Not running, but playing a role in road race

The crowd in downtown Holyoke waiting for the race to begin

I could probably have built off my reasonable showing at the Hot Chocolate Run to train for this weekend's Saint Patrick's Road Race, but after last year's dramatic finish (euphemism alert), I decided to give it a break.

Someone said maybe it's time to call it quits, but I don't necessarily think so.

In any case I enjoyed taking Ben and a friend to the race, cheering them on, and, after much searching in the crowd, finding Ben and giving him a lift to where a bunch of them were going for beers, finding a nearby coffee place, then going back to get him and bringing him home.

If I closed my eyes, I could have been in the way old days of driving him around when he was a kid.

Since it's the 15th anniversary of the day when my poor time in the same race led to my leukemia diagnosis, I wanted to be involved even if not running. Being the support staff brings its own type of reward. And as I wrote in my last post, Ben cheered me on when I ran, and it felt good to do it the other way around.

It was interesting, for a change, to see the runners from start to finish, even though it was cold and windy. I got a good look at each of the starting groups and then walked over to the finish line after the last runner took off. It didn't take long before the winner came through. Those top runners all had such beautiful strides. The colorful garb that had helped see me through when I was struggling was still in evidence, such as a girl dressed as a unicorn, complete with a horn, and green as far as the eye could see.

My plan was to run when I got back home, but all in all I had walked about three miles – in addition to jumping up and down to stay warm – and that was enough for the day.

Adding hills and miles heading toward's St. Patrick's Road Race again

It recently occurred to me that if I can run three miles, I can run another 3.2, in (as I write this), 19 days, 5 hours, 20 minutes and 3 seconds.

That would be Holyoke's St. Patrick's Road Race, the hilly 10K which I used to run all the time but have not run in a couple of years. Last week when I saw my internist, he asked if I was going to run. When I told him that I had gotten back up to three, he said he didn't see a reason why I couldn't do the whole thing even if I walked a little. Doctor's orders? My stamina is good, possibly because I run so slowly that when I did the Hot Chocolate Run, I asked a person on the sidelines if I was walking or jogging. She kindly said I was indeed jogging.

My only problem is my right foot. The big toe and, gasp, yesterday after a five-miler, a twinge in my heel. Working on both of those things.

The other day when I decided to add some hills and get off the route of running around the lakes at Mount Holyoke, I headed out Ferry Street and went to Brunelle's Marina and back, about four miles. It was good to be on the open road, looking at the river and hearing the sounds of birds and wind chimes. I never ran with music because I like to listen to what's around me.

I'm thankful to Carol Constant for giving me the idea that I could run in a race again when she suggested we do The Hot Chocolate Run to support Safe Passage and its executive director, our summer tennis teammate Marianne Winters.

Yesterday Carol and I did five hilly miles. I felt a little bad that my so-called run was equivalent to her fast walk, but she didn't seem to mind, and we spent the time telling some stories. After a bit of this I told her to go on ahead so she could get a real run.

I said something along the lines of "I don't know how I got so slow. I walk much slower too."

This might be comparable to being hit on the head with a hammer and wondering why your head hurts.

Carol set me straight, saying anything I do at this point is great.

I had been having trouble with my blood pressure and briefly went on medicine. I was convinced it was situational (surgery, lack of exercise, Donald Trump) and when two of those things but alas not the third settled down, I got permission from Ellen, the PA at the light therapy at Dana-Farber, to stop taking the medicine and check with my internist. I saw it go down after I started the day with a brief recorded meditation while sitting next to Maddie on the couch.

As all dog lovers know, this is powerful medicine in itself.

Saint Patrick's race day memories

Happy runner, 1980

The Saint Patrick's Road Race, held yesterday, brings back intense memories.

One of my parents took the photo at right as I finished the race in 1980. I don't look much worse for the wear after running the course when it was longer, about eight miles, going up and down the hills at Holyoke Community College. A bunch of us at the Transcript-Telegram would run up and down those hills after work. I didn't have many cares except for starting my career in journalism and catching the eye of the editor who I would later marry.

My time was pretty good, I think about 54 minutes when the course was reduced to a 10K. By that time I was at the Sunday Republican, talking to my runner friends the next day about how I could have run faster if I tried. They said that if I ran speed intervals I really could do it. One of them said jokingly (I think) that I was a wuss. Or something friendly like that. I did occasionally pick it up between trees or other markers on the road and sometimes on the treadmill got to eight minute miles, but that was about it for me.  Now if you ran or even walked with me you probably could not believe I was ever that fast.

 Here is the link to the essay that I wrote for the New York Times magazine's Lives page after my fatigue and slower time during the 2003 race led to my leukemia diagnosis. The other photo is of me at the Quabbin Reservoir when I got out on a break from chemotherapy and just wanted to be near the water. My mother took the photo. I must have been cold because I had two sweatshirts on. I look at both of those photos and can't believe either of them was me. After the little outing at home, it was back to the hospital and on to the rest of the story.

Showing off my bald head, 2003

As people who know me know, I have run the race many times since. I have the energy to run it again. I know because I played two hours of tennis Friday night and could have played more except for my toe starting to hurt and the sight of the pizza calling to me.

Just as I was incredibly frustrated by plantar fasciitis, now I am frustrated by one big toe that hurts after I run. People who know me also know that I never complained about leukemia but complained, and continue to complain, about my feet. I think I could ease back into it in my new Hokas, but as of yesterday I was not ready to try it.

I was sorry when I went down to watch Ben that I wasn't doing it. I have mixed feelings about being there. But I wanted to see Ben and be in the mix of it. Well, I parked my car so far away that I walked about a mile to get to the start. When I walked to the finish I was on the wrong side and had to walk all the way around to get to the side where I could see the finishers. I stood there with my camera ready, stood there for about half an hour, and then realized I had missed him. With thousands of people milling around, I decided I would never find him or Joe.

So I walked down to Canal Street. And realized that a nightmare of mine had come true. In my nightmare, I'm walking, usually around New York, and am unable to find my car. There I was in Holyoke and I couldn't remember where I parked my car. I thought I might have to flag down a police cruiser to drive me around. I didn't write it down because I thought I would remember it.

Then I played a memory game. I remembered it was the last name of a woman with whom I had recently connected on Facebook. And then it came to me. Wendy Bower. It was Bower Street.

I was sad that I couldn't run the race, but happy that I found the car.

I treated myself to a Coke to wash down the hotdog that I had bought, drove home, and thought about something else. I was glad to talk to Ben later and find out that he had a good run.

The day after

Spinning was so much fun yesterday that I signed up to go again this morning.

But as my legs started to stiffen up when I went to a post-event carbohydrate loading meal with Mary and Jerry at Mulino's, I suspected that my body would not cooperate. Then when I woke up in the middle of the night so achy I had to take some Tylenol, I knew it was not to be.

It is like how your calves feel the day after the Saint Patrick's Road Race when you have flown down the downhill near the end, thinking how wonderful it is, only to have your calves complain the next day. An hour of spinning is different from the usual 45 that includes a cool-down period. I thought I stretched enough – and even went to yoga afterwards – but it was not enough.

Oh well, no harm done. I have many other things to do. This includes getting organized for my trip to Dana-Farber tomorrow so that, unlike last week, I am not doing last-minute things that cause me to have to rush and feel all stressed out when I encounter traffic in Boston. Gas up the car today! It should be a no-brainer but last week I didn't do it because I thought I would have more time after tennis than I actually did.

Must get that tennis in before I leave. We tennis nuts have to keep our priorities straight.

Sorry to go on and on about my foot, but I have one more thing to say. I got an X-ray last week. It showed arthritis and a bone spur, which to me doesn't explain why the pain sometimes extends across the top of my foot, but anyway that was the verdict of the orthopedist. Score 1 for Ken Holt (the physical therapist with a Ph.D. in biomechanics) and 0 for the podiatrists who had told me to wear the boot. Ken said it was only making the problem worse and called it an "instrument of torture." The boot gets the boot.

The orthopedist, Dr. K, knows Dr. Holt and agrees with his approach of building up the middle of the orthotic and wearing firm shoes. Since I can only take Tylenol or ibuprofin sparingly, she recommended the topical cream capsaicin, which is the active ingredient in chili peppers.

It helped but caused a strange side effect. The instructions said to wash your hands thoroughly afterwards, which I did. But then at night I had trouble sleeping because the fingers on my left hand that I had used to apply the cream started burning. I washed my hands again. Then in the morning I splashed water in my eyes, and that left eye burned like crazy. My fingers burned throughout the day until I got the brilliant idea of putting the question to google, and as happens when a question has been asked before, filled in the rest of my question, which was, does capsaicin cause your skin to sting?

The answer was yes. I found the remedies on a cooking site because it happens when people cut up chili peppers also. The remedy appears to be putting your fingers in mayo, cottage cheese, yogurt, milk or anything creamy. I put my fingers in a cup of milk and sure enough, the burning went away.

The next time, I applied it with a cotton ball which I held with a tissue. Another example, however minor, of a remedy for one thing causing a problem in another area.

Should I stay or should I go?

Bill Rogers and me in Holyoke

"You don't deserve to wear the T-shirt if you don't finish the race."

I said this to myself while struggling to finish the Saint Patrick's Road Race that year when I ran it with leukemia without knowing I was sick.

With the 40th anniversary running of the race tomorrow, I am wondering first of all if I should run despite my injured toe and second of all if I can wear this year's T-shirt if I don't go.

It was a big accomplishment for me to run it two years after my first transplant and many times after that. I missed it last year due to a winter's-long spate of pain in my legs (probably from prednisone), so I was looking forward to it this year. My training was going as well as could be expected over the winter, with several four milers and a lot of spinning under my belt. I felt confident enough to register.

Then I hurt my toe. It has improved to the point where this week, I hit some tennis balls and felt OK. But I still feel twinges. Common sense – and my memory of getting a stress fracture the last time when I ran a race with an injured foot – dictates sitting it out. Especially since aggravating the toe would mean skipping even more tennis.

Just to see what is out there, I googled, "Can you still wear the T-shirt if you don't run the race" and came upon a post on Saltyrunning.com headlined "5 Guidelines for Wearing the Shirt From a Race You Did Not Run."

The author writes that early in her running days, she learned the cardinal rule of race shirt etiquette: Never wear a shirt from a race you didn't run.

Later, her attitude changed, especially in certain situations.

Much to my relief, I found what I was looking for in case number 3, like so:

"You got injured or had other trouble during training and weren’t able to start.

If you unfortunately weren’t able to race it, I say go ahead and don the shirt. You trained for the race, and you paid for the goods. It’s not like  you stole a medal from the finish line!"

I'm glad I decided to pick the T-shirt up today because I met Bill Rogers, who won Boston and New York four times each and Holyoke twice. Rogers was signing his book, "Marathon Man," in the registration tent in advance of running the race tomorrow.

I bought the book, which I will read. I picked up the shirt, which I will wear.

As for the race, I'll probably go to yoga and save the toe and think about it for next year...God willing and the creek don't rise.

Slicing, dicing and hitting hard

A few of us want to run to get ready for the Saint Patrick's Road Race, but it has just been too cold.

I skipped it last year due to a months-long spate of terrible pain in my quads (caused by prednisone, helped by physical therapy) and would really like to run it this year. I hope that spinning, the dread mill and the runs I have already put in and hopefully some to come will suffice.

Yesterday we had about three hours of tennis: a free doubles strategy session with Michael ("middle," middle" "middle"!) followed by our regular clinic with George. By the end I was pretty tired, but George said he has never seen me play better.

I had really gotten into the flow, and actually all four of us had, leading to the best kind of tennis there is. After a few good angled slices and spins, George asked me "How did you do that?" and I said, "You taught me." He got that little grin.

In drills before playing, everyone was hitting the ball hard. Someone whaled a ball right into my throat, taking my breath away for a second. One of the players who is a nurse said it looked OK. I caught my breath, the other player apologized, and then I kept going.

"There's no crying in tennis," I said.

Sidelined only some of the time

I have been thinking about the fast-approaching Saint Patrick's Road Race, about how I would like to be in the stage of anticipation that comes with being a participant instead of regretting not doing it.

But with everything going well in the health and fitness arena, it is not a major regret. Still, last night I dreamt that I began to cry while sitting on the sidelines watching the runners line up at the start. If I could tell my subconscious to get a grip I would do it, but I know psychology does not work that way. With a whole mile under my belt, I can start to work towards next year if it ever gets nice to run more. (The "dreadmill" is not an alternative.)

I played two hours of good, fun tennis at Friday night's mixer in Enfield, with pizza afterwards. When I got home a little after 10, I had a one of Deborah's delicious cupcakes with vanilla ice cream and then watched a couple of episodes of "The Office." Pure indulgence. I woke up the next morning feeling fine, a sign that I have a pretty sturdy constitution. Still, the eating part is probably not something I should do all the time.

Yesterday morning I adjusted a pose in yoga that resembled tweaking a tennis shot. I had been having trouble getting up from cobra into downward facing dog, interrupting the flow by resting my left forearm on the mat instead of placing both palms down. I thought my left arm wasn't strong enough to bear the weight. But our instructor, Justine, said that I was relying on my arms instead of my core, and that I should start by pushing back as though into child's pose and from there up to dog.

It worked. Back at home, I have been getting down on the floor and practicing. Maddie comes over and acts as though she thinks this is an odd. Perhaps she believes she is the only one in the house who can do dog.

Mission accomplished

I finished the Saint Patrick's Road Race yesterday with no mishaps, and for my efforts got a nice lime-colored T-shirt that I want to wear all the time.

It was fun being back with the pack; there were some 6,000 runners, and, at the start, we were really packed in. I went with Ben and some of his friends and stood with Ben at the start. The weather was good for running, and the crowds and music were energizing.

Ben and me after the race, with
Holyoke City Hall behind us.

For the first couple of miles, I didn't feel great, but then I never do at the start of a run. Once I got my stride, I thought, "I'm doing this!" And then came the hills. I ran up all of them, but I went so slowly I might just as well have been walking. But I went pretty quickly down the hills, while still holding back a little in keeping with one of my goals: No tripping.

And after all that worry about my feet, they didn't bother me at all.

I wasn't even going to think about the time, but when I crossed at 1:23, although I was happy to finish, I did think, "How did I get so slow?" My time, after all, used to be in the 50s at my best best and although slower with time, it was usually under an hour...except for the 2003 race when I was much slower, went to the doctor, and ultimately was diagnosed with leukemia.

When my father slowed down in his 80s, he used to say, "I'm a shadow of my former self." I'd say, "Dad, you've had two heart surgeries and you're a little older. You're doing great."

I guess I inherited some of my father's competitive streak. I'm sure it helped me get through a lot of the things that were thrown at me. But still.

Of course I know how I got so slow. I'm a little older and haven't run the race in five years. And three years ago I was in a coma, bedridden for months, and unable to walk when I could finally get out of bed.

Duh.

Anyway, people did finish behind me.

I'm alive and feeling well, and I earned my new green shirt.

Children, lost and found

Most of the time, when you have children who have left the nest, you don't focus as minutely on their whereabouts as you did when they were under your wing.

But sometimes, if you're like me, you are seized by the need to track them down out there in the big bad world. And if you fail, panic can quickly set in.

Here's an example from Saturday and Sunday.

On Saturday, I couldn't find Katie at college, and it was getting late.

Did all the usual: Text, call and snoop (on Facebook). Rational Mom figures she's out and about; panicked Mom imagines disaster.

This is how my mother behaved before there were even methods like texting and snooping on the Internet. If she couldn't find me, she called neighbors, relatives and friends. Our communication "gap" wasn't even very long, and when she finally "found" me, I was annoyed.

The panic is like that of having a young child who disappears behind a clothing rack at a store or who is simply not in your direct vision for even a second at any crowded place. One time when we were with my parents at a museum, Ben was right behind my mother, but she thought he had vanished, and she shouted for him at the top of her lungs.

Figuratively, I was shouting for Katie.

I called Joe, thinking he might have heard from her or seen something on Facebook. Joe always answers, either through text or voice. No response. (Duh, it was Saturday night.)

This caused a mini-pileup in my brain.

At 11:37 p.m., Katie texted that had been out and didn't have her cell phone. I called her and said now I couldn't find Joe. "Mom, he's a college senior, leave him alone!" she said.

Right.

The next morning he texted to say he was sorry, his phone had died.

I had located two, but the next day I "lost" the third. Ben had come home to run the St. Patrick's Race with some friends from high school. He had hardly trained, running a mile or so here and there, and I had told him he was crazy to tackle the hilly 10-K. He replied that he probably wouldn't do well, but he would do it.

I wanted to cheer him on like he had cheered me on when I ran the race, so I told him I'd watch for him along the last stretch near the finish line and to look for me in the crowd afterwards. I got there 20 minutes before his estimated time and waited...and waited and waited...probably another half an hour until it looked like the last runner out of the field of 6,000 came hobbling in.

I searched the crowds, and no Ben. Rational me: I missed him and now he's gone off with his friends. Crazy me: He collapsed. You read about 25-year-olds having heart attacks, and it could have happened to him.

So I went home, and some time later he came in, all happy and carrying a green bottle of beer. He had done way better than he expected and had apparently crossed the finish line two minutes before I found my place, probably when I was trying to get through the crowd. (I won't publish his time, because it's his business, but it was really good for someone who hadn't trained.) Also, he had come in on the left side, and I was on the right.

He had looked for me but figured I had gone home...and the celebration beckoned. Arrrrrrggggghhhh!

One minute, three children, in terrible trouble.

Next minute, three children, safe and sound.

The worry never ends.

Talking about the "S" word

I had coffee this morning with John Stifler, a longtime friend and longtime runner who writes the "On the Run" column for the Daily Hampshire Gazette.

Our conversation turned to the plantar fasciitis that is keeping me, and has kept many runners, from going out and doing what we love to do. The conversation was especially relevant since Holyoke's big Saint Patrick's Road Race is this Sunday. That's the 10-k that I was running in 2003 when my fatigue was the first sign that I had leukemia.

John asked if I had considered the "S" word.

I thought maybe he had come up with some new curse, and I asked him what he meant.

"Swimming," he said.

Ah, yes. I have done some laps and gone water jogging, but it's not quite the same thing.

I told him that I remembered my friend Chip telling me, years ago when I first had this crazy-making heel pain, "Sooner or later all of us end up in the pool."

John had a different way of looking at it.

"If you're naturally a runner and you're injured and you swim for exercise, God eventually takes pity on you and makes it so that you can run again," he said.

I liked that.

I asked him if it applied to tennis, but he said he only knew about running.

I hope the tennis gods will take pity on me too.