Back on track?

I feel like I’ve been on a roll with my running workouts lately. They’re steady and consistent. I’ve been running three days a week, and usually doing yoga at least one day a week, taking a rest day, and filling the other two days with good swimming or spinning cross-training workouts. The runs are at a level of mileage that I’ve always felt should be a base: five or six miles two times a week, ten miles on a weekend. I feel good and primed — and, a bit wary.
Three months ago, I tested positive for Lyme disease. The positive diagnosis came seventeen days before the Twin Cities Marathon, for which I had been training, and about four or five weeks after I had felt my body steadily weakening. The weakening had puzzled me because it was accompanied by the usual signs of overtraining — body aches, joint pains, and fatigue — coupled with strange fever binges that would flare up in mid-afternoon, be quelled with steady doses of Advil, and stay quiet through the night and early morning until the flare-ups repeated in mid-afternoon.

Overtraining is a common condition among eager recreational athletes. The only issue is that I was not overtraining. If anything, I was under-training. I was being mindful of my age, the summer heat, and the fact that I had completed a triathlon just a few weeks earlier. I wanted to finish the Twin Cities Marathon in five hours or less, but I also wanted to finish it safely and with a genuinely honest smile on my face. A smile that said I had done a good job and had had a good time in the process.

The Lyme diagnosis provided the answer. I was not overtraining. I was afflicted with an infectious disease. I went on antibiotics immediately, and after about two days, felt well enough to resume what I could of training. I completed a 20-mile long run thirteen days before the marathon, which was cutting it close but still far enough in advance to do a reasonable taper. I enjoyed a long road trip from my home in upstate New York to the Midwest with my husband, stopping to see my parents en route. We spent four days in the Twin Cities visiting my husband’s parents, my sister, and several other friends while resting and preparing for the marathon itself. He finished in 4:14:56, a personal record. I finished in 5:08:38, eight minutes over the desired finish and with a smile in my face. A smile that said I had done a good job under the circumstances and was going to start training as soon as I could for the next marathon. I was — and am — determined to try and finish under five hours.
So far, so good. I rested my body, and resumed running after about a week’s rest. I began with very short, gentle runs of one to two miles, and built myself up gradually a week at a time. When a friend asked me if I was interested in trying a five-mile trail run on November 1 — an event known as the Fallback Five — I hesitated for a minute, then threw in my hat. I was ready. We did the run together, and I had a blast. Through November, I built up my mileage slowly but steadily, hoping to get to ten miles by the end of the month. I got there by November 22, doing 11 miles on that day. I followed that run with a “marathon in a week” during Thanksgiving Week, putting in a 5, 7, 4.25 and 10 miler. Last week, I logged a 5, 6, and 10 miler. And this week I am eyeing a 15 kilometer fun run, after doing 6 miles today.

So I feel like I’m on track, but I also find myself feeling hypersensitive. Is it odd that the last mile of every run is clocking in a minute slower than the previous ones? Or is that simply a sign of me feeling cold and ready to wrap up the workout? Are those aches in the calves a sign of potassium deficiency? Or do I simply need to stretch more? Is the need for as much as nine hours of sleep a sign of the Lyme returning? Or is it simply a natural need for rest?

I find these questions interesting because I think they speak to the nature of how we can use our workouts to gauge our overall sense of wellbeing and life. Alongside the slower miles is diminishing daylight and the onset of night, a night that comes early two weeks before the Solstice. With the muscle aches comes a longing for warm soups and hot baths, a symptom of winter. And with the fear of Lyme returning? I think that perhaps is a quest for long-term health.

Embracing the dark

A couple of weeks ago, I ran across an article in a running magazine on winter running. The general theme of the piece was one of encouraging runners not to give up on their outdoor runs simply because it was the time of year when fall transitions to winter. Rather, the article’s author proposed, embrace the elements. Think about running in dimmer light, under gray skies, or in darkness as an opportunity to commune with the self, to approach the workout differently, to think of it as a part of the ritual of daily life, as part of what makes one a runner and a human, to boot.
The exhortation struck a chord in me. Probably because the diminishing hours of daylight, coupled with chill temperatures, dampening rains, and even snow and ice tend to drive me indoors. I am lucky because I am able to run indoors. The Saratoga Springs YMCA has treadmills and an indoor track. But with that drive toward the indoors comes a slump in motivation. No matter how inventive one can be with workouts on a treadmill that offers a mosaic of television sets as its primary view or on a track where nine laps equals a mile, running indoors is more of a task than a treat. The miles don’t just slip by; they tick by slowly, as if they, like the body, are itching for the outdoors and spring.
A desire to remain running outside has lingered particularly strongly in me this year because I have had such a wonderful spring, summer, and fall of running outdoors. From the time that I began hitting the outdoor streets regularly sometime last March, I have rediscovered running as source of spiritual joy. My body has responded by going faster and longer. I joined a community group run at St. Patrick’s Day, ran two fun runs in early April and won a giant cookie for placing second in my division in one of them. I surprised myself by finishing a four-mile Fourth of July race at a pace below a ten-minute mile and, despite testing positive for Lyme Disease in mid-September, I completed an early October marathon in a time that was my fastest in twelve years.
After recovering from the marathon, I have wanted to keep going. And, I have kept going, mapping out fun runs through the holiday and setting goals for 2016.
All of this, though, seems to rest on staying outside.

Last night, I got home at 5 p.m. The rain was falling fairly heavily and the skies were dark.

“I’m going for a run,” I announced to my husband.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.

The smell of pork ribs which had been slow cooking all day and a rather severe sinus infection deterred me. Tonight, however, I was determined.

“I’ll be back by 6-6:15 p.m.,” I reported to my husband in a text message, adding, “I have my phone. The ringer is on.”

It was a little after 5 p.m. when I left. It was a bit warmer — in the low 40s — but dark, foggy, and drizzly. I took a right turn out of my driveway, unsure of which route or how far I would go, and began running up the gentle incline of our road. The light tough of my shoes striking the pavement and the relaxed feel of my legs, hips and back led me to sense that this would be a good run. And, then, within minutes I found myself caught in a tangle of dog leashes, fur and two excited but friendly dogs, pawing me and trying to lick my face as I scrambled to help their owner retrieve the leashes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “they’re out of control.”

“It’s okay,” I replied. “They’re just being dogs. But you be careful walking them. It’s pretty dark out here.”

The darkness disturbed me slightly for the first mile. I realized that a wristband that included a flashing safety light was barely visible to oncoming traffic and wasn’t giving me enough light to see either. I also realized that the fog settling in over the valleys in our rural neighborhood was going to make seeing ahead a challenge. Nevertheless, my body — like the excited dogs — was itching to run. So I moved forward in a cautious but relaxed pace. As I settled into the run, I realized that homes decorated with holiday lights and the white lines on roads that demarcated the shoulders were proving to be good friends. As long as I followed them, I had enough light. I began to understand holiday spirit — in terms of decorating one’s home with lights — in an entirely new context.

On the first uphill, I slowed to a walk and flipped on the tiny flashlight in my smart phone. I followed one of my usual 4.5 mile routes and decided at one point to tack on another half-mile to create an even five miler. I got home wet but not chilled, relaxed and refreshed, and fully invigorated. The run grounded me in a feeling of familiarity with my neighborhood and my environs, and had — as the running magazine proposed — revealed the “inner runner” in me. I will try and do a large number of runs in the coming weeks of winter outdoors and in daylight for as long as I can. But I no longer feel as if darkness needs to be a deterrent.