Run Faster and Reduce Pain

If you've experienced knee and hip problems that seem to be caused or exacerbated by running, you may find this technique to be your bag of magic beans!

I was having Thomas work on my hip and knees for months during my triathlon training. He'd fix me up, I'd feel great, then after a couple of runs I'd start limping around again. I was doing everything I was supposed to do to fix the problem, but it was chronic. I wasn't sure if I might have to give-up running alltogether and start competitive skipping or folk dancing?

A few weeks ago, I found this YouTube

Now I run faster, without pain, and I didn't have to buy the shoes. Although I would be interested to know if they work. I learned that I was a "heel striker" thereby putting significant force on my joints, not to mention putting on the brakes with every stride. Therefore, if you are a heel striker you are a bad person. At least that's what comes across in the research I've done.

In the video, they illustrate a natural running technique when you're barefoot. They suggest emulating that strike with your shoes on. Now I've heard of a lot of people jumping on the barefoot bandwagon and Five Finger Shoes (the funny rubber toe shoes). The problem I have with those methods are in the lack of arch support. There is none! I need it or my feet hurt.

I've shared this new technique with my running partner and she has improved her time and duration too! I highly recommend giving this a try. If you search for "Pose method of running" on YouTube you will find more instructional videos.

I hope this new breakthrough gives you the runs!

Get Ready for the Next Potato Famine

"Saints be gloried, we haven't had such as a wee crumb in a month, Sharon. Tis a blessed ting that the good Lord provided us with your fat wings to sustain us through this wretched Potato Famine".

I'm a perfect amalgamation of German and Irish that equates into an amazing ability to store fat. I'm a little French too but I didn't get any of that lovely olive skin, delicate features, nor the tousled hair. Just some b.o.

It doesn't matter how much I exercise and diet I will always have some tummy fat and, of course, my lovable fat wings. The Italians have the ass fat and, as much as they'd like to complain about it, it's way better than tummy fat. Nobody's writing rap about lovin' the big bellies.

Getting in shape for the next triathlon requires me to exert myself. I must run, ride, and swim. And I do. I have been changing my eating patterns thanks to Weight Watchers - I love it - but I started to gain weight. I had lost over 17 pounds since October and then it started to come back again, like an ex-boyfriend that just won't go away, no matter how many times you don't return his calls because he has the sex appeal of your Uncle George who doesn't clip his toenails and when he walks on the wood floor it sounds like castanets.

I complained to Thomas, he's my pit crew for the upcoming triathlon, and he asked me if I've been tired lately. "Oh my God, how did you know?" I had been sleeping 9-11 hours a night and practically falling asleep in the afternoon. Then he said something that made me happy and afraid all at once: "You are [suffering*] from overtraining. You need to increase your calories and decrease your exercise."

This assignment is not as easy as it sounds. After all the hard work I've done, it's a big risk to start eating more and decrease exercise. It's downright counter-intuitive. But I had tried everything else and I just kept gaining weight, feeling sleepy, and wanting to give up the whole Weight Watchers thing. Fuck it.

I read this article and decided to give it a try. Since then, I lost 1.2 pounds the first week and 1.6 the second week. The weight is still coming off, I feel great, look pretty good, and have a ton of energy for exercising. Now, if I could just do something about my cheap Irish skin.

* I think he should have said "suffering" so I added it here.

Run in the Rain

I'm getting ready for a little ol' 5k this weekend. I got my Body Mechanic tune-up and I'm looking forward to possible rain because I envision lots of people running through the streets with their hands over their hair like little pink carports. But not me, sister, I'm tough! I just have to make sure I'm wearing my waterproof mascara.

I assume there will be some cream puffs with umbrellas too. I hate umbrellas for a couple of reasons:

First, and I know this is horrid of me, but I would never have agreed to marry Kent if he even owned an umbrella, much less carried an umbrella. Might as well have shapely curved eyebrows and carry a man purse with a dangly keyring attached.

I'm now thinking about my metro-man friends who do carry an umbrella, have shaped eyebrows, and might have something in their closet they call their attache' or travel bag (but really it is a purse). I feel bad now for making disparaging remarks in the previous paragraph.

The second reason I hate umbrellas is that I'm tall. It's always short people that have the umbrellas. In a crowd of people on the street, they twirl those pokey spikes around like buzz saws cutting through hair, shopping bags, and eyeballs. They have no concept of life above the umbrella. It's like they have their own little rain forest world of 5'4" and under. Everything above the forest canopy is theoretical and invisible. Someday I'm going carry around a cigar and burn drip holes in the tops of umbrellas.

Still, I don't know what to wear to the 5k. I wish had a Bead-Dazzler.

Roasted Scrotum

"Roasted Scrotum? I have a roasted scrotum" I asked as I lifted my head up from the soft, warm table to read what was written about me on the grease board. "No, it says Rotated Sacrum" corrected Thomas, my Body Mechanic.

Competing in the Super Jane Triathlon with the T.W.A.T.s in 2008 was the first publicly competitive activity I ever participated in, except for walking through nightclubs in my 20s. I was really good at that and let me tell you, it wasn't easy in those shoes.

After the triathlon, all us T.W.A.T.s were on fire and ready to sign-up for the next one. But right after the triathlon my back seized up on me. I couldn't run or sit without severe pain. I hate being broken. I feel like I have all this strength and energy in my brain, but my body just slows me down like a shopping cart with a rusted wheel.

After my last triathlon, I had to sit on the floor to put on my pants for over a year because I couldn't lift my right leg. My back was in distress and it simply would not fire to lift my leg. I had to hoist it around with my hands like a dead dog strapped to my waist. Thankfully, I could at least tell people it was a triathlon injury instead of something lame like a pedicure mishap or a Wii accident.

I gave up real workouts for a while, telling myself "Well, that's it for me. No more triathlons, or running, or weight lifting. I'll just find exercises that are more conducive to my advanced age of mid-forties."

I started researching dance classes, dog walking, swimming. Meanwhile I gained 15 pounds and started smuggling my food babies in maternity pants.

I tried to fix my back problem:

1. Ibuprofen .... until my stomach hurt

2. Chiropractic .... felt great for the time being, but had to keep coming back week after week, month after month, check after check.

3. Physical Therapy .... made my back worse because stretching is the last thing I should have been doing!

4. Denial .... I just pretended that it wasn't happening and kept working out anyway. Same results as (3).

Finally I took my back to the shop: My Body Mechanic. I suppose if I had to describe Thomas' services to a stranger, I'd say something like "It's like a sports massage with all your clothes on, but instead of feeling good on the table and leaving with your original injuries, you'll leave without the problem you came in with. He's amazing." But that's the dumbest explanation ever. He has all sorts of credentials and you can read them for yourself.

So amazing is Thomas, that I've decided to compete in another Triathlon in October. I have confidence that:

A) I will prevent a debilitating injury, months and months of treatments, and medical bills.

B) I will beat my prior times, even though I'm now 45.

C) I will get more women involved in Triathlons.

My friend Kelly and I decided to do the Tri-Girl-Tri in October. I'm just excited about having new blog material. There's the locker room etiquette, outdoor drills, and of course we still need to come up with a new team name. Kelly and I have some ideas: The Moaning V's, Beadazzled Bitches, and more. We can't be the T.I.T.s because Team In Training already swiped that one. Any ideas?

Oh, and my rotated sacrum (aka roasted scrotum)? He fixed it. In one visit. Back pain is gone. I'm afraid my knees are jacked too. So he gave me some things to do about that with a giant roller. And I run like a dorky girl, but that's another post.

"You're Fat"

I had a stirring deep in my belly like goldfish swimming in Jello. It was a funny tickly feeling that was pulling at memories from years ago. I placed my hand gently on my soft belly and noticed that, yes, it was larger and more smushy than before. I casually wondered if I had stomach cancer, because I always think I have cancer. For instance, when I'm tired, I think I might have a touch of sleep cancer. When I have a headache that feels serious, I consider brain cancer as a diagnosis. Then there's the lovely note I got after my very first mammogram "We have detected an area in your x-ray that is irregular" and then it goes on to say "Check back with us in six months for another x-ray" What?! I could be dead by then.

So a sea monkey in my abdomen sounds like either stomach cancer or a spiky green parasite that I must have picked from grocery store sushi. Either way, I'm screwed. So I went to the doctor. He was not my regular O.B. who looks like Professor Honeydew from the Muppets. This guy looks more like Herman Munster without the heavy pancake make-up and platform Doc Martens. He fully examines me on the table. We know what that means, right girls? He's quiet for a minute then says "Get dressed and we'll talk."

Like I said, I'm screwed. I don't know what kind of bomb he's going to drop so I'm completely unprepared for my dramatic reaction. Throughout my life I've rehearsed all my reactions to terrible news, just in case: The crying like a Baptist Minister's Wife; the stoic Angelo Saxon widow; off the deep end with drugs, booze, and men like Marilyn Monroe. But what roll shall I play today?

I'm dressed and waiting. A quiet pause from the doctor is accompanied by averted eyes and shifty body movements, like a 14-year old boy at a school dance. He finally says "Sharon, I have good news and I have bad news: The good news is that you're not pregnant. The bad news is that you're fat." And then I wake up.

I had that dream when I was turning 40. I had reached my largest weight ever and I had tried buying new shoes and more make-up, but nothing worked. So I got a personal trainer and he kicked my ass into a beautiful piece of art.

That was four years, one ass, and a spine ago. You see, after I competed in the triathlon last year, my back and neck have not been the same. My exercise has been very limited. Like, swimming only. I can pretty much just swim. That's okay for a while, but I've gained back almost all of my yucky weight. On Saturday I decided I needed to organize my nutrition so that the monster that I turn into at night, the one who makes me eat Napoleon Dynamite style nachos and frozen taquitos, will be beheaded. My personal trainer put me on a great program a few years ago. The only problem is that I HATE math. I also have no memory. I just want someone or something to keep track of it for me. Is that asking too much? I mean, I keep track of the girls' sport schedules, my husband's work schedule, both school's schedules, my daughters food allergies, and all the other things we all do. So for once, can't someone else just help a girl out?

I'm trying a free 7 day trial from Calorie King and so far, I'm pretty happy. What I already learned is that my night time feeding shark crazy sessions are probably due to the fact that I haven't had enough protein during the day. So last night I had some tuna and voila, I stopped eating. I have already lost one pound.

This morning I went to see my chiropractor and he asked me if I was pregnant. I was laying down on the Spine-o-lator, or something, and I turned my head like Regan from The Exorcist and said "What did you call me?" In a tone reminiscent of my teenage years as a bad-ass. He assured me he was just joking. You see, two of his other patients in the room were pregnant and we were all there at the same time. I had no choice but to go over his head and tell his chiropractor wife "Will you please explain this to him?" She gave me a nod of assurance. Boy, do I feel sorry for him. Well, not that sorry.

Bye bye fat wings!

The First Triathlon - Part I

I'm not the cute #273, she's "Hot Lips". I'm the one 5" taller than everyone else who looks like a dude.

My car pulls up and stops on my driveway and waits for the garage door to open. I flop out like a flaccid penis from a pair of briefs. I’m dirty, hungry, and so tired that I cannot imagine anything but laying on the couch and watching Abbott and Costello for the next 24 hours. My family gleefully bounds from the house to greet me and hear all about Mom’s first real triathlon.

I hold up my Super Jane medal strung on the red ribbon around my neck and smile. My 7-year old looks impressed and asks if I was first, second, or third. I was 642nd, no lie. There were 785 participants, so that puts me pretty low. Even though this is exactly what I would have expected, there was a secret little voice in my head the whole time I trained. It said “Hey, what if you got first place?” I know that’s completely impossible considering there are real, live athletes competing, but I just couldn’t help it.

I always believe I can do anything. This mentality is described as Optimistic or Stupid, depending on what kind of person is doing the evaluation. That’s why I almost died in the first leg.

THE SWIM
We were to swim 400 yards in open water which is pretty scary. You might be surprised at how many people asked if I’d be able to touch the bottom. So I trained more on my swimming than my bike or run. By the triathlon, I was swimming well beyond 400 yards without resting (or touching) and this led me to believe that not only could I do it, but that it would be easy for me.

Prior to the triathlon, experienced triathletes warned me to swim behind the pack and to the outside and I heard them. I believed them. Until I got in the water and said to myself “shit, this is no sweat.” The horn blew and we all started running through the gushy mucky lake bed until we were deep enough to start swimming. I was with all the T.W.A.Ts “Tough Women Are Triathletes” except for some of the youngsters (under 40) who decided to go in the previous wave.

By the time we were one-fourth through the water course, I was in what has been referred to as “the washing machine.” This is when you’re getting kicked in the face, squished on both sides, and run over from behind. There was nowhere to go and I lost my stroke and thereby lost my breath. I could not tread water, float on my back, or side stroke to rest, as I had previously planned on doing. I was being pulled down into the abyss. That’s when I spotted the lifeguard on the surfboard floating on the sidelines. She had four swimmers hanging from her board. I needed desperately to reach her, but it was like trying to swim though an elevator full of people; they just wouldn’t move. That’s when I started shouting “I’VE GOT TO GET TO THE OUTSIDE! I’VE GOT TO GET TO THE OUTSIDE” and I just plowed through the bunch of them like a lawnmower. What could I do?

I felt like giving up. I didn’t think I could finish and I was going to ask one of the lifeguards to disqualify me. That’s when I remembered how much money I sank into this. How much work I put into this. And, most importantly, how many people I talked into doing this. I couldn’t let down the T.W.A.T.s. So, after resting, then swimming, then resting again, then swimming some more, I approached the beach. I kept lowering my legs to, please God, touch the bottom. Finally I felt the familiar soft gush wrapping around my toes and I started to walk to the beach. Then I remembered that my next leg was the bike ride, but I needed to pee first. I continued to walk toward the shore and pee as fast as I could. But before I new it I looked like a Russian dancer all squatted down and stepping forward. So, to use a manly reference, I pinched it off.

I found my “Transition Area.” This is where my bike, helmet, towel, and rubber poop is. I brought my rubber poop in order to mark my territory. I guess it worked because nobody took anything. I had two transition neighbors; one of them thought it was pointless and stupid. The other one laughed and said “good one”. I think these two women accurately represent most people’s opinion of me. As I slopped up like the creature from the black lagoon on heroine, I see Nellie standing there waiting and smiling. I wasn’t sure if she was waiting for me, but we got on our gear and our bikes and headed out.

THE RIDE

I start off on the road, Nellie in front as usual, but then we heard a weird clicking from her bike and she had to pull over. I rode right past her and shouted “good luck!” It did not take me but about four pedals to realize some things. This is the order in which I realized them:
1. I should stop and help her
2. I am no help, because I’m bike-stupid
3. She was waiting for me in the transition area so we could ride together
4. This is a race, not a day at the park
5. I am a selfish bitch and very competitive, too

By the time I’ve processed these five facts, I’ve rode too far past her and its impossible to turn around. Luckily before too long she comes clicking up behind me and happily passes me. So does everyone else in my wave. Then comes the next wave and they pass me too. Because they’ve written our ages on the backs of our calves I’m fully aware that 60 year-old women are passing me now. This was probably karma for leaving Nellie on the side of the road like a bad date. Between the swim/drown and my biking skills, I’m officially getting my ass kicked.

We started up a really steep hill and I had to stand up on my pedals and grunt out the last few yards. A woman approximately 250 pounds passes me and declares “I’m sure glad I trained for this!” and I wanted to reply “Oh, well I’m really fucking glad too then!” but I didn’t have the breath.

Along the course, there were volunteers to motivate us. Now, while this kind of cheery backslapping happiness would normally make me want to roll my eyes and walk right past, I was so needy of the nourishing support, that I totally bought it. They were mostly college age kids, clapping and yelling “keep going, you’re doing great!” I loved each and every one of them and while most people just passed them by, I said "thank you" to every single one of them. They were like the people I keep in my head that tell me “I can totally do this!” except they weren’t imaginary.

After 11 miles on the bike, I had a full-on bicycle seat episiotomy. It was so sore down there that I’d lost all feeling. I rode the streets wondering if all the other women felt the same way or if, perhaps, I was special. Maybe my vagina was more fragile and bony. I would like to think of myself as very delicate down there, so I imagined that I was in more pain than anyone else.

When I got off the bike, my legs stopped working and I shouted to the cheering crowd around the gate “Where’s my legs? My legs are gone!?” I hobbled like a 10-month old baby toward the Transition Area for the last leg of the race.

…. Tomorrow I’ll continue with THE RUN and THE FINISH and supply pictures of the T.W.A.T.s with some of our favorite T.W.A.T. supporters. You’ll also learn about this marvelous event that, in the end, changed my life and the lives of all the T.W.A.T.s and how you can become a T.W.A.T. too!