This one’s for you, Mickey Mouse Friday, May 22, 2009

After completing my first marathon in January 2008, I decided to keep this running thing going.  Having a goal in sight usually made training breeze, and I guess the extra muscle tone that came along with it wasn’t so bad either. 
Apparently still on my ‘runner’s high’ that March, I registered for the Disneyland half-marathon, scheduled for Labor Day weekend.  I remembered how great I felt crossing the ‘half-way there’ mile marker (13.1 for those of you non-runners) and thought if I could do 26.2, 13.1 would be cake.
The goal was to start training in April, but I didn’t really buckle down and get serious until late June.  Still, I wasn’t getting in the long runs I should have been, and by late July had still not broken 7 miles. 
Nonetheless, I continued my trainings and eventually did make it past 7.  I made it to 8. 
Whoops. 
But even though the 5 mile gap between 8 and 13 sounded big, I wasn’t too worried about it.  I knew I was in good enough shape that if I kept my pace, I could pull the rest out with no problems. Besides, 8 miles is about where I reach the point where I can’t feel anything anyway. 
My family, being the dedicated fans they are, flew out from the east coast.  Yes, it was not just a running affair, it was a family affair. 
With a crowd like this, you would think the pressure was starting to get to me—but I kept my cool and enjoyed spending a few leisurely days doing the Disney thing before race day. 
The night before, I laid out all my gear and hit the sack early for a good night’s sleep.  When 4:45 a.m. rolled around, I was up and ready to do all my race-day rituals:  eat at a packet of strawberry oatmeal, make at least 3 trips to the bathroom and lube up with body glide (the stuff that prevents everything from chaffing to spontaneous combustion).
I said my goodbyes and took for the start-line along with thousands of other runners and walkers.  The first part of the course led us through both parks—Disneyland first and then California Adventure, passing through Sleeping Beauty’s castle just as the sun was rising. 
But it wasn’t all so magical. 
The runners that flooded the course made the park more crowded than Miley Cyrus’ birthday party.  It was almost as bad as the normal Disney traffic that usually includes strollers plowing you over ruthlessly like bulldozers.   Not to mention it was impossible to keep a pace with these jokers stopping to take pictures with the characters that were swarming the course. You would have thought Mickey was a real giant mouse or something. 
And with Snow White yelling “raise your hands if you are having fun” in her high-pitched Disney voice from the top of Mark Twain’s riverboat, I seriously contemplated heaving myself into the water between Tom Sawyer Island and Adventure Land. 
Too bad Grumpy wasn’t on the course.  I’m sure he would have felt my pain.
By the time we got through the second park, things had spread out.  I was on pace, and it was a perfect day for a race—cloudy and cool.  I saw my parents at mile 3 and after a quick high-five and posing for a picture for mom, was on my way. 
I didn’t see them again until mile 10, where I was feeling better than ever.  But then, something terrible happened. 
The sun came out. 
I guess I shouldn’t blame it all on the sun, but it is an easier scapegoat than admitting I hadn’t trained enough, so let’s just stick with that.  I slowed down my pace significantly and in the rays of the hot summer sun, began to second guess why I ever decided to run this race in the first place.
I cursed my shoes, my sports bra, my SI joint and what seemed like millions of 65-year-olds who kept passing me. 
I was done. 
But just when I thought I was completely drained, I had an epiphany.  Sure, it was probably just the heat, but it sure seemed like one.  It was do or die—give in, or have the mental toughness to push forward and finish in a time I knew I was capable of.
Well obviously I picked the latter.  Did you really think I would quit?!  
I thought of my family and the miles they had all traveled to see me run this race.  I thought of my 3-year-old nephew who in one of my trainings saw me walking and quickly informed that I was “supposed to be running”.  But most of all, I thought my dad yelling over and over again, as he always does when I see him on the race course, “You’re good enough!  You’re good enough!  You’re good enough!”
And then, I ran.  I ran as fast as I could.  I didn’t stop.  I didn’t think.  I just ran.  
I know I crossed the finish line, but to be honest, I have no recollection of actually doing it.  Peeling off the course to recover, my hands hit my knees and I swung my head towards the ground. 
Shortly after, I was greeted by a race volunteer.  Feeling a little out of it, I asked her to escort me to a grassy spot a few yards away under the shade of a tree to recover.  The next thing I knew, I was in a wheel chair.

(Photo from 'J.E.S.' via Flickr)

 
Borderline delirious, I gave it my best shot to stand up and prove I could walk.  No such luck.  I covered my race number and prayed to God that my parents or worse, the race photographer, weren’t watching this all go down. 
I was wheeled into the medical tent where I was surrounded by more IV fluids, bananas and Powerade than I had ever seen in the same room.  Finally, I stopped fighting it and embraced the air conditioned tent and bed-side service. 
I figured that if my family would have witnessed this disaster, my mother would have already forced her way into the medical tent by now.  Thankfully, I was right.    
After proving I could walk in a straight line and drinking two giant bottles of water and three bananas, I was allowed to exit.
It was hard to leave though.  Sure, the AC was nice a plus, but the hardest part was leaving all the other injured runners behind. There were runners who had all kinds of injuries—some big, some small, but each and every one of them had sucked it up and battled through for who knows how long.  I overheard a lady say she felt a tendon in her knee snap at mile 6.  But she, along with everyone else, had finished. 
I left that tent feeling like a real runner.  That is until I remembered what landed me in the medical tent in the first place and my zero recollection of what I’m sure was a dramatic finish.
I gathered what was left of my pride and headed to the family reunion area to meet up with my family—and with the exception of my brother, didn’t mention the incident to anyone. 
A few days later I received an email notifying me that there were pictures available online from the race.  I clicked to view them, and found close to 10 pictures of me high-fiving everyone from Donald Duck and Pluto to Mickey and Minnie Mouse upon crossing the finish line—something I have absolutely zero memory of.
Thanks for the memories, Walt!

The ‘K’ Word Saturday, November 8, 2008

(Photo from 'urbanmkr' via Flickr)

After battling through some lower back and hip pain over the summer as a result of running, I finally gave in and made a visit to my doctor to see what the deal was. 
He informed me that I had something called SI Joint Dysfunction, and referred me to a physical therapist. 
I quickly made an appointment and a few days later, found myself in the doctor’s office once again.    
Never having been to a physical therapist, or even knowing what one was for that matter, I showed up in my usual business casual ensemble, which today conveniently included giant heels.
I was escorted into an exam room and waited for the physical therapist to see me.  Having no idea what I was in for, I found myself thinking nervously of what was about to happen.  And still in pain from the episode that brought me to the doctor in the first place, I paced around the room, desperately trying to find some relief. 
A few minutes later I heard a knock at the door.  Awkwardly trying to get back to my chair before the door opened, I darted across the room as quickly as I could.   Making it safely, yet painfully back to my seat, I watched as the door slowly opened. 
Damn it.  He was cute.    
He began asking me question after question, which as always, I gave entirely too much information for. 
A few minutes into the questioning, he looked at what I was wearing and asked in the nicest way possible if this was what I normally wore every day—specifically, my giant heels.  Probably not the best choice for a back ache, but I have never been one to compromise style for pain.  
He brought me back a pair of men’s shorts to wear, as the pants I was wearing were, I have to admit, somewhat constricting. He left the room so I could change and as I got into the terribly unattractive shorts he had so kindly provided me with, I remembered something.  I had not shaved my legs that morning. 
I know what you’re thinking.  Justine, you have blonde hair—it couldn’t be that bad.  But let me tell you, it was.  It wasn’t that I had just missed a day or two…oh no…it was more like a week or two.  Okay, maybe not that long, but you get my drift. 
Before I could compose a plan, I heard a knock at the door. 
Uh oh.  Here goes nothing. 
He asked me to lay flat on the table and informed me that he was going to be doing some ‘poking and prodding’ to make sure that he had my diagnosis exactly right.  I nodded my head and prayed none of them would involve touching my unshaven legs.    
He went for my feet first, which was another problem on its own.  I’m not saying my feet always smell, but let’s be honest—sometimes when you wear dress shoes all day without socks it can happen.
I clenched my teeth and prayed to God he wouldn’t notice either. 
After navigating his way through the forest that was my hairy legs, he paused to ask a few more questions.  The first two were easy, but the third one was a little different. 
“Do you know what a Kegel is?” he asked. 
“It’s when you pee, hold your pee and then pee again, right?”  I confidently responded. 
“Exactly,” he replied. 
He placed his first two fingers on the inside of my right hip bone and instructed me to do a Kegel. 
Confused at how I was going to accomplish this without peeing my pants, I asked for guidance.  After informing me that it was possible to do a Kegel without urinating, my journey into Kegel town began. 
I laid on the table and tried to find the muscle he was speaking of.  But the more I thought about it, the funnier the whole situation became.  There I was, lying on a table with a guy I barely knew holding my hip bone, trying to figure out how to move what I considered to be my vagina muscle.  
Could this be any more awkward? 
When I’m involved, apparently it can.  Ten minutes had passed, and after a few failed attempts I knew the pressure was on.  It wasn’t like I could just pretend I had done one successfully—trust me I tried—that was the whole point of his hand placement. 
So, being the mature adult that I am, I began to giggle uncontrollably.   He of course remained professional, but couldn’t help acknowledging my struggle with a subtle smile. 
When I was through with my childish outburst, I knew it was time to buckle down and get serious.  I could do this.  It was all about focus. 
A handful of attempts and roughly five minutes later, success was mine.  I had found it!
The remainder of the appointment consisted of learning exercises to practice between then and my next appointment—all of which included Kegels, of course. 
Now that I have a few sets under my belt (no pun intended), I am pretty good at this Kegeling thing—and believe it or not, it has helped my back pain significantly. 
And apparently they offer some other bonuses, too…

The Great Flood, Volume I Saturday, May 31, 2008

There once was a period of great drought, but soon— it happened.  Like clowns spilling out of a circus car, there they were. 
Exhibit #1:  Jack, the running coach
Jack was one of my running coaches during my marathon training (please see below for dramatic recounts).  He was nice, maybe even a little bit cute.  In fact, I never thought of him as anything but Coach Jack, until that faithful day in March. 

(Photo from 'Thomas Hawk' via Flickr)

It was an email I will never forget, but couldn’t delete fast enough—yes, you read correctly, an EMAIL.  We finished training for our race in January, but to selfishly keep up my muscle tone, I had kept in touch with the running group which Jack led. 
In the email he asked if he could take me out for dinner.  At first, I thought nothing of it—he just wants to catch up, I thought.  I hadn’t been to the running group in awhile due to my busy schedule at work, so he probably just wanted to see how life post-race was going.  WRONG. 
I agreed, still thinking nothing of it.  Then came the next email…dun dun dun…he wanted to pick me up.  Uh oh.  This was a date. 
I was going on a date with my running coach, who had seen me at my worst.  He’d heard me whine, seen me sweaty and without makeup (gross), and listened to me cry and complain for five months straight.  I guess I just never saw it coming—I thought of Jack as more of a father figure.  A dad who just put up with all the crazy things I did and said.  The more I thought about it, the more it freaked me out. 
As the weekend grew closer, I grew more anxious.  But my friends calmed me down reminding me that it was just a date—I didn’t have to marry him.  So, I formulated a plan, mapped it all out and got ready for my big night. 

THE PLAN: 
1. Give the ‘friend’ vibe
2. Offer no physical contact (not even a handshake or a ‘half hug’; we don’t want to send off the wrong message here)
3. Avoid eye contact outside of conversation
4. Go dutch
5. Keep it short and sweet
6. Stay in control (for the most part, this applies to conversation topics, but could also refer to the amount of alcohol consumed)
7. And finally and most importantly, talk about running AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE! 

The day came, and I ended up meeting him at the restaurant—I chickened out at the last minute and told him my Godmother had to have an emergency root canal and she needed me to watch her kids, so it would be more convenient to just meet him there.  It wasn’t a complete lie—it was sort of the truth.  She’d had an emergency root canal, just not that day.  And besides, according to rule #6, I needed to stay in control.    
I walked into the restaurant and found him waiting for me near the hostess stand.  Sticking to the plan, I greeted him with a friendly smile and hello.  He did the same, and informed me that there was a 20 minute wait in the restaurant, but no wait at the bar.  In an attempt to avoid prolonged conversation and some forced awkwardness, I suggested the bar.
As soon as we were seated, I realized I had made a big mistake.  The bar was not just a bar.  It was a sushi bar.  Not only was I going to be on an awkward date, it was going to be over raw food, which at this point, I did not know if I could stomach. 

(Photo from 'Swerz' via Flickr)

I had tried sushi before, and would be willing to try it again someday, just not with Jack.  If I am going to put myself through the uncomfortable texture of raw fish sliding down my esophagus, I at least wanted to have it be in the company of someone I was actually interested in.  I ordered a salad and prayed the sight of his food wouldn’t bring me to vomiting. 
Following rule #7, I talked about running as much as possible.  Lucky for me this was one passion we had in common, so it wasn’t too tough.  We then moved on to work and social scenes, but somewhere in between the two something terrible happened.  Jack got serious.
He began telling me about his childhood and his family, going into non-first date detail.  Abort mission!
When he was done eating his smelly, caterpillar-looking sushi, the check came.  I asked if we could split the bill, but he insisted on paying.  Even though I broke rule #4, I didn’t feel too bad about it.   I felt like I did deserve some sort of compensation for having to watch him eat his fishy monstrosity.    
Shortly after, we went our separate ways.  The plan went off without a hitch—and though it was awkward at times, it could have been way worse.  I arrived at my house at 8:01pm, just 61 minutes after I had left. 
I am pretty sure Jack got the message.  I have not heard from him again, and have since found a new running group. 
Stay tuned, The Great Flood, Volume II is COMING SOON!

Run Forest, Run! Thursday, May 22, 2008

For some crazy reason still unbeknownst to me, I decided to run a marathon this year.  It had always been on my big ‘to do’ list (you know, the one that also includes writing a book and aiding in world peace) and thought since I was an ‘adult’ now, that I better get started on crossing things off. 
Believe it or not, I finished the race in a respectable time for my first marathon, and even though I thought I was in hell at mile 21 and gave my parents the finger at mile 23, I am glad I did it.  I learned a lot of valuable lessons about myself and the sport of endurance running during my almost 5 month training, and have included a few of my favorites below. 

1. Geese are not your friends.  Not only do their piles of green feces get in the way of any activity revolving around any sort of body of water, they are mean too.  While running one Saturday by the river, I noticed a very large group of geese in my path.  In an effort to avoid the swarm of crazy birds, I decided to run through the grass.  Bad idea.  Just as I was passing the last goose, I felt something poking at my already aching calf muscle.  At first I thought it was a cramp; unfortunately I wasn’t so lucky.  I turned around to find a goose chasing me while frantically pecking its beak into my leg.  Apparently getting anywhere near their other ‘green stuff’ ticks them off even more.

2.  Food in the form of a gel tastes as bad as it sounds.  Rumor has it in the running world that if you are running more than 6 miles at a time you have to ‘fuel’.  When I think of the word fuel, I think of the smelly liquid I put in my car every two weeks that costs me entirely too much money, not something I want to pour down my throat.  So, in an effort to find the best tasting ‘fuel’, I decided to shop around.  At first glance, I was optimistic about my fuel options.  After loading up on a variety of flavors including apple pie, cherries jubilee, chocolate brownie and even margarita, I went home for a taste test.  Five minutes into my fuel tasting, I found myself wishing I was drinking gasoline.

3. Pit-bulls are even scarier when they are chasing you.  It started out like every other Monday evening run.   I was halfway through my ‘80s Rock On’ play list and approaching mile three when I felt something cold and wet brush the side of my thigh.  I turned around in horror to find a very male Pitt-bull chasing me down the street.  Fortunately, despite the Pitt-bull’s notoriously aggressive reputation, this one was friendly.  But I found myself becoming rather annoyed—the dog seemed to think me running down the street was a game I was playing with him.  Seriously, doesn’t he know I’m training for a marathon here?!  I tried waving down cars for help, but wasn’t successful.  People drove by, turned their heads, even slowed down—but no one would acknowledge my wave for help.  A police car even drove by and didn’t stop; he just waved back and kept on driving.  So much for protecting and serving.  I eventually lost him after repeatedly telling him to “go home” and finding him something more interesting to chase—a horse!

4.  Lockjaw can happen to YOU.  Your legs aren’t the only things that get sore when you run long distances, your facial muscles can give out on you just as easy.  Of course, no one bothered to fill me in on this phenomenon.  During my twelve miler a few weeks ago, I was ‘fueling’ (for definition please refer to lesson #2) after mile six when all of a sudden I couldn’t open my mouth wider than to breathe.  Don’t get me wrong— breathing is definitely more important than fueling any day.   But at that point, nothing mattered more than consuming my black cherry flavored Cliff Shot Blocks.  Three square shaped gummy-like chews with just the right amount of caffeine and calories to take me straight to mile 12 (a big step up from the gels discussed in lesson #2 might I add).  I managed to squeeze them through my paralyzed lips into my mouth realizing chewing wasn’t an option—after that it was all up to digestion.  I shot some Gatorade in my mouth and washed those suckers down like a pill.

5.  Increased muscle mass is not always pretty and can strike when you least expect it.  I was shopping at the mall one

(Photo from 'Rodney_F' via Flickr)

Sunday afternoon and found myself lingering in front of a 30 percent off sign.  There they were:  the most beautiful pair of boots I had ever seen, and at such a great price!  I just had to try them on.  They slid on with ease and right then and there I knew it—I was in love.  But my love affair quickly ended in my attempt to take them off.  I recruited a sales associate to assist me and in the meantime attracted the attention of the crowds of people waiting to pay, becoming the object of their amusement for the next 20 minutes…literally.  The girl, who couldn’t have weighed more than 100 pounds, pulled with all her might for a good 10 minutes until we heard a loud rip.  My right foot was free, but needless to say the boot had suffered an injury.  The lining on the inside was ruined, and to make matters worse my left foot was still trapped in the fire.  When it did finally break free, I was sweating, exhausted and quite embarrassed.  The sales associate, noticeably worn-out as well, whispered to me, “Maybe you should stick to boots with zippers.”  Ouch!