Okay, so Runner's World and The Running Room have also given me lots of good advice over the years. But as I struggle with my running life -- to race or not to race, how to keep things moderate and avoid injuries -- I'm finding Foster, my new 1-year-old collie, is providing a lot of answers.
Firstly, it's a great way to channel angst. I've started to notice an increasing irritability with my partner (we live in a small apartment and he is, for all his strengths, a slob). It seems I always want to control where he puts things like underwear and dirt (he's in horticulture so there's a lot of soil around the house). While Foster doesn't care about tidiness, he does like to play with his Kong, and when he doesn't get his play time he gets jittery and whiney.
As I write this, after a snowy run by The Parkway, I'm feeling laissez faire and Foster is asleep by the door. Relief for all.
Secondly, well, you can't race with a dog or even (really) bring him out to watch. And I'm done with stress for the day. So there!
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Another Big Day: the Batizado
I got my first belt in capoeira over the weekend, and, as Mestre Chocolate was addressing the group, talking about the day he got his first belt, I realized I was experiencing all that nervous energy people expected of me on my wedding day.
In fact, ever since I got knocked on the head with a couple of flying legs in class a few weeks ago I've been second-guessing the role of capoeira in my life, and my future with it.
Maybe I take it too seriously, these sports. But I wasn't exposed to a litany of extra-curricular activities when I was a kid. There was skiing in the winter, canoeing in the summer, and I took up running 'cause it was cheap and an easy way to get out of the house on my own. I thought about dance and soccer, but by then sports were so tied up with identity I was a bit scared to shake things up. So I stayed within my boundaries and pushed on in my respective sports.
Fast forward to the present, and I've largely worn out my enthusiasm for the sports I really know. I skied my brains out in British Colombia, but because I tried to make a living out of that passion, whenever I visit the slopes now I just get over analytical, and over ambitious about the whole industry. Plus, I live in Ottawa so skiing means long travel, big money, and short runs.
Then there's running. SImilar story. Went at it with gusto, enjoyed an incredible few years of personal bests and finish line crossings, and now, well, I can't really "go for a run." It has to be part of a training schedule. And that training schedule often has to be modified for my chronic plantar fasciitis and shin splints. Gusto? Yes. Moderation? Notsomuch.
And canoeing? Every time I go to Hawaii I try to convince people to take me out on an outrigger. I'm holding out hope that it will be my athletic and social savior when I one day move to Molokai.
Maybe it's not completely landlocked, but again, paddling is not the easiest thing to access when you're broke in Ottawa.
So, after attempts at breakdancing (er, b-girling), ultimate Frisbee, soccer, and a few triathlons under my belt, I found capoeira offered the physical, spiritual, and psychological challenges I need in a sport.
Or did I?
Emotionally, it's tough. Hard to feel you're getting somewhere. Do I really want to invite this in my life? What if I never want to do it again, but I have this belt, this responsibility, to keep up?
I'm a runner, a skier, a mild-mannered paddler.
But here I was, getting my belt!
And then next day, after partying with my fellow capoeiristas, I went back for more, and I feel it in my system like never before.
So maybe I just have to follow my gut -- worked on the wedding day!
In fact, ever since I got knocked on the head with a couple of flying legs in class a few weeks ago I've been second-guessing the role of capoeira in my life, and my future with it.
Maybe I take it too seriously, these sports. But I wasn't exposed to a litany of extra-curricular activities when I was a kid. There was skiing in the winter, canoeing in the summer, and I took up running 'cause it was cheap and an easy way to get out of the house on my own. I thought about dance and soccer, but by then sports were so tied up with identity I was a bit scared to shake things up. So I stayed within my boundaries and pushed on in my respective sports.
Fast forward to the present, and I've largely worn out my enthusiasm for the sports I really know. I skied my brains out in British Colombia, but because I tried to make a living out of that passion, whenever I visit the slopes now I just get over analytical, and over ambitious about the whole industry. Plus, I live in Ottawa so skiing means long travel, big money, and short runs.
Then there's running. SImilar story. Went at it with gusto, enjoyed an incredible few years of personal bests and finish line crossings, and now, well, I can't really "go for a run." It has to be part of a training schedule. And that training schedule often has to be modified for my chronic plantar fasciitis and shin splints. Gusto? Yes. Moderation? Notsomuch.
And canoeing? Every time I go to Hawaii I try to convince people to take me out on an outrigger. I'm holding out hope that it will be my athletic and social savior when I one day move to Molokai.
Maybe it's not completely landlocked, but again, paddling is not the easiest thing to access when you're broke in Ottawa.
So, after attempts at breakdancing (er, b-girling), ultimate Frisbee, soccer, and a few triathlons under my belt, I found capoeira offered the physical, spiritual, and psychological challenges I need in a sport.
Or did I?
Emotionally, it's tough. Hard to feel you're getting somewhere. Do I really want to invite this in my life? What if I never want to do it again, but I have this belt, this responsibility, to keep up?
I'm a runner, a skier, a mild-mannered paddler.
But here I was, getting my belt!
And then next day, after partying with my fellow capoeiristas, I went back for more, and I feel it in my system like never before.
So maybe I just have to follow my gut -- worked on the wedding day!
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Taking advice (my own, and others)
So I left the iPod at home on my run today. I'd already cleared the R3-30 podcasts (hit-and-miss for running beats) and took on some DJ Miles tracks for the road, but then I remembered ... from previous posts (not to mention weird chest rashes from electronic cables) ... that my mind sort of shuts down when I listen to music on the go.
And I really do want to get back to you, blog. (Only upon returning did I realize I'd been gone for a month! Egad!)
In any case, after I started trotting down Lyon Street, eyes focused on the semi-plowed sidewalk and cheeks puckered against the wind, I realized I I would have to take it slow on this run. Winter running is an entirely different sport, involving a testy game of layering (one which I'm losing via over-bundling these days) and a final product that, in my case, looks nothing more graceful than a power-suited lade rushing the morning bus in heels and a briefcase.
Take it slow, I told myself. You're out here, you're taking a stab at it. Slow -- baby steps. (Though in this weather babies would be wheeled around or cozily strapped to mom's chest).
And then, the aha moment. I can take it slow with the blog. I can write in spurts, I can leave it alone for a week of heavy deadlines (or a time when I doubt it's role in helping be get a paying gig).
So I took my own advice a couple times here. But I also want to get better at this, I want to improve and I DO believe it can help me get paying gigs.
So, in the bleak mid-winter, when times are tough all over and neither running nor writing looks appealing, I'm going to read more blogs, research and link, and take baby steps to a new online life.
And I really do want to get back to you, blog. (Only upon returning did I realize I'd been gone for a month! Egad!)
In any case, after I started trotting down Lyon Street, eyes focused on the semi-plowed sidewalk and cheeks puckered against the wind, I realized I I would have to take it slow on this run. Winter running is an entirely different sport, involving a testy game of layering (one which I'm losing via over-bundling these days) and a final product that, in my case, looks nothing more graceful than a power-suited lade rushing the morning bus in heels and a briefcase.
Take it slow, I told myself. You're out here, you're taking a stab at it. Slow -- baby steps. (Though in this weather babies would be wheeled around or cozily strapped to mom's chest).
And then, the aha moment. I can take it slow with the blog. I can write in spurts, I can leave it alone for a week of heavy deadlines (or a time when I doubt it's role in helping be get a paying gig).
So I took my own advice a couple times here. But I also want to get better at this, I want to improve and I DO believe it can help me get paying gigs.
So, in the bleak mid-winter, when times are tough all over and neither running nor writing looks appealing, I'm going to read more blogs, research and link, and take baby steps to a new online life.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Stumbling onto my own perspective
The running here in Litchfield County is improving, and today I threw caution to the wind and headed south (? better: right) on Hwy. 6 down Naugatuck Valley.
Or should I say up. The hill just kept going and Craig Norris talked a bit too much in the first ten minutes of the R3 30, so it was a struggle at first and I was counting the minutes (15 in total) that I would run in one direction before allowing myself to turn around and head home (which is, somehow, also terribly uphill).
But just as I hit the crest of the hill, I noticed a driveway, or at least an inlet of sorts, on my right hand side. (If you happen to be using this as a map of the Valley, I run on the left hand side. Obviously).
It was majestic. It was daunting. It was something from that movie The Fugitive only way less extreme. It was the Northfield Brook Park entrance to the Thomaston Dam.
I jogged down the gravel pathway atop the dam, noted that rappelling and ice climbing are not allowed, imagined my buddies back home sneaking out after dark to get up to such mischief, and turned around.
It wasn't until I reached the halfway point down the gravel pathway, which sort of had the feel of a gangplank, that I stopped to take in the view. The river below was rolling high, roaring with the rain of the past week. The trees, mostly deciduous, formed a fuzzy, familiar blanket down the Valley, and if I leaned one way I thought I could see the graveyard, er, cemetery, that usually acts as my run-to spot. Facing the other direction, I could understand for the first time why it's always uphill in Thomaston: it's a narrow valley, and the town follows the riverbed while never really exposing it as a natural attraction. So if you're not climbing, running, or driving uphill, you generally feel like you're about to fall over a cliff.
Does that make sense?
In any case, standing up on the Thomaston Dam gangplank, it made sense to me. Something about the town clicked for the first time. And, I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit it, but I realized something else about my relationship to this town -- and the development of my relationship to this town.
It's all seen through the eyes of my fiance, who has a bit of a love/ hate thing going on with his birth place. When we first met in Hawaii he couldnt' stop talking about it. Upon returning, and noting that almost 100% of it's inhabitants have noticeably lighter skin than yours truly and driving around at 10:30 on a Saturday night looking for a coffee house with chill music that, apparently, doesn't exist, he's disenchanted, to say the least.
At the Dam today, I imagined Alex taking me there, sweeping his arms at the bounty of the land and pointing out locales from his youth. In that fantasy, I was bitter. I felt the chill of my own sarcastic take on life -- the park has U.S. Army written all over it, and they're an easy target these days -- and saw my cold shoulders scurry for the comfort of the car.
I think this can be summed up with a comparison.
Alex likes to watch movies with other people who have already seen that movie and love it. I find this quite irritating, what with all the expectations and ruined punchlines. I prefer to find movies; sure, I like to share them, but I already know Alex and I have different movie tastes (last night, when the coffee house fantasy flopped, he settled for Tropic Thunder from the local Red Box).
In short, I like to stumble upon my own vantage points, all pumped up on my own endorphins. A part of me is even hesitant to share this blog with Alex, preferring to hold this mornings' experience as some special discovery in My Own Private Connecticut.
Or should I say up. The hill just kept going and Craig Norris talked a bit too much in the first ten minutes of the R3 30, so it was a struggle at first and I was counting the minutes (15 in total) that I would run in one direction before allowing myself to turn around and head home (which is, somehow, also terribly uphill).
But just as I hit the crest of the hill, I noticed a driveway, or at least an inlet of sorts, on my right hand side. (If you happen to be using this as a map of the Valley, I run on the left hand side. Obviously).
It was majestic. It was daunting. It was something from that movie The Fugitive only way less extreme. It was the Northfield Brook Park entrance to the Thomaston Dam.
I jogged down the gravel pathway atop the dam, noted that rappelling and ice climbing are not allowed, imagined my buddies back home sneaking out after dark to get up to such mischief, and turned around.
It wasn't until I reached the halfway point down the gravel pathway, which sort of had the feel of a gangplank, that I stopped to take in the view. The river below was rolling high, roaring with the rain of the past week. The trees, mostly deciduous, formed a fuzzy, familiar blanket down the Valley, and if I leaned one way I thought I could see the graveyard, er, cemetery, that usually acts as my run-to spot. Facing the other direction, I could understand for the first time why it's always uphill in Thomaston: it's a narrow valley, and the town follows the riverbed while never really exposing it as a natural attraction. So if you're not climbing, running, or driving uphill, you generally feel like you're about to fall over a cliff.
Does that make sense?
In any case, standing up on the Thomaston Dam gangplank, it made sense to me. Something about the town clicked for the first time. And, I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit it, but I realized something else about my relationship to this town -- and the development of my relationship to this town.
It's all seen through the eyes of my fiance, who has a bit of a love/ hate thing going on with his birth place. When we first met in Hawaii he couldnt' stop talking about it. Upon returning, and noting that almost 100% of it's inhabitants have noticeably lighter skin than yours truly and driving around at 10:30 on a Saturday night looking for a coffee house with chill music that, apparently, doesn't exist, he's disenchanted, to say the least.
At the Dam today, I imagined Alex taking me there, sweeping his arms at the bounty of the land and pointing out locales from his youth. In that fantasy, I was bitter. I felt the chill of my own sarcastic take on life -- the park has U.S. Army written all over it, and they're an easy target these days -- and saw my cold shoulders scurry for the comfort of the car.
I think this can be summed up with a comparison.
Alex likes to watch movies with other people who have already seen that movie and love it. I find this quite irritating, what with all the expectations and ruined punchlines. I prefer to find movies; sure, I like to share them, but I already know Alex and I have different movie tastes (last night, when the coffee house fantasy flopped, he settled for Tropic Thunder from the local Red Box).
In short, I like to stumble upon my own vantage points, all pumped up on my own endorphins. A part of me is even hesitant to share this blog with Alex, preferring to hold this mornings' experience as some special discovery in My Own Private Connecticut.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Writing while running
It doesn't work. I've long wished for some sort of device, concept, or even a simple approach to remembering the great thoughts that stream through my mind while running. It wasn't until recently, listening to authors at the Ottawa Writers Festival, that I realized maybe this wouldn't be such a good idea.
My high school creative writing teacher would tell us to Write it Down! (He loooved exclamation points and would plaster his wall is such Do it Now! euphemisms to inspire and irritate us). And I always interpreted this as a time-sensitive instruction, as if we were really meant to transcribe every thought that could possibly have any merit. But as I listened to the likes of ... O darn, of course I can't remember which author(s) said it ... in any case, on more than one occasion I heard that authors actually let ideas, characters, situations, moral dilemmas, etc. sit with them. They carry them with them, introduce them to friends, speculate on their qualities, sometimes before committing them to paper at all.
This thinking all came about as I was bounding down my street this morning, on my way out for a run. I was like 'darn, forgot to post to Twitter that I'm going for a run.'
I'm new on this Twitter thing, and I did just send a mobile update last night, but I don't run with my cell phone and I never want to. If I run into people in the (gasp) real world, it's a nice coincidence ... not to mention a little ego boost for me 'cause I'm always just a little bit proud that I actually run in the winter. But Twitter isn't going to be the device I've been looking for, and maybe I'll never find it.
Maybe technology just doesn't work with inner dialogue. And maybe that's why inner dialogue is so frighteningly special.
My high school creative writing teacher would tell us to Write it Down! (He loooved exclamation points and would plaster his wall is such Do it Now! euphemisms to inspire and irritate us). And I always interpreted this as a time-sensitive instruction, as if we were really meant to transcribe every thought that could possibly have any merit. But as I listened to the likes of ... O darn, of course I can't remember which author(s) said it ... in any case, on more than one occasion I heard that authors actually let ideas, characters, situations, moral dilemmas, etc. sit with them. They carry them with them, introduce them to friends, speculate on their qualities, sometimes before committing them to paper at all.
This thinking all came about as I was bounding down my street this morning, on my way out for a run. I was like 'darn, forgot to post to Twitter that I'm going for a run.'
I'm new on this Twitter thing, and I did just send a mobile update last night, but I don't run with my cell phone and I never want to. If I run into people in the (gasp) real world, it's a nice coincidence ... not to mention a little ego boost for me 'cause I'm always just a little bit proud that I actually run in the winter. But Twitter isn't going to be the device I've been looking for, and maybe I'll never find it.
Maybe technology just doesn't work with inner dialogue. And maybe that's why inner dialogue is so frighteningly special.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
What you lookin' at?
Just in from a morning run (finally able to pull myself out of bed and the bizarre REM dreams that come with the snooze button!), and I've got to say, I'm feeling a bit paranoid.
While it wasn't the 17 degrees we saw yesterday in Ottawa, the air was warm and thick, with a fog that reminded me of Trois-Rivieres. That usually means paper-mill stinky, but I have good memories of TR, so for me it was nostalgic. Maybe it was this reminiscence that, as I quickened my pace and made for the Library and Archives (my new locale for stairs and hills) brought the creeping sensation of paranoia.
And then I remembered that the pants I'm wearing are cheap tights circa 2003, which means they've fallen apart at the seams ... right around the crotch. Last night it seemed inconsequential, as I made my way like a ninja through the dark streets. But now, under the increasing glare of slick bureaucrats making their way to their well-put-together offices, I felt a tad ... nasty.
When I meet red lights I usually do a few crucial stretches. Now I only roll my ankles.
The people I expect to be admiring my gait, not to mention my dedication to run outside, in the morning, despite the cooler weather ... now I see as mean-spirited gawkers, ashamed for me and my skanky pants.
As I made my home I remembered something I read about schizophrenia. That paranoia, the feeling that people are whispering about you behind your back, is common for these folks struck with a most misunderstood disease. And I remember that sensation as a small, brown, not-particularly coordinated or confident person in public school.
Usually runs leave me feeling on top of the world, like I can do anything. And while this was somewhat true of this morning's run, I feel this one did more -- it gave me newfound empathy.
While it wasn't the 17 degrees we saw yesterday in Ottawa, the air was warm and thick, with a fog that reminded me of Trois-Rivieres. That usually means paper-mill stinky, but I have good memories of TR, so for me it was nostalgic. Maybe it was this reminiscence that, as I quickened my pace and made for the Library and Archives (my new locale for stairs and hills) brought the creeping sensation of paranoia.
And then I remembered that the pants I'm wearing are cheap tights circa 2003, which means they've fallen apart at the seams ... right around the crotch. Last night it seemed inconsequential, as I made my way like a ninja through the dark streets. But now, under the increasing glare of slick bureaucrats making their way to their well-put-together offices, I felt a tad ... nasty.
When I meet red lights I usually do a few crucial stretches. Now I only roll my ankles.
The people I expect to be admiring my gait, not to mention my dedication to run outside, in the morning, despite the cooler weather ... now I see as mean-spirited gawkers, ashamed for me and my skanky pants.
As I made my home I remembered something I read about schizophrenia. That paranoia, the feeling that people are whispering about you behind your back, is common for these folks struck with a most misunderstood disease. And I remember that sensation as a small, brown, not-particularly coordinated or confident person in public school.
Usually runs leave me feeling on top of the world, like I can do anything. And while this was somewhat true of this morning's run, I feel this one did more -- it gave me newfound empathy.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
First Snow/Run
Yes, it snowed in Ottawa this evening. Just as the sun was setting and I was getting up from a much needed nap -- filled with turbulent dreams spurred, no doubt, from my current read Three Day Road -- I saw the first flakes of the season.
And I was excited!
Weird, I know. But last year at this time I was in Hawaii, where Halloween wasn't the same and winter just meant wetness, no whiteness. When I finally arrived in Ottawa in January the snow was an assumed fact of life. And if we are going to make it through this season smiling or at least sane, we've got start it off with a bang, laughing and crying and knowing that winter in Ottawa is nuts.
So I ran.
Not far, mind you. But far enough to see some swirling leaf tornadoes and hear, through my iPod (yes, still needing musical motivation), a passerby whoop out a cackle at the oncoming storm. Long enough to smell woodsmoke. And fast enough to beat three yellow lights.
Bring it on.
And I was excited!
Weird, I know. But last year at this time I was in Hawaii, where Halloween wasn't the same and winter just meant wetness, no whiteness. When I finally arrived in Ottawa in January the snow was an assumed fact of life. And if we are going to make it through this season smiling or at least sane, we've got start it off with a bang, laughing and crying and knowing that winter in Ottawa is nuts.
So I ran.
Not far, mind you. But far enough to see some swirling leaf tornadoes and hear, through my iPod (yes, still needing musical motivation), a passerby whoop out a cackle at the oncoming storm. Long enough to smell woodsmoke. And fast enough to beat three yellow lights.
Bring it on.
Monday, October 27, 2008
It's been awhile ...
Me and my blog haven't spent too much time together lately. I've been busy with stuff in the 'real' world, most recently the Ottawa International Writers Festival.
So with all those writers around, my boyfriend asked me today 'have you thought about your blog? are you going to write in it again?'
My answer was yes, but first I have to run ...
Ahh. Much better. I"m hot under the collar but my senses are heightened after a 40 minute run to the canal and back home through the Glebe. Even found a patch of park I never knew aobut before.
Soon after I started I felt the baggage sway. My tummy, that is, up and down and up and down with every step, every bounce reminding me of late night beers and baked good mornings, of the Writers Fest that did a number on my usual, somewhat healthy, routine.
I was reminded of the physicality of writing in one of the sessions. Sonnet L'Abbe and Stephen Heighten, I believe. Anyway I know it was Sonnet -- who could forget a poet with a name like that -- who spoke of meditating, of bringing the words from a deep place within, of always trying to go, for lack of a better word, deeper.
My deep insides are hurting right now. I still have to do abs, and while the run felt good I have to admit I was using my iPod for extra motivation today so maybe I wasn't hearing my body cry out 'what's this? it's not beer or baked goods! you mean we [my legs, my gut, my will, etc.] still RUN?'
So I have to go attend to those parts and drink water and generally fuel the machine I plan on putting to good use over the next few months and years. 'Cause I do believe n the physicality of writing, but I can't expect much from a physical self existing off of beer and baked goods.
So with all those writers around, my boyfriend asked me today 'have you thought about your blog? are you going to write in it again?'
My answer was yes, but first I have to run ...
Ahh. Much better. I"m hot under the collar but my senses are heightened after a 40 minute run to the canal and back home through the Glebe. Even found a patch of park I never knew aobut before.
Soon after I started I felt the baggage sway. My tummy, that is, up and down and up and down with every step, every bounce reminding me of late night beers and baked good mornings, of the Writers Fest that did a number on my usual, somewhat healthy, routine.
I was reminded of the physicality of writing in one of the sessions. Sonnet L'Abbe and Stephen Heighten, I believe. Anyway I know it was Sonnet -- who could forget a poet with a name like that -- who spoke of meditating, of bringing the words from a deep place within, of always trying to go, for lack of a better word, deeper.
My deep insides are hurting right now. I still have to do abs, and while the run felt good I have to admit I was using my iPod for extra motivation today so maybe I wasn't hearing my body cry out 'what's this? it's not beer or baked goods! you mean we [my legs, my gut, my will, etc.] still RUN?'
So I have to go attend to those parts and drink water and generally fuel the machine I plan on putting to good use over the next few months and years. 'Cause I do believe n the physicality of writing, but I can't expect much from a physical self existing off of beer and baked goods.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Runnin' down a dream
"It felt so good, like anything was possible...
Yes, such was my passion for running this Sunday morning that I casually (ok, there were some stomach butterflies) joined the marathon group with the Running Room, deciding that instead of 12 or 16 or 18 kilometres (the Half-Marathoners were doing 12), I'd go for 24! Why not?!
I realized why not at about the 18 kilometre mark. My muscles didn't want to be pushed anymore, some chipper blond had just suggested that my plantar fasciitis symptoms meant I shouldn't be running at all, the conversation was dying down, and ... I'd already run 18 kilometres!
But I pushed on. Outside the DFAIT building, while the group waited for a red light, I tried to sound casual when I asked group leader Scott "would you mind telling me how far we've gone?"
About 21.5 km, he figured.
Exactly the distance of a half-marathon. What a coincidence.
The coincidence would only last about another five blocks; by the time we hit that weird intersection outside the National Gallery my mind was made up (or at least my mind could not convince my body otherwise any longer). I filtered off to the side and let my fellow runners stream ahead. Then I walked. It only lasted about two blocks, but it felt great.
It didn't feel nearly as great to walk home. And I apologize to anyone in Hartman's or on Bank Street Sunday at 11:30; if I gave you the death stare it's just because you were not my bed.
Speaking of which, right before bed I decided to check out this whole plantar fasciitis thing. It's bad. You know carpal tunnel syndrome? The secretary disease that puts people out-of-commission or in orthopaedic contraptions for years? There's also tarsal tunnel syndrome, and it can lead to all sorts of nasty things...namely, not running.
Have I learnt nothing?
On Sunday morning, as I was cavorting with the marathoners and feeling all proud of my ambitious self (hubris!!), one of the marathoners said "well, at least you know your limits." I had been explaining how, ten years ago, I ran a beautiful 4:06 marathon in Victoria, B.C. Then I got all excited about being a 'real' marathoner and attempted one six months later in London, Ontario.
Too soon! Not enough training! Too sick the week before! I don't know what the Greeks said about resting on your laurels, but I'm all for that now. My second marathon was weak, unsatisfying, and 40 minutes slower. I missed a concert and I only remember pain. O yes, and that awful Cher song that I couldn't get out of my mind:
"Do you believe in life after love
I can feel something inside me say
I really don't think you're strong enough, no ..."
Imagine that for 42 kilometres with nothing but your ho-hum hometown to distract you.
So the lyrics continue. Now I seem to be running down some dream that may, in the end, require surgery. I iced my legs and wore shoes to bed, and this morning my feet didn't feel like they had marbles surgically implanted in them overnight.
Like resting and icing and stretching, we have to ward off our ambitions in order to stay injury-free.
Yes, such was my passion for running this Sunday morning that I casually (ok, there were some stomach butterflies) joined the marathon group with the Running Room, deciding that instead of 12 or 16 or 18 kilometres (the Half-Marathoners were doing 12), I'd go for 24! Why not?!
I realized why not at about the 18 kilometre mark. My muscles didn't want to be pushed anymore, some chipper blond had just suggested that my plantar fasciitis symptoms meant I shouldn't be running at all, the conversation was dying down, and ... I'd already run 18 kilometres!
But I pushed on. Outside the DFAIT building, while the group waited for a red light, I tried to sound casual when I asked group leader Scott "would you mind telling me how far we've gone?"
About 21.5 km, he figured.
Exactly the distance of a half-marathon. What a coincidence.
The coincidence would only last about another five blocks; by the time we hit that weird intersection outside the National Gallery my mind was made up (or at least my mind could not convince my body otherwise any longer). I filtered off to the side and let my fellow runners stream ahead. Then I walked. It only lasted about two blocks, but it felt great.
It didn't feel nearly as great to walk home. And I apologize to anyone in Hartman's or on Bank Street Sunday at 11:30; if I gave you the death stare it's just because you were not my bed.
Speaking of which, right before bed I decided to check out this whole plantar fasciitis thing. It's bad. You know carpal tunnel syndrome? The secretary disease that puts people out-of-commission or in orthopaedic contraptions for years? There's also tarsal tunnel syndrome, and it can lead to all sorts of nasty things...namely, not running.
Have I learnt nothing?
On Sunday morning, as I was cavorting with the marathoners and feeling all proud of my ambitious self (hubris!!), one of the marathoners said "well, at least you know your limits." I had been explaining how, ten years ago, I ran a beautiful 4:06 marathon in Victoria, B.C. Then I got all excited about being a 'real' marathoner and attempted one six months later in London, Ontario.
Too soon! Not enough training! Too sick the week before! I don't know what the Greeks said about resting on your laurels, but I'm all for that now. My second marathon was weak, unsatisfying, and 40 minutes slower. I missed a concert and I only remember pain. O yes, and that awful Cher song that I couldn't get out of my mind:
"Do you believe in life after love
I can feel something inside me say
I really don't think you're strong enough, no ..."
Imagine that for 42 kilometres with nothing but your ho-hum hometown to distract you.
So the lyrics continue. Now I seem to be running down some dream that may, in the end, require surgery. I iced my legs and wore shoes to bed, and this morning my feet didn't feel like they had marbles surgically implanted in them overnight.
Like resting and icing and stretching, we have to ward off our ambitions in order to stay injury-free.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Biting Back
I knew instantly that he'd broke the skin. It all happened so fast, so close to home...and after a weekend of dog-cuddlin' and animal lovin'.
This morning, eager to get my week off to good start and start piling on the mileage in anticipation of the Ottawa half-marathon I'll be running in May, I headed out for a neighbourhood jaunt.
I'd barely ran ten feet when I was jumped, snapped, and yes, bitten by a little white lap dog. I was wearing thick lycra running pants and tough running tights, but I felt the sharp points make contact.
I jumped back and took an earphone out.
"Your dog just bit me!" I said, surprised, to the sunglasses woman dressed head-to-toe in fur.
She seemed almost as surprised as I was, even dropping the leash of the other dog she was walking.
I put my foot down on the leash and took in the situation.
I've been road running for nearly twenty years, and a dog lover even longer. My two passions were colliding in the worst way. I always prided myself on being able to stride past the gnarls and growls of the feistiest animals. I believed that if they smelled your fear they'd take a bite out of you--if they didn't, they'd become passive and let you on your way.
But this was a different situation. The woman explained that another dog, a big black one, had just 'attacked' her little white one (looked like a West Highland Whitie this morning). The little guy was spooked and on the offensive.
I told her she was lucky--I'm a dog person.
As I continued on my run I thought about how I should deal with it. On the surface, my leg hurt. I shouldn't have to worry about my personal safety when walking out my front door.
Then I thought about litigation. A friend of mine used to work in mediation, and she explained that a lot of cases are now being settled with mediators rather than lawyers. Not only does this save on court costs, my friend told me, but much of the time it isn't money that plaintiffs want, but empathy. They want to know that someone understands their point of view, the fact that something unjust occurred.
It was then that I decided to visit the owner; she'd pointed out her house, we were practically neighbours.
Later in the run I remembered my accident in the summer of 2003, when I cracked my pelvis at work, in a strange collision that involved me, a golf cart, and a tree. My boss picked me up at the hospital afterward, bought me ice cream and french fries...and had the golf cart disposed of the following day.
By the end of the summer the tree was also gone.
By the end of the year, I'd wished I'd taken the company to court. I'm sure Intrawest can afford to offset my student loan. It could be seen as a send-a-kid-to-camp program...only for ski bums who've hurt themselves in the line of duty.
But of course, this is Canada, and one of the things we pride ourselves on is the fact that we're not Americans, that we don't sue.
But sometimes I wish I could talk to my boss now, hear his side of the story. (If you want to hear more of mine, please ask. It's a pretty funny story).
As I made my way home I knew my leg was fine but I resolved to seek out the dog owner and get the full run-down.
Just now, I noticed her in front of my house, walking in the late afternoon sun Daylight Savings time has provided us.
I stepped out in my slippers, called her over, and identified myself as the runner from this morning. We chatted about the incident and I asked about shots. I even caught a few glances from the slow-moving rush hour cars on my street, smiling at the exchange between neighbours. Winter holes us up--spring is almost here.
Her name is Evelyn, and her dog is Spencer. Up close he looks more like a laso apso.
This morning, eager to get my week off to good start and start piling on the mileage in anticipation of the Ottawa half-marathon I'll be running in May, I headed out for a neighbourhood jaunt.
I'd barely ran ten feet when I was jumped, snapped, and yes, bitten by a little white lap dog. I was wearing thick lycra running pants and tough running tights, but I felt the sharp points make contact.
I jumped back and took an earphone out.
"Your dog just bit me!" I said, surprised, to the sunglasses woman dressed head-to-toe in fur.
She seemed almost as surprised as I was, even dropping the leash of the other dog she was walking.
I put my foot down on the leash and took in the situation.
I've been road running for nearly twenty years, and a dog lover even longer. My two passions were colliding in the worst way. I always prided myself on being able to stride past the gnarls and growls of the feistiest animals. I believed that if they smelled your fear they'd take a bite out of you--if they didn't, they'd become passive and let you on your way.
But this was a different situation. The woman explained that another dog, a big black one, had just 'attacked' her little white one (looked like a West Highland Whitie this morning). The little guy was spooked and on the offensive.
I told her she was lucky--I'm a dog person.
As I continued on my run I thought about how I should deal with it. On the surface, my leg hurt. I shouldn't have to worry about my personal safety when walking out my front door.
Then I thought about litigation. A friend of mine used to work in mediation, and she explained that a lot of cases are now being settled with mediators rather than lawyers. Not only does this save on court costs, my friend told me, but much of the time it isn't money that plaintiffs want, but empathy. They want to know that someone understands their point of view, the fact that something unjust occurred.
It was then that I decided to visit the owner; she'd pointed out her house, we were practically neighbours.
Later in the run I remembered my accident in the summer of 2003, when I cracked my pelvis at work, in a strange collision that involved me, a golf cart, and a tree. My boss picked me up at the hospital afterward, bought me ice cream and french fries...and had the golf cart disposed of the following day.
By the end of the summer the tree was also gone.
By the end of the year, I'd wished I'd taken the company to court. I'm sure Intrawest can afford to offset my student loan. It could be seen as a send-a-kid-to-camp program...only for ski bums who've hurt themselves in the line of duty.
But of course, this is Canada, and one of the things we pride ourselves on is the fact that we're not Americans, that we don't sue.
But sometimes I wish I could talk to my boss now, hear his side of the story. (If you want to hear more of mine, please ask. It's a pretty funny story).
As I made my way home I knew my leg was fine but I resolved to seek out the dog owner and get the full run-down.
Just now, I noticed her in front of my house, walking in the late afternoon sun Daylight Savings time has provided us.
I stepped out in my slippers, called her over, and identified myself as the runner from this morning. We chatted about the incident and I asked about shots. I even caught a few glances from the slow-moving rush hour cars on my street, smiling at the exchange between neighbours. Winter holes us up--spring is almost here.
Her name is Evelyn, and her dog is Spencer. Up close he looks more like a laso apso.
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