Back

Pain has a really stealth way of sucking all the fun out of anything really really fast.  It is like taking a small child to the doctor’s office that is covered in bright fun colors with a fish tank.  “Oh look at the fishie honey!”  The nurses wear scrubs with cuddly teddies and talk in fun high pitched voices, “Oh what a big boy.  Can I see your arm?”  A jar of lollipops sits on the counter, the reward.  Just as the child is contemplating red or yellow sucker, JAB!

“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”  And then a fun scooby doo bandaid gets stuck across the poke hole.  Fat tears stream down the child’s face as he stares at his mother with how-could-you eyes.  Fun?  Gone.

My back hurts.  This makes my head hurt.  This makes me unable to sleep for the past seven days.  This makes me unhappy.  This makes it very much no fun.  Fun packed its bags and left in the middle of the night.  Fun went out for smokes.  Fun found someone younger and prettier. 

Saturday I completed the tempo effort almost in tears.  Tomorrow I go for my first ever chiropractor visit.  When people get old they sometimes get quite mean and grumpy.  Well, that is probably because something hurts.  Daniel in the lion den.

Active Aggression

No one has ever called me laid back.  No one has ever accused me of being passively aggressive either.  In other words, one never has to wonder if I am upset with them.  My jaw seizes up, my shoulders tense, I think there is a vein that pops on my temple, and oh yeah, I will tell you.  Some people hold emotions inside, dwell, and deal with conflict silently waiting for the wave of frustration to wash away.  I would rather fight.

I thought about this with running.  Some days are a struggle. 

Mental toughness is not about being strong when things are going your way, mental toughness is about digging in when it just really, well, sucks.  I have had races where I have had good times, but I have been upset with myself at the finish because mentally I checked out.  I gave up.  My legs hauled me across the finish, but my focus was gone.  I have had races where my times have been absolutely awful (uh-hum, Carlsbad), but I have stayed in the game fighting to the finish.  I cannot complain too much on the finish of those events because everything was put out there.

I think I am going to deem this active aggression.  Forcing your mind to pump you through every last ounce of pain beyond the flashing lights warning of system failure straight into overdrive, infinity and beyond.  What I am I talking about?

Well, sometimes running fast just stinks.  It hurts.  I am tired.  My legs are sore.  I want a nap.  I want a latte.  I want to run fast, but feel like I am jogging.  I want fake-Drea to do the workout while I watch her go round and round the track.  Just how mental is running? 

Two Tuesdays ago, Rusty gave me an out from track practice.  I felt awful.  I could not run one mile at speed without serious effort and it was clear that I needed a break.  One out.  One time.  This week, I felt fine, but my mind kept thinking about that “out.”  Some little devil horned Dre sat on my right shoulder whispering words of whimping out.  “Whimp out, it’s OK, you did last week.”  All of a sudden not doing the workout was an “option.”  SHUT UP!  Stop that!  Now the workout turned no fun, no fun at all.  I watched Tim pull farther and farther away from me.  I could keep up, but he just drifted off, two runners up, three, four, five.

Time for active aggression.  On the last lap of our two mile, I dusted the devil off my shoulder and zeroed in on Tim’s back.  I finished by his side.  Even….even Tim.  That might just be better than finishing a great workout feeling great.  OK, not as much fun, but very useful.  Mind game?  Oh yeah.

My point.

Ooh-oh Yeah

The USATF sent my hotmail account a little blib about the Santa Barbara NewsPress Half Marathon being this year’s Southern Californian Half Marathon Championships.  That means some fastie-fast girls may come to drag my ass to a PR.  Bring it sistahs!

Golden Tackle

The last time I truly had the wind knocked out of me was in a bike race.  I was eleven years old and I challenged the boy next door to a huffy stand off.  Our pint sprint covered the distance of one suburban cul-de-sac and for good measure we laid down a chain across the road for a true finish line.  To keep judging nonpartisan, his little sister and my little sister stood watchfully observing the chain.  Who would win?

I do not remember Taylor’s ride, but I will never forget mine.  I had a double handed down banana seat hot pink bike with U-bars.  The bars were plugged with multi-colored streamers, there was a tear in the seat that scratched the inside of my leg, and the fat pedals begged for bare feet.  I gunned this bad girl down the street.  Out of the saddle, hands gripped, streamers streaming, I whizzed ahead of Taylor and approached the chain for the win.  Unbeknownst to me, the little sisters envisioned a much more dramatic finish than just a winner charging over the line.  For flare, they plotted to hoist the chain up into the air at the last second.  The intent was that the winner would ride gloriously under the chain.

I remember charging the line enjoying that eternally sought after feeling of “I’m gonna win.”  Then the strangest thing happened.  I suddenly stopped suspended in the air.  My body hovered just for a moment.  My eyes watched my bike continue on to win without me.  Then I slammed into the pavement.  No one said anything.  My bike toppled over and clattered somewhere.  My body lay still.  I could not breathe.  Then as if I had emerged from the deep end of the swimming pool, I could.  I used this glorious return of oxygen to exclaim in full pre-pubescent rage, “YOU IDIOTS!”

I walked my bike home alone.  The chain marks around my neck raised a few eyebrows at school.  However, since this was Texas, no one really said anything except maybe, “Well, whatever little missy did, she won’t be doin’ that no more.”

Today, I did not see it coming either.  Chrystee and I enjoyed a Sunday morning run.  We finished up in Steven’s Park where I wanted to get my strides in.  I sucked in a mouth full of air and picked up my gait into my first stride.  I saw something golden and furry and then I felt just how hard the ground really is.

The brain processes things remarkably fast…..and slow.  I did not move.  I could not move.  I could not breathe.  Wait, I really cannot breathe.  Like the prick of a needle into a balloon, all my air vanished.  No air.  First diagnosis across the thought path: punched lung.  Shit!  Next thought: chest tube.  Shit!  Realization: chest tube means no marathon.  I blinked.  By now Chrystee stood over me, “Drea are you OK.”

“No,” crept out of my mouth, “ca bre.”  Somewhere the golden retriever licked me as if to say, “Oh get up you sissy, I was just playing!”

“Do you have a cell phone!?” Chrystee screams at owner’s dog who stands petrified, “Cell phone!”

And then slowly the air comes back.  The balloon inflates.  My lungs are fine.  Everything else hurts, but my lungs are fine.  Wait, check all things needed for running.  Knees? Good.  Hips? Fine. Back? Could be better.  Elbows? I don’t need elbows. Headache? It will go away.  Terrified twenty-something year old guy? Relieved and looking for his leash.

But, Rusty, I did not do strides today.  And I could still beat Taylor!

FOX FALL XC CLASSIC

Open Season!

Fox trot.  Some like it hot.  Rabbit on the run.  Plenty of sun.  You thought this was a fall race?  Well, it is!  Didn’t you see the apples and apple juice and pumpkin chocolate chip loaf sitting by the finish line?

Oh, you mean the temperature of the air.  Well, it was a fox race.  Chances are it was bound to be hotter than cooler.  This race previously named Psippi’s XC (but since I could not say it, I could not really direct that race) is now Fox Fall XC Classic.  Classic?  Yeah, that just makes it sound good.  Say it with me, “Cla-s-s-ic.”

A notoriously confusing course was branded well marked and nobody in yellow got lost!

Don't Forget My Name!

 

"Why Yes, I am a Fox."

 

 

"Name's Tim." "Yep, I see."

 

 

Some Foxes Got Lonely

 

 

Grapes?

 

 

 

Uber-Fox-y

 

 

 

 

I am not too serious. Yes I am.

 

 

 

I am going to win!

 

 

 

I am going to fly!

 

 

 

 

I am going to get that finish!

 

 

 

Desa for the win!

 

 

 

 

I want my bagel!

 

 

We determined the course was 4.86 miles.  Sounds like a reason to have a bagel!

Now! Bagel, now!

 

 

 

Are you hot? I am hot.

 

 

 

So hot!

 

 

 

I feel fine. This is no problem.

 

 

 

I just do as I am told.

 

 

 

 

Are we done yet?

 

 

 

No seriously? Are we done?

 

 

 

Cheering fans.

Sneaky Fok?

 

 

 

 

No, sneaky fox!

 

 

Congratulations to all the winners!

Mmmmmmmm. Winners.

 

 

 

See you next year!

 

 

 

 

Can I have one of those yellow shirts?

Eat Me

I followed up on Dan’s recommendation and poked around on eating for my blood type.  I am type A. Obviously.  However, here we are talking about my blood type.

OK.  I like their argument.  The background explanation makes good sense.  I could buy into it.  However, according to Dr. D’Adamo and his drink your blood ideas (not really), he recommends that Type A’s engage in only “gentle exercise.”

Say what?

He says believes that A’s cannot handle stress hormones and have a dramatic spike in cortisol levels.  Therefore, we are supposed to avoid animal fats and protein and meditate.  Soy is the toy, veggies rule, and Om.  Yeah, I’m gonna say, “No.”  I like-a the sushi.  Cows taste good.

Furthermore, he blacklists the three essentials of any obsessive compulsive’s pantry: sugar, caffeine, and alcohol.  Wha-what?  Those are pretty good all combined so I’m gonna say, “No.”

We are supposed to be plant eaters grazing all day for supreme mental clarity.  Food should be fresh, crisp, unprocessed and raw.  Mmmmm sushi.  Is fish a meat?  Tell me vegetarians.  How come they do not count?

OK, OK, I agree with some of that.  I do eat large amounts of crispy fresh things and get way more than my 5 to 6 servings of fruits and veggies everyday.  I am even grooving on the soy thing now.  I stuck some soy cheese on a potato last night.  It went on the plate right next to the bit of sirloin.  Moooooo.

Let us just say, for tickles, that I consumed no caffeine, no animal protein, no alcohol, and no sugar.  I might feel really really good, maybe even too good, but would you really want to hang around me?

Please, come over for dinner.  Lemon water, celery stick with chick pea pock, alpha sprout fake-out pasta with a raw sauce based out of cabbage and tomatoes.  For desert we will drink warm water sweetened with two squashed blueberries and sink our withered canines into a cinnamon dusted banana.

Oh I am just bitter because I am baking the prizes for Saturday’s race and I’m all jacked up on chocolate chips.  That’s right!  Sugar….caffiene…..what was the other one?

Cheers.

Milli Vanilli’s Fault

It was bound to happen.

What?  Get caught lip syncing?

No.  Get a visit from Miss Gravity and her no fun rules of the universe.  What goes up, must come down.  I was feeling so good.  Too good.  Better than ever.

“You’ll go through periods of not feeling good,” Rusty says to the shadow boxing Drea who cannot wait to do something more on the track, “Just expect it.”

Hmmmm.  I could tell you to sit down because I have bad news.  You might sit, but you know you are going to get up again.  I see the logic, but denial is a beautiful mistress.  Wait, if I am a girl then do I call denial my mister?  What a mister.  Yeah, Mister Sister, nasty tramp stabbed me in the back this morning.

The recipe called for some mile repeats mixed with some slower back to back mile work.  I puffed into the first lap of mile one and knew right away that the gig was up.  The Drea that had been hanging around must be afraid of rain.  Huffing-puffing Nigel and Benny fearing Drea is back.  Rusty ran ahead with Tim and then would slowly drop back like a mechanic listening for “where the hell that rattle is coming from.”  Oh, the breathing.  The tell tale sign that I am screwed.

That could be a nice race tactic.  I could huff and puff behind my competitor and really psych them out that they had me under thumb.  Then with one long exhale…shhhhoooom, I would dust them.  Actually, I stole that from Rusty.  He played that trick out once and it worked.

Unfortunately, no tricks today.  I confessed right away and got to sit out workout.  I watched Tim have all the fun.  He ran so fast, so smooth.  I watched the other groups get their work done.  George, Michelle and Chrystee whipped around the track looking great.  I enjoyed watching them go.  I can’t blame them.  I couldn’t possibly blame me!  Who should I blame?  Let’s blame Milli Vanilli!  “Bah-bah bah-bah bah, bah-bah bah-bah bah, blame it on the rain, yeah yeah.”

I busied off to my day.  I taught a pilates class and took extra time going through breathing.  “Relax into the floor,” I instructed.  I know, I am a traitor.  Did I once make fun of that?  Well, today it was great.  Helloooooo floor, nice to meet you.

I had to figure out the race course for this weekend’s FOX FALL XC.  I ran around Lake Los Carneros in the pouring rain with my map in hand finding all the sneaking turns and understanding the loops.  I returned to my minivan soaking wet and very refreshed.  Peaceful.  I was the only one out and the rain drops had fun picking on me.  I did not mind.  I sat in the back of my minivan on the floor and changed into dry clothes.  I watched the wet droplets race down the windows and listened to the pinging of their splattering efforts on the roof.  As I scraped the mud off my shoes, I said my blessings for being able to run.

I love my life.

But you know, if I could get some sleep…….. “bah-bah bah-bah bah, bah-bah bah-bah bah, blame it on the rain, yeah yeah.”

FOX FALL XC This Saturday!

Foxy, Foxy Runner.  Bah-bah-nah….Bah-bah-nah.  Foxy, Foxy Runner, you know you’re a cute little trail blazer, you know you’re a sweet little rabbit chaser, Foxy.  I wanna take you to Lake Los Carneros.  I won’t get you lost, much.  You’ve gotta run, oh run.  Foxy! 

Bah..bah..nah, bah..bah..nah.  Foxy.  Feel like sayin Foxy.

Foxy.

Or maybe just please come run the cross country race.  There will be prizes.  It is a “sweet” deal.

Race information is over there…..there….to your right.  See the page?  Yep, that’s the one.  Come on, don’t be a grape.

Number 2

“Yeah,” Rusty says, “You’re not normal.”

Well, I knew that much.  But really?  I am not normal.  Wait, what are we talking about?  Um, you will just have to guess.  In the meantime, let’s just stand around and shoot the shit.

I thought I was just super healthy.  Eating all kinds of super healthy foods and burning a lightning metabolism and just keeping the system running….and rearranging….and prioritizing who gets to stay on board and who has to…well…evacuate.

“Try shaking the dairy.”

I have already made the leap of faith to soy ice cream.  Today on my way home from Saturday workout, I got my first soy-decaf-latte.  Or otherwise known as the “why bother.”  However, I have to say, it was delicious.  It left my tummy feeling settled and cleaner.  Hmmmm, maybe it is the dairy.  I bought a jug of soy milk.  Bye-bye moo-cow, hello soy beans.

I have kissed off the gummi bear, the junkie carbs, the diet cokes, 89% of the caffeine, and now the dairy has to go too?  OK, OK, but don’t anybody come at my wine.  That stays!

Transparent Morning

“In Russia,” she says, “We have a word for this kind of day.  I don’t know how you say it in English, but it translates ‘transparent morning’.”

And that is what it was.  Crisp, clear, cool and full of all the tingling that makes your goose’s bump and your eyes water.  A beautiful transparent morning.  I think, maybe, just perhaps, I can see straight through to midday.

Well, let us not get carried away.  We still have one mean Tuesday workout to push out first.  But, you knew that was coming did you not?  I mean, Saturday so gloriously easy?  Almost too easy?  You knew you would pay.  And if you did not, can I do your finances?

“Hill repeats,” Rusty says, “And then meet me on the track.”

My group is just me today.  So my partner is a real bitch.  She pushes me up and over with little cool down and fast transitions.  She does not even have the courtesy for small talk or encouragement.  She just rolls through the motions wiping out repeats faster than I have ever done them.  She even keeps Rusty on his toes.  Only for a second, but he did surprise himself at how much he had to pick it up to catch her on the up hill.  All business this gal, this partner of mine.

She takes me to the track.  The hill repeats are rewarded with two miles straight out.  “Don’t push it,” Rusty says, “5:45 pace, nice and steady.”  I am not sure when a 5:45 pace was “nice and steady” following a monster hill repeat workout, but that is exactly what happened.  5:43’s flew by like no big deal.  OK, neither me nor I enjoyed the freezing cold bolts of water that pounded me in the chest at the 300 meter mark.  The track’s sprinklers were locked on spray and stray and definitely made runner’s go out of their way.  But hey, it is all good fun when you can get the numbers done.

Done.  Like no big deal.  OK, you…you girl, you visit every now and then and flash some fancy cards, do you think you could show up on race day?  Stop teasing me!

Wait it is as if……  Proper training actually works?  Oh yeah.  Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow!