I had a good streak going this winter.
"Oh my gosh, you RAN today?" co-workers would gasp on snowy days, telling me of how they had wiped out multiple times while walking the dog that morning.
I'd like to think I was modest about it, acknowledging that yes, it was indeed slippery, and that I'd just been lucky, though my worst spill ever was on dry ground, so go figure.
So it wasn't necessarily with confidence that I set out Saturday night, but it was with a sense of calm.
If only I'd been a jerk runner, I would have gotten the whole three miles in with only a small stutter or two.
But when I noticed a truck with a huge trailer trying to reverse out of a driveway, I decided that running on the sidewalk, instead of the better-maintained street, would be the safest route. Literally within yards, I lost it.
Unfortunately, I don't have any good bruises to share. It hurt the most on the right side of my ribs, and I checked periodically for evidence of my fall, but the only lingering proof is the tenderness when I blow my nose, stretch or laugh too hard.
The good news is, my phone was still alive when I fell, so if anything worse had happened, I could've called for help. Or I could've just asked the gentleman walking his dogs — whose barks either triggered my fall by startling me, or whose barks were mockery after I bit it — to save me.
Maybe next time I should take my chances with dodging the reversing trailer.
Showing posts with label snow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label snow. Show all posts
Monday, February 17, 2014
Thursday, January 2, 2014
2013 run streak is in the books
It's official: Cory and I both won the 2013 Holiday Running Streak, and I can finally take a solid week off from running.
Last year's victory came with more of a sense of accomplishment, though: It was my first time, so I had doubts; Thanksgiving was earlier, so it took longer; and I suspect I did more longer runs.
I totaled 77.66 miles over 35 days, for an average run length of 2.2 miles. More than half of the days, I didn't break three miles (my mental milestone for a full run) — 16 single-mile days, plus three two-ish mile ones.
Cory and I agreed that we each had intended to rely less on single-mile runs, but this was definitely an example of life being what happens when you're busy making plans. Weather, travel, parties ... all legitimate reasons to not worry about getting more than one mile in.
And it's still a mile more than I might've run on the days when our highs were in single digits, when an ice storm struck Des Moines, when I spent all day unpacking my new apartment so I could cook for a Thanksgiving potluck at which I spent six hours, etc.
This year brought more fun in addition to more obstacles (and, um, six fewer days).
It's good to have online partners in this challenge, but it's more helpful to have a real-life partner with you — particularly on the days when you grumble that you really don't want to do this, and your partner reminds you there's always the option of just running to the half-mile mark though you'll probably want to keep going at that point.
(He's right, and he's actually punished for that because he is the one who wants to turn back at the half-mile mark, but you're loving the downhill route too much to remember how miserable the uphill return will be.)
The real-life buddy keeps you accountable when he's already gotten his run in for the day, while you've been procrastinating, or vice versa; and the real-life buddy will still laugh every time you're high-stepping through snow/tiptoeing around ice spots/rubbing feeling back into your frozen face and you say, "Man, this hobby sucks," or, "Why did we decide to do this stupid streak again?"
My real-life buddy and I concluded the streak together on New Year's Day, well before sidewalks were cleared in my neighborhood and also before most dog-walkers had been out to forge a trail for us.
It was like being a kid again, and we were already giddy at how close we were to finishing this streak when we heard honking and yelling — it was Zach and Chelsea, visiting friends waiting for us to get this one last run in so that they could see my new place and have brunch, driving somewhere to kill time by walking their dog.
Hooting and hollering about a quarter-mile from the end, no missed runs and no wipeouts at all? Sounds like a successful streak to me.
Last year's victory came with more of a sense of accomplishment, though: It was my first time, so I had doubts; Thanksgiving was earlier, so it took longer; and I suspect I did more longer runs.
I totaled 77.66 miles over 35 days, for an average run length of 2.2 miles. More than half of the days, I didn't break three miles (my mental milestone for a full run) — 16 single-mile days, plus three two-ish mile ones.
Cory and I agreed that we each had intended to rely less on single-mile runs, but this was definitely an example of life being what happens when you're busy making plans. Weather, travel, parties ... all legitimate reasons to not worry about getting more than one mile in.
And it's still a mile more than I might've run on the days when our highs were in single digits, when an ice storm struck Des Moines, when I spent all day unpacking my new apartment so I could cook for a Thanksgiving potluck at which I spent six hours, etc.
This year brought more fun in addition to more obstacles (and, um, six fewer days).
It's good to have online partners in this challenge, but it's more helpful to have a real-life partner with you — particularly on the days when you grumble that you really don't want to do this, and your partner reminds you there's always the option of just running to the half-mile mark though you'll probably want to keep going at that point.
(He's right, and he's actually punished for that because he is the one who wants to turn back at the half-mile mark, but you're loving the downhill route too much to remember how miserable the uphill return will be.)
The real-life buddy keeps you accountable when he's already gotten his run in for the day, while you've been procrastinating, or vice versa; and the real-life buddy will still laugh every time you're high-stepping through snow/tiptoeing around ice spots/rubbing feeling back into your frozen face and you say, "Man, this hobby sucks," or, "Why did we decide to do this stupid streak again?"
My real-life buddy and I concluded the streak together on New Year's Day, well before sidewalks were cleared in my neighborhood and also before most dog-walkers had been out to forge a trail for us.
It was like being a kid again, and we were already giddy at how close we were to finishing this streak when we heard honking and yelling — it was Zach and Chelsea, visiting friends waiting for us to get this one last run in so that they could see my new place and have brunch, driving somewhere to kill time by walking their dog.
Hooting and hollering about a quarter-mile from the end, no missed runs and no wipeouts at all? Sounds like a successful streak to me.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Two types of people I'm thankful for
As I wrote last year, I sometimes fear more than wintry conditions when I brave less-than-ideal weather to run outdoors. I worry that others' judgment could turn aggressive.
I've had lots of chances to test Des Moines' tolerance, unfortunately, given the bone-chilling cold that doesn't seem to be budging; but I'm happy to report that no one has even honked at me.
Late last week, as the temperatures took a nose dive, I kept an eye out and exhaled with relief each time I saw another runner. It's not like there's really safety in numbers, particularly when we're going in opposite directions — but maybe I subconsciously feel less conspicuous.
During this stretch of single-mile runs, though, I've noticed there's decent sidewalk traffic already in my stretch of Des Moines, no matter what the wind chill is: College students and dog owners are still out and about.
Beyond providing camouflage, they also reassure me that yes, it's still OK for humans to be outside in this weather, and we can even exchange a quick grimace that while it's OK, it's not fun. (More pragmatically: If the sidewalks are used, they're likely to be cleared in a timely, thorough manner.)
It's true that drivers are still likely to think I'm a pretentious, self-righteous jerk for being outdoors by choice, while they'll see the students/dog parents as just unlucky souls not dodging responsibility because it's cold.
But that's OK, because their misery is my company.
A look at the run streak since I last posted:
Friday: 1 mile. Obligatory observation that getting dressed for a single mile in single-digit temperatures takes more time than actually running.
Saturday: 1 mile. Cory joined me for this one. Out-and-back miles pass even faster when you have company.
Sunday: 2.5 miles. Cory and I were both pretty excited for our first snowy run of the season. We would've run longer, but we had plans later. Big, fluffy flakes make the hills seem slightly less awful.
Monday: 1 mile. I'd daydreamed about scattering a few short runs throughout the day, because I'd been feeling bad about the streak-within-a-streak of running less than three miles, but it just didn't happen. I also finally remembered, though, that these are runs I wouldn't have done were it not for the streak.
I've had lots of chances to test Des Moines' tolerance, unfortunately, given the bone-chilling cold that doesn't seem to be budging; but I'm happy to report that no one has even honked at me.
Late last week, as the temperatures took a nose dive, I kept an eye out and exhaled with relief each time I saw another runner. It's not like there's really safety in numbers, particularly when we're going in opposite directions — but maybe I subconsciously feel less conspicuous.
During this stretch of single-mile runs, though, I've noticed there's decent sidewalk traffic already in my stretch of Des Moines, no matter what the wind chill is: College students and dog owners are still out and about.
Beyond providing camouflage, they also reassure me that yes, it's still OK for humans to be outside in this weather, and we can even exchange a quick grimace that while it's OK, it's not fun. (More pragmatically: If the sidewalks are used, they're likely to be cleared in a timely, thorough manner.)
It's true that drivers are still likely to think I'm a pretentious, self-righteous jerk for being outdoors by choice, while they'll see the students/dog parents as just unlucky souls not dodging responsibility because it's cold.
But that's OK, because their misery is my company.
A look at the run streak since I last posted:
Friday: 1 mile. Obligatory observation that getting dressed for a single mile in single-digit temperatures takes more time than actually running.
Saturday: 1 mile. Cory joined me for this one. Out-and-back miles pass even faster when you have company.
Sunday: 2.5 miles. Cory and I were both pretty excited for our first snowy run of the season. We would've run longer, but we had plans later. Big, fluffy flakes make the hills seem slightly less awful.
Monday: 1 mile. I'd daydreamed about scattering a few short runs throughout the day, because I'd been feeling bad about the streak-within-a-streak of running less than three miles, but it just didn't happen. I also finally remembered, though, that these are runs I wouldn't have done were it not for the streak.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Taking a stand against the weather swings
On St. Patrick's Day weekend — a dreary one, weatherwise, in Des Moines — I arrived at work Saturday to find my friend Annah in a hoodie, jeans and Birkenstocks.
When I applauded her courage/foolhardiness/hardy Michigan blood for wearing sandals, she shrugged off the praise.
"When the sandals come out, they're out. There's no going back," she said firmly. (We'd had at least one pleasant day earlier that week.)
I thought of that determination Monday as I did post-half-marathon laundry. All of my running clothes needed washing, but I had thought that some of the cold-weather gear might stay clean for a while.
The Midwest has something else in mind, I see, but I'm drawing inspiration from Annah as I write this: The spring gear is out, and it's staying out. I refuse to dirty all of my winter gear again.
This declaration, I admit, is somewhat less brave considering that I'm coming off a half marathon and thus can keep winter gear clean by "recuperating," i.e., not running.
It's also less dramatic when you realize that only two days are forecast to be below 50 degrees, which is when I begin thinking about covering more skin.
Nevertheless, I don't want to grow moss — so if you see a shorts-and-T-shirt-clad runner shivering at a stoplight this week, don't pity her. Salute her.
When I applauded her courage/foolhardiness/hardy Michigan blood for wearing sandals, she shrugged off the praise.
"When the sandals come out, they're out. There's no going back," she said firmly. (We'd had at least one pleasant day earlier that week.)
I thought of that determination Monday as I did post-half-marathon laundry. All of my running clothes needed washing, but I had thought that some of the cold-weather gear might stay clean for a while.
The Midwest has something else in mind, I see, but I'm drawing inspiration from Annah as I write this: The spring gear is out, and it's staying out. I refuse to dirty all of my winter gear again.
This declaration, I admit, is somewhat less brave considering that I'm coming off a half marathon and thus can keep winter gear clean by "recuperating," i.e., not running.
It's also less dramatic when you realize that only two days are forecast to be below 50 degrees, which is when I begin thinking about covering more skin.
Nevertheless, I don't want to grow moss — so if you see a shorts-and-T-shirt-clad runner shivering at a stoplight this week, don't pity her. Salute her.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
You can't nail every decision
My dad gave me a good piece of advice a few years back that I remind myself of fairly frequently: You're not going to be able to make every decision perfectly.
Most recently, this applied to scheduling my long run. I was out on a five-miler last Friday, daydreaming about how pleasant the weather was, how good my legs were feeling and how much time I would have to do other things post-run, when I thought: "Maybe I should just repeat this route and knock out the 10-miler."
But then, of course, I came up with several reasons to just wait. Hours later, as I checked the weekend weather forecast, I saw snow and lower temperatures through Monday (the last day of my "weekend"), and kicked myself until Dad's saying grew louder than the "should" statements.
When Sunday afternoon — the first time I had available to do a long run — rolled around, I came up with more reasons to wait: The wind was biting, and the flurries made it hard to see; the ground might be messy; I was tired; I had errands to run; etc. After all, the weather widget predicted no snow Monday afternoon.
Cue the Monday midmorning weather check: Snow had fallen, temps remained low, winds were going to pick up in the afternoon. Crap.
I also knew, though that, the longer I waited, the less likely I was to accomplish the run. So I girded my loins and headed out.
It wasn't my best long run, but it was far from my worst. One thing I found myself not minding at all were the snowy rec paths — they were pretty and cushioned that way! — yet as I did errands in the afternoon, noting the dry sidewalks, I heard it again: "You went too early, Sadye. Should've waited until the afternoon."
This time, instead of Dad's voice, I heard the voice of Kristin Armstrong, Runner's World blogger (and, yes, ex-wife of Lance). Her most recent post addressed the courage to try:
I'd been doing that all weekend, and by running despite the conditions — and in fact surviving just fine — I'd put two powerful pieces of advice into action. I'm not a pro athlete in a temperate climate; timing a run "perfectly" isn't going to happen every single time, by any means.
And what do I gain by waiting for that ideal balance? I'm training for race day, not for perfect running day ... which the race day could very well not be. (See Rockford Half Marathon 2012 and its noon temperature of 80 degrees.)
By not waiting, I gained more confidence for the half marathon. I'd been averaging some good speed on long runs, but in good weather; in less-than-ideal weather this time, I averaged just a little faster than what I've done previously.
Additionally, the fatigue I felt was far more mental than physical. Something I'm doing is paying off!
Most recently, this applied to scheduling my long run. I was out on a five-miler last Friday, daydreaming about how pleasant the weather was, how good my legs were feeling and how much time I would have to do other things post-run, when I thought: "Maybe I should just repeat this route and knock out the 10-miler."
But then, of course, I came up with several reasons to just wait. Hours later, as I checked the weekend weather forecast, I saw snow and lower temperatures through Monday (the last day of my "weekend"), and kicked myself until Dad's saying grew louder than the "should" statements.
When Sunday afternoon — the first time I had available to do a long run — rolled around, I came up with more reasons to wait: The wind was biting, and the flurries made it hard to see; the ground might be messy; I was tired; I had errands to run; etc. After all, the weather widget predicted no snow Monday afternoon.
Cue the Monday midmorning weather check: Snow had fallen, temps remained low, winds were going to pick up in the afternoon. Crap.
I also knew, though that, the longer I waited, the less likely I was to accomplish the run. So I girded my loins and headed out.
It wasn't my best long run, but it was far from my worst. One thing I found myself not minding at all were the snowy rec paths — they were pretty and cushioned that way! — yet as I did errands in the afternoon, noting the dry sidewalks, I heard it again: "You went too early, Sadye. Should've waited until the afternoon."
This time, instead of Dad's voice, I heard the voice of Kristin Armstrong, Runner's World blogger (and, yes, ex-wife of Lance). Her most recent post addressed the courage to try:
"How often do we all do that? Think that we will try the thing when we are better prepared to try?"Isn’t that the point of 'try'?"
I'd been doing that all weekend, and by running despite the conditions — and in fact surviving just fine — I'd put two powerful pieces of advice into action. I'm not a pro athlete in a temperate climate; timing a run "perfectly" isn't going to happen every single time, by any means.
And what do I gain by waiting for that ideal balance? I'm training for race day, not for perfect running day ... which the race day could very well not be. (See Rockford Half Marathon 2012 and its noon temperature of 80 degrees.)
By not waiting, I gained more confidence for the half marathon. I'd been averaging some good speed on long runs, but in good weather; in less-than-ideal weather this time, I averaged just a little faster than what I've done previously.
Additionally, the fatigue I felt was far more mental than physical. Something I'm doing is paying off!
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Cleaning is more dangerous than running
When this winter first started — seems so long ago — I had a co-worker look at me in disbelief when I mentioned having run despite the recent snow.
"You ran in the snow? I would be terrified to. I'd be waiting to wipe out."
In his defense, he dislikes running no matter what conditions, and he also works closely with a Texas transplant who's experiencing his very first Midwest winter ... and has several bruises to remember it by.
At the time, I admitted to a scary slip, during which my flailing arms made contact with the side of a garage, but insisted that my worst running spills had taken place in perfectly mild weather conditions.
I maintain that stance, after cleaning my apartment Sunday night and going on a run Monday morning before the rec paths were completely cleared of snow.
The minor injuries I sustained during the cleaning frenzy:
* A bruised instep on my left foot. This came from stepping on the vacuum cleaner's plug in bare feet, and resulted in the most pain I've experienced since introducing my IT band to the foam roller.
Wait, that's not totally true; the IT band stops feeling tender once I'm done rolling, while the instep was tender to the point of not putting all my weight on it for several hours after that.
* A stiff lower back. I'd thought that the cat's litterbox was growing empty enough where it would be easy to just toss all the old stuff and replace it with fresh, clean sand. And maybe I would've been right, if I hadn't poured the entire contents into a half-full garbage bag.
I could barely lift the whole thing out of the garbage can, and I'm not sure what miracle allowed me to raise it high enough to put into the Dumpster. (Yes, I know, "lift with your legs, not your back.") Fortunately, the bag didn't tear at any point, and I woke up with more foot tenderness than back soreness.
In contrast, during the 10 miles I ran, mostly on snowy paved surfaces, I only suffered a few startled lurches when one foot landed off the path and one foot remained on it. (The snow helped the path blend into the grass.)
Maybe once or twice my shoes didn't quite get traction on an icy uphill slog, and I definitely splashed through a shallow puddle once — so shallow, though, that the absorbent part of my shoes were in the clear.
Still, the worst that happened the entire time? My skin is probably windburned. But I put lotion on it after my shower, which I always do, and it felt normal a few hours later.
Which leads me to the conclusion in the title of this post. I won't give up cleaning, because I'm a neat freak, but for those of you who hate vacuuming and taking out the trash, feel free to use my stories as justification for avoiding those chores.
"You ran in the snow? I would be terrified to. I'd be waiting to wipe out."
In his defense, he dislikes running no matter what conditions, and he also works closely with a Texas transplant who's experiencing his very first Midwest winter ... and has several bruises to remember it by.
At the time, I admitted to a scary slip, during which my flailing arms made contact with the side of a garage, but insisted that my worst running spills had taken place in perfectly mild weather conditions.
I maintain that stance, after cleaning my apartment Sunday night and going on a run Monday morning before the rec paths were completely cleared of snow.
The minor injuries I sustained during the cleaning frenzy:
* A bruised instep on my left foot. This came from stepping on the vacuum cleaner's plug in bare feet, and resulted in the most pain I've experienced since introducing my IT band to the foam roller.
Wait, that's not totally true; the IT band stops feeling tender once I'm done rolling, while the instep was tender to the point of not putting all my weight on it for several hours after that.
* A stiff lower back. I'd thought that the cat's litterbox was growing empty enough where it would be easy to just toss all the old stuff and replace it with fresh, clean sand. And maybe I would've been right, if I hadn't poured the entire contents into a half-full garbage bag.
I could barely lift the whole thing out of the garbage can, and I'm not sure what miracle allowed me to raise it high enough to put into the Dumpster. (Yes, I know, "lift with your legs, not your back.") Fortunately, the bag didn't tear at any point, and I woke up with more foot tenderness than back soreness.
In contrast, during the 10 miles I ran, mostly on snowy paved surfaces, I only suffered a few startled lurches when one foot landed off the path and one foot remained on it. (The snow helped the path blend into the grass.)
Maybe once or twice my shoes didn't quite get traction on an icy uphill slog, and I definitely splashed through a shallow puddle once — so shallow, though, that the absorbent part of my shoes were in the clear.
Still, the worst that happened the entire time? My skin is probably windburned. But I put lotion on it after my shower, which I always do, and it felt normal a few hours later.
Which leads me to the conclusion in the title of this post. I won't give up cleaning, because I'm a neat freak, but for those of you who hate vacuuming and taking out the trash, feel free to use my stories as justification for avoiding those chores.
Monday, February 4, 2013
It's like being a teenager again
I think I'm in my running adolescence.
It's been more than four years since I went on my first run that wasn't hustling through a parking lot to avoid inclement weather, and this spring will mark four full years of regularly running.
Have I improved physically? Yes. Have I improved mentally as well? Yes. But do I still whiff on good decision-making sometimes? Oh, heck yes.
It's like being a teenager again: I think I'm smarter than I really am, then find out through mishaps that I should've maybe thought that move over a little bit more.
Consider the past week-plus in running for me, and you'll see what I mean.
Good decision: Baking cookies before going to the apartment of a friend who was going to serve me delicious homemade soup, two Sundays ago.
Bad decision: Skipping a run to make those cookies, "because of the ice," which turned out to only exist on the first yard of sidewalk leading out of my apartment building.
Good decision: Listening to my body and taking Wednesday off.
Bad decision: Listening to my whiny mind and relaxing Wednesday morning, the last time for a couple of days that it wouldn't be slick and/or horrifically cold.
Good decision: Doing laundry Thursday, a dangerously cold day, instead of running. Carrying baskets of clothes up and down stairs counts as cross-training, right?
Bad decision: Doing laundry Thursday instead of running, but doing so after an hour-plus of errands, only to come back and find one lady repeatedly washing the same load, even though she saw me waiting at least twice for a washer to open.
Thankfully a different neighbor decided her second load of laundry was too small to be worth it, and instead of using both remaining washers, she gave me one.
Good decision: Adjusting my expectations for Friday's run to the conditions. Race pace, not to mention intervals, was not going to happen on a single-digit day and slightly snowy/icy sidewalks.
Bad decision: Not wearing yoga pants over my tights Friday and leaving the balaclava at home. I applied the winter sunblock my dad gave me to my face, except apparently my upper lip, which did feel a little tender for the next 12 hours.
And to end it on a high note, here's a good decision/better decision scenario: For my Super Bowl Sunday five-miler — a balmy 21 degrees! — I left the fleece ear warmer behind, which was pretty apparently the right choice.
But the even better choice was to realize that my knit sweatband could be pulled over the tips of my ears, rather than tucked behind them, when the wind came through.
It's been more than four years since I went on my first run that wasn't hustling through a parking lot to avoid inclement weather, and this spring will mark four full years of regularly running.
Have I improved physically? Yes. Have I improved mentally as well? Yes. But do I still whiff on good decision-making sometimes? Oh, heck yes.
It's like being a teenager again: I think I'm smarter than I really am, then find out through mishaps that I should've maybe thought that move over a little bit more.
Consider the past week-plus in running for me, and you'll see what I mean.
Good decision: Baking cookies before going to the apartment of a friend who was going to serve me delicious homemade soup, two Sundays ago.
Bad decision: Skipping a run to make those cookies, "because of the ice," which turned out to only exist on the first yard of sidewalk leading out of my apartment building.
Good decision: Listening to my body and taking Wednesday off.
Bad decision: Listening to my whiny mind and relaxing Wednesday morning, the last time for a couple of days that it wouldn't be slick and/or horrifically cold.
Good decision: Doing laundry Thursday, a dangerously cold day, instead of running. Carrying baskets of clothes up and down stairs counts as cross-training, right?
Bad decision: Doing laundry Thursday instead of running, but doing so after an hour-plus of errands, only to come back and find one lady repeatedly washing the same load, even though she saw me waiting at least twice for a washer to open.
Thankfully a different neighbor decided her second load of laundry was too small to be worth it, and instead of using both remaining washers, she gave me one.
Good decision: Adjusting my expectations for Friday's run to the conditions. Race pace, not to mention intervals, was not going to happen on a single-digit day and slightly snowy/icy sidewalks.
Bad decision: Not wearing yoga pants over my tights Friday and leaving the balaclava at home. I applied the winter sunblock my dad gave me to my face, except apparently my upper lip, which did feel a little tender for the next 12 hours.
And to end it on a high note, here's a good decision/better decision scenario: For my Super Bowl Sunday five-miler — a balmy 21 degrees! — I left the fleece ear warmer behind, which was pretty apparently the right choice.
But the even better choice was to realize that my knit sweatband could be pulled over the tips of my ears, rather than tucked behind them, when the wind came through.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
I have to at least try
We're only a few days — out of I don't know how many — into the cold snap, so I'm afraid that I'll jinx myself by saying this.
It's not been that bad for me ... running-wise. (I didn't particularly enjoy that frozen gas line that killed the heat for at least seven hours Monday.)
I nearly wimped out Sunday, walking from my car back into my apartment. The previous night had included a bizarre two-hour wakeful period, and my stomach was happily full of El Mariachi. A nap sounded far better than cold, snow and wind.
It was too early in the training schedule to cave, though. "You have to at least try," I told myself, and I ended up having a fabulous run. Getting the windy portion out of the way first helped, but I also just love the squeak of sneakers in the snow. Don't know why.
Hal Higdon said to rest Monday, and I did not argue (in fact, I don't think I saw a single runner out and about). Tuesday's weather reading didn't look much better — 6 degrees, with a wind chill of minus 2, at 9:30 a.m. — but Sunday's wintry triumph kept me on the straight and narrow. You at least have to try.
From the neck up, I looked like a bug exterminator:
And from the neck down, I looked normal ... but I wasn't. Yoga pants over the running tights; thermal socks over the Balegas; short-sleeved T-shirt over the thicker long-sleeved T-shirt, all topped by a windbreaker; and gloves tucked into the jacket cuffs.
The final measure of protection: Because I only needed to go three miles, I just picked a half-mile stretch along my apartment complex and did it six times, in case hypothermia set in.
So of course, everything went fine; I even pulled down the face mask a few times. My thighs never quite loosened up, and I found myself stopping for a breath and a nose-clearing every half-mile, but otherwise it was pleasant enough where I couldn't even brag about still going out despite the conditions.
At this point, I was bursting with love for winter runs. I shed a layer (the outer T-shirt) in celebration of Wednesday's 17 degrees ... but picked a route based on terrain, not wind direction, and suffered all the way home.
Still, though I couldn't wait to return to the warm, still air of my apartment, that failed tempo run was exactly what I needed. It feels refreshing and invigorating, despite the fatigue; cleansing, despite the sweat and car fumes; and disciplined, despite all the procrastination and escape plans I build in.
And I've found the phrase that will push me out the door: I have to at least try.
It's not been that bad for me ... running-wise. (I didn't particularly enjoy that frozen gas line that killed the heat for at least seven hours Monday.)
I nearly wimped out Sunday, walking from my car back into my apartment. The previous night had included a bizarre two-hour wakeful period, and my stomach was happily full of El Mariachi. A nap sounded far better than cold, snow and wind.
It was too early in the training schedule to cave, though. "You have to at least try," I told myself, and I ended up having a fabulous run. Getting the windy portion out of the way first helped, but I also just love the squeak of sneakers in the snow. Don't know why.
Hal Higdon said to rest Monday, and I did not argue (in fact, I don't think I saw a single runner out and about). Tuesday's weather reading didn't look much better — 6 degrees, with a wind chill of minus 2, at 9:30 a.m. — but Sunday's wintry triumph kept me on the straight and narrow. You at least have to try.
From the neck up, I looked like a bug exterminator:
And from the neck down, I looked normal ... but I wasn't. Yoga pants over the running tights; thermal socks over the Balegas; short-sleeved T-shirt over the thicker long-sleeved T-shirt, all topped by a windbreaker; and gloves tucked into the jacket cuffs.
The final measure of protection: Because I only needed to go three miles, I just picked a half-mile stretch along my apartment complex and did it six times, in case hypothermia set in.
So of course, everything went fine; I even pulled down the face mask a few times. My thighs never quite loosened up, and I found myself stopping for a breath and a nose-clearing every half-mile, but otherwise it was pleasant enough where I couldn't even brag about still going out despite the conditions.
At this point, I was bursting with love for winter runs. I shed a layer (the outer T-shirt) in celebration of Wednesday's 17 degrees ... but picked a route based on terrain, not wind direction, and suffered all the way home.
Still, though I couldn't wait to return to the warm, still air of my apartment, that failed tempo run was exactly what I needed. It feels refreshing and invigorating, despite the fatigue; cleansing, despite the sweat and car fumes; and disciplined, despite all the procrastination and escape plans I build in.
And I've found the phrase that will push me out the door: I have to at least try.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
An easy hiatus from running
I don't always follow through on promises about running, but I'm pretty reliable when it comes to promises about not running. This period of hibernation is no exception.
On New Year's Day, the final day of the holiday run streak, I woke up for good around 1 p.m. and felt awful — not because of the alcohol, but because of a nasty cold virus that had settled in with a vengeance.
Keeping my vow to spend a week being lazy and not exercising at all suddenly became a piece of cake. Not that I wanted cake all that badly, considering how my taste buds succumbed to the virus, too.
After a few nights of sleeping nine-plus hours (and occasionally napping), the haze of mucus and NyQuil finally began to lift, and I became coherent enough to wonder: If not for my illness, how else would I be spending this run-free week?
Today's my first day off work since New Year's Day, so between working eight hours a day, then sleeping for nine or 10, I haven't had to struggle with the new void in my schedule — yet. Thank God, because otherwise this layoff might've been a tough one.
See, now that I'm not running, the sidewalks and parking lots are nearly ice- and snow-free. The temperature has risen, slightly. Other runners are out there taking advantage of this, sometimes in shorts even (OK, I'm not jealous of that). And the latest Runner's World has arrived in my mailbox.
With all of this going on, the allure of sleeping in and/or napping might've worn off after a day or two, and I might've been tempted into activity.
That would've been a shame, because even these four-plus sedentary days have paid off: Either I'm too focused on the sinus-related unpleasantness, or my creaky hip muscles truly are calming down and complaining less when I stand up.
By no means am I going to see this cold as a blessing — it's been far too nasty for me and for everyone around me — but I will concede that it deserves an assist for keeping my lower body's healing on track.
On New Year's Day, the final day of the holiday run streak, I woke up for good around 1 p.m. and felt awful — not because of the alcohol, but because of a nasty cold virus that had settled in with a vengeance.
Keeping my vow to spend a week being lazy and not exercising at all suddenly became a piece of cake. Not that I wanted cake all that badly, considering how my taste buds succumbed to the virus, too.
After a few nights of sleeping nine-plus hours (and occasionally napping), the haze of mucus and NyQuil finally began to lift, and I became coherent enough to wonder: If not for my illness, how else would I be spending this run-free week?
Today's my first day off work since New Year's Day, so between working eight hours a day, then sleeping for nine or 10, I haven't had to struggle with the new void in my schedule — yet. Thank God, because otherwise this layoff might've been a tough one.
See, now that I'm not running, the sidewalks and parking lots are nearly ice- and snow-free. The temperature has risen, slightly. Other runners are out there taking advantage of this, sometimes in shorts even (OK, I'm not jealous of that). And the latest Runner's World has arrived in my mailbox.
With all of this going on, the allure of sleeping in and/or napping might've worn off after a day or two, and I might've been tempted into activity.
That would've been a shame, because even these four-plus sedentary days have paid off: Either I'm too focused on the sinus-related unpleasantness, or my creaky hip muscles truly are calming down and complaining less when I stand up.
By no means am I going to see this cold as a blessing — it's been far too nasty for me and for everyone around me — but I will concede that it deserves an assist for keeping my lower body's healing on track.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Dangers of running in bad weather go beyond the actual conditions
If throwing up wasn't going to stop me from running and keeping my holiday streak alive, then the blizzard conditions that hit Des Moines on Dec. 19-20 weren't going to, either.
My backup plan, if I couldn't manage to run a mile around the apartment complex parking lot, was to run up and down the building's halls, just like the kids upstairs do on occasion. (Though thankfully not when I'm trying to sleep. No judgment here.)
Those two laps around the lot were neither fast nor pretty, but they did happen, and as I drove to work that afternoon I observed that I wasn't the only runner braving the conditions. To counter any middle fingers or angry honks these folks probably received, I waved vigorously at them and gave a thumbs-up — even though I'm sure they couldn't see.
That hunch became less of a suspicion and more of a conviction when I went on Facebook that night. One acquaintance had posted: "I appreciate a good workout/run as much as the next person, but to the 3 people I saw out for a run this morning — relax and take a day off!"; one of his friends had chimed in: "Seriously, if you really want to get an outdoor workout in today, make yourself useful and shovel someone out!"
And I began thinking again of the people I'd passed during my two parking lot laps: scraping off cars, blowing off sidewalks ... glaring at me? I hadn't sensed malevolence, but I sure hadn't wanted to call attention to myself, either.
It reminded me, on a much smaller scale, of Mark Remy's piece in Runner's World's post-NYC Marathon cancellation analysis. I haven't found it online, but the headline sums it up: "Are We Running in a Bubble?"
The point is that while generally people don't sit around and fume over marathoners' perceived smugness as a group, the resentment is there, simmering — then exploding in such a situation as allowing a race to go through a community demolished by a freak storm — while marathoners themselves receive constant affirmation in their "closed system."
Don't believe it? "Recipe for Resentment: Claims of Running Prowess," posted on The New York Times' Well blog, addresses that same disdain in regards to the (disputed) recent study that running too fast and too long is actually bad for your health.
I wasn't inspired to write this post in order to defend us poor, despised runners. Like Remy, like the other authors of the NYC Marathon piece, like the marathoners who'd registered for the race long before Superstorm Sandy was on the radar, I was just surprised — and yet unsurprised, as a former nonrunner — at the sneers.
Surprised, because I didn't blather on to anyone, in person or online, about how I needed to go running and how this blizzard was really cramping my style. Surprised, because plenty of other people surely did weather-inappropriate "frivolous" things (while not shoveling anyone else out). Surprised, because I waved at cars — and snowblower operators — to indicate that I was moving off to the side to accommodate them, rather than demand all the space for myself.
And a week later, as fresh snow fell lightly, surprised at the disdain because of the smiling, encouraging folks who were doing outdoor chores as I ran past, who waved and apologized for being in the sidewalk. After online hate, it was nice to see real-life nice.
My backup plan, if I couldn't manage to run a mile around the apartment complex parking lot, was to run up and down the building's halls, just like the kids upstairs do on occasion. (Though thankfully not when I'm trying to sleep. No judgment here.)
Those two laps around the lot were neither fast nor pretty, but they did happen, and as I drove to work that afternoon I observed that I wasn't the only runner braving the conditions. To counter any middle fingers or angry honks these folks probably received, I waved vigorously at them and gave a thumbs-up — even though I'm sure they couldn't see.
That hunch became less of a suspicion and more of a conviction when I went on Facebook that night. One acquaintance had posted: "I appreciate a good workout/run as much as the next person, but to the 3 people I saw out for a run this morning — relax and take a day off!"; one of his friends had chimed in: "Seriously, if you really want to get an outdoor workout in today, make yourself useful and shovel someone out!"
And I began thinking again of the people I'd passed during my two parking lot laps: scraping off cars, blowing off sidewalks ... glaring at me? I hadn't sensed malevolence, but I sure hadn't wanted to call attention to myself, either.
It reminded me, on a much smaller scale, of Mark Remy's piece in Runner's World's post-NYC Marathon cancellation analysis. I haven't found it online, but the headline sums it up: "Are We Running in a Bubble?"
The point is that while generally people don't sit around and fume over marathoners' perceived smugness as a group, the resentment is there, simmering — then exploding in such a situation as allowing a race to go through a community demolished by a freak storm — while marathoners themselves receive constant affirmation in their "closed system."
Don't believe it? "Recipe for Resentment: Claims of Running Prowess," posted on The New York Times' Well blog, addresses that same disdain in regards to the (disputed) recent study that running too fast and too long is actually bad for your health.
I wasn't inspired to write this post in order to defend us poor, despised runners. Like Remy, like the other authors of the NYC Marathon piece, like the marathoners who'd registered for the race long before Superstorm Sandy was on the radar, I was just surprised — and yet unsurprised, as a former nonrunner — at the sneers.
Surprised, because I didn't blather on to anyone, in person or online, about how I needed to go running and how this blizzard was really cramping my style. Surprised, because plenty of other people surely did weather-inappropriate "frivolous" things (while not shoveling anyone else out). Surprised, because I waved at cars — and snowblower operators — to indicate that I was moving off to the side to accommodate them, rather than demand all the space for myself.
And a week later, as fresh snow fell lightly, surprised at the disdain because of the smiling, encouraging folks who were doing outdoor chores as I ran past, who waved and apologized for being in the sidewalk. After online hate, it was nice to see real-life nice.
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