Not my thing patience, or swimming for that matter

A debilitating compulsion to experiment with myopic “recovery” plans has left me ruefully sitting on the platform once again; the 18-week-to-go-carriage pulled out of the station last Sunday, I was not on board, I was left waving my mechanical allegory a pitiful adieu. 18 weeks is a countdown milestone for me, as it was the starting point of my training plan for Paris. Filled with fartleks, hills, sprints, long runs, short runs, fast runs, slow runs, striders and well, that’s it I think, said plan has been forced to make a B line for the bin (recycling of course).

I only have myself to blame; I charged into recovery mode around three weeks ago (ignoring some sound advice from seasoned peers). Damnit, who ‘charges into recovery’? That shouldn’t even be a term, or maybe it isn’t. It’s probably just me; perhaps I just invented it. Anyway, I dutifully ignored every flare my foot was sending out as I tore around five mile loops with horses willing but carriage buckled. ‘My foot hurts, stop being a pansy, suck it up Morrissey’… (c) Gollum.

                                                                                                                                                        

This latest tale of woe transpired two weeks ago, the Thursday run left my foot feeling sore and tight, the Saturday run… well… I knew things had gone very wrong – the remnants of my injury (plantar fasciitis) collapsed once again when I overtook a girl at the furthest point from home (why is it always the furthest point from home?). It was awful, I knew I had damaged it again, but I was overtaking a girl! What was I to do!? Enter the ego, stage left; I lumbered home at the same 7:30 min/mile pace (which was a protracted brain fart of an idea) burdened by the loathsome truth that my usual enthusiasm (that I’ll need in the run up to Paris) had landed me into some murky injury waters once again.

I’m floundering about in hiatus mode again. I’m probably a little cranky and I’m definitely agitated. Running makes me happy, so without it, I guess I’m not. At least the weather sucks (for runners that is – I’d imagine any soul under the age of 18 is doing a daily merry dance) – I couldn’t have run safely anyway. I can also take some solace that my humour is shared by the rest of the country as we prepare to bend of the barrel and empty our sparsely laden pockets into the well oiled hands of an incompetent fleet of wbankers.

Moan moan moan.

An inability to carry out a patient recovery aside, do you know the other thing I’m crap at (there are only two): swimming. It’s true; I’m a god awful swimmer. I’m the guy that dunks himself into the shallow end of the 25 m pool and if you were a bystander, you’d swear I was a dolphin. I certainly look the part. I have a little checklist of items to get through before I depart the safety of the shallow end: I adjust my goggles (glugging a layer of saliva into them in the vain hope that they won’t fog up this time); I ensure my swimming hat’s middle band of white runs from front to back (slight OCD); I lurch forward - as I have no glasses on - shuffling down the lane as I strain to see the stamp-sized information board directing me to swim anticlockwise; finally, I set my watch. Ready, set, go... I fire down the lane in an explosion of splashes calling on all to note my aquatic adroitness. After a sleek and nimble start, I begin straining fast - the body movements become laboured, my arms start to burn, and I begin chugging more than kicking. Worringly, the cogs are beginning to seize and this is half way down the lane, ¼ of the full distance! I invariably reach the turn completely shagged, but push off the end with a hefty (cheating) wallop on the side of the wall in the hope that this new found momentum may be difference between life and death. On a few more metres and I’m at the point of near delirium; I’m convinced I’m going backwards, no it’s ok, it’s just a 'relative' thing - some fossil in the slow lane has used a strong breast stroke to push on ahead of me. Races with the elderly aside, my breathing isn’t breathing anymore, it’s gulping; half air, half water. With no rhythm to speak of, I start wavering wildly around my own lane (blindly ignorant of directions to swim anticlockwise). Time starts assuming an elastic state and I've lost track of how long it’s been since I held the side of the pool. Mentally listing the loved ones I wish I was kinder to over the years, I spot that sweet incline of tiles at the bottom of the pool through clouded goggles. Not a moment too soon, sanctuary is near, which is beoming a pressing neccessity as I'm fit to die. The last stretch tends to draw a blank until but I invariably float in to the finish, as soon as a mere fingernail rests – rather than slams – the sides, BOOM… I’m on my knees, head out of the water and straining to mask piecing gasps for oxygen (the top half of my mouth inhales wildely, the bottom busies itself spluttering out gallons of pool water). It's a unique ability if you think about it. Unperturbed, I clumsily mash the stop button on my watch - I mentally record a 1 minute 3 seconds. Nice. 10 recovery minutes later, I hurl myself down the left hand side of the dividers again in an effort to match my PR. Nine more of these puppies to go.

God I can’t wait to be running again.

121 days to Paris

Motivation

Sold out – Paris that is, not me. The 2011 Paris marathon has hit capacity for ‘Joe Blogs’ entrants. I don’t know why that’s made it more exciting, but it has. In fact, I’m jittering with nervous enthusiasm again just thinking about it. I feel I’m part of an exclusive club – if being ‘1 of 37,000’ is exclusive (that may be straining the definition of ‘exclusivity’ now that I think about it). Anyhoo, I’m in, and the die is cast.

My apologies I’ve been remiss in updating the blog. I’m sure you have all - all 19 of you that is - been aching for a new update with hourly screen refreshes. My excuse: I’m flat out busy with work, and who can really turn down work these days! Just look at the IMF, look at the debacle they’ve taken on… just to make a few bucks before xmas presumably! I can picture the scene in the kitchen in the Chopra household 30 minutes after ‘Chopper’ arrives home from Afghanistan and Mrs ‘Chopper’ is back from tennis club:

Mrs Chopra: “You take your ass over to Ireland, take the reins, earn some money and get me that ski lodge”

Mr Chopra: “Ireland, are you for real!”

Mrs Chopra: “Do you want sex any time this century”

Mr Chopra: “Yes Dear, I’m on the ryanair website as we speak”

Editor (me) – we’re all answerable to someone after all

Right, so, injury woes. Welllllllll, deep breath, it’s a bit of a long story that I’ll sum it all up as follows: I got scan results that gave me the all clear about two weeks ago, I try the odd 5 mile jog but my foot consistently hurts the very next day. So I talked this through with my physio who assures me that this is to be expected. She also mentioned that my strength exercises were not just for Christmas, her words, so I’m calf raising like a Kango hammer these days. It’s a bit of odd scene that I tend to limit to our home. So, overall, I get about two 5 mile jogs in a week with some cycling and swimming heaped in for good measure. Hardly the conditioning of champions, or sub 3 hour marathoners, but it’s all I got so I’ll make do.

Seeming as I needed a motivational pick-me-up to get through this exceedingly long rehabilitation period, I’ve started questioning what’s motivating me. It’s not the €300 bet (oh, sorry Bec, did I forget to tell you, the lads were taking the mickey and they goaded me into it – they questioned my pride for God’s sake, what’s a male to do!).

So, that digression aside, here are the 3 main events that I think motivated me into doing the marathon…

Several months ago, myself and three other buddies were lying down on the leeward side of Mt Mangerton (outside Killarney, Co. Kerry). We were tucking into one or two bottles of Heineken having successfully tackled the mountain. It was on a Saturday of a stag and we were all in relaxed and jovial form – full the brim of hearty banter that is all too rare now as we get older and ‘grow up’. The rest of our hiking troop had marched ahead – eager to complete the mountain in record time. We had stayed behind as we were eager to adopt a different approach; soaking in a glorious view, a warming sun, and some sparse alcohol. For whatever reason, the subject of running came up and I mentioned that I was thinking about taking my new hobby more seriously – I was going to try and run (1) a 10 mile in under 60 minutes and (2) a marathon in under 3 hours. Unsurprisingly, this exchange of views was more one way traffic, but none of my friends dismissed me out of hand (completely). I wouldn’t say they believed that I could definitely do it, but they thought I might be able to do it. As the weeks passed and as I began discussing this with others who knew me from my team sports days, I started thinking about it a little more. It really resonated with me… maybe I could do it… maybe I should definitely try and do it… maybe I’d regret if I didn’t at least try and do it.

Now I’ve always been a bit of a sucker for inspiring quotes. My PhD thesis is littered with them; I’ve one or two in my room; and of late, I’ve begun sprinkling them around this blog too. When I was initially getting into middle distance races, I came across this quote from the 1952 Olympic marathon winner who won the race having never run a marathon before (he decided to run it a few days after winning the 10km!). He is quoted as saying, “If you want to win something, run 100 metres. If you want to experience something, run a marathon” (Emil Zatopek). When you talk to people who’ve competed in marathons (and even those who have injured themselves in the process) most of them will echo his sentiment. A marathon was always on my bucket list, but now more than ever, I want to feel it and live it.

However, the final inspiration probably lay in a feature length film/documentary I watched in May of this year: Spirit of the Marathon. Released in 2007, the film captures “the essence, drama and unique spectacle of the famed 26.2-mile race”. It charts the progress of five runners, - three amateurs and two elites - as they train for and ultimately run the Chicago Marathon. It's an inspiring show, I won't go on abou it, but when the credits rolled by, I think that was most likely the point that I knew I wanted to run a marathon.

Why I made the bet, if I’m being truthful, that’s probably for my ego. I need to know that I can still excel in a sport that I always looked at and thought… I could do that (if I wanted to).

Happy Trails

137 days to Paris

Let's talk about yoga

That's yoga Jim, not Yoda, although the force would come in handy these days...

Now, my yogic prowess is questionable at best - I’m about as flexible as the Titanic was. This disabling lack of limberness is all the more disappointing as it’s not exactly the most taxing of activities. As a male, I can grudgingly accept that I’m not as good a F1 driver as Fernando Alonso, soccer player as Wayne Rooney or rugby player as Brian O’Driscoll. However, it’s a bitter pill to swallow when my own mother can probably outperform me when call upon to touch ones toes. 

I joined a beginner’s yoga class about 6 or 7 years ago in the college gym. Two weeks into the eight week term, my fellow neophytes were rapidly extending limbs to extremities unimaginable to my rigid mind - they seamlessly slipped from one pose to the next, propped by nimble muscles that held strong in glorious displays of amateur abilities. These arty exhibitions stood in stark contrast to the giraffe in the corner of the room. My own body shook widely when called upon to assume the simplest of poses. Where the lithe bodies of my peers gracefully assumed a stream of flexed body positions, I audibly flapped around like a fish landed onto the deck of a trawler . It seemed to pain our teacher just to look at me.  My version of the ‘V’-like ‘dog pose’ invariably resembled a ‘W’; arms and legs fired out to all four compass directions. At the conclusion of the two month course, while the rest of the class would be advancing onto the intermediate group, my teacher felt it best if I stayed behind to repeat (thankfully she whispered her  assessment  to me in private to save my blushes). I didn’t return.  

In an effort to avoid further shame - or at least to confine it to the four walls of a living room - I bought a yoga DVD last week. Not just any yoga DVD, one for old fogies! I figured a normal DVD mentored by some 20-something-year-old elastic band would sweep through the positions and I wouldn’t be able to keep up (again). Given my penchant for protracted flapping, the pace of a DVD aimed at the 60 year old market seemed about right. In a way, I thought myself to be an embarrassed genius. Unfortunately, the DVD is paced sooooooooooooo slooooooooowly, that I’m blissfully snoring on top my resurrected yoga mat by the time old dear gets around to the first pose. Keep this up and my body is doomed for evermore to be as pliant as concrete. I still can’t touch the top of my socks when bending over (unless I cheat and bend my knees). 

In running related news, I'm awaiting the MRI results; hopefully I’ll have word towards the end of the week. As for my burgeoning golf career - I'm tied in 17th place going into the closing day of the Sinapore open.

154 days to Paris

Full Stop

An aim of mine when I decided to kick off this blog was to – at the very least – update with weekly anecdotes. I felt this would paint the trusted representation of the journey. I’ve never been one for keeping diaries (too lazy and easily distracted); maintaining a blog would be the kick in the arse needed for consistent input. In years to come, I wanted to accurately recall the journey, rather than blatantly revise it with epic fibs and untruthful revisionisms, regardless of the outcome. 

I had this notion that the journey would be rough in places, especially around the 2^nd month (circa Jan ‘11). The sadistic side of me relished the thought of visiting some dark physical and mental places during long lonely trails; my aim was to scribe my recollections of these miles with positive insights and fun recollections. Sadly, I didn’t anticipate that I’d have such a downer this earlier in the whole process – I’ve struggled with the motivation to write this update. But, it may be therapeutic, and I’ll keep it short. 

I had started out several days ago so hopeful – I was convinced I had left the foot heal long enough. Regular ice and strength work were now normal activities in my daily routine as I laid the groundwork for a full recovery. Sadly, a casual ‘test’ 5 mile run last Sunday went fairly badly, my foot ached towards the end and things didn’t improve the next day.

Leaving it another day, I got in touch with my physio on Tuesday… her concerns mirrored my own – it was unlikely that we were still dealing with a normal strain. She’s fearful that the stone I hit may have chipped some bone which triggered various ancillary issues and protracted healing. At this point, an MRI is my only option so that we can develop a plan of action. This necessitated a visit to the doctor on Thursday for his referral letter - €50 for a 2 minute Q&A and a rubber stamp. Why is it that I need a doctor’s referral for an MRI when he knows significantly less about the whole experience, asks several pointless questions, and subsequently voices a recommendation for an MRI based on nothing more than a clumsy unskilled prod of my foot. Galling. 

I’m in bad humour about this anyway, so being ripped off by an aged clown doesn’t help. 

I await the MRI which takes place next Thursday, and I guess I’ll take it from there. Damn.

In unrelated news, my Wii avatar’s career (on Tiger Woods Golf 10) is progressing nicely after a slow and somewhat faltering start. Although he has failed to make the cut in any tournaments yet, he has bucket loads of potential. We're going to work on that potential this Saturday.

162 days to Paris.

Slowly does it...

Last week’s proverbial testing of the water didn’t go as well as I had hoped. Accompanied by Garry (who was on his way to soccer), I cautiously navigated my way around a complex of grassy pitches for 20 minutes (in strict accordance with my physio’s guarded instructions). Sadly, my foot felt vulnerable from start to finish and I decided not to push it again for the week (retiring to the couch once again).

With my recovery in hiatus, daydreams of runs were once again forced to play a poor substitute role. Worse still, my mischievous lower limbs had rustled up a fresh affliction: plantar facilitis – an infamous and painful inflammatory of the tissue in front of the heel – has affected both feet; possible due to the recovery core exercises addressing my ligament problems! When I think back - this all could have been all avoided by going around 1 stone!

Anyway, a phone conversation with my physio anesthetised my latest foreboding – she calmly assured me that I was making progress; the bruising and ligament damage was approaching a clean bill of health, and the plantar facilitis could be addressed with more kneading of the area with my trusty – and multifaceted – golf ball. Explaining this peculiar need for mechanical movement of my legs under my work desk was an amusing distraction for many of my colleagues but my discipline appears to have paid off. A week on, I was ready to try again – last night, I tested the joints with a 30 minute run at about 7.5 minute/mile pace. It went reasonably well and despite my foot feeling a little tight, I’m very hopeful.

In theory, my plan for the next few days involves taking today off; jog for 40 minutes tomorrow; day off; 50 minutes jog; day off; 1 hour jog; day off, and then… hopefully… fingers crossed… touch wood… I’m recovered; ready to go back to my club, and start gearing towards Paris again.   

On an equally positive note, a friend of mine from hockey days in College is targeting Paris too. Unlike my good self, she is the veteran of 3 marathons, the latest being the ‘09 New York Marathon where she finished in 24^th place (2h52m21s). In a word, she’s fast. She also reads this blog (hi Jill) so I won’t wax too lyrically about her – suffice to say that it’ll be nice to have someone to bounce training programmes, experiences and everything else off. Not to take away from this cyber portal, absolutely not, it’s just… well… as the Boolean technologies go, it’s just a little too logical.  

172 days to Paris

Choo choo

Today’s a big day – I’m hoping to get back on the horse. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been chugging down arnica tables every two hours with mechanical precision, plastering my ankle and arch with generous heaps of ibuprofen gel, resorting to endless laps in the deep end of a local pool while aqua jogging, and just for good measure, several hours of being screamed at to spin harder in satanic spinning classes. I’m exaggerating slightly (about the satanic bit), but I have been trying my best to stay fit and nurse my way back to the roads.

It hasn’t been entirely dull; I was helping out with minding Rebecca’s Mum’s golden retriever for a few days (Leo). This entailed several extended walks during the exceedingly early hours for my four pawed friend. Although I wasn’t technically meant to be out walking this early in my rehabilitation, I enjoyed it, especially when the sun came up. The down side was embarking into the pitch black and wandering down an old railway line that is enclosed on all sides by eerily still trees and solemn looking stone bridges. My protection for these walks was a pooch that has all the ferocity of a… well.. tongue hanging, slobber soaked, tail wagging golden retriever! The only time he perked up for a ‘kill’ was when a mouse scampered out in front of us… that’s how intimidating Leo is, a mouse fancied his chances. At all other times, he busied himself sniffing and peeing. Thankfully, the robbers, thieves, pimps, drug pushers, murders, and aliens I anticipated under each bridge and behind most shrubberies didn’t materialise – Leo’s somewhat suspect protective instincts remain unchallenged. As for my rehabilitation, although my ankle and arch tightened during these walks, it felt OK. Several days on, I’m only vaguely aware of any trouble.

In the absence of actual running, I did the next best thing – I read about other people doing it. The good news: a raft of various running novels, runner’s world magazines, and Internet ramblings has continued to wet my appetite. Although the magnitude of the task is beginning to dawn on me, I still feel good about it. Now – hopefully – with all the rehabilitation at an end, I’m ready to start ratcheting up my body for training (which should kick off in December). Today, I’m starting off with an easily paced 20 minute jog on the grass with Garry after work. I’ll take stock afterwards and take it from there.

                           

Baby steps.
180 days to go

Trainspotting

At the risk of sounding dramatic or flogging an analogy, I feel like I spend my days train spotting at the moment. The trains represent days of the week – they’re just passing me by, I’m stuck waiting on the platform absentmindedly wrestling nervously with my watch.

At the beginning of this week, I thought that I wasn’t far away from getting back out on the roads. I secretly held out hope that I’d awake in the morning with all of the bruising and pain a thing of the past. Unfortunately, when the morning arrived, and as soon as I swung my feet out to the ground, I could feel that all too familiar dull discomfort. So there I was, sitting on the edge of my bed cheering my spirits with a new mantra – ‘tomorrow… it’ll be fine tomorrow’.

My hope wasn’t blind – it was based on effort I was putting into recovery. I had been doing my best to look after all three issues: I rolled around a golf ball under my foot for about an hour every day in an attempt to break down the scar tissue at the base of the arch, as well as the bruising from that devil-stone from three weeks back (up by my toes). I could feel a dull pain from this routine but nothing too dramatic – certainly nothing worthy of tapping out. As for what I thought was a tendon issue by the ankle – I would dig around here as much as I could as it was the source major discomfort – a sharp piecing ache pleading with me to stop. I used to let Bec have a good dig around until her thumb gave out (it was excruciating).

So off I trundled to my physio on Wednesday morning in the hope that I could get back out by the beginning of next week – after all – apart from the ankle, everything felt good (the bruising on the base of my foot was now barely noticeable). Sadly, I had a bombshell awaiting me. That tendon I was digging at was actually the ligament that supports the arch. I was only the second person my physio had ever seen damage it in any way. Worse than that - Rule #1 with ligaments, you leave them alone. I had exacerbated the damage by insisting to knead out non-existent scar tissue. The needles you see below were just part of the recovery plan – it looks like I have several weeks of spinning and aqua jogging ahead while I let that ligament recover and work on my core muscles. I’m also back to normal shoes for a while as my arch has been weakened by my insistence to collapse in on them in order to diminish the pain of the bruised foot in the top corner. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced such a snowball effect from running over one stone.

                                                                                                 

Obviously, the Cork to Cobh race is definitely not going to happen now – it’s in 3 days, it’s 15 miles long , I have lost the race fitness I was assembling, and oh, yeah, I’m crocked. It was especially disappointing to receive my race number in the post earlier this week – only to have to deposit it in the bin. Sad really, as I was really looking forward to running through Glounthaune (the half way point in the race and my home since I was a child). It’s not a huge setback for the training; the race was only ever meant to be a barometer of my progress. At the end of the day, the race isn’t going to happen and I have to get on with that. Poo.

Spinning classes, ah how I haven't missed spinning. In truth, I had forgotten how hard spinning actually is. As a general rule, spinning instructors tend to be Hitler-esque in their zeal but the last class’s Fräulein was particularly forceful in her directions. My thighs are killing me – so I’ll try some aqua jogging this afternoon instead - or maybe age is catching up with me and I'll give the thighs another day off.

In truth, it’s a long way to Paris. Time to get stop the train spotting for a while, get off the platform and come back in a few weeks.

192 days to Paris