At the start of the Marin 10K, China Camp
As any athlete who has been injured can tell you, a whole lot of emotional turbulence can go hand-in-hand with an injury and the healing process. To me, it feels like a roller coaster, clanking and rattling along, swooping up to hope and spiraling down into despair.
The slightest twinge and I’m jerked around a corner and plunged into a trough of frustration, fear, doubt and sadness. A good workout with no pain and I chug-chug-chug up the crest of hope fueled by visions of success.
I stopped running after the track workout on March 6 when the symptoms flared. I designated last Wednesday, March 27, as my “try to run again day.” It also became the day that my right Achilles, previously fine, decided to join the pain party. I wanted to feel hope. After 3 weeks of rest, I was ready to run. But a day of tightness and discomfort at work, as well as confusion about this new pain, meant I was lacing my running shoes with fear in my heart. I was literally scared to run.
I was scared of failure, pain, further injury, failure, failure.
The strength of my desire for 140.6 put uncommon pressure on the outcome of a 3-mile evening lake run. My tendons were tight throughout and after, but not appreciably MORE tight than before. I rolled and iced and crossed my fingers.
Chug-chug-chug up the mountain.
The slightest twinge and I’m jerked around a corner and plunged into a trough of frustration, fear, doubt and sadness. A good workout with no pain and I chug-chug-chug up the crest of hope fueled by visions of success.
I stopped running after the track workout on March 6 when the symptoms flared. I designated last Wednesday, March 27, as my “try to run again day.” It also became the day that my right Achilles, previously fine, decided to join the pain party. I wanted to feel hope. After 3 weeks of rest, I was ready to run. But a day of tightness and discomfort at work, as well as confusion about this new pain, meant I was lacing my running shoes with fear in my heart. I was literally scared to run.
I was scared of failure, pain, further injury, failure, failure.
The strength of my desire for 140.6 put uncommon pressure on the outcome of a 3-mile evening lake run. My tendons were tight throughout and after, but not appreciably MORE tight than before. I rolled and iced and crossed my fingers.
Chug-chug-chug up the mountain.
Walked the hills at Saturday's 10K
On Sunday, I rode for 78 miles after running 6 miles on Saturday, and my calves cramped continuously despite salt tabs and good nutrition. My right Achilles started hurting, likely from the knotting of the calf muscle. I’ve never had Achilles pain on the bike before. Mid-ride, I had the thought: “If I lose the bike, what do I have left?”
I’ve sustained myself with the thought that if I cycle hard enough, I can maintain fitness and manage to get through even a slow, injured run on race day. But no bike means no Ironman.
I did some massage on my rest stops and the pain eased toward the end, but that ride broke my spirit, drained me completely, and the plunge down Claremont back into Oakland was no fun – not only because it had started raining, but also because I knew how steep a climb it would be to get my little roller coaster car back up a hill that high, and I was pretty damn tired at that point.
Most days, I’m calm, focused, going about my business, not thinking too much about my injury and potential limitations. I’m an optimist, generally, and I like to err on the side of hope. I believe in myself and the strength of my will and my body.
Most days, I’m chug-chug-chugging toward my goal of an Ironman.
But sometimes, I get thrown for a loop and it takes a while to get my equilibrium back.
Today, visit #1 with an ART specialist. Active Release Therapy hurts like heck, and is a big out-of-pocket expense, but I am, as ever, hopeful. Fingers crossed.
I told some friends that I'm hoping that ART is my miracle cure. Presto! Knots released, Achilles soothed, pain gone. I know it will take more work than that, and I'm willing to do the work, build slow, monitor progress. I'll get there.
Thinking of this, I can't help but be reminded of Larry. Larry is an honored teammate that I've known since my first season with Team in Training. Rituxan was his "miracle cure" (his words) when his blood cancer needed treatment over 10 years ago. He's been active with Team in Training ever since because LLS funded the researchers that developed Rituxan. Just this year, Larry's cancer came back, and again, Rituxan will be his miracle, keeping him with us, cheering each and every one of us across the finish line.
When my roller coaster is taking me up, down and around, it helps to reconnect with why I'm here and doing this. I can and will work through this, to meet my own goals, and to help Larry and all the others facing blood cancers meet theirs.
I’ve sustained myself with the thought that if I cycle hard enough, I can maintain fitness and manage to get through even a slow, injured run on race day. But no bike means no Ironman.
I did some massage on my rest stops and the pain eased toward the end, but that ride broke my spirit, drained me completely, and the plunge down Claremont back into Oakland was no fun – not only because it had started raining, but also because I knew how steep a climb it would be to get my little roller coaster car back up a hill that high, and I was pretty damn tired at that point.
Most days, I’m calm, focused, going about my business, not thinking too much about my injury and potential limitations. I’m an optimist, generally, and I like to err on the side of hope. I believe in myself and the strength of my will and my body.
Most days, I’m chug-chug-chugging toward my goal of an Ironman.
But sometimes, I get thrown for a loop and it takes a while to get my equilibrium back.
Today, visit #1 with an ART specialist. Active Release Therapy hurts like heck, and is a big out-of-pocket expense, but I am, as ever, hopeful. Fingers crossed.
I told some friends that I'm hoping that ART is my miracle cure. Presto! Knots released, Achilles soothed, pain gone. I know it will take more work than that, and I'm willing to do the work, build slow, monitor progress. I'll get there.
Thinking of this, I can't help but be reminded of Larry. Larry is an honored teammate that I've known since my first season with Team in Training. Rituxan was his "miracle cure" (his words) when his blood cancer needed treatment over 10 years ago. He's been active with Team in Training ever since because LLS funded the researchers that developed Rituxan. Just this year, Larry's cancer came back, and again, Rituxan will be his miracle, keeping him with us, cheering each and every one of us across the finish line.
When my roller coaster is taking me up, down and around, it helps to reconnect with why I'm here and doing this. I can and will work through this, to meet my own goals, and to help Larry and all the others facing blood cancers meet theirs.
Week 20 Mileage
Monday, March 25 Spin - 55 minutes Worst spin class ever! Should be called "Running on the Bike - with weird aerobics." Luckily Monday is usually a rest day, so I won't have to go back. Tuesday, March 26 Swim - 1 hour 5 minutes, 3000 yards Perfectly even 1000-yard splits! I may not be super fast, but I'm consistent. Wednesday, March 27 Run - 35 minutes, 3.75 miles Cardio - 20 minutes (stairclimber) Core - 20 minutes Thursday, March 28 Rest day Friday, March 29 Cardio - 1 hour (elliptical) Saturday, March 30 Run - 6.1 miles, 56 minutes (Marin 10K) Cardio - 35 minutes (elliptical) Sunday, March 31 Bike - 5 hours 30 minutes, 77 miles 6 hours total time, 6400 ft. elevation gain | Totals: Swim - 1 hour 5 minutes, 3000 yards Bike - 6 hours 25 minutes, 77 miles Run - 1 hour 30 minutes, 10 miles Cardio/Core - 2 hours 15 minutes Total - 11 hours 15 minutes |