Now I’m Too Old to Run?

Young people of the Internet: I am the voice of the future. Heed my warning. Do everything in your power to stop aging.

Aging is not good for you. It’s really not. Your metabolism will desert you (10 years ago, I was a size 4. Today…well. I’m not a size 4.) You’ll have to go to the restroom before you get in the car. That’s every time you get in the car. Don’t test that one even once. You’ll fall asleep on the couch before 10 p.m. every night. Well before 10 p.m. Eating blue cheese will give you heartburn.

The latest symptom in my downward spiral into decrepitude (that’s a word, right?) occurred Monday morning. I got up at 5:40 (one of the perks of going to bed before the sun has disappeared is that you wake up before the sun rises) to go for a run. I coated my entire body in a layer of Body Glide, got dressed and went downstairs for a little stretching/petting Petunia while she eats session (oh, another thing: with age, you have to stretch before AND after exercise to avoid injury. It’s exhausting and time consuming.)

I left the house, synched up my watch and put my iPod onto “blaring” (did I mention that you’re hearing slowly disappears as you get older? Just a tiny bit at first. You’ll notice yourself saying “huh?” and “what?” a lot. That’s how you’ll know.)

I went literally 10 steps and about died. I had a sharp stabbing pain in my back on the left side, kinda close to my spine. It basically felt like my liver was trying to escape my body. I hit pause on the iPod and did a few upper body stretches. When it felt like I could breathe without doubling over, I tried to run a few more steps. Nope. Excrutiating, radiating pain. I turned back the 20 paces and went back inside the house.

This stock image is so freaking disturbing. How do I know I DON’T have some face on my back?

During this whole escapade, one of my neighbors had pulled up, gotten out of his car, witnessed my entire “run,” and walked to his front door, shaking his head as if to say, “Yep, another one down.”

I hobbled through my morning routine. I was just in so much pain. I even considered going to the doctor, something I never do since my physician has the bedside manner of Frankenstein. My own personal WebMD XFE told me that it was probably just a spasm and I’d be fine.

 

Let me reiterate: I did nothing NOTHING at all that would have caused any kind of muscle spasm or contraction of any sort. Unless you count bending over and petting a cat or pushing a button on an iPod as strenuous activity, I had not done any moves that would cause that kind of blinding, breath-stealing pain. This is purely a case of Random Age Pain. It’s similar to Restless Leg Syndrome, I suspect. Or even, heartburn.

Now I’m on a steady diet of ibuprofen and glum, pitiful looks, accentuated by sharp intakes of breath whenever I move wrong. I had a heating pad on it all morning, but a quick Google search indicated that I had gotten even that course of treatment wrong. You’re supposed to use ice packs, apparently, not heat. Which really bums me out because I hate to be cold.

We have less than four days until vacation and I was really hoping to get my old and slowly-rotting, ancient body in shape for bikini wearing. Because by my calculation, four days totally would have been all it would take to turn back the hands of time and get into a size 4.

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Today’s the Day. Well, Maybe Not THE Day, But A Day. Nevermind.

In a little bit here, I’ll be partaking in this:

Where hopefully I’m not doing this:

And definitely hope I’m not doing this:

Blech.

I know I’ll feel and look like this:

But that’s ok, because after I finish, I’m going to do this:

And maybe some shopping.

Time to get the show on the road.

Three Weeks Till Certain Humiliation

It’s three weeks until the Las Vegas Rock N Roll ½ Marathon and I am pooping one of those small, rectangular units of building material, often made from fired clay, and secured with mortar. I’m shitting bricks is what I’m trying to say.

You have to love Google Images. Everything you're looking for is there. Unbelievable.

I don’t know if I’m ready. Or if I will be ready. I’m afraid I’ll make a fool of myself. Or worse, injure myself. I actually may already be a success at that second one.

A few weeks ago, the balls of my feet started hurting anytime I would run over an hour, especially the left foot. Now, the smart, reasonable thing to do would be to not run for over an hour. Alas, alack, I’m not fast enough to complete a half marathon in an hour. Or, maybe even two hours.

So last Monday, thinking that perhaps the newish pain was caused by old shoes, I stopped by the running store and purchased new shoes. New, same shoes. As in, the brand and style I’ve been using for the past two years or so. Mizuno Nirvanas, which are oh so ironically named since there is nothing “Nirvana”-like about either the price of those shoes or training for a half. But, those were the shoes recommended by the running store when they analyzed my gait and whatnot, so those have been what I have used.

The old shoes on the right are looking fairly busted.

New shoes always have the same initial issue: blisters. I’m quite blister-prone. Especially when breaking in new shoes. And, of course, I had blisters on my right foot all last week. But the bigger issue was the continuing ball-of-the-feet pain. And, in the mornings, I noticed my feet would hurt for the first few minutes after getting out of bed. I had tender feet and had to pad around carefully.

I ran 6 miles on the treadmill on Saturday (acquiring this lovely new chafe mark – seriously, I do all kinds of contortions to make sure I get Body Glide ALL OVER and the one place I have never had any issues and therefore don’t lube up, gets chafed.) My feet definitely hurt, but I figured I’d just stretch it out.

Please ignore my awesomely flabby white arm and let's just focus on the red angry welt caused by my shirt sleeve. Apparently.

I started out on my 10 miler at around 3 yesterday, fortified by a waffle and side of bacon ingested at 10:30 and a celebratory glass of champagne with newly-engaged running buddy Amy at around 2:30. I’ve heard that this is how running dynamo Skinny Runner fuels. Oh wait….she drinks Prosecco AFTER a race, not before? Hmmm.

Sure enough, right around the hour mark, my left foot started to throb. It’s like running on a very deep bruise. It almost feels like a bone spur or something, it’s so localized. And, I’m MILES from home. I have no choice but to keep going, or lay down on the side of the trail like a wimp, which was my first choice, but since it wasn’t that busy (ie: no audience), I had to keep going.

I ran 8 miles, then hobbled/ran/walked the last two. And went straight to the running store. They think it might be plantar fasciitis. I got fitted for some new inserts, bought this cool new spiky ball to massage my feet and spent the evening icing and stretching. Fun, glamorous times at my house last night, let me tell you.

 

 

So that’s how I spent my weekend. Anyone else do anything fun?

Also: final note. XFE reminded me that the term “soy sauce” came about the other day after he almost bit it on the exact same two steps while clearing dishes. After almost taking a dive, he said, “whoa, I almost soy sauced.” Which is waaaaay funnier than my lame story. And which just proves that (a) he’s funnier than me, and (b) I’m not really “a revisionist” when it comes to my stories, I just have a crappy memory. Because seriously, why would I leave that out if I had remembered it?