(Re)Learning to Crawl

Aaaaaaand now we’re back to the extended verbal dysentery you’ve come to know and love from La Gingah...

One of the biggest differences between children and adults is that adults often ask “why” with respect to running. (One of my favorite graphics from I <3 to Run says, “There’s no Y in running.”) Kids don’t ask why; they just run. They do it because they enjoy the feeling of moving their bodies through space, because they want to see how fast they can go, because it’s fun. Frankly, they just run because they can.

In a way, just about all of us have been runners at some point in our lives. And no one had to teach us how to run. We started off scooting around, then crawling, then taking our first tenuous steps, then we were off and running, often to the exasperation of our parents. At some point, we grew into adulthood and, for most of us (including me), the closest we were likely to come to running was running late for work.

When you become a runner in adulthood, especially in <ahem> middle age <cringe>, you tend to embrace running the way any convert embraces a newfound faith: headlong, passionately, completely, with arms wide open. You become engrossed in the minutiae and theory and inspiration of running. And when something comes along that takes running away from you, you often find yourself acutely vulnerable psychologically and emotionally to the sudden loss of your pursuit. In my case, the something that came along was an injury—not from running, but from an action as mundane as walking the dogs. A trip on the sidewalk landed me facedown on the concrete and left me with what would later be diagnosed as a proximal hamstring strain.

Hamstring strains are curious and often stubborn little buggers: some are minor and require a little rest or ice or ibuprofen; others are more acute and require extended rest or even physical therapy. In my case, the strain was acute (but, thankfully, was not a rupture, which would likely have required surgery) but aggravated by its location: everyday activities like walking, sitting down and standing up all engage the proximal end of the hamstring and, therefore, prolong recovery. I tried periodically running through the injury, testing what it could handle. (It managed to handle a few 5k's, including the Freihofer's Run for Women, but one could argue, At what cost?) I cross-trained on the bike and in the pool to keep my endurance up, preparing for my upcoming sprint-distance triathlon, without aggravating the injury further. Finally, not long after completing (running some, but mostly walking) the Peachtree Road Race (10k) in Atlanta, and with invaluable advice (which finally became the kind of noodging/nagging I needed to take the bull by the horns) from a physical-therapist friend, I ultimately, though reluctantly, agreed that the only workable solution required a moratorium on running (and any high-impact cardio) for at least four weeks.

So for four weeks, I didn’t run. I swam, I cycled, I did my PT stretches, I tried to embrace weight training (I know...but it’s just beyond boring), I read ChiRunning, I watched the ChiRunning DVD, I practiced ChiRunning base skills (aside from the actual running aspects), I tried (and repeatedly failed) to avoid cognitive/emotional (over)eating. For four weeks, I counted down the days until the end of my sentence. Every day of those four weeks, I doubted whether I even deserved to keep the “gotta run” and “runner girl” magnets on my car. (So it’s probably just as well that my car has been in the shop with a warranty-covered transmission repair since the beginning of August.) For four weeks, I told myself, “Not never; just not now.” For four weeks, I tried to be philosophical, tried to embrace my Zen, even though most days it felt like an act (and some days it was out-and-out fakery on a grand scale) and often materialized as bitching/moaning/kvetching/whining. What is truly miraculous is that I managed to go four weeks without killing someone in the midst of massive running withdrawal. (In fairness, though, all I'd need is one runner on the jury and I’d have gotten off scot-free anyway. But I digress.) Yeah, I still got cycling and swimming endorphins, but they’re just not the same for me.

Once I got paroled from the prison called No Running, I started with relatively short runs: a mile, two at the most. I didn't care about speed or pace. There weren't tempo runs or fartleks or speed drills or hill repeats. These were, for me, LSDs: Long Slow Distance runs. With the emphasis on slow. I won't add any distance until I can do three of these runs consecutively (three sessions, since I don't run on consecutive days at present) without needing to slow to a walk. Once I've slowly built back up to 3mi by adding 1/4mi per session each week), I'll start extending the LSDs once a week and using the other two runs per week for tempos or fartleks or hills.

My first attempt at a "block" workout (cycling for a given distance, then going straight to running--basically emulating in training the bike/running legs of the triathlon) was supposed to happen yesterday, but I opted to do it in reverse, with the running leg first. In doing so, I clearly insulted the triathlon gods, since I ended up running the most weak-ass mile of my life and had to walk the remaining mile back to the car. It wasn't until I was almost to the car that Hammie started whining again. And I've learned that when it comes to Hammie, you can pay him now or you can pay him later. And later is always worse. So I bagged the bike leg and opted to rest for the remainder of the day and try again the next day. (On the way home, I realized that I'd managed to put on the wrong running shoes--I was wearing my first pair of Mizunos, which are used only for bumming around now, not for any mileage.)

That brings us to today...and not only my first block, but my first workout in my triathlon suit! A triathlon suit, if you've never seen one, looks like a sleeveless running top sewn to a pair of cycling shorts. Imagine what Capt. Jean-Luc Picard would wear while working out on the Enterprise. Like the Star Trek: TNG uniforms, a tri-suit also forgives nothing in the figure department. I'm convinced that one of my biggest challenges in triathlon is getting over the potential embarrassment of wearing this skin-tight outfit in public.

Aaaaaaanyway, I completed my 7mi (race distance) bike leg, then quickly stowed the bike in the rental car (God, I miss my car--especially the bike rack!) and started off on the 2mi (race distance) run. Like Saturday's attempt, the run was very slow and certainly nothing inspiring, but my only goal for this workout was simply to complete the brick. Despite two brief walking intervals in second half of the run, I was able to run after cranking for 7mi. I stretched well afterward and then sat in the car eating my post-workout banana, just reveling in the fact that for the first time since the Peachtree (which was more about ambient temperature and humidity than exertion), I was sweating like a pig. Oh, and I reeked to high heaven. It was like napalm in the morning: it smelled like victory. I drove over to the fitness center and did three race-distance (250yd) swim intervals, feeling for the first time like an embryonic triathlete.

So now I have my "magic" tri-suit and my trusty Mizunos and my Maia sports bra. I have to say that the cut of the tri-suit was clearly not designed with me in mind. The back is designed for female athletes who wear racer-back bras--or female athletes who are endowed, er, differently than I am--and therefore shows the straps of my Maia sports bra in the back. I would have fit right in at W@lmart. Only way sportier.