Happy Feet!

It isn't so!

I may have pressure, but I do not have stress--at least not a stress fracture. Hooray! If I were one of my daughter's vocab words, I'd be "stressfracturelessness."

With the "run" of bad luck I've had since August (knee problems, PF flare up, bronchitis, flat tires, getting hit by a car) I automatically thought the worst when I went for a run on Sunday and felt a sharp pain on the top of my foot; a pain that was eerily similar to the pain I felt last summer when I did, in fact, have a stress fracture.

If you've never had one before, the best way I can describe it is a sharp, yet elusive pain on the top of the foot. In June 2010 I had been running in my VFFs for a few months and loving them. Apparently, the bones in my feet weren't loving them quite as much. One of my metatarsals literally "cracked under the pressure" of repeated, uncushioned impact with asphalt as I ran my way to a 5K PR and a second place finish in my division at a sprint triathlon. I didn't realize I'd injured my foot until the following week when I tried to run again.

The odd thing was, I could run, but my foot felt off; achy. I attributed it a tendon or ligament issue--not unrealistic as I was just mending from a long battle with PF.

I continued running a few times a week to train for my next triathlon, but the more I ran, the more my foot hurt. But only when I was running. Walking was fine and, with a day or two of rest, I'd be fooled into thinking I could run again.

The week before the triathlon I was only able to run short distances, a mile or less. Still, I figured I'd be able to manage the 5-mile run in the next race.

To my dismay, race day dawned overcast and rainy. The light drizzle soon became a full-blown downpour, turning the transition area into a mud pit. A few minutes before the race was to begin, visibility dropped and there was thunder and lightening in the vicinity. The race organizers decided to scrap the swim and downgrade to a duathlon. I thought we'd simply skip the swim and only cycle and run. Silly me. The swim was replaced by a 5K, increasing the total run distance from 5 miles to 8. I was prepared to attempt five; not eight. Many athletes left. I probably should have followed their lead; cut my losses, tucked my tail and called it a day.

Instead, I tried to tough it out and the only good thing I can say about it is that I realized, without a doubt, that I was not having a tendon or ligament problem. With each step I felt a stabbing pain in the top of my foot. Running on the soggy grass and mud eased the impact a bit, but it still hurt. The next day, I called an orthopaedist and scheduled an appointment.

I felt a little foolish sitting in the ortho's office. My foot didn't look injured. It was not bruised or swollen. (Even when my foot was crushed in a car accident many years ago, there was little bruising or swelling. My immune system is freaky that way.) The top of my foot was tender to the touch, but only if I could locate the precise yet elusive spot that seemed to move about. And I could walk fine. As for the x-ray results? Nada.

So the ortho sent me for an MRI (if you've never had one, it's quite the experience) and, voila! There it was. The teensy, tinsy, validating microscopic hairline crack in my third metatarsal. The only reason the MRI could detect the little sucker was because the injury had occurred three weeks prior. Stress fractures are so small they usually only show up on film once the healing process has begun.

My instructions? Stay off my feet as much as possible. Rest, ice; the usual RICE stuff. And no running for 6 weeks. That pretty much ended my triathlon season that year as I downgraded my final race to Aquavelo.

So there I was, last Sunday, 4.5-miles into a 6-mile run when I was hit with a sharp pain on the top of my foot. I bent down, adjusted the tongue of my shoe, and continued on without a second thought. That night, however, I got up from sitting on the floor and the pain in my foot sang out again. If I hadn't already lost my summer glow, I'd say I turned pale, gripped by fear that I'd suffered another stress fracture; the feeling was so familiar. All I could manage to post that night was "Say it isn't so!" I didn't even want to write the words. PF is much worse in the long run but, with the Iron Man just over four weeks away, a stress fracture would shatter any hope I'd have of finishing that race.

So I rested. Iced. Adviled. I even Aqua jogged (which is enough to push anyone back to the pavement!). I considered seeing an ortho, but knew it would be too soon for an x-ray or MRI to show a fracture. But underneath my panic, I realized my foot was not getting worse and I hadn't felt any more sharp pains. So, on Wednesday, I stopped babying my foot and it felt okay. That night (moved by tears of boredom from my Aqua jog experience), I took drastic measures and wore a pair of heels out to dinner. Still good. I loosened the Lock Laces in my Kinvaras and relaced them. This morning, I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers, and ran. In the rain.

And it was glorious!

I felt like a gazelle. Who says water workouts are the only way to feel weightless? I glided along at a great pace, my heart and hopes soaring. I just wanted to make it past the 4.5-mile mark which is where I met trouble on the last run. Today was no exception. Right around 4.5-miles my gazelle morphed into an elephant, my birdlike limbs turned to lead, my old friends Knee Pain and Plantar Strain said hello. I realize that, at this point in the game, a 6-mile run should be a breeze. Easy-peasy. It should not devolve into a major achy effort at a mere 4.5 miles. But, ultimately, I was okay with all of those things because, "It wasn't so!" The top of my foot felt fine. Fine, fine, fine!

Looking back, it seems that a lacing error (too tight? misaligned?) likely caused some pain/bruising/compression on the top of my foot that mimicked a stress fracture but, thankfully, it was not one.

So, for now, the show goes on and I am happy. Happy that I did not have to Aqua Jog again!

Backing the truck up

Thanks again for all the well wishes and messages of concern after my "run in" with a car two weeks ago. Several of you asked for more details on what happened . . . I write a column for my local newspaper and had to wait for my article on the incident to be published before sharing here. So, without further adieu . . .

Cyclists facing danger on road

By, Times Fitness Writer

I'd spent the morning repeatedly checking weather.com, scrutinizing the hourly forecast and radar maps in search of the best window of time for a bike ride. Finally, seeing my chance, I quickly set off for what was to be a two-hour ride. Instead, just 15 minutes later, I was hit by a car.

As I was making my way along the road, an SUV up ahead attempted a U-turn and was brought up short by oncoming traffic. Idling at an angle and blocking the road, it suddenly reversed direction and backed into me as I was riding by on the shoulder.

When I saw the reverse lights illuminate, I shouted and tried to swerve right to avoid being hit, but the SUV kept coming back and collided with my left leg, sending me and my bike skittering across the shoulder and into a nearby yard where I landed in a heap beside my bike.

My left calf seized immediately, the gastrocnemius turning to stone. As I sat massaging my lower leg, I began to take stock of the situation: Am I hurt anywhere else? (Yes, my left knee.) Is my bike damaged? (Not that I can tell.)

As the driver rounded the back of his vehicle, looking more irritated than concerned, he loudly began defending himself and became angry when I asked for his insurance information. While the driver was retrieving his documents from the vehicle, the passenger finally spoke up, asking if I was

OK. I replied honestly that I wasn't sure.

I found it ironic that the driver had not once apologized or asked if I was OK and I said as much when he returned, which totally set the guy off. He began cursing and swearing, and generally behaving aggressively. Clearly this person was irrational and possibly dangerous. If I ever hit someone with my car, I'd be apologizing and bending over backward to make sure that person was OK. The passenger, who was the only other witness, refused to give me his name. By then, I just wanted them to leave and hoped I'd be able to shake it off and continue with my ride, despite the rain that had started to fall.

When I finished copying the insurance information, the driver got in his car and sped away. With my body still quaking with shock, anger and pain, I readjusted the bent rear brakes, clipped into my pedals and realized with the first stroke that I wouldn't be continuing my ride; my left knee could not bear the pressure, so I slowly made my way home, coasting as much as possible and using only my right foot to pedal.

Ultimately, I filed a report with the police and the insurance company. My knee was swollen and lacking some range of motion, but thankfully the injury does not seem to be serious. In retrospect, the driver's aggressive behavior was just as scary as being hit by a car so, be careful out there: cyclists can easily be victims of road rage and we don't stand a chance against the SUV's of the world.

That was the newspaper version of the story. To add a little more color to the incident, let me tell you a bit more about my "conversation" with Mr. SUV driver:

My first thought after being walloped like a ping pong ball was, "I can't believe I was jut hit by a car!" Total disbelief. My instinct to "survey the scene" (a term familiar to anyone who's ever taken CPR or Live Saving courses) took over and I began to assess the situation. My second thought was, "What was that guy doing?" This is the question that popped out of my mouth when the driver rounded the vehicle, arms in the air, shouting, "I looked. I didn't see you!"

"Well, I was there," was my insightful comeback. "I was shouting. Didn't you hear me?"

"I didn't hear you. You should have shouted louder."

Huh?

As my calf muscle softened, I struggled to my feet and shakily tried to collect my bike and water bottles from the ground. My left leg buckled, my knee swelling. Other than bent rear brakes and some scratches, my bike appeared, surprisingly, unharmed. But I was concerned about my knee and my mind was racing, trying to figure out what to do as the driver and his passenger just stood there looking at me.

"I'm going to need some information," I said to the driver, "Insurance."

"Oh, you're gonna give me some information too!" he shouted and stalked off to his car. He returned with registration and insurance documents.

"I'll need a pen and something to write on," I said.

"Damn," he muttered, shaking his head and returning to his car. This is when the passenger finally spoke up and said, "Are you okay?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure. My knee hurts." It was then that I realized that the driver had not once apologized or inquired as to my well-being. Anger and annoyance momentarily replaced shock and pain. The passenger went on to add that he'd seen me when they passed but didn't think I would have "gotten there so quickly." (The passenger later told the insurance company that he heard someone yelling as the driver was backing up and he told the driver. The driver continued to reverse without stopping again to look or double check.)

When the driver returned with an envelope and a pen I said, nodding toward the passenger, "At least this guy had the decency to ask if I was okay."

Mistake. Totally set the guy off.

"Aw, hell! I asked if you were okay."

"No, you didn't."

"You're gonna stand here and call me a damn liar?" He shouted. I just looked at him. "Well f*@k that!" he said walking toward me, flinging his arms around. I put my hand up in warning and said, "Stop. Just stop right now. I don't want you to say another word."

At that, the driver leaned toward me and said menacingly, "Don't you put your hand up at me."

I looked over at the passenger and asked for his name, reasoning that he was the only witness to what had happened and how the driver was behaving. The passenger refused to give me his name. "I don't want to get involved," he said. Hmm. I decided not to point out the obvious: As the passenger of a vehicle that struck a cyclist, he was already involved. Instead, I held out the pen to the driver, who grabbed it back, got in his SUV, and sped away. I was left standing in the rain, hurting, angry, shaken and shocked.

Silly me, I thought I might actually shake it off, that my knee would loosen up when I started pedaling and I could continue my ride. Not happening. So, I lamely made my way home, called my husband (voice mail) called my mom (burst into tears) called the police (almost started crying again--and I'm not a crier!) and made a report. Cops came to my house. I had to ID the driver on a screen in the squad car and answer some questions. I was told the driver would not be cited; presumably since the police were called after the fact and not to the scene. I'm sure the sight of two police cars in my driveway had some neighborhood tongues wagging.

My husband rushed right home and took care of fielding other calls and making an insurance report while I soaked in a hot bath, trying to put the incident behind me.

In follow up, my knee was sore and swollen for a few days. Stairs were difficult. Walking was slow-going. Range of motion was about 50%. But I was leaving the next day for a girls weekend. The SUV driver had already taken away my ride and the better part of my day, I was not going to also give him my whole evening while I sat at urgent care or endured x-rays. I believe in holistic treatment and the body's ability to heal itself. If my knee had taken a turn for the worse, I would have sought medical care. But, with rest, ice and ibuprofen, my body did indeed begin the process of healing.

When I finally connected with the driver's insurance company to confirm that I did not have medical bills to claim and would not be suing, I asked that my personal info not be given to the driver. The insurance agent, a local woman, said, "After talking with the insured on the phone, I can understand why you'd say that."

Apparently when the insurance company contacted the driver to get his statement and let him know that he was, in fact, at fault, the driver became argumentative, combatative and defensive with the agent to the point that she ended the call and asked her husband to accompany her when she went to take the required photos of his vehicle.

Fine specimen, eh?

So that's the whole story. Be safe out there everyone. As my mother in law always says, "watch out for the nutsies."

Getting Bugged

Image: Tom Curtis / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Bug encounters when cycling are nothing new. I’ve had numerous bugs meet their end upon impact with my face, arms and neck, their sharp exoskeletons stinging my skin. The smaller ones that swarm me while I’m huffing away up a hill don’t necessarily meet their demise from the collision with my skin but, rather, drown in a pool of sweat and sunscreen. I regularly end my warm-weather rides covered head-to-toe in dead bugs.

I’ve also had several bee stings and incidents of bugs flying into my helmet and getting trapped inside, their wings beating furiously against my head in their attempt to escape.

Inevitably, there are the little gnats that dart into my mouth on inhalation or get sucked into the back of my throat when I’m gasping for air; these are either quickly spit or coughed out or washed down with a swig of water.

But during Sunday’s 80-miler, I had an all-new “eww” experience. During one of the bigger climbs, I lifted my head from the aero position, sucked in a breath of air and, along with it, a soft, fuzzy critter of some kind. This particular bug was not at all like the small, gnatty variety. No, this one bounced off my upper lip and teeth and landed in a limp, fuzzy ball on the tip of my tongue like the fluffy white top of a clover flower being dropped into my mouth. Ugh! Good thing I got proficient at loogie-hocking during my bout with bronchitis—one big hock and the sucker was launched. I never even saw what it looked like. That’s probably a good thing.

Breast Obsessed

Image: Ambro / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

“Excuse me, but, how can you be so athletic with those breasts?”

Ok, I am paraphrasing, but this is essentially the question that was asked of me today while I was swimming laps at the Y.

Men have been lambasted for decades for being “breast obsessed.” Perhaps this obsession has finally infiltrated women’s own consciousness because it seems to me that, lately, women are the ones who are truly obsessed with breasts.

Flat chested gals want bigger ones, bodacious babes want smaller ones, and what everyone really wants are ones that no one has (not naturally, anyway)—the kind that are perfectly round and symmetrical and perky and stick straight out into the next zip code with nary a spaghetti strap to hold them in place, never mind that the wearer of this man-made freakishness might otherwise be 90 pounds soaking wet or approaching her sixth decade.

Susan G. Komen-obsessed? Good. Heidi Montag-obsessed? Bad.

I have been dancing around this polarizing, hot-button topic for months, even prompting discussion on Facebook to gauge people’s thoughts on the subject, and one thing seems to be clear: Women who’ve had cosmetic/plastic surgery are in favor of it while women who’ve not had it are opposed.

As someone who avoids doctor’s offices, antibiotics, and even Advil, I am firmly planted in camp “opposed.” The idea of electively going under the knife to alter my body for cosmetic purposes is appalling. I’m far more interested in how my body feels than how it looks; in other words, I’m a “health over hospital,” “fitness over fashion,” “cardio over cosmetics” kind of gal. Does that mean I’m totally satisfied with what “God gave me?” Hell no! I could compose a list as long as my arm of things I’d like to change about my appearance. But, hey, it is what it is and I’m willing to work with what I’ve got.

That’s not to say that the advancements in plastic surgery are without merit. For people who are born or have become disfigured, for women who’ve had mastectomies; this type of procedure can be positively life-altering, maybe even life-saving.

But to suck the fat off your thighs because you want to fit into size 0 jeans and still eat French Fries, or to go from a B cup to a DDD so you look better in a bikini? That’s insane! In the animal kingdom, it’s usually the male of the species that tries to attract a mate with its attention-getting behavior and flashy feathers. In our society, it seems the women have decided to try and outshine each other with unnatural shapes and sizes, though the plumage we sport comes at a much greater cost. You don’t see men running in droves to the nearest knife-wielding surgeon to get chin or bicep or pectoral or penile implants.

So, why are women doing this? Who are they doing it for? What kind of example are we setting for our daughters?

Some women have told me they’ve sought plastic surgery to make them feel better about themselves, gain confidence or enhance the features they have. In my opinion, self-confidence, self-esteem and self-respect comes from within, not from a botulinum-filled syringe or a saline pouch. And, since when is a little eyeliner or blush not enough to enhance one’s features?

I am fortunate to have been raised by a mother who always told me, and still does, that I am smart and beautiful, and a father who frequently complimented me, respected my mother and, my favorite, told me that “only a dog likes a bone.” Despite these confidence-boosting entreaties, appearance was never a priority in my childhood home. My mother and I both hate to shop. When it comes to clothes, I know what looks good on me—I don’t need a fashion magazine dictating what’s in style and what I “must” wear; comfort and functionality is my main goal. My parents would never pay extra for designer jeans or shoes when Wranglers, Levi’s and Zips would do. (And if you don’t believe you are being manipulated by the big marketing machine, check out this video: The Story of Stuff: http://www.storyofstuff.com/)

I’ve never worn a lot of makeup and, unlike some of my female friends, don’t have an issue with going out in public without my “face” on. I didn’t discover an eyelash curler until my late 20s and I stopped wearing lipstick, for the most part, when my babies were born so I could kiss them freely and frequently without leaving little red and pink marks all over them.

But, given the fact that I’m an athlete, having a curvy figure (one that my husband adores and I sometimes abhor) is not always a bonus and, in fact, can be quite a pain in the ass. It’s taken me years to find a sports bra that truly keeps the ta-tas in place when I run and a triathlon top that can go from swimming to sprinting. (Before this discovery, I’d given up many race minutes to my flat-chested counterparts who could simply breeze through the transition area in their one-piece tri suits.)

So, back to the woman at the Y. She thinks what I am doing (training for the Iron Man) is “mah-velous.” She said that I am “thin” and “athletic,” but then awkwardly apologized for being so personal when she wondered how I am able to do these things with “my breasts?” (It’s a bit impossible to imagine doing anything without them; it’s not as if I can unhook them and sit them on a shelf when I want to go for a run!) But, I understood what she meant and I sympathized. In fact, last year I lamented about this very topic in my blog post titled “Looking the part:” http://triathmom.blogspot.com/2010/11/looking-part.html

But here is the sad thing. This woman, who is in her 60’s, is beautiful and voluptuous in a petite, Sophia Loren way. She is healthy and outgoing and athletic. Yet, she is thinking about getting a breast reduction.

I wanted to plead with her not do it. Instead, I tried to convince her that she is truly lovely and perfect the way she is. I hope she will consider the fact that a breast reduction is a major and invasive surgery. We commiserated over the challenges of being athletic women with hourglass figures. She confided in me about developing early and being teased as a kid, and about all the women she sees now who obviously have fake breasts because they “aren’t proportionate with the rest of their bodies.” My response? “The way I see it, all those women are paying for what we’ve already got!” (Minus the gravity-defying element.) She declared that I am in a good and positive place about it and I guess I am.

I hope our conversation will help her to embrace the body she has, realize there are other solutions, and not proceed with surgery, though I will not judge her if she ultimately goes through with it. Electing to alter one’s self through surgery is an intensely personal decision and I wouldn’t pass judgment on any woman who felt it was the right choice for her. As the saying goes; “To each his own.” We must each find our own path to happiness.

I just hope women realize the path does not have to be paved with scalpels.

PF hurts; gravel can help?

Image: Suat Eman / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Wow. I'd been thinking I'd already hit a low point and here I am, falling lower still.

Forget taking the "road less traveled." I am now headed to the "roads more graveled."

The warning signs have been there. And I've paid attention. Shortly after the Luray Triathlon in August, I started feeling some "soreness" in my feet. Then, as the Savageman Half Iron Man approached in September, there was some occasional "stretching." I sacrificed that race to the plantar fasciitis gods hoping that, if I walked that race instead of running, that my feet would be spared. And I thought they had been. I got up the day after that 13.1-mile walk/run at Savageman, put my feet on the floor, and felt . . . fine.

Training continued and I've stayed tuned in and focused, listening for cues from my body. I've done everything I was supposed to. I took the time to heal. I changed my shoes, changed the way I ran. I religiously stretched my feet and iced them after every run, even the 3-milers.

On Saturday, I ran 12-miles. During the run, I felt some "tightness" in my arches and stopped to stretch them every 3 miles or so, but I felt great after the run. That night, there was an ache. And when I rubbed the soles of my feet, I could feel the little pebble-like knots under my heels; lumps of knotted, injured tissue. I've felt them before. And my heart sank.

While cycling on Sunday, I could "feel" my heels. No pain, just awareness. Aware of a "stretched" sensation. When your feet feel fine, you don't notice them.

A deep foot massage on Monday and my heels felt the tiniest bit better.

Then came today. I had rested my feet for two days. The run was only supposed to be 38-minutes long. Easy-peasy. The first five minutes were fine. I thought, "no worries." Then, 10 minutes in and a knife of pain sliced down the left side of my foot and lodged in my heel. I stopped, stretched, walked, hoped . . . and tried again. Two more minute in and zap! Fireworks going off in my heel. Pain stinging my feet, tears stinging my eyes.

Frustrated, discouraged, defeated, I grabbed my things from my locker at the Y and bolted. Walking hurt by then. I didn't want to stand on my feet long enough to shower so I beelined for home, and for my friend's gravel driveway.

I've done everything I'm supposed to do. I've tried everything to keep this monster away and yet here it is. It took me 2 years to heal from this before. How am I supposed to rest and heal and still be ready to run 26-miles in just two months?

The only thing I've never tried is walking on gravel. In Danny Dreyer's book, Chi Running, he lists all the things to do to prevent PF (been there) and all the things to do to treat it (done that) and I've done them all; except walk on gravel. Barefoot. For 10 minutes a day until symptoms disappear. In Dreyer's words: " . . . those of you with plantar fasciitis will 'love' this one. It hurts, but it gets rid of PF faster than anything else I've ever tried."

Danny, you had me at gravel. Or maybe it was faster.

Making lemonade

Image: Ambro / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

It was raining this morning. Again. So I ground some Coconut Crunch coffee beans, brewed a cup, and waited for motivation in a mug to kick in while scanning the hourly weather report for a gap in the rain showers.

I planned it perfectly; caffeine jitters kicking in just as the sun began to peek through. I had two hours before it was supposed to rain again, so off I went and I was feeling great! So much better than Saturday's 40-mile ride which was completely dispiriting. On that ride, I was frustrated with my bike, frustrated with myself, frustrated with all this training. Frustrated.

But today was great. My bike was smooth, my body felt relaxed. I was home again. Nine minutes into the ride and BANG! It was the sound of a fully inflated balloon being popped with a pin, followed by the high-pitched tinking sound of metal clanging against the underside of my bike before bouncing onto the pavement. A flat tire! I shouted a few unladylike things before unclipping and walking my bike toward a less-busy side street.

I'd only taken a few steps when a car pulled over to the shoulder and a guy started walking toward me asking, "Do you need a ride?" I instinctively took a step back saying, "No, it's okay. I can change it." Sensing my caution, he halted his forward progress and said, "I cycle too. I know what it's like to have to walk your bike and wanted to see if you needed help." Again, I declined his offer and he went on his way. It's too bad society is the way it is. I'd like to send a shout out to that guy to thank him, a passing motorist who was kind enough to stop and offer assistance (he is the only on who did, with the exception of a county sheriff). It is 99.9% likely that he was a totally harmless, decent guy and upstanding citizen who was simply trying to help a cyclist in distress and I appreciate it. But I just can't take that .1% chance that he's secretly some crazed lunatic and I was thankful I was on a busy, main thoroughfare and not on some desolate side street being approached by a strange man.

After he left, I paused to take a look at my injured tire (checking to make sure no offending bits of metal were still present) and realized at once that I would not be changing any tires that day. Or finishing my ride. The piece of road shrapnel was so sharp that it not only sliced through my tube but through my new, tough, Gatorskin tire too. Forty bucks down the drain.

Thankfully, my friend Gretchen was home and willing to save me again, coming to retrieve my sorry stranded butt from the side of the road. I will definitely be treating this woman to lunch for her rescue efforts this season!

The sky was beginning to cloud over, my window of good weather closing. I was feeling frustrated again, a sour taste on my tongue, and decided I would not let this day, or a good caffeine high, go to waste. I had made coffee and was still buzzing from it. Now I would take today's lemons and make lemonade.

Off with the helmet and bike shoes and on with the iPod and Kinvaras. I would run tomorrow's run today. As a rule, I have been trying not to run two days in a row during training, but today would be an exception. I started off fast, burning off my frustration and fretting over how I would "make up" my missed bike ride. Fittingly, the first track on my iPod was Limp Bizkit's "Break Stuff" that starts out with "It's just one of those days . . . " Sweet.

At that moment, it began to rain and the sour taste momentarily returned. I screwed my face up at the darkening sky and ran harder. The shrapnel had ruined my ride; this rain would not ruin my run. And then the rain suddenly stopped; like an olive branch being extended down from the sky.

Journey's "Only the Young," Janet's "Alright," Coldplay's "Clocks," Beastie's "Slow Ride," and Selena's "Cumbia Medley" (Hey, don't knock it 'til you've tried it! I'm not a Selena fan but this zippy 8-minute track is part Cancun Cantina, part funky mariachi band and part carnival) kept me moving in the middle.

The weather tested me again when, instead of rain, the sun (a foreign entity these days) broke free of it's captive clouds, sending hot, angry, rays of sunlight down to the ground while the humidity was jacked up to about 80%! But I kept running. And sweating. By now, I was no longer worrying about making up for the "missed" ride--it was only going to be an hour, for Pete's sake! Don't sweat the weekday stuff, remember?--and instead was worrying about how to get my tire fixed in time for Friday's long ride. I have several spare tubes at home, but tires? Not so much. Note to self: call bike shop when you get home. Order spare tires.

Thirty-five minutes into my 50-minute run, and my left knee started testing me too; complaining about being asked to deliver two days in a row. Yesterday's 4.5-mile run on loose gravel, some hills, sidewalks and cambered streets left my knee feeling gritty and stiff today. (Lemonade, lemonade, lemonade.) Focus, adjust form, carry on. Chi! Then Tom Petty's "Runnin' Down a Dream" was in my ears, reminding me why I'm doing all this to myself in the first place!

At 43 minutes, the outer edge of my left heel began hurting in a way that struck fear into my heart and that was that. The run was over and I walked the remaining 7 minutes home, where I immediately stretched, iced and am now feeling fine and looking forward to an easy workout day tomorrow: with my lemonade run under my belt, I will only have to swim. And maybe, this unexpected extended break from cycling (5 days) is just what I need to get me fully recovered from Savage and properly back in the saddle again. (Lemonade, lemonade, lemonade!)

The Savageman Half Iron Man 2011

Are You Savage Enough?

I've been asking myself this question for weeks.

To complete a Half Iron Man is a goal I've been working toward for a while. I'd planned to tackle this 70.3-mile triathlon in 2010, but a metatarsal stress fracture forced me to downgrade to Aquavelo.

This year, I have even bigger fish to fry, with the Cozumel Iron Man looming in November. I've never cycled more than 60 miles or run more than 16, yet I am training to complete 140.6-mile race (2.4 swim, 112 bike, 26 run). It is the ultimate goal; a bucket list item and an absolute challenge, both mentally and physically.

But first, the Half Iron Man.

The Savageman Half Iron Man is not just any Half Iron Man. In 2010, it made Triathlete Magazine's 100 Best Races list and ranked first as the hardest triathlon in the world!

http://www.savagemantri.org/TriathleteMag_100BestRaces.pdf

I had three goals going into this year's race:

1) To get a brick

2) To finish the race

3) To not get injured

I managed two out of three.

My husband and I arrived in the Deep Creek Lake area of Garrett County Maryland at 4:00 on a Friday afternoon and headed directly to the chamber of commerce, http://www.visitdeepcreek.com/pages/gettinghere, for packet pickup. After pausing to admire what was once a live black bear, we collected the envelopes containing our race numbers, our timing chips, and our swag bags, which included a pair of cycling gloves, a Hammer Gel, samples of Hammer Recoverite and Eucerin SPF cream. (All proceeds from this race support melanoma research.)

Next, it was off to check in to our lodging for the weekend, a lovely mountain cottage we found on the VRBO website: http://www.vrbo.com/317059

My father-in-law also was in town to compete in the international distance triathlon, so the three of us headed to my favorite place in town for dinner, The Mountain State Brewing Company, http://www.mountainstatebrewing.com/, which has the most delicious flat bread pizzas and an excellent selection of brews in a ski-lodge atmosphere.

On Saturday, while my father-in-law was off winning his division in the int'l race, my husband and I set out to drive our 56-mile bike course, which race management guarantees is the most scenic and savage there is:

"The SavageMan 70.0 Triathlon bike course is the crown jewel of the SavageMan Triathlon Festival. The bike course is truly beautiful as it travels on remote and scenic Garrett County roads and through Deep Creek State Park, Savage River State Forest, and New Germany State Parks. And the bike course is truly Savage as it rides alongside the scenic Savage River, scales the vaunted Westernport Wall, and summits the most savage climb in all of triathlon, Big Savage Mountain. The SavageMan 70.0 Triathlon bike course is the most beautiful and most savage triathlon bike course in the world, guaranteed. If, after finishing the SavageMan 70.0 Triathlon, you feel you have previously completed a similar distance race that is more scenic and more savage, race management will refund your entry fee complete with a profound apology."

According to the Savageman website:

"The bike course includes over 6,000 feet of climbing with both long gradual climbs and short, steep pitches. While the first 18 and final 10 miles are mostly downhill or flat, all athletes should be forewarned that the climbing in the middle 30 miles is savage and relentless. All participants, no matter how strong, should consider a 27 tooth cassette or compact cranks. Average to weaker cyclists should consider compact cranks or a triple front chainring or risk walking their bike."

Name	Location	"Savage" Category	Length	Avg Grade	Max Grade
Toothpick	0.5 mi	4th Savagery	0.25 mi	9%	16%
Westernport	18.5 mi	Hors Savage	1.2 mi	12%	31%
Big Savage Mtn	23.4 mi	1st Savagery	2.4 mi	6%	21%
Savage River State Forest	30.0 mi	4th Savagery	2.8 mi	4%	7%
McAndrews Hill	32.8 mi	2nd Savagery	0.6 mi	9%	19%
Otto Lane	35.1 mi	2nd Savagery	0.6 mi	8%	17%
Killer Miller	38.1 mi	Hors Savage	1.3 mi	8%	22%
Maynardier Ridge	43.8 mi	3rd Savagery	0.25 mi	12%	23%

As we drove along the course to take in the vistas and review the "lay of the land," we stopped to admire some of the more creative "motivational" signs. My favorite, which I didn't get a picture of, had a pair of googly eyes and read: "I see crazy people" followed by the triathlon logo:

Next, it was off to the race venue, Deep Creek Lake State Park, http://www.dnr.state.md.us/publiclands/western/deepcreek.asp, to rack our bikes before hitting Brenda's Pizzeria for a big, carb-loading, pasta dinner.

http://www.brendaspizzeria.com/pizzeria/index.html

Completely stuffed, especially after the double chocolate cake for dessert, it was back to the cabin to pack our gear bags and hit the sack.

Sunday. 5 AM on race morning and the day dawned cold and overcast with temps in the mid-40's and a high forecast in the low 50s. Brrrr. Breakfast, coffee, and we were off at 6:45 AM to Deep Creek Lake State Park, http://www.dnr.state.md.us/publiclands/western/deepcreek.asp,

to set up transition and get body markings.

Bundled up in the transition area pre-race.

The Swim:

There were 4 waves of swimmers departing 7 minutes apart. I, along with all other women, was in the first wave with the pros, elites, Clydesdales and relays. This, I realized later, was because out of 390 participants, only 50 were women! The remaining three swim waves were comprised of all men. The temperature of the lake varied between 62 and 64 degrees; a full 20 degrees warmer than the air. All in all, the swim went well, though I had trouble finding enough "space" to pick a line and stick to it. The resulting bit of zig-zagging did not do my swim time any favors and I swam one minute slower this year than I swam the same course last year.

Swim Results (1.2-miles): 37:05. Division Rank: 4th/12

Tranquil and sunny after the Tri: Signature Swan buoy marking the final turn of the swim.

T1:

I was not especially cold before the swim and was definitely not cold during the swim but, let me tell you, getting out of the lake and being hit with temps in the 40's was a shock! As soon as I crossed into the transition area and peeled off my wetsuit, my body was quaking with cold, arms and legs covered in goosebumps. It's hard enough to pull on layers of clothes, such as arm warmers and gloves, when you're wet but even more impossible when your whole body is shaking. As a result, my T1 time also suffered and was 1:11 slower than my time last year.

T1 results: 7:53. Division rank: 9/12. (Ugh!)

The Bike:

There is nothing, nothing!, that can prepare you for the savagery that is the bike course at Savageman. It is the bike leg that primarily earns the race its reputation as "the hardest triathlon in the world!" When I exited T1, clad in Gore-Tex gloves, arm warmers, two shirts and a thick jacket, my legs were still shaking so badly that I could only get one foot clipped in to the cleat. This presented a problem in that there is an immediate climb out of transition and I was unable to turn over the pedals with only one foot. After 3 failed attempts to successfully clip in, I ended up walking my bike to the top of the short hill. So lame. (But I wasn't alone!) By the time I'd crested "Toothpick" (the first of 8 "savage hills") my rate was at a humiliating low of 9.0!

Despite the shivering cold, I managed to pull myself together and increase my average rate to almost 19 during the long, shady, and sometimes treacherous 18.5-mile descent into Westernport. Last year, as I approached the vaunted Wall, I totally psyched myself out and did not make give it my best effort to make it to the top. I was intimidated by the crowd, the cracks in the pavement, the grade, the other cyclists, and the fact that I was already out of my saddle after the first block. I also didn't want to get hurt. So when my turnover became precariously slow, I unclipped. Total cop-out. But not this year.

This year I didn't focus on anything except my pedaling and when I hit the Wall, I tucked my head and charged--full sprint. I gave it everything I had. But despite my efforts, on one of the downstrokes, I lost purchase. I believe my heel may have twisted a bit and the downward force caused my foot to pop right out of the cleat, upsetting the balance and pitching my front wheel to the left. I fell forward and to the right of my bike, chewing up my lower leg on the teeth. I did not get my brick.

Wall wound

I was disappointed I did not conquer the Wall, but proud of my effort. I didn't give up and I went down fighting. I've since learned that only about half of all participants successfully make it up the Wall and, in 2010, of those who did, only 15 or so were women. This year, Dave Scott, 6-time Kona World Champion did not make it up the Wall, the steepest climb in all of Triathlon:

Street Closed - Only Savages May Pass
"Welcome to Westernport! Check your pride at the door. The Westernport Wall is the steepest climb in all of road triathlon. At just four street blocks the Westernport Wall is not particularly long, but it starts steep and gets steeper, culminating in a final block on a stretch of road so steep that it has long been closed to traffic.

With its poor pavement, an average grade of 25% and a max pitch of 31%, successfully getting up the final block of the Westernport Wall takes a bit of skill, a bit of luck, and a lot of True Savage determination! All savages who conquer the Wall without putting a foot down receive a special "Brick In The Wall" prize. Those savages who choose not to tackle the closed block have the option to take a slightly longer, more humane route around the block.

"The Westernport Wall takes no prisoners and respects no pedigree. The Westernport Wall has laid claim to many victims, and not just your everyday triathletes. Multiple Ironman pro podium finishers, including a second place finisher at the Hawaii Ironman World Championships, have attempted the Wall and had to unclip and walk to the top."

Just Another Brick In The Wall
"While the Westernport Wall may have claimed many victims in the SavageMan 70.0 Triathlon, many Savages have attempted and conquered the Wall as well. And those solo participants who clear the Wall without unclipping and walking and go on to complete the SavageMan 70.0 Triathlon are rewarded with triathlon immortality: personally engraved bricks laid in the Wall for future Savage triathletes to ride over and perhaps fall onto."

Bricks in the Wall

After the Wall, I made a stop at the clothing drop to shed my jacket and gloves "before the climbing begins in earnest" as the race promoters say. The Westernport Wall is just the beginning of the climb over the Continental Divide over Big Savage Mountain, which is 7.1-miles long with a gain of 1950 feet in elevation and pitches in excess of 20%:

Big Savage Mountain - Triathlon's Most Savage Climb
"Step aside, "The Beast" of St. Croix, there is a new toughest climb in all of triathlon and it is SavageMan's Big Savage Mountain. At 7.1 miles long with 1950' of elevation gain including extended pitches in excess of 20%, Big Savage Mountain lives up to its name. It is Big and it is Savage.

Starting in Westernport, Md, at 900 feet the low point of Garrett County, riders are immediately presented with the steep and daunting climb through and out of town, culminating in the 31% Westernport Wall for those who choose to attempt the direct route straight up. The Westernport Wall, however, is just the start of the long, hard climb over the Continental Divide at Big Savage Mountain. The first mile out of Westernport gains over 700 feet at an average grade of 13%. Unlike "The Beast" of St. Croix, which descends after it's 600 foot climb, Big Savage Mountain keeps climbing, although much more gently for another 5 miles. As the summit nears, Big Savage Mountain does not go gently as the final mile is nearly as savage as the first with the final pinnacle nearing 20% grade and summitting at 2850 feet.

Big Savage Mountain is the arguably the toughest climb in all of triathlon, but riders are rewarded for their efforts with breathtaking rural vistas, and, of course, what goes up must come down....

Are You Savage Enough to Ravage Big Savage?
The Westernport Wall and the subsequent climb over Big Savage Mountain will challenge any cyclist no matter how accomplished, but any cyclist with adequate gears and adequate patience can handle the climb. It is recommended that strong cyclists have a 25 tooth rear cog, and a minimum of 23. Average cyclists should have a 27 tooth cog, and weaker cyclists should have a triple front chainring or compact cranks. Any athlete with adequate gears and adequate patience can complete the SavageMan 70.0 Triathlon bike course, and indeed, those athletes with more patience are sure to enjoy the day the most. The Westernport Wall and the climb over Big Savage Mountain is a stunningly beautiful stretch of road and an exhilarating experience unique to all of triathlon. It takes a true Savage to Ravage Big Savage!"

I'd been battling a chest cold in the week leading up to the race and now, as I began the extreme effort of making my way up Big Savage Mountain, my lungs were in full and complete protest. I coughed and hacked and wheezed and spit, fighting to get a full breath of air into my compromised lungs, and doing a pretty good Darth Vader imitation with each attempted inhalation. Fellow cyclists regularly and kindly asked me if I was okay and if I wanted "an Enduralyte for my throat?" As I struggled up the mountain, I realized the effort required felt much greater this year than the year before, due only in part to the chest cold. The other part had to do with my training. In 2010, I was focused solely on this race and did numerous long rides with hill repeats to prepare. Strength training was also a part of my conditioning last year, the squats and lunges adding strength to my legs.

This year, however, my focus is long-range; my sights are set on the Iron Man in Cozumel in November and my training has been designed appropriately, with the emphasis on longer rides and runs, and minus the strength training. It would all add up to a slower ride this year at Savageman.

Motivational signage on Otto Lane

From Big Savage Mountain, it was on to Savage River State Forest, McAndrews Hill, and Otto Lane before finally hitting Killer Miller.

"Thank You, Sir. May I Have Another?"

"Westernport? Whatever.

Big Savage Mountain? Please.


Welcome to Killer Miller. Strategically located at the 40 mile mark, Killer Miller is the final epic climb of the day and is the culmination of the most savage 23 miles in the sport of triathlon.

At 1.3 miles and an average of only 8%, the specs of Killer Miller underwhelm the savage reality of the beast. The first 0.6 miles of the climb shoot seemingly straight up at an unfair pitch, forgoing switchbacks to head straight up the hillside at an average of 13% with stretches over 20% before leveling out to a more gradual summit.

Cyclists should be sure to take stock of their surrounding as the rural farm views and mountaintop vista are simply stunning. Whether it's the steep pitch or the remarkable views, Killer Miller is sure to take your breath away!"

"Why do SavageMan? This is why!"

I must admit; I really didn't get to appreciate much of the scenery during this climb. Thankfully, I was able to enjoy the view from the comfort of my car the day prior when we drove the course:

Killer Miller Motivation

Last year, a woman clad in a devil costume followed me up Killer Miller, banging the end of her pitchfork into the ground as she shouted words of encouragement such as "don't you stop!" and "don't you let this hill beat you!" Similarly, though a lot less dramatically, a beer-toting guy from the Team Z triathlon club, kept pace with me this year, uttering practical entreaties like "one foot and then the other," "knees to chest," and "you've got this." I can't tell you how much it means and how much it helps to have someone spur you on and push you to your limits at that point in the game. Sometimes I wonder if I would have made it up Killer Miller either year without my personal cheerleaders by my side. I am ever-grateful for those volunteers on Killer Miller!

Short but steep, Maynardier Ridge, at .25 miles and a max grade of 23%, is the last of the eight killer hills and from there, it's just a little over 11 miles back to the state park. Last year, as an Aquavelo participant, my race was complete when I pulled up to T2 with a bike time of 4:03:44 and a total time of 4:46:32. I was so happy to be finished. This year was a different story.

Lacking the power and speed I had going into the 2010 Savageman, I finished the bike with a time of 4:17:07 (a rate .8 slower than in 2010) and a total cum time of 5:02:03.

Bike results (55.7 miles): 4:17:07. Division rank: 6/12.

Cum time results (at the end of the bike): Division rank: 6/12.

Sixth out of twelve. That's not so bad. I'd fallen two spots since the swim but, still, pretty respectable, and I rallied going in to T2 with a time of 2:39 and another 4th place ranking.

T2 Results: 2:39. Division rank: 4/12

The Run.

This is where it gets really ugly for me.

"The SavageMan 70.0 Triathlon run course is a scenic 13.1 mile double loop course that runs along the shores of Deep Creek Lake, through the expansive State Park campgrounds, and along lakeside roads. Eleven of the 13.1 miles are on paved roads with the remainder on smooth gravel roads.

While not as savage as the bike course, the SavageMan 70.0 Triathlon run course is far from easy with tough hills through the campground and a challenging climb to the turnaround on the Thayerville Fire Tower Road."

The first time I remember injuring my feet was in the spring of 2008 when I was training for my first half marathon. The race date was fast approaching and so, having only run 7 miles the weekend before, I decided I needed to get more distance under my belt and ran 11 miles. My foot was pretty sore after increasing my mileage too quickly, but I went on to run the half with no problems. I enjoyed it so much that I signed up for another half marathon in the fall, a race in which I set a PR and was left with such a runner's high that I immediately set my sights on my next challenge: a metric marathon in December. I reasoned, "I am already running 13 miles, why not try for 16?" While training for the metric, the bottom of my feet began to feel "stretched" to the point that, with each foot strike, I wanted to curl my toes under to protect my soles from that unpleasant stretching sensation.

Icy conditions caused the metric race to be cancelled, so I dialed back my training and made plans to run the spring half marathon again. About a month before the race, I participated in a 10-mile supported training run on the course and ran my fastest time ever! Afterward a friend and I went for coffee and, when it was time to leave, I stood up and literally could not put my heels on the floor; my feet felt like they would tear if I even tried. In agony, I tiptoed my way back to the car and wondered what on earth I had done to myself? I'd never even heard of plantar fasciitis (PF).

Thus began my nearly two-year battle with PF. I deferred the half marathon and, instead, embarked on two months of physical therapy and began wearing a special sock at night and insoles in all of my shoes. After two months, the therapist sent me on my way to continue my rehab on my own with a series of stretches.

That season, I hobbled may way through two sprint triathlons that I was already registered for and the Savageman international before beginning my self-imposed period of "no running." For two months my running shoes grew dust and still no improvement in my feet. They ached if I stood on them for "long" periods of time, such as the time it took to cook dinner or do the grocery shopping. In the mornings, my feet still cried out when they first hit the floor.

In desperation, I turned to acupuncture and, ultimately, it was the key to my recovery. After eight weeks of intense treatments, I began running again. Only, this time, I was taking a new approach and, based on the reading and research I'd done during my rehab, decided to switch to barefoot-style running. I bought my first pair of Vibram Five Fingers (VFFs) and slowly began to retrain by body and strengthen my feet and legs to run differently after 20 years of running the "wrong" way. It was a challenging and frustrating process. My first setback came in the form of ankle tendonitis so, once again, I had to rest, reevaluate, and start from scratch.

Finally, I was "off and running" and loving my new shoes when, bam! First race of the season and, while I set a PR on my 5K run, I also ended up with a fractured metatarsal. Benched again, and forced to abandon my 2010 quest for the Savageman Half Iron Man and downgrade to the Aquavelo division.

Rethinking my strategy, I decided that the VFFs were good for short, steady form runs, and for general usage for walking and hiking to keep my feet muscles strong, but not necessarily the best option for distance or speed runs. For those, I decided I needed a little more padding--not arch support or raised heels, but a little more cushioning under the ball of the foot to absorb some of the impact. I was learning to run the way my body was meant to run, but our ancestors did not run on concrete!

I went to a running store and, two hours later, after a treadmill test and trying on a dozen pairs of shoes, walked out with a pair of Saucony Kinvara minimalist shoes. I also read Chi Running. This book, which has educated me on the "correct" way to run, combined with finding the right shoes and the right method of healing, is what ultimately helped me to overcome PF.

I decided to write about my struggle with PF in this post to shed some light on my frame of mind going into the run at Savageman this year. This race was my one-year anniversary of injury-free running since changing my form and switching to the Kinvaras. Before this race, the last time I ran 13 miles was a training run for the metric marathon in November 2008; nearly three years prior. The fact that I had finally healed from PF and was running without injury is what led my husband and I to sign up for the full Iron Man this year. But PF is a chronic injury (often referred to as the "vampire bite" of running injuries) and it haunts me; I constantly fear the return of the telltale stretching in my fascia or burning in my heels.

Which brings me to my second and third goals for this race: to finish, and to not injure myself. The worst thing I could imagine was to push myself to the point of injury in this race and not be able to train for or compete in the Iron Man.

So, when my knee began to flare up (from a minor injury a month prior) in mile 2, I slowed down and reevaluated my form. I decided to walk every aid station and every substantial hill, up or down, (which, at Savageman, covers the majority of the course). When I passed mile 7 I knew I would finish, but my feet started to feel sore and it scared the daylights out of me, so I slowed down even more and walked more too. I was sooo happy to see that finish line, and be able to run across it too!

Here I come . . . . . . and there I go. Finished at last!

In the end, I finished the "run" in 2:45:25 seconds, with an awe-inspiring 12:37 pace. In my division for the run, I crawled in at 10th/12, dropping my overall division standing from 6th to 8th. (Once upon a time, my half marathon PR, pre-injury, was 1:56:16, an 8:53 pace.)

Run Results: (13.1 miles) 2:45:25. Division rank: 10th/12

After the race, the "output" resulting from my coughing fits and vain attempts to clear my lungs was coming up a little pinkish, so my husband required that I pay a visit to the medical tent before leaving the venue. It was determined that I had bronchitis and if my symptoms persisted or got worse I should see a doctor to rule out pneumonia. Hmmm.

So, do I wish I could have had a stronger run and finished with a better overall time? You bet! But it would have been a mistake to push myself to the point of injury and ruin my chance to compete in Cozumel. (And having bronchitis probably didn't help either!) My finish time for Savageman, my first Half Iron Man, was 7:50:06. That's a heck of a long time to be racing, but I hear the experience will have me well-prepared to tackle the full Iron in two months.

Final Results: Savageman Half Iron Man (70.3 miles): 7:50:06. Division rank: 8th/12.

After working up enough energy to shower, my husband and I headed to the Santa Fe Grill

for a celebration dinner:

http://www.dclsantafe.com/

When I finally crawled into bed that night, I slept for 11 hours!

The next day, my quads were sore, but my feet felt A-okay! For me, that's the best outcome I could have wished for! We packed our bags, leaving our lovely mountain cabin behind, but taking our Savage experience and memories with us. It was time to hit the road and head home, but not before stopping for fuel:

http://www.traderscoffeehouse.com/coffee/

PS--Here is where I will pause to give a shout out to my husband for his super-Savage race! He took 20 minutes off his time from last year and also made it up the Wall for the second year in a row, finishing 4th in his division of 50+ guys. You rock!