Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Inch Like a Caterpillar

Progress isn't about making big leaps and bounds every day. It is about moving forward, pushing the big stone one little bit closer to your goal. I'm learning this really quickly now that I'm coming back from this soul-sucking rough injury.

Here are some boulders I'm inching forward in my life:

1. Running. I will get there.

2. Learning Spanish. The Rosetta Stone software is hopefully on its way to my mailbox.

3. Eating better dinners. I'm looking for easy, healthy recipes now and I want to cook something new at least once a week. Send suggestions my way.

4. Training Austin more. I have attached a treat dispenser to his leash, so we can work on "leave it" while walking by unruly dogs.

5. Stretching. Now that I have a set of official stretches that are visibly changing my body, I am putting in the time (about an hour every night) because I know it is going to get me closer to running (see: number 1).

6. Being more understandable. I would love to spend as much time with the boyfriend as possible, but sometimes, it's just not possible to do it all.

7. Praying in a more meaningful way. I'm guilty of throwing up the occasional 'Our Father' when I need help. But I've tried to become more cognizant of what I'm praying about and listening to what God says back.

What progress are you making in your life?

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Unable to Build

"It is hardly possible to build anything if frustration, bitterness and a mood of helplessness prevail."
- Lech Walesa


The return of the pain. Frustration (noun). A total loss in confidence. I feel like a balloon that has been punched, not just deflated. Then anger comes from deep within, from the place that is cobbwebby and that I just don't like. He can run. That heavy-set woman can run. Everyone on this huge stupid planet can run. Apparently it doesn't matter whether you actually have a desire to run. Then sadness takes over. Remember when I could go out for 10 long ones? When I had my sights on a half marathon...I was gonna be in the bigs. And now. Four minutes of running for every six minutes of walking makes me wince. Helpless.


Frustration (noun): a deep chronic sense or state of insecurity and dissatisfaction arising from unresolved problems or unfulfilled needs




Thursday, March 8, 2012

One Blessed Minute at a Time

As the saying goes, it's the little things that make life worth living.

My life was worth it during a handful of one minute intervals this morning.

Like I wrote yesterday, I was hoping (praying) that the physical therapist would sign off on me running again.  Someone up there must be watching over me because I got the a-ok!

The hitch: I have to start out super slowly.  And when I say slow, I mean turtle pace.  One minute running for every four minutes of walking.  

But boy, how marvelous those minute intervals were!  It took me almost no time at all to get into my natural stride.  Just like riding a bike, I thought.

It was hard to rein myself in after a minute of running, but what that minute forced me to do was focus on my form and what my body was doing in just those 60 seconds.  Everything narrowed to a minute of complete focus and meticulous form.

Being able to focus for a full minute was liberating.  These days, there are so many things flying at your conscious at once.  Your brain is constantly pulled like silly putty.  Some say that since the invention of the Internet (thanks Al Gore), personal computers, smart phones and the like, our attention spans are getting smaller and smaller

That minute of running was only about two things.

Running.  And form.

And remembering how absolutely amazing and blessed I am to be able to run.

Ok, three things.



Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Coming Back Stronger

It would be cliche to call it one of "those" runs. What I didn't know is that it would be painful. And revolutionary. And one of the most awesome and disappointing runs that I'd ever been on.

Here's how this all happened. On December 23, I went out for an eight-mile run. I had less than a month before my first half marathon. The run was perfection. I was on pace. I was moving like I'd never moved before. The last mile was clocked at just a tad over 7 minutes. I was stoked. That race was mine for the taking.

And then the pain. Top of the foot and unrelenting. A horrible ache that took over my consciousness.

Suffice it to say that the next day, walking was a chore. A painful chore.

It'll get better. I just need a little rest.

I thought those things over and over and over...

A week and a half later, it wasn't better and the rest was making me anxious. I had a half marathon to run in two weeks. Fifteen days to be pain-free and confident enough to run those 13 miles. The confidence was what I was really worried about. Training and endorphins can get you pretty far in a race, but your belief in yourself is what gets you across the finish line (call Hallmark, that's a winner).

So then, like anyone who is grieving, I started to negotiate.

If I don't run between now and the race but stay healthy and positive, I can do this.

I thought those things over and over and over...

I had to pull the plug.  I couldn't run my first half marathon injured. And man, was I injured. Physically, mentally and emotionally. Drained and hurting.

Somehow it was easy to tell people that I wasn't running the race. Injury, especially when people had seen me hobbling around, was a perfect out. I felt a weird sense of relief that I wasn't running the race. The pressure was gone. The worry about whether I was going to run in pain was gone. It as a little scary how ok I was with not running.

And then the real need-endorphins-must-take-charge-of-everything part of me kicked in. I couldn't be sitting around, wallowing in the story that "I was injured and just needed some rest". That wasn't the person I wanted to be. I was better than that injured person that I had become so easily and freely.

I made a doctor's appointment at one of the top sports medicine clinics in the South Bay. I got sweet x-rays of my feet. Unfortunately, nothing showed up on them. No definitive diagnosis other than overuse came from that doctor and a script for physical therapy and anti-inflammatories were the only things I had when I walked out the door.

Turns out, the physical therapy was much better than the pills.

After some poking, prodding, stretching, testing and videotaping, the physical therapist deduced that my upper thighs and groin area were SO tight that they were affecting the way I was walking. Yup, I was told I was walking funny because the tightness was inhibiting my body from performing the way it was naturally supposed to.

It's been about three weeks since that realization. I've been doing my stretching exercises religiously and staying positive about my recovery. These are the small things that are going to change me and get me back on the right track.

I go back today for another physical therapy appointment. I'm hoping this one is the one where he says, "You are ready."

Ready for the pavement.

Ready for the early mornings again.

Ready for the feelings that I had that day in late December.

Minus the pain.