Play Ball!

We all know I love running (and if you’re new here, welcome!  My name is Ali, I’m a Pisces, and I love running).  And we all know this blog is mostly about running.  So today I’m going to talk about – softball.

My entire life I have loved playing sports.  But, when you took my natural ineptness and combined it with me being fat, short, and extremely near-sighted (and Ali bows her head and gives thanks to the creator of Lasik), sports didn’t exactly love me.   Now, I would play anything, but I was absolutely dreadful (friends from high school are nodding and smiling.  It’s OK, I already knew).  I believe I am down on record as the only person on the girls’ soccer team at my high school to never start a game, even that last game of the season when they let all the seniors play the whole thing; they let me play the last half. 

So, I was this completely awful athlete – except for softball.  When I was a little kid, I constantly wanted to play with my older brother, who constantly wanted to do anything but play with me.  When I was about 10 and Adam (the older brother in discussion here) was 13, he finally said he’d play catch with me.  And after a few throws back and forth, his eyes popped open and he said, “Wow!  You throw like a boy!”  This was the highest compliment I could get from my brother, because I understood exactly what he meant; I had an arm.  Finally, something I could physically do and not completely suck at!  I continued to have catches with Adam for years, and when he had pickup games with his friends, he brought me along and the let me play (granted, right field, but I was playing ball and therefore didn’t care).  My freshman year I tried out for the girls’ softball team and the very day I made the team I took all my babysitting money and traded it all in for a new softball glove.

For the next 22 years, I played softball regularly.  After high school I played intramurals in college (since there is no spring in Canada, there is also no intercollegiate softball team at McGill), and then wherever I lived afterwards I always found a team to play on.  The first year I lived in Boston I even snuck into a lesbian league just so that I could play (I got “outed” mid-season but they said it was OK and that our pitcher was actually straight, too). 

The spring of 2005 was my last season playing softball.  I didn’t know it would be at the time, but my daughter was only a few months old and life was just getting too complicated.  Besides I had hit my plateau – actually about 10 years previously – and I just wasn’t going to get any better at it.  Flash forward 3 years to when I started losing weight, and 1 more year after that when I had successfully lost 70 pounds, picked up running and triathlons, and never looked back.

So if I haven’t played softball in 9 years, why am I bringing it up now?  Well, as you know, I fractured my foot and I can’t run or bike.  I’ve tried to take it in stride, but I’m at week 9 of a 6 week recovery (yes, that’s typed correctly) and I’ve really lost my patience with the whole thing.  I’ve been grumpy, irritable – oh, hell, call it what it really is – bitchy.  Really bitchy.  And lately I’ve been sorry for myself, as I realize that this year’s NYC Marathon probably won’t work out.  When I see other runners on the street I get jealous and momentarily hope they’ll trip on their laces so that they can’t run either.  If I can’t run, nobody should.  Harrumph.

Again, why am I talking about softball?  Here it goes: last Friday, my son Benjamin “graduated” from pre-school.  I took the day off from work and went to his ceremony.  To celebrate, we went out for lunch and chatted about all things important to a 5 year old.  Ben is as wild about sports as I am, with the major difference being that he is freakishly good at them.  So, he and I spent our lunch pretty much talking about anything with a ball.

After lunch we came home and Ben went to play in the backyard, as I nestled back into my cocoon of negativity.  After a while, Ben ran in and asked if I would have a catch with him.  Before I could say anything, he ran to a closet and pulled out my old softball glove.  I had forgotten that I had kept it in the hopes of handing it down to one of my kids, but then gave birth to a girl with no talent or interest in sports at all, and a boy who would have loved my old glove but is left-handed (and lesson learned: gloves for lefties are an absolute bitch to find).  I looked at it.  That glove came into my life in 1983.  My maiden name is still written on it.  I smiled and took it from Ben and put it on.

Ben and I went to the backyard and started to throw a baseball back and forth.  And as we did, I suddenly felt the clouds break and the sun come out.  My dark mood was lifting a bit, and I knew exactly why.  I was doing something that I used to absolutely love but had lost track of over time.  And then it dawned on me.  Yes, I am upset that I haven’t run since April and likely won’t be able to again until August.  But what really bothered me is that I was worried that I’d put running aside like I had with softball and just never come back to it.  But, of course I will.  I have made a place in my life for running and triathlons, and that place in my life is just going to have to patiently wait to get back its running and triathlons.

 

Ben and I played catch outside for over an hour.  When we came back in the house, I put my old glove right next to Ben’s.  I wanted to make sure that it has its place.

My Book Report Is Overdue!

Remember having to do book reports as a kid?  The teacher assigned you a book and gave you three weeks to read it and write up a report on what you thought the themes were, who your favorite character was and why, stuff like that?  Do you remember thinking to yourself, “Wow, three whole weeks!  I can get this done, no problem.  I’ll read the book twice, do an outline of my report first, then write it up.  With that much time I can even have a table of contents and draw a cool cover.”  Then a week later, with the book untouched, you thought, “OK, I’ll just read it once, skip the outline, and it’ll all be fine.”  And then a week after that: “OK, read the book, write the report, no cover.  It’ll work out.”  Then the night before the report is due you’re still up at midnight, writing furiously and hoping that you get really sick before tomorrow so that you don’t have to go to school. 

Remember all that?  Well, actually, I don’t.  I was that kid in your class who started the book the day it was assigned, did the outline, wrote up a table of contents, made the cover, and handed it all in the week before it was due (you’re surprised?  Because you think I was really cool as a kid and became a nerd later in life?).  I plan out and organize everything.  I set up calendars, create schedules, plan in that buffer time that I rarely ever need.  I even Google Map my itinerary when I go on long drives even though I have a Garmin, partly because my sense of direction is really that bad, and partly just so that I’ll know what to expect and how long it will take me to get there (and may God bless the inventor of GPS). 

Here in the Northeast, the most comfortable months to race are roughly from mid-March (except this year when the temperature was still in the mid-20s, grumble, grumble…) to about mid-November.  So, I had my entire race season mapped out and mostly registered for in early January.  The NYC Triathlon is July 14^th.  I registered for it last October.  But then I was felled by a fractured foot which my orthopedist PROMISED to me (at least that’s how I remember it) that would keep me in a boot and unable to do any land sports for 6 weeks.  So, I adjusted my schedule.  I did the math, and waved goodbye to 3 running races and 1 triathlon in April and May.  I had an Olympic triathlon on June 1^st that I would be back in shoes for but wouldn’t have time to train for so I let that one go, too.  Oh well, that’s the risk you take when you sign up for races so early.

To gain guaranteed entry into the NYC Marathon, a person needs to run 9 races with NY Road Runners and volunteer for 1 the year prior.  Of course, I did my volunteer stint the second week of January, but I only got in 3 of the 9 I need to participate in before I got injured.  By my original plan, I was going to run my 9^th in mid-July.    My 6 weeks in boot captivity plus a couple of weeks of rehab time was going to cause me to miss 4 races.  No problem.  I can still hand this book report in by about mid-September.

But then the unthinkable happened.  I failed my first test ever (well other than my first road test when I was too short to see the stop sign behind a dumpster and blew right through it, oops).  My second MRI was supposed to provide me with emancipation from my boot and set me on the path towards physical rehab and a somewhat jostled but still under control race schedule.  Except, it didn’t.  My boot incarceration was extended by 2 more weeks.  That killed another 10K and a third triathlon.  It was OK, though.  There are a bunch of NYRR races in September and October.  I’ll get my 9^th in before Columbus Day.  No time to draw a cover, but it will still all work out.

But, there was also the issue of training for this year’s marathon on November 3^rd.  Normally I don’t need to start marathon training until mid-July, when I’m in such good condition from spring and summer races that an 8 mile run is too easy if it’s not preceded by an hour long bike ride.  But this year isn’t normal.  I haven’t run since early April.  I won’t run a step until early July, meaning I wasn’t going to pull off anything defined as a “long run” by mid-July when I planned to start marathon training.  Again, this was OK.  I found shorter training plans that still have me toeing the line on the Staten Island side of the Verrazano-Narrows bridge on the first Sunday in November.  I’ll get to run it, it just may not be my best work.  I can live with that.

Then my doctor’s assistant sent me an email.  My orthopedist wanted me in the boot for FOUR more weeks, not two.  The assistant thought he meant 4 weeks from that day, I figured he meant 4 weeks from the previous MRI 2 weeks earlier.  I was right, she was wrong, and I helped a full grown adult count to 4.  And as satisfying as it was to be able to help someone figure out such a complex math problem, that now kept me in the boot until at least the end of June.

With a very heavy heart, I scratched the NYC Triathlon on July 14^th – my last scheduled triathlon of the season – from my schedule. I also tried to figure out how many weeks I have left before the marathon.  OK, no outline, no table of contents.  But I’ll still make it, right?  And how many races does NYRR have in November and December?  Can I get in all 9?

The answer: I don’t know.  At the end of June, the doctor might allow me to wear two shoes again, or he may keep me in the boot for another month (and here’s hoping that his assistant can count that out all by herself this time).  I might have time to train and run 6 more races in 2013, but I might not.  I may run the NYC Marathon in November, or not again until 2015 (and don’t tell me that I could get in next year by lottery.  I’m a statistician.  I know the odds are better of the Mets making it to the World Series).

I still plan to run a marathon this year, but I’m making my peace with the possibility that it won't be the NYC Marathon on November 3rd.  I have two back-ups: the Philadelphia Marathon on November 17^th, and one in Virginia on December 8^th.  And if those don’t work out, when I’m done training I’ll just walk out my door one morning and not come home until I’ve run 26.2 miles.

Injuries happen, and I can’t control everything.  But I can control my reaction to them.  I can go back to being “Fat Girl” and drown my sorrows in a Crumbs cupcake or two (for those who don’t know Crumbs, their cupcakes are roughly as big as your head), or I can stay “Fit Girl”, continue to eat healthy, and work out as much and as safely as I can.  I’m still going to finish my report, it just might have to be on a different book than the one I had planned on.

Listen Up!

“Ali, you have to learn to listen to your body.”

Other than, “Mom, what’s for dinner?” this is the sentence I’ve heard the most from people over the last 7 weeks.  Those following this blog know that I am still nursing a stress fracture in my left foot, and at this point I am 7 weeks in to what I was told was going to be a 6 week recovery time (I’ll get to that in a minute).  I’ve been running for a bit over 4 years now, and in that time I’ve done what I like to call “pushing the envelope”, but most people would agree that I am actually more stubborn than the indelible marker I couldn’t get off my son’s wall the time he decided to “do some art.”  Even when a body part hurts, I usually train through it on the premise that it will feel better after I warm up.  That really does work for sore muscles, strained ligaments, and even a cold, but the rule doesn’t seem to apply to injured bone.  So, at this point I will put up the white flag and admit that running a half marathon and a 10K race after I knew there was something really wrong with my foot was actually a terrible idea. 

I didn’t listen to my body, and now I’m doing overtime in my boot.  I have to admit that if I was truly listening to my body, I wouldn’t be surprised that I’m still not healed.  About 10 days ago when I was wearing this boot for exactly 6 weeks, I went for my follow up MRI to see if the bone was healed.  It still hurt to walk on it when my boot was off (and sometimes when it’s on and I land right on the exact spot), but I had convinced myself that the pain was all in my head and my foot was 100% better, maybe not ever even broken in the first place.  I should have taken the conversation between myself and the receptionist as a sign of things to come.  My apologies to my Facebook friends who have already read this, but you have to agree that it bears repeating:

Receptionist (looking at computer): "you're here for an MRI of your right foot?"
Me: "No, my left foot."
Her (points to computer): "No, ma'am. It's of your right foot."
Me: "But it's my left foot that's broken."
Her: "No. It says right here that your right foot is broken."
Me: "You can do an MRI on my right foot, but it won't help to determine if my left foot is still broken."
Her: "Your left foot isn't broken. Your right foot is."

After a call to my doctor’s office to confirm that the cast that the receptionist could see I was wearing was on the correct foot (really), I had my MRI.  I hunted down my doctor for 7 days (another bizarre story, but nowhere near as funny as the one with the receptionist) before he finally called me with my results.  Now, not that I’m a recurring patient, but when he called he said, “Hi, Alison.  It’s Michael.” After I stumbled for a second or two as I: a) realized that “Michael” was the first name of my doctor, and b) that I’m such a frequent patient that we are now on a first name basis, I finally said, “Hi!  So, how is it?”  His response: “Well, it’s healing.”  Healing?  Why did he end his word with “ing”, meaning it’s still going on, vs. “ed”, which means that it’s all set, I can ride my bike to the sneaker store to get some new running kicks and get this race season back on track?

“Michael” went on to explain something about how calcium is filling up the broken bone, but the break is still there and apparently has been promoted from “stress fracture” to “fracture”.  I felt my blood boiling as he said that I was going to have to wear that [expletive, ends in “ing” since I’m still thinking it] boot for at least 2 more weeks, and then have a 3^rd MRI to determine if it was better at that point (and my sincere apologies to my insurance company).

The next day was my Weight Watchers meeting day.  I clomped along the hot streets of Manhattan to go to my lunch time meeting, absolutely annoyed with every single human I could see.  During the meeting, my Weight Watchers leader, Maggie, always asks if anyone is bragging about anything. I raised my hand and grumpily announced that I had reached my 4 year anniversary of being at my goal weight.  Maggie pointed to my boot and said, “So how have you done it, especially with your injury?”  I explained that I had learned that when I felt like I “needed” a Snickers (or Peanut Butter Cup, or Milky Way, or Charleston Chew.  I’m really not picky), I’d ask myself why it was that I “needed” it.  Usually the answer was that I was upset (or angry, tired or annoyed.  Again, not picky).  I knew that the candy bar wasn’t going to fix the emotion, so I’d figure out something else to do.  Then I thought and added, “and I also now only eat when I am truly hungry.”  Maggie said, “That’s it!  You’ve learned to listen to your body!  That’s what makes a person successful here.”

 

I’ve been thinking about it.  No, I don’t always listen to my body when it’s physically hurting, but I’ve learned to listen to my stomach, my head and my heart well enough to lose 70 pounds and keep it off for 4 years and counting.

So, I’m learning to listen and I’ve got part of it down.  I have at least 2 more weeks to practice, as my foot tells me that it still isn’t healed and needs to stay in this boot (and the boot is saying that in 90 degree weather it feels like someone has rubbed sand on my leg, wrapped Saran Wrap around it and then left it like that for several hours at a time).  Eventually I will be able to train again, and get back the level of endurance I had before I got hurt.  And I’ll do it carefully this time.  I’m listening.

How A Five-Year-Old Taught Me To Ride A Bike

“That’s it.  I’m done.  No more.”

That was the declaration I made to myself the other day.  I’ve been in this boot trying to heal a stress fracture for 6 weeks now, and I’ve absolutely had it.  I had my second MRI last week but don’t have the results of it yet, and at this point I don’t really care.  Feeling like my race season has given up on me trying to catch up with it, I’ve decided to give up on my race season.  It doesn’t matter what the doctor tells me next week.  Healed, still broken, or something in between, I’m finished with my stint in the athletic world.

I had tried to be patient and upbeat.  I pretended it didn’t bother me that my workouts were cut in half, and that every day I was faced with the drudgery of deep water running (even writing about it is boring).  I’ve laughed off race after race that I had registered for back in the winter and then came and went without me participating.  But the other day I finally hit my breaking point.

I know what it is that broke me, too.  I was in my car, driving through my town that in my pre-fracture days I’d either walk or run through regularly.  Ahead of me was a pack of bikers, and I slowed down and swung far around them (and if any of those bikers are reading this, I’m happy to share the road but the operative word here is “share”.  Please don’t hog the whole thing and then complain about drivers being careless and unaware).  And that’s when I had it.  No, not from driving around them.  Well, actually, kind of. I was driving past them instead of biking with them (which if I had, I would have been so pissed off at all the drivers who are so careless and unaware).  I thought about my bike which still sits on the bike trainer in my basement, abandoned by me 6 weeks ago and still waiting for its first outside ride of 2013, probably now with the air leaked out of its tires and the dampness of the basement beginning to affect the gears.  Well, it’s not going to see the light of day.  I am a triathlete no longer.

I celebrated my journey back to “Fat Girl” by eating ice cream for lunch (with chocolate syrup and a chocolate chip cookie crumbled on top for good measure).  I had nachos for an afternoon snack, and pizza for dinner.  Really.  And I learned the hard way that it’s possible to get a food hangover.

My incredibly coordinated left-handed college scholorship

That night I was sitting with my 2 children on my bed, with my stomach saying, “hey, I’m not used to the junk food anymore.  Can you please pace yourself next time?”  Just before my kids go to sleep, we have “chat time” where we talk about stuff that went on during the day.  That morning, my 5 year old son Benjamin had pestered my husband into taking him to the playground so he could learn how to ride a 2 wheel bike.  Ben picked it up almost immediately, his natural athletic prowess serving as evidence of the power of genetic mutation.  During “chat time”, Ben listed his bike ride as his favorite part of the day.  Then he said, “Mommy do you want to know why I want to learn to ride a 2 wheeler?  Because I want to do triathlons, like you.” 

And there it was.  A little boy who doesn’t tie his shoes yet and still believes that a sleeve is a perfectly good napkin took my self-defeat and crushed it in one sentence.  On the very same day that I had given up, my 5 year old son reminded me that I don’t eat healthy and workout just for myself.  I have 2 kids who look up to me, and when they look up I want them to see someone that they want to be themselves.

After I tucked my kids in, my husband Wil saw me clomping towards the basement.  He asked why I was going down there, knowing that I avoid stairs as much as possible since because of my boot I can only take one step at a time like a toddler (and I can’t tell you how many enemies I’ve made at Grand Central when they get stuck behind me on the stairs going down to our train on the lower level).  My answer to him: “I have to go check on my bike.”