Peeling Scabs

I love that feeling, the slow tearing of dead skin, sometimes a little too early for the new growth underneath, but the sweet itch is too tempting to pass up. Another bad habit from the scraped-knee years that I have brought with me. I push on my bruises too, and I have had ample opportunity over the past couple weeks to enjoy that dull pain on the blue and yellow bruise cloud of post-A.R.T. quadriceps.

My knee is pretty much healed and those last two torturous, long weeks where I wasn't able to run are now a memory. One of the key principles of Shorinji Kempo, the martial art that I studied for over ten years, is that the body and the mind are one.  This was drilled into our heads, not forcefully drilled, but quietly, after meditation. I have been depressed, struggling with not being able to run, and even before that, I felt like I had hit a stagnant plateau with my running, and during the last couple of weeks I decided to do something to get "it" back, whatever that "it" was, it was missing.

Ten things I did instead of running over the past two weeks:

• A.R.T. -- I feel like this was the key to overcoming the knee pain.
• Cycling on the trainer in my office while watching Touching the Void.
• Two core workouts a week courtesy of the Runner's Workout at Core Performance.
• Scrapping my previous training plan and realizing that if I wanted to run the 50 miler in October and double cross the Grand Canyon in November, I was going to have to consult someone smarter than me.
• Found a coach.
• Watched some really good trail running videos:

• Planned my Vegas trip for next weekend where I am going to see a lot of good bands perform and mix in some Red Rock Canyon running.

My ears will be happy

• Foam rolled the shit out of my legs, not literally, although if there were shit in my legs, I think I did enough foam rolling to push it out.
• Re-read parts of my favorite running book, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, by Haruki Murakami. One of my favorite quotes from the book:

My time, the rank I attain, my outward appearance — all of these are secondary. For a runner like me, what’s really important is reaching the goal I set myself, under my own power. I give it everything I have, endure what needs enduring, and am able, in my own way, to be satisfied. From out of the failures and joys I always try to come away having grasped a concrete lesson. (It’s got to be concrete, no matter how small it is.) And I hope that, over time, as one race follows another, in the end I’ll reach a place I’m content with. Or maybe just catch a glimpse of it. (Yes, that’s a more appropriate way of putting it.)

These were good things and they kept me sane during the layoff, but for me, nothing really compares to the feeling of getting out and pushing the limits of discomfort, turning the feet over, and embracing the pain that starts in my lungs, then travels to the muscles in my legs, then to my head, fighting off the urge to walk, pushing through that pain and finishing hard, seeing my truck 1/2 mile away and then letting go of the pain, kicking the heels back, breathing hard and feeling the drops of sweat falling behind me. It has been awhile since I ran like that, but today, my coach scheduled a ten mile tempo run with very specific instructions about pace and heart-rate, and as I was putting on my Garmin, the top fell off, and my spirits sank because in my desire to please and hit exact splits while keeping my heart-rate under 165, I was looking forward to tracking this with technology. Instead, I went by feel. The problem with me going by feel is that I tend to go too hard, but damn it felt so good to run fast again.

The last few runs have been amazing, and I feel like I am back, and running happy. A couple of days ago I was wondering why everyone that I passed along 101 was saying hi or good morning. Usually I give the runner's wave as I'm passing and then I get pissed off when it isn't acknowledged by the baby-pushing-Starbucks-drinking-blackberry-earinged set that frequents that part of the coastal route. On this particular run, I was getting all kinds of acknowledgements and realized it was because I was smiling.

I see so many people running with pain on their faces, twisted and hurting and I wonder what they are doing wrong, why are they running, putting themselves through this agony if they don't enjoy it. I know that a lot of people run to stay in shape, and for the feeling that you get after a good run, but the moment, being present for the run, should be a reward in itself. I realized that I had gotten away from that and I needed help breaking through that plateau, so I found a coach. I picked him because I enjoy reading his blog, he has sensible rules and, and I talked to him on the phone and he reaffirmed my choice by telling me he was just a dad who likes to run, and he has had some amazing races, and who wouldn't want to work with a guy who posts pictures of foxes that he has adopted. And, judging from the last few workouts and my body's response to these workouts, I think I have made a good choice.

I am still conflicted about dropping out of Noble Canyon 50K. It's a great race and I hate to have to miss it. I'm feeling good, and right now I think I could go out there and run 34 miles on Saturday, but if I do, and I take a step backwards in my training, the drama queen in me would come out and I wouldn't want to subject anyone to more of my depression-laden ramblings. So, for now, I'll be taking it easy and testing the knee with a 20 miler on Saturday, and I'm actually looking forward to it.

Delirious Ramblings Brought on by High Fever and A.R.T.

This sedentary lifestyle is starting to really kill me. Since my last post, the one where I was advising myself to take it easy, I have received A.R.T. treatment, run one of my favorite trails with a slight knee pain after the treatment, was super hopeful that I would be able to run the Noble Canyon 50K in a couple of weeks, then went out and ran 19 miles out and back along the coast, which felt great, until mile 15, then the wheels fell off, twitching eye and grimace pain with every other footfall. Limping around afterward, depressed, explaining to some of my friends that I was going to have to drop out of the 50K, I was down. That day I took the family to the animal shelter to look at puppies, just to look, but of course we fell in love with one and brought her home with us. Then I got sick, spending the last four days with a fever, dreaming about dried up seals stranded on the aforementioned trail, as I lay in a puddle of my own sweat, fever cruising past 102 and hitting 103, delirium, headaches and way too much daytime tv trash, and the worst part is, I still haven't been able to run.

A.R.T. (which I assumed stood for Active Release Technique, but which I quickly came to realize stands for Acute Repeated Torture) was recommended by a couple of people who read my blog including Paige, who claims to love it, but she runs 100 milers for fun (read her Leadville 100 race report, it's really, really good), which should have been a gigantic red flag. I knew a little about A.R.T., have even tried it once, a 5 minute free session at the gym with a 8 foot 3 ex-volleyball player, current weightlifter, who dug into my calf like it was play dough, separating the fascia which was as painful as it sounds. I went online to the A.R.T. website and scrolled through the list of certified practitioners and picked the smallest, most Asian one on the list. She specialized in Traditional Chinese Medicine, acupuncture, and A.R.T. Figuring I had found a lighter, gentler form of ART, I called her up and made the appointment.

When I showed up at the office, she shook my hand limply, all 90 pounds of her. I felt a little guilty, thinking I was getting off easy, avoiding the real pain while being able to tell my running buddies I was doing everything I could to treat this, even the dreaded A.R.T. She asked me to run, and watched me as I ran up and down her dark hallway, trying to run softly past the offices of accountants and investment brokers.  She spoke in code to her assistant, listing muscles I had never heard of, analyzing my form, picking it apart, asking about gait. It turns out that I don't lift my feet enough on the back-swing, I don't push off hard enough, and that she was going to fix this by treating some muscle or ligament that I can't name, but if you want to see it, I can show you the exact spot because it is now a swirly brownish blue.

As she worked on the spot, she had me bend my leg back, pushing harder on the muscle as I assisted in my own torture like something out of Saw. She was talking calmly to her assistant as she channeled semi truck strength through her small hands and into my leg as my wince turned into a twisted mask and tears leaked out of the corner of my eye.  This, she told her assistant, is the expression we need to see with him.

This was not my Dr., she would never ride a trike

She asked me to make 2 more appointments for the following week, and at that point I just nodded, a defeated man, her will be done. I asked the Dr. if I was allowed to run on it, and she encouraged me to test it out, so I drove down the street to my favorite trail (the trailhead was about a mile from her office) and had a relatively pain-free and joyous run. My hopes for the 50K had been restored, and I gave myself a rest day before the ill-advised 19-miler.

That was a week ago and I had to call and cancel my two appointments for this week. I spoke to the receptionist with the soft voice who told me she hoped I felt better soon and I should re-schedule for next week, so yeah I will, but let me get over this fever first, and your soft voice isn't hiding anything, I know what goes on behind that closed door.

I do think it helped, and I will go back, and I was stupid to try to run 19 miles, and I am probably not going to run Noble Canyon because I don't want to jeopordize the 50 miler next month or the Grand Canyon run the following month, so if you read this and you see me toeing the line out there at the Pine Valley Bible School, please punch me in the face. It's for my own good.

My new running buddy, Hazel

On a lighter note, we got an Australian Shepherd mix (with some German Shepherd), she is eight weeks old and I can already tell by the way she runs in circles around the backyard, that she is going to love the trails. Hopefully, by next year, we'll be out in the rain when no one else is around, both of us off of our leashes and drool flying freely in the wind.

This is a great song and it speaks to my current mood

Grounded

My parents never used this form of punishment. My mom tried once when I was about 17, she told me I was grounded and couldn't use the car, so in a fit of righteous teenage rage, I kicked a hole through my bedroom door, hurting my big toe, but not wanting to show it and sped off with smoking tires leaving a trail of black, staining the virgin suburban street. I couldn't figure out where to go to top off this fit of rebellion, so I drove to the library. That will show 'em.

I'm grounded again, my knee hurts, but only when it bends and I'm realizing that the whole running for sanity and peace of mind has terrible side-effects when you can't run.

I feel faster than ever right now, envisioning myself breaking a 5-minute mile or 18-minute 5k as I limp down the stairs, taking them one at a time, and only stepping down with my good leg.

My time has been spent icing, prodding muscles with a plastic stick, hours of research on "runner's knee" only to find that it's a medical mystery, this pain underneath my patella, decoding a bunch of medical jargon, sifting through online dictionaries and studying beautifully detailed anatomical drawings, tracing tendons and muscle fibers as they connect, pull and try to stabilize the moving parts. Rest is the go-to (and surely the wisest treatment protocol). I read in Matt Fitzgerald's book, Brain Training for Runners, that the best course of action for any injury is very simply don't run if you feel pain. This is prudent advice and advice that I have freely and easily given to other runners in the past, but can't seem to follow for myself.

I took the family camping last week. We camped at Carlsbad state beach, which is one of my favorite places to run. I have logged hundreds of miles on that strip of land west of the Coast Highway, through the campgrounds, smelling the delicious bacon, and making frequent use of the always clean and fresh campsite bathrooms. So, as I limped around one morning, and boiled some water for coffee, my wife pops out of the tent smiling and beaming with her running gear on, letting me know she was going for a run, and if I could just take care of the kids for an hour or so, that would be just great. Sure, no problem, I would so much rather change diapers, take three separate orders for breakfast, and listen to the whining of three sleep-deprived and camping-grit-covered hooligans, than to go for a run, my run, along the coast, under some nice cloud cover in the salt-ocean breeze. Of course I said yes, no problem, as I sipped my coffee, knowing that the balance sheet was one-sided.

One of the hardest decisions I have ever made was a few days ago when I was invited to run 17 miles in the hills around Salt Lake City with a woman training for the New York marathon and a friend of hers who happened to be an Olympian. As she asked, the rational side of my brain, not really a side, more like a small, shrinking slice tucked between the part of my brain that knows there is yard work to be done, but doesn't waste the time firing off any neurotransmitters that would connect to some sort of action, and the part that determines when I should shave (that part of the brain doesn't get used much either). I immediately answered yes to the friend who asked if I wanted to join them on the 17-miler. My legs were itching to run, to get out on the trails after an entire week of limping around, trying to stay active by lifting weights, hoping I wasn't doing more harm than good, riding the bike, but not outside in the end-of-summer San Diego sun.  I wouldn't be able to face the running wife after flirting with that mistress, no, I had spent the week on my bike, hooked up to my trainer, trudging along in one speed as I pulled up a drab and violent Swedish thriller on my computer, pedaling out some penance in the dark, sweaty office, dripping on the mat as my trail running shoes sat there with Geico-eyes glaring outside my door, still dusty from the 21 miler in the mountains last weekend. I texted my Australian friend that night, not wanting to tell her the real reason I wouldn't be joining her, because Australians are tough and a knee injury would not count as a valid excuse, so I texted "up l8 drinking, won't be able to make the 5 AM start" m8. That little section that controls rational thought is now overworked, swollen and tired and probably won't be able to do much work for the next few weeks.

So, now I sit grounded, knowing that the upcoming events of the year, culminating in the double crossing of the Grand Canyon, are worth resting and healing for, but I still couldn't help myself yesterday morning as I was on the hotel elliptical machine, watching the depressing news network and some performance artist named Glen Beck, wondering how people get a real workout on those things and pretty sure I was doing it wrong; I jumped on the treadmill, turned it up to 11 and, in an off-beat rhythm, pounded out a couple of painful miles, knowing it was a stupid thing to do and smiling the half-smile of the insane.

For now, this will have to do.

Mt. Whitney Day Hike

Mt. Whitney is unimpressive and grey when viewed from the one stoplight town of Lone Pine.  It's the highest mountain in the lower 48 and maybe someone needs to go paint a giant red white and blue “W” on it so people know which one is Whitney, but it stands there humble among a bunch of other peaks that look just as tall or taller, more rugged looking and jagged edges in a line that stretches across the horizon.  The beauty of the journey to the top of that high peak is not apparent from below.  The rivers, meadows, flowers, bear cubs, clear lakes that seem to drop off the end of the mountain, and the panoramic views of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, the Great Western Divide, Sequoia National Park and Death Valley, are amazing, magnificent, and subtle at the same time.  Those who hike the trails all share in this beauty and it is not surprising that you have to win a permit lottery to do this hike.

Sunset over the Sierras

I carried my GoLite hydration pack with a couple Clif bars, a pack of Gu Chomps, 5 Blueberry Gu gels, a canister of Nuun electrolyte tabs, a couple chocolate and pretzel Mojo bars (because the salt tastes really good after all the sweetness of Gu and Clif bars), and a couple of slices of turkey and some string cheese for lunch.  I had a bottle that I would re-fill from the streams and a 1.5 liter hydration bladder that I re-filled at the lake at Trail Camp.  I also carried a jacket for the top and my point and shoot camera.  My pack weighed 11 pounds at the start of the hike and 5 pounds at the finish.

The trail-head at Whitney Portal

Sunrise

Five of us started at 3:15 AM under the natural light of a thick blanket of stars.  We would occasionally turn off our headlamps and look up, unknowingly in the midst of the Perseid meteor shower with shooting stars tracing bright white lines across the sky, lasting way too long and not really fading, just disappearing into the bright black night.  As we hiked up to the first meadow about 3 miles up, the sun was starting to come up over the trees and Lone Pine Lake to the East and illuminate the grey granite of the peaks above, now glowing fiery red reminiscent of the sunrises in southern Utah when I was a kid looking at the sun-stained red cliffs.

We stopped at Trail Camp for lunch and I met up with the five people from our group who had started earlier in the morning.  This group included my mom and her husband, Ric, who made it to the top and down in 23 hours while dealing with altitude sickness and foot and knee problems.  I am very proud of my mom for not turning around early.  Although it probably would have been smarter and easier to turn around at the first signs of altitude sickness, she pushed on, and like she always has in her life, she weathered her struggles with an impressive determination that I hope is passed on to my children.

Me and my mom on the trail

We hit the infamous switchbacks after Trail Camp, and I know there is some argument as to exactly how many switchbacks there are, some say 96, some say 98, I'm going to say 99 because of the song that was running through my head during the course of this back and forth struggle with the mountain and boredom and elevation and disappointment when your hiking buddy tells you we are at a round number and you are sure it's 40, but turns out it's 30 and there are still 69 left and the people look real small as you strain to see the top, Trail Crest, where it's supposed to level out and it is only another mile or so to the summit.

Switchbacks

Ice on the switchbacks (in August)

It doesn't get much easier at Trail Crest which is 13,700 feet above my home, but the view is spectacular as you turn the corner and the wind hits your face and it feels like the temperature drops 20 degrees and you are standing on the ridge, that dull grey, jagged line across the horizon that is now so massive and the view of the Sierras to the left and Guitar Lake below and I couldn't tell if it was from the beauty or the elevation, but it was hard to breathe.

I talked to a guy that was hiking the John Muir Trail with his son, his wife had recently died, and he was on a journey from Yosemite.  We talked triathlon (he had done three Ironman races) and the trail, and at some point I would love to do something like that with my family, check out for about a month and live out there in the wilderness.  You form quick bonds on the trail, whether it's the shared struggle, the common interest in the outside, or just the silence, people are friendly, and most will share their stories.

As you turn the corner at Trail Crest, the summit of Whitney comes into view, and it is still a few miles away, and it is rocky and slow.  This part was difficult for me because I was close to the top, I could see the top and it still looked far away, but passing The Needles and the sheer drop of thousands of feet through these peaks to the valleys on either side kept my excitement up.  The trail was rocky at this point, and not too clear.  I think I went off trail here a couple of times and had to climb over some rocks to get back to hiking boot prints in the dust, but I knew that as long as I kept the top in view and headed towards the little stone hut that was built in 1909, I would be okay.

Between the Needles

Rocky section after Trail Crest

Stone hut at the summit

The summit itself is unremarkable, there is a tremendous view, but not much of a different vantage point than previous spots on the trail.  It may sound trite, but the race to the finish line is not about the finish line, but the process of overcoming and growth that takes place when you set out to achieve something, the long hours of training, the nervousness leading up to the event, the tension at the start and the relief at the finish (I could go on and on here, but there is a reason that the Tony Robbins show was canceled).  I signed the climbing register, pressed the "Easy" button, and waited in the cold and the wind for the rest of the group to get to the top.  We ended up waiting two hours up there and decided to head down.

The register and the "Easy" button

Signing in

This marmot kept posing for me

I was tired from the hike up, the lack of sleep the night before, and the waiting, and truthfully I was looking forward to getting off the mountain, hitting up the Whitney Portal store for a famous cheeseburger, fries and a beer, then heading to my hotel room in Lone Pine with the big tub, so I rushed it, passing a lot of hikers on the way down, talking to some, nodding to others, I ran down the switchbacks where I could, heading below the tree line and slowing to appreciate some of the scenery I had missed in the dark, the streams, and the meadows full of wildflowers.

Lone Pine Lake

The trip down from Lone Pine Lake to the trail-head at Whitney Portal was never-ending as I ran some, walked some and peered into the trees because at this point I was hearing large paws and seeing movements in my periphery, but when I stopped to look, nothing, and I convinced myself it was my imagination as I ran alone down the trail that was taking me much longer to descend than a few days before when I ran down the 3 mile final stretch in about 25 minutes.  This was stretching into an hour, and I must have been going a lot slower than I felt, and I kept thinking the granite below was the shiny steel of cars in the parking lot.  When I did finally see the parking lot, and smelled the greasy food cooking, I was tired and happy to be able to sit.  As advertised, the cheeseburger and fries were a deliciously salty piece of heaven.  And, as I sat waiting for the others in our group to descend, a momma bear with three cubs in tow headed down the trail, crossed the street in front of me, not 20 feet away, and headed towards the parking lot.

All told, it took me about 9 hours to climb to the top (including an hour lunch break) and 3 1/2 hours to descend.  It was an amazing day and I hope to do it again next year, take a few days and camp on the way to the top, take it slow and bring my wife and oldest daughter to share in the story.

On an acclimatization hike on the Methuselah trail where the oldest living thing is located (with all due respect to Barbara Bush)