Unexpected Finds

Sometimes I find funny or interesting items on the street during my runs.  Often, I find nothing funny on my runs.  Maybe a broken umbrella or a discarded, half-completed homework sheet.  And it is those mundane runs make the unexpected gem even more precious.

Since I recently started carrying my phone with me, I am now able to capture some of the ridiculousness I come across.  Below is one such treat.  And yes, it might be hard to tell the actual size of the item due to lack of other comparable objects nearby.  I assure you it was well over a foot long, and I won't even begin to guess the circumference.

In fact, I actually ran by this thing and chuckled out loud.  But I was compelled to turn around and come back just to take a picture.  (That is, after the old man passed me on the sidewalk.  I didn't want to have to explain why I was so intrigued.)

Wonder who cast it aside. . . . Wonder if it's lonely. . . .

Just Be Farts

Warning/S(p)oiler Alert:  

If you are averse to or offended by toilet humor or potential TMI situations, you should probably skip this post.  Or, while you're at it, go ahead and skip this whole blog 'cause you're no fun anyway.

I have a confession to make.  Over the past couple of weeks, I've had a few runs where I've had some close calls.  And by close calls, I mean more specifically that I came within milliseconds of pooping my pants.  Now I understand that after the first close call, it should be ridiculous for it to have happened again . . . or to continue to happen.  But I sheepishly admit:  it has.

I'm not sure exactly what the root cause(s) is/are, but it can probably be summed up by some combination of the following:  bad coffee timing, impatience (lack of wanting to wait just a tad longer after the first poop at home to make sure nothing else is waiting in the pipeline), sensitivity to whatever my pre-run meal or snack was, plain old run jostling of the digestive system (read:  rocket launch activation), and even less exciting, plain ol' bad luck.

One of the worst parts of these episodes--aside from the very fact that they exist--is the sheer swiftness upon which they render me helpless.  From quick twinge to hard pang to oh-shit-here-it-comes panic.  Luckily, I am often in close range of an emergency pit stop location on my runs (bar, restaurant, grocery store, gas station), although never as close as I'd like it to be.

Anyway, on my run tonight, I began to feel that quick twinge, verging on moderate pang, and I realized something.  I have become a cowering, servile minion of my own butt.  I realized that I was pleading to my butt for it to just be farts in there, and not something more sinister.

Many runners have their own personal mantras that they create and repeat to themselves to get them through tough runs when they need a motivational pick-me-up.  Many an elite has one, and many a coach recommends one.  I, however, have always bordered a little too close to that OCD boundary to voluntarily have a phrase repeat in my head for hours.

Tonight, though, as I begged my butt to hold on for that one last mile until I got home, I realized that I had indeed created my own mantra.  "Just be farts."  Before I knew it, the phrase formed on my lips over and over as I came closer to home.  Just be farts, just be farts, just be farts.

And what do ya know, it actually worked.  I got home safe and sound with no need for a pit stop.  Maybe there's something to this mantra thing.

Pants

Today my pants fit.

And not even my old throw-them-in-the-back-of-the-closet-'cause-those-will-never-fit-again pants.  Although I did just recently try on a couple of those, and waddya know, they fit these days.  Excuse me while dance a silent jig.  And I'm not just talking about my ol' standby regular pants either.  Those pants have become increasingly too big over the past few weeks.  At first, it was just a little wiggle room here and there, but eventually I began to notice that I had to constantly tug on the waist to keep them from falling.  (If you've ever been a sign language interpreter standing at the front of a college classroom, you'll know how far from ideal that type of situation can become.)  When even my skinny jeans became baggy, I knew it was time.

Under normal circumstances, this would have been a celebratory event.  Mandatory shopping because my pants were too big?  Delightful.  But seeing as how funds have been low recently, I put it off for as long as possible.  This weekend, I made a brief trip out to score some work slacks--wait, did I really just use the word slacks?!  Ew.  Anyway, work pants and a couple of pairs of jeans.

As it turned out, I came home with a pair black work pants identical to a pair I already own and love.  Strike that.  Used to love, before they started falling down.  But, I discovered, this new pair has one advantage.  A different size.

And even better:  they fit.

Ice Pack Burn

This weekend I had a first. I injured myself in a way that I did not know was possible. How? The evil, dreaded ice pack. I know, I know. I kinda wish I had a better story. But I don't. Deal with it. So as it happened, I woke up Saturday morning with a sore Achilles heel. This in itself was odd since I hadn't worked out at all Friday, and in fact, I'd barely left my bed in a guilty case of a wonderfully lazy Friday. So, like I said, it was odd to begin with. However, it wasn't severe, so I carried out my normal Saturday 10-miler with no problems.

Upon arriving home, I realized both Achilles were sore. This, though, was not odd. Every so often after long runs, it's not uncommon for me to have tired, disgruntled heels. So this Saturday, as many a Saturday before, I applied a nice ice pack onto the heel of each foot. As always, I used the protective wrap so it wasn't directly touching my skin. And as always, ten to fifteen minutes later, I unwrapped my feet.

The problem was immediately clear. My skin on my right heel was frozen stiff into the ribboned folds from the wrap and looked to be completely frozen and numb to the touch. My mind raced back to a few minutes before when my heel was hurting under the dumb wrap, and I wondered why I hadn't taken it off early. Because I'd done this a thousand times with no problem, that's why! Then I considered if I'd possibly done seriously damage. But don't people spend hours on mountains with frostbite and still recover, I asked myself. Surely they do. So I figured, logically, that recovery from a 10-minute ice pack session in a reasonably warm house--nowhere even near Mt. Everest, mind you--would take place fairly quickly, the situation having resolved itself.

Wrong. Oh so wrong. The stiffness and pain in my right heel continued and left me hobbling glumly all weekend. That meant Sunday I was in too much pain (and too self-conscious) to go to the yoga class I'd planned. Which, by the way, worked out fine since my new yoga mat still hadn't arrived from Amazon. Fair. What pleasantly surprised me--and probably shouldn't have--was that my backup core yoga session at home actually helped me stretch out the Achilles muscles and tendons without overdoing it. I was even able to walk that afternoon . . . albeit with a bit of pain.

Now Monday, it's progressed to a burning feeling on the skin, some red/purplish discoloration, and still a little range of motion limitations. Having now covered it in cream, gauze, and an Ace bandage wrap, it's definitely more functional. I can walk without limping, but I'm concerned about my run tomorrow. Even if I can run without too much discomfort, I'm not sure that I should. Aside from the superficial skin issue, I'm terrified of injuring something internal. Overly cautious? Possibly. Marathon training injury paranoia? Probably. But if I have to sit it out a few more days to be on the safe side, I will.

But more importantly, one question still rings in my ears more than any other: What the hell happened?! How is this even a thing? Argh.

Day 1 of 125: Ahh . . . Rest

The day has come. Today is the first day of my 18-week training for my very first marathon. Although, I've found a bit of a paradox in saying that. As it turns out, Day 1 is a "rest day," so can I really say that I'm training today as I sit on my ass and rest? Well, guess I'm embracing it. Rest day or no rest day, it is regardless Day 1. Off to a great start!