Ready, set, start over!

I’ve had to eat some rather large slices of humble pie over the past few years. My most recent bites of this foul curd have been especially hard to swallow. I’m a runner or at least have identified myself as such, especially since joining a formalized running program. The program is fantastic. Not only is it professionally coached (for an amateur like me this is a dream come true) but the friendships I’ve developed with other runners (nothing bonds you like mutual suffering) have been some of the most positive relationships of my life. But neither coaches nor friends could prepare me for a long series of injuries that sidelined me, forcing me to take my return to running, if not nice, then at least, easy.

Well, I’m not sure “easy” is the best way to put it but I’ve slowed down considerably and not by choice. I’ve learned how six months off from regular training will add minutes to what was once (for me anyway) a respectable pace per mile. The other night at track practice I thought I was running a ten minute pace. Imagine my shock when my watch informed me that, no, it was a twelve minute mile.  Of course, those extra ten pounds that seemed to come out of nowhere while I was recuperating* didn’t help quicken my step.  I’ve managed to drop five of those pounds but still, I might as well be lugging a couple of cantaloupes around the track.

*For those wondering, yes, I cross-trained. Swimming, deep water running, and some weight lifting. Still, nothing helps me keep off unwanted pounds like running. Well, running and putting my fork down.

I could have a real pity party about my diminished performance as a runner but it’s actually been a good reminder. Running, I’ve learned, is a humbling sport. 

Going into my second season of long distance training in the program, I was feeling a bit full of myself. I grew cocky and disregarded the most basic rules–warm up, don’t go out too fast,** and gently stretch when you’ve finished the run. I wound up pulling a groin muscle and was rewarded with visits to a physical therapist three times a week for a month. The pulled muscle was not nearly as painful as sitting on the bench, watching my friends at practice and digesting my first slice of humble pie.

**I blamed it on the pace group but I’m the one whose legs were moving; I didn’t have to try to keep up.

The third season was better. I trained for a full marathon and ran smarter. I was Born to Run, Ready to Run, and Running Down a Dream (depending on your favorite running song). That is until I developed a nasty bout of tendonitis in my right foot just three weeks before the race. At that point it was a team effort to get me to the starting line–a podiatrist who understood the whacked mind of distance runners, and my coaches and teammates–veteran marathoners–who were able to convince me to curb my mileage until race day.  “You’ve run the twenty milers,” they said, “Don’t worry. You can go the distance.” Fortunately, I listened and they were right. I finished the marathon but–me being me–not without sustaining another injury. So, I sat out the holiday season and filled up on pie (this time, I’m happy to report, the flavor was of the pumpkin variety). Did I mention those ten pounds?

In the new year, I laced up my Sauconys and returned to the running road. It felt so damn good to be out there again. I assured the coach I would run conservatively, build my mileage and pace slowly. I certainly wasn’t going to repeat any of my initial mistakes. No way.

That is, of course, until I did. Re-joining my pace group for an early morning run around a nearby lake, I started out fast and tried to keep up. How was it that suddenly everyone was so speedy? At the water stop, I cut the run short by two miles, walked the track with a buddy, then drove home. No harm done, right?

Wrong. That same afternoon, I went to a movie. When I tried to stand up after sitting for two-plus hours (why are so many bad movies nearly three hours long?), my left leg didn’t want to cooperate. I had pulled my groin muscle…again. How had I done that? Cue the Greek chorus:

“You went out too fast. You tried to keep up with faster runners. And you didn’t warm up,dummy!”

What would it take for me to learn? Apparently, a few more resolutions around the track on an injured groin muscle. Hmmm, I wondered. That was strange. Why did I feel like I was running on a slant?

Greek Chorus: “Yoo hoo, maybe it’s because you’ve knocked yourself out of balance by insisting on running when you’re hurt?”

Turns out that’s exactly what I had done.

“What happened this time,” asked my physical therapist.

This time. Ouch. Did I dare admit I had repeated not just one mistake, but two?

“Uh, I’m not sure.”

Guess not. And it turns out I had broken another Rule of the Running Road in the process: Coming back from injury too quickly.

Maybe there’s something to that old expression, “three times is the charm,” because these days, I’m not only listening to my coach, I am following his advice. When he tells me not to do another mile repeat or to walk–not run–down the hill, I follow his instructions. And when almost every single runner out there passes me early on, I remind myself that at least I’m back on the road. I’m running again, injury-free. And that’s what really counts.

Adventures in bereavement

I lost my dad not long ago.  After suffering two exhausting bouts of pneumonia in a year, he died at the age of 94. He was in a hospice facility–a good one–those last two weeks of his life, his wife and three daughters (I’m the youngest kid) around him. He knew we loved him and we knew he loved us; maybe at the end of life, that’s what really counts.

I’ve read lots of articles and books on grief. My husband published a memoir about the loss of his first wife to lung cancer. He says some wise and profound things on the subject. But while there are similarities–the loss of a spouse is no doubt much harder to endure–everyone’s experiences with the death of a loved one are different. I’d like to write about a few of mine. Why in this forum and not in a personal journal? I suppose I think sharing such feelings is important. One thing I’ve learned: grief is a lonely experience. No matter your support system or the knowledge that others have suffered the same loss, ultimately, when it comes to mourning, you are pretty much on your own.

If reading this makes you uncomfortable, close this window. You don’t have to read it. It’s amazing the number of people whose personal motto is Out of Sight, Out of Mind.

That being said, I can understand the discomfort. Sometimes when friends, both casual and close, have expressed their sympathies to me about my dad, I can barely murmur a quiet, “thank you,” before moving on to another subject. It’s not so much that I’m uncomfortable. It’s that the feelings are too deep and I don’t know how to articulate them. Death renders us speechless in more ways than one. It’s just too damn big.

Big. Yeah, I’ve thought about this a lot. Every daughter is a little girl inside when her dad dies. A girl’s father is the most powerful person in the world to her until she grows up and understands we’re all fallible. Well, I knew this intellectually, but when my dad left this world that little girl rose up inside me, stunned. The thought that her daddy, still all-powerful in her eyes, could succumb was just not possible. I know. Not rational. But that four-year old girl didn’t understand logic and reason and probably never will, no matter how much my adult self argues with her.

I suppose learning about Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s stages of grief–shock, depression, anger, acceptance–has helped but there are little things no one tells you to expect. Like how humbling it all is.  I mean, if death doesn’t humble you, what will? I knew that my father was dying. I nursed him for a month at his bedside. I told myself that I was “ready” for him to let go. But I didn’t get the finality of it, didn’t realize that one can never be completely ready. It’s an ache that never goes away no matter how much time passes. It fades, but it doesn’t fade away.

But there’s the rub, right? The unexpected comfort. The whole concept of “gone but not forgotten.” Now that I’ve gotten beyond the sharp pain of early grief, I’ve found reassurance in that familiar ache. It lets me know that I’ll remember, no matter how many years separate me from his death, my dad’s welcoming voice when I visited.  This way in, please, he would say, gathering me in for a hug. This way in.

Dealing with doctors: The third circle of Hell

We’ve all been there– stuck in the lobby of the doctor’s office, waiting far beyond our allotted appointment times, trying not to stare too long at fellow patients sitting across from us. Going to the doctor is never, well, a pleasant experience, but these days it often requires a “grin and bear it” attitude just to call and schedule an appointment.

I’ve found that my list of grievances with these good and not-so-good doctors (and their various staff members) is growing.   For now, I’ll share the highlights of the top five things I hate about the U.S. medical profession:

(This is not a discussion of U.S. health care reform under President Obama. Sorry to disappoint.)

5. Drug Pushers. Here they come, in their navy blue suits, conservative haircuts, and carefully crafted but familial manners. They arrive bearing gifts–giant trays of deli sandwiches, bags of chips, bottles of Pepsi. But there’s no such thing as free lunch, right? So, back to their Toyotas (Lexus models only, please), they go to retrieve their black suitcases, wheeling them swiftly through the lobby, past the waiting patients, and disappearing into the inner-sanctum of offices behind the receptionist’s desk so they can get down to the real business of their visit–peddling pharmaceuticals.

There is something unsettling about watching these Big Pharma reps navigate through the lobby, all buddy-buddy with the staff. Something slimy and dishonest. Instead of “sample this bit of weed,” it’s “have a reuben and coke (a-cola), and oh, by the way, here’s the latest clinical trial (sponsored by our company, of course) on this great new antidepressant medication.” Let’s face it, the Baby Boom Generation, those Woodstock Nation-dead-head-Clapton-is-God-easy riders and rebels, has gone mainstream and made selling and buying drugs acceptable as long as they’re legal and medically dispensed.

Nowadays,  just about everyone we know is on some kind of drug ”cocktail,” to deal with depression, anxiety, and all the rigors of living that life can–and often does–bring. I’m not saying that such drugs aren’t necessary for those who genuinely suffer from a mental illness like clinical depression, but I find it  profoundly disturbing to sit and watch gussied up sales executives use chocolate chip cookies to seduce doctors into prescribing their psychotropic supplies. The Big Pharma bosses may have traded the fringe jackets for Marc Jacobs suits, but they are pushers, all the same.

4. Male gynecologists. Sorry, but I’m pretty sexist on this point. We still live in an era where certain male docs think it’s okay to treat women’s hormonal issues with Valium and Xanax. Face it. You want to be a GYN because it’s the only true way you can act out your fantasies of domination over the female sex and get paid big bucks to do it (other than direct porn films). If you want to become a doctor and like dark, cavernous spaces, go to dental school.

3. “Would you please hold?” Of course, the fact that you’ve gotten this far warrants a celebration because that means you’ve just endured the recorded voice message system. But even if you visit a doctor who doesn’t use one of those dreadful systems (rare these days), it still irks when, as soon as the receptionist answers, she–almost always a female–immediately relegates you to the limbo of being on hold. Then you wait. And wait. God forbid there’s no Muzak to keep you company in  the meantime because without it, all you hear is eerie silence and you have no idea if you’re still on hold or have been disconnected.  Eventually, just as you’re about to hang up, the receptionist comes on the line.

 I’ve often wondered if I would actually save time by just driving over to the office and making an appointment in person. It might be a mistake though. There might not be anyone there which leads me to:

2. Closing early. I once called a doctor’s office and a recorded message informed me that,”our office closes on Thursdays and Fridays.” What’s up with that? If you’re a doctor, you need to wrap your mind around the fact that your patients may get sick on days other than Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. I mean, I know that you work hard, on-call and all that, but do you really need four days off a week? Not only is that a disservice to your patients but to your employees who are probably forced to find second jobs so they can pay their bills. Doctors should practice medicine because they want to help people (an antiquated notion, I know), not because they want to spend their afternoons–

a. Playing golf. 

b. Playing golf. 

c. Playing golf.

Is this too much to ask? Apparently, it is.

1. Physicians who believe they are gods. A few years ago I visited a gastroenterologist I hadn’t seen before. I was having digestive problems, and since they weren’t new to me, I soon realized I needed a colonoscopy. Having experienced the pleasure before, I knew which medications I needed to take to make the procedure more comfortable. After I related my wishes to the doctor , he looked dumbfounded. When I asked if there was something wrong, he said, “It seems like you just want to be the captain of the ship.”  ”When it comes to my body,” I responded, ”I am the captain of the ship.”

Should that have been a surprise? Apparently no one had ever challenged His Majesty before. Eventually, he agreed to do the procedure the way I wanted it done. Good man. He could have refused like the G.P. who mocked me when I requested a prescription for a bone density test. “You don’t need that,” he sneered. It didn’t matter that I was at the age when I should have had the test two years before. Hello? Do you keep up with the latest medical research?

 Then there are those physicians who don’t like to answer questions. They whisk into the room, rush through your exam, and if you do manage to get enough words out to form a question, they are walking out the door while they answer. Maybe they don’t really have any answers. It’s all smoke and mirrors, oh, great and powerful, Oz.

I realize I may sound like I don’t care for physicians. Not true. I have a lot of respect for the skill and intelligence it takes to practice medicine in an honorable way. But the problem is too many doctors don’t  respect the doctor-patient relationship. Instead, they think they’re doing us a favor just by honoring us with their presence.

Of course the insurance companies should hold the real Number One spot on this list. But that’s a blog unto itself, for another day. Until then, I’ll probably be on hold, and since I’m a grown-up, when I finally do get an appointment, I won’t get a lollipop. Life sucks.

Bad behavior in the Weight Room

 It’s evening and, as usual, the weight room is crowded. I’ve managed to grab a free bench and am in the process of doing my flys when I hear the first in what will be an impressive series of barks, snorts and yelps within my immediate vicinity. I sit up and see a fortysomething guy, a bit on the short, squat side, performing standing crunches in front of the mirror. He’s got his hands laced behind his back and each time he dips, lifting the opposite knee to the opposite elbow, he emits the cries of someone who is either engaged in ecstatic, orgasmic sex or caught in the grips of a severe case of Tourette Syndrome.  Everyone in the weight room is trying not to look at this guy but I know I’m not the only one sneaking peeks. His effort level is pretty amazing. When he finally finishes his set of, I don’t know, 250 crunches,  I cannot even imagine how he feels because I’m exhausted.

  I don’t know about you, but I would feel pretty self-conscious grunting and snorting like that in public. Apparently, I’m not alone because I’ve heard about some health clubs where alarms go off when patrons grow too enthusiastic in their efforts to feel the burn.  But that’s going too far–it’s a gym, for crying out loud. Some moaning and groaning is part of the deal. Still, I prefer not to hear what sounds like an S&M bondage game while I’m working out. The classic 70s rock music I have to endure is bad enough (more about that in a minute).

It’s time for a refresher on weight room etiquette. Yes, most clubs/gyms post rules but it seems few people are reading them. Here we go:

• This first rule also shares a connection to Mr. Orgasmo-Tourettes Syndrome. Do not, I repeat, do not count your repetitions aloud. Are you listening Mr. O.T.? When I heard you grunting out your reps the other evening, I sort of lost track of my own, the ones I was silently recording, in my head. Have you ever had someone try to talk to you while you are counting money?  You lose track of the quarters, dimes and nickels, right? Same principle. Please, keep your rep count to yourself.  
• Please refrain from giving yourself a shout-out after you complete your set (in fairness, I have never heard Mr. O.T. do this). It’s one thing for your trainer to congratulate you on a job well-done–a good trainer should do that. But when you’re training alone, is it really necessary to shout, “Good job,” “Way to push it,” or “YESSSSS,” so the rest of us can hear? Why not just give yourself a high-five? At least that would spare the rest of us.
• Hey, music lovers! I love my tunes, too, but I usually like the songs better when the original artists sing them. If you can’t resist singing to the oldies while you workout, it might be time to leave your iPod or MP3 player at home (or tune into a podcast of a talk show). Come to think of it, it’s just not a good idea to plug ear buds into your head while you’re in the weight room. I tried it once and it really threw me off. I wasn’t as aware of my surroundings and that’s dangerous when you’re swinging barbells. Besides, the management is usually nice enough to provide piped-in music. Which brings me to my next point–

Why, oh why, must I listen to Journey’s Don’t  Stop  Believin’ every time I work out? (Okay, nearly every time.) And if it’s not  Journey, it’s Rush to remind you: 

Today’s Tom Sawyer,

He gets high on you,

And the space he invades

He gets by on you.

© Core Music Publishing Co.

          Frankly, I’d rather leave those memories (and awful lyrics) behind. Find a new mix of music, please.

• Please refrain from purposely dropping  75 pound weights on the floor. We’ve all experienced it:  We’re working hard. Digging deep. Watching our form. Staying focused. Well, we were until a huge crash accompanied by a loud “gahhhhh,” or “ahhhhhh,” or “owwww-yahhhh” wrenched us out of our perfect posture. Yikes! I know those free weights are heavy but is it really necessary to shake the building with them each time you complete your chest presses? It’s downright frightening. And it’s not just a matter of disturbing the peace, or, well, the Eddie Money song that’s playing–I really, really, don’t want you to tear your arm out of its socket when you let loose of those weights! It’s an accident waiting to happen. Proper form is not only important to make sure your muscles are getting the maximum benefit, it protects you from hurting yourself. If you can’t sit up and place your weights on the floor in a calm manner, it’s time to either lighten your load or decrease your reps.

• Once you safely finish using a  plate, kettle or barbell, put it back in its assigned rack or location. There is nothing more frustrating–well, actually, there are tons of things but I’m going for drama here–than discovering that the person ahead of you neglected to remove the mega-ton weight from the machine. I have lost count of the number of times I’ve had to seek out a fitness director to help me cart away the weight or the lame excuses I’ve heard when I’ve caught the offender(s) in the act of walking away and asked if he (usually a male–sorry, guys) would please remove it. It usually goes something like this:

Me: Uh, hi. Would you mind putting back your weight? I need to use the machine.

                Offender (look of astonishment crosses his face): Well, it was already there when I used it.

Huh? So it follows logically that you don’t have to re-rack the weight? I don’t think so. He who inherits the ring, must bear the responsibility, or something like that. Seriously, I’m no weakling but I can’t lift a plate that’s almost the size of a Hummer tire–mind your manners and put it away! Thank you.

• When you finish using a bench/mat, wipe it off with your towel. 

 Most gym members understand this and follow the rule. Sure, it’s easy to forget sometimes but wiping up your sweat is Hygienics 101 stuff.  Unfortunately, however, not everyone enrolled in the class. The other night I asked a young woman who had just completed her post-run stretching on the gym’s large floor mat if she would make room for me. “Oh, no problem,” she said. No, now I was the one with the problem when I discovered she had left a friggin’ lagoon on the mat. I should have said something but didn’t feel like hassling about it so I went ahead and mopped it up. Noticing my annoyance, the post-run-stretcher shrugged at her friends, making it clear she had no clue that her fellow health club members might find lying in her “pool,” offensive.

Were people always this clueless? Is there some sort of Handbook to Cluelessness people are following? Basic cleanliness is just not that hard to figure out, especially when it comes to, um, sharing one’s various body fluids. Most good gyms provide towels–use them!

Finally, a couple of brief points: Please keep your kids out of the weight room. Some of the barbells weigh more than they do and it’s not pleasant to think of an accidental “crowning.” Many parents know this but then again there are those who subscribe to the handbooks mentioned above. 

Please share the equipment. We all need our turn using the triceps rope. And if you see that the guy behind you at the water fountain is panting and close to dehydration, don’t hurry to fill up your 16 oz. water bottle– step aside and let him drink!

Now, I’ve got a few more reps to do…