The empty park...

Yesterday we went on daylight savings time in Mexico, so those of us who are usually out at five-thirty or six in the morning were, today, really out at four-thirty or five. This may explain the vast emptiness of the running path. Oh, there were a few hardy souls and even a couple of people walking dogs, but in general it was peculiarly quiet. Okay, Hal, this is a new paragraph. For those of you who never saw "A Space Odyssey", Hal was the psychotic computer that decided to eject a crew member off the space ship. He is alive and well and on Blogspot, ejecting paragraphs from the space ship. As I trotted along, I noticed that new things hurt, and old things seemed fine (no, I don't mean myself with that remark about "old things", applicable though it may be). My teeth are no longer sore, but I noticed during the walking stage of my daily torture that my toes seemed like they were going to separate from the main body of my feet. My scalp hurt for a while, but that wore off--not the scalp itself, but the soreness. I could understand aching toes, but my only explanation for a sore scalp was that the blows from my feet that had been transferred somehow to my teeth had now come to roost in my scalp; could it cause hair loss? Or maybe even hair growth! My mind wandered as I struggled along--it's always best to think of something other than what you are doing-- until I suddenly heard a terrible, rasping breathing. There was no doubt it was breathing, but it sounded ghastly, like someone in extreme difficulty. Could it be me??? I tried to hold my breath to find out, but I couldn't hold it long enough. Eventually a woman passed me (as usual--passing me is sort of the jogging path landmark for knowing you still have vital signs). How in the world could anyone gasping with such agony be out there running?? Who knows, but once she caught up with me, she began breathing normally, and I can only assume that she was pulling out all the stops in order not to be the only person in the park who couldn't pass that little old lady in the Asics running shoes...

Blogspot still dysfunctional...

There will be no paragraphs for you today either, it seems. I'm too tired to protest, however, because today I had to jog down several blocks in a downhill direction and then walk back. I did jog a block and a half on my way back, uphill, but then I faced a complex series of overhead walkways one of our mayors had built over a major street intersection. They are wonderful for pedestrians of all stripes--nice shade in the summer from the lovely trees, runners and strollers are safe from the Nascar escapees disguised as ordinary drivers--but the darned things are an effort to climb when you are already gasping for air. But okay, today's training is under my belt, and I'm afraid to say anything else because, well, damn it, there are no paragraphs!!

Class struggle and another Blogspot meltdown..

Actually, I do know about paragraphs, but this website doesn't. There was no way on earth to make it put in the paragraphs on yesterday's entry, so one must simply bear with us. Who knows what it will do with this entry. The website has developed a Hal-like mind of its own which I find disturbing. From around five o'clock to seven a.m., most of the runners on the jogging path tend to be training for half marathons, marathons, or triathlons. No wimps, these! All the trainers are there, the people who help you stretch, the stationary bikes, and other forms of voluntary torture. Around 8 o'clock, however, the jogging path becomes so populated that running becomes a contact sport. I had to go out about 8:10, and the decibel level was unbelievable: groups of men and women walking along and talking at a shout (to be heard over all the other people), dog-walkers sharing inside tips on breeds and how delightful his or her dog is (when anyone knows my standard poodle is tops), and other sundry individuals adding to the noise by panting loudly or dragging their shoes along the pavement. Today was break-through day for me, however. I managed to jog almost the entire distance allotted to me in my half hour. This included a slalom effect as I tried to avoid crashing into others or ricochetting off baby strollers. It even included, amazingly for me, three sprints as I crossed streets in an effort to avoid being mowed down by the traffic, although I still studiously avoid that slightly raised yellow paint on the crosswalks. And yes, everything hurts, but nothing hurts while I jog, and more importantly--I can't emphasize this enough--my knees don't hurt!

The Stampede

Know how your mind seems to run through numerous scenarios in a fraction of a second when something untoward occurs? And you know how really off the wall some of those explanations of what is happening can be. I became a victim of this during my morning jog. Perhaps because I was distracted by wondering if I would survive the jog after four days of total inactivity and a migraine that was pounding through my head, I wasn't paying a great deal of attention to my surroundings--except for the swarms of mosquitoes that I tried to fight off by waving my arms windmill fashion as I jogged. The sight must have been unsettling because others on the path gave me a wide berth. But suddenly I heard behind me the pounding sound of a large herd of animals. In that fraction of a second of complete fright, my mind provided me with a couple of possibilities, both very bad. I thought maybe the horses at the riding club several blocks away had gotten loose and were galloping toward me; I was within seconds of being trampled to a mere stain on the pavement. It was obvious the animals were heavy ones from the sound of the pounding, so perhaps, if they weren't horses, there had been a terrible mishap at the zoo several miles away and some kind of prey herd was dashing away from a big cat, also loose. People with more experience running wouldn't have had this scare. I was passed by a very large herd of, well, runners--who in fact were running, and going at it with a vengeance. The wind they were producing caught me up and took several minutes off my time, and then I managed to glide along in their slipstream for at least a block. It's obvious there is some race coming up and these folks have entered it, maybe even a triathlon event. All I can say is, go for it. Best of all, by the time I finished today's geriatric jog, my migraine was practically gone.

Can housewifery be considered cross-training?

You just can't use the same muscles over and over again and expect to be injury-free forever. Thus the emphasis on cross-training if you are a runner (oh, I love how that sounds, "a runner", although what I've done so far can barely be considered much more than a slow jog). There is no way I am going to find the time to swim (just looking at water makes me short of breath, and all I can do well is the side stroke) or do weights, and if you ride a bike around here you take your life in your hands. And, having hit the streets and felt the high of being outdoors, the idea of a stationary bike or an elliptical machine seems more like waterboarding.

But wait a minute. How about housewifery? This morning I folded dozens of chairs and stored them in a closet; the lifting alone must count for something. I went to the store with my shopping bags and, having carefully balanced my load, I hauled them down two flights of stairs while wearing sandals with tiny high heels. I defy any man to do that without permanently damaging his knees or buttocks! There was bending and stretching--making up two beds--and more bending and stretching when my dishwasher detergent malfunctioned and left all my dishes covered with a kind of mineral salt film. After loading and unloading the rebellious machine, I had to scrub every item hard to get the danged stuff off. Then, to top off this workout, I slipped on a wet spot on the floor (still in my sandals) and did the splits with only minor injury.

What the rest of the day holds is anyone's guess, but if the Karate Kid could train for tae kwon do by washing windows or cars and doing chores around his karate master's home, housewifery is surely enough cross-training for my modest running goals. Okay, okay, maybe some structured weight training instead of that trip to the supermarket. You never know when the coming-down-the-stairs-with-shopping-bags-while-wearing-sandals-with-tiny-heels might combine with a wet spot on the stairs, and we'd have a new Olympic sport combining the thrill of the gymnastic parallel bars, the heavyweight barbell toss, and inadvertent poll vaulting.

Do Not Mix

Some things shouldn't be combined, ever. One of them is staying up late at a party, and fibromyalgia.

Yesterday there was a party at my house to celebrate the birthdays of my husband and my youngest son. The have the same birthday, in fact. Our marvelous weather was holding, and we sat outdoors singing, playing the guitar, listening to a couple who sing and play a computerized keyboard, eating too much, and watching the grandkids dash around the back yard. I had set up a big tent and was thinking about camping out with the four oldest grandkids, but for some obscure reason, I had the idea they would get tired about nine-thirty, maybe ten at the latest, and we could grab our pillows and slip into our sleeping bags for a night's rest. Where do I get this stuff?

At eleven-thirty, the grandkids were going full blower, even though a couple of them seemed to be on automatic. The party, too, was going full blower--everything, in fact, except me. We had ordered food, a waiter helped with everything from drinks to washing dishes, and a dash of excitement was added to the proceedings because earlier in the day my little grand-daughter, Sofía (4 years old), had swallowed a small disc-shaped battery and a tiny magnet. Let's face it, we will never know why. A trip to the hospital and some X-rays showed the two items safely stuck together and traveling through the intestinal tract, so a laxative was administered and orders for her only to ingest liquids. She was also ensconced in a diaper so nothing would get by unobserved.

Have you ever been to a get-together of over twenty people, each one periodically leaping up to the check the diaper of a small child? It began to seem like some kind of game show, as if the treasure-hunters who came up with the missing battery and magnet were going to win big. I told my son in no uncertain terms that once Sofía managed to poop, the subsequent mining for the missing items was his job, and his alone. His wife, an event planner who had a big wedding to honcho up last night, was out of range. That left only him. I've already done my time and now the torch passes to others.

The party forged on without me because I simply couldn't remain standing another minute. Not to be outdone, a different grandchild deciding to vomit. I declared the camping excursion cancelled and went to bed. Although I didn't have one single alcoholic drink, my body has also declared all events cancelled, but today my trainer Adrián told me only to walk briskly for 35 minutes. Ha! I think not.

On Wednesday I am going to Mexico City, and my main concern is how much conditioning I'm going to lose in the four days there. I can remember the addictive preocupation about the same theme in my former life as an aerobics fanatic. But running is worse--I feel so good after I go out, my state of mind is so upbeat, and I am so entertained while jogging, that a minor state of anticipatory mourning has set in. Yes, yes, it's ridiculous, but you out there who run will understand.

Push, push, push...

This morning's jog held little in the way of overheard conversation, except for a man who passed me (everyone passes me) who was saying that maybe the reason he felt so bad yesterday was because he hadn't had anything to eat all morning.

"Watson, quick, man, the game's afoot and it's weak from lack of food!"

"Good God, Holmes, surely you don't mean...?"

"Yes, and the disguise is fiendish. He's managed to add inches to his height, dye his hair, change his voice, but we know why he ate nothing yesterday morning! With that, he's given himself away...that, and the fact that he's still wearing that adult diaper..."

Giving birth to an improved cardiopulmonary conditioning is like having a baby; you keep telling yourself to push, but unlike childbirth, you aren't sure what the outcome is going to be. After plugging along and seeing my heart monitor barely register a vital sign, I wondered if I would ever, ever manage to get beyond my jog-this-block, walk-the-next-one mode. Would I ever be able to do it without struggling? Would I eventually breeze through without watching the clock or speeding up just to reach the end of the block so I could rest?

Then, after all that musing as I plodded along, it dawned on me that something had changed: I wasn't going as slow as I was yesterday. I even had the energy to try different ways of jogging--short, fast steps, or slower, longer strides. In a fit of frustration, I picked my feet up and actually ran the last third of a block--shooting my heart rate up to 153 but feeling absolutely wonderful. It was then I noticed that I had lost track of the time and had gone ten minutes past my 30 minute session. Hope springs eternal!! And when this birthing process is over with, I won't have to stay up nights for weeks on end feeding a colicky baby!