the moors, climbing trees and catching fish with my bare hands, charming the local smithy’s son who was really a prince who was placed with the smithy for his safety during an uprising.

5. If I were HBSH my mother would ruefully reprimand me every time I came home with scratched knees and a torn dress.

6. If I were HBSH I would live in England and have an English accent and I would not know I had an accent. I would foolishly think I spoke normally and everyone else had the accent.

7. Whenever I sit at my desk I end up kicking off my shoes. Sometimes I have 3-4 pair of shoes under my desk before I carry them back upstairs. Today I got up to go to the kitchen and wondered why my shoes felt funny. This is why:

Posted in Ruminations and tagged BFOS, Butt Falling off Syndrome, exercise, fitness, healthy-living, Inspiring Blog Award, Journey, marathon, Run, running, Sally Fields, training

Run. Dog. Cat. Cat. Me.

Everything you need to know about running and life and any other random crap I find bouncing through my mind like a ping pong ball. And always be sure your shoes are happy.

Archive for the tag “marathon”

OCD much?

Calories Calories everywhere…

What special stoopid pills did you take this morning??

Sorry, I half to run.

We’re all talking monkeys on an organic spaceship.

The new normal

The get ‘er done run.

BFOS – The Saga Continues

The Miracle of the Racquet Ball

I feel kinda like Sally Field

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