I Have Met the Enemy

Two week before my very first marathon I stepped on a fire hose at work and rolled my right foot.  It hurt so bad I could barely drive back to the station.  The entire bottom half of my foot eventually bruised and after this injury I seem much more prone to having similar problems with that foot.  

A week before my second marathon the running gremlins reached up and grabbed me again - I rolled the same foot on a round rock at mile post 2.25 at Forest Park.  Again, I ran a marathon with a black and blue foot.  Imagine the odds!  But things were different last year for my most recent marathon attempt--my feet were good, but I ran with a strained lower back.   Craziness!

But I'm not just hurt at race time.  Oh no, I've had some training related injuries too.  My first was a bout with ITBS.   I found out quickly enough what it was (from a booth at a race expo!) and within a month it was gone. To deal with it I added some new stretches to my routine, including a pendulum clock looking thing and another I affectionately call the ballerina pose; one arm arched over my head like I'm in Swan Lake or something.  But what really cured my sore knee was massaging the outside of my thigh with a foam roller.  

At first I could barely put any weight at all on the blue roller--now I could use more.  It really takes out the knots and kinks in my overused leg muscles.  It's kept handy, hidden behind an overstuffed chair in my living room, and I break it out several times a week when watching TV in the evening.  I love my little foam roller.  We also have a big red body ball that we keep downstairs which gets a little use from me now then for some core.

I trained pretty hard for last years marathon, doing over 50 miles a week for a stretch.  When the race and the race soreness wore off I was left with left heel pain.  Yep, plantar fasciitis.  I went to a so called "sports doctor" to get that fine diagnosis (I had a pretty good idea already). It was important to me to find someone who understood runners, and not just their particular problems, but someone who understood what makes us tick.  Someone who could relate.  I pictured someone who would be a fellow runner.  

The guy I went to was none of that.  His two pieces of advice;  go get fitted for orthotics and (cue the big fanfare trumpet music here)-- think about giving up running.  "Hmmm, yeah, I'll do that when you think about giving up portraying yourself as a sports doc!"  Bite me.

I went to his recommended orthotics guy.  He told me he'd love to make me a $500 pair of custom inserts but almost everybody does just fine with the off the shelf type.  "Hmmmmm, you mean I didn't need to go through all this rigmarole and could have just bought some damn slip-ins at the store?"  "Yep" says the orthotics dude.  I drove down to Roadrunner Sports and bought a pair of green Superfeet for $30.  They work great.  

I'm also more diligent about replacing my shoes more often.  This a pretty cheap sport so it doesn't make sense to scrimp on shoes.  500 miles now, and that's it, new shoes.

I also got a night splint for treating the PF, but I'm not convinced it does much.  So far, and knock on wood here, despite getting my miles back up the plantar is doing fine and I would even say is better than it was before I started really running again at the first of the year.  Go figure.  I also self massage my plantar trigger points every day.  Trouble is I don't have a clue about where those trigger points might be, so I just massage the entire bottom of my foot.  

And speaking of horses (well I did just mention "Trigger") the last thing I do to stay injury free is take those huge horse pills we all love, the twins of gag reflex; that's right the urp duo: Chondroitin and Glucosamine.  You best get yourself a big sip of water before trying to choke down those two sons-a-bitches.  But most people say they help, or are at least harmless, so I take them. 

So I'm doing okay, as long as I keep stretching and doing the what I'm doing.  Oh, I did roll that same damn right foot again at work last week and haven't run since then while I wait for the purple to fade to green and then back to...skin color.  Not much I can do about that one.  Stupid foot.  But running is a competitive sport.  And I know who I'm racing against.  

For the Love

His own junior varsity season over, Matthew came to me and asked if I would take him to Pendleton for the varsity teams first playoff game.  He knew that he wouldn't play, but he just wanted to be around the game and the boys he has played baseball with since he was small. I wanted to take him but it would mean eight hours of driving for just a two hour game.  Nobody else from the JV team was making the trip.  But Matthew really wanted to be there.  

It was obvious from the very beginning that baseball was special to him.    On his second birthday he got a Playskool toy-sized baseball set that we promptly set up in our living room. Matthew picked up the plastic bat, struck the ball off the "T" and commenced to run the bases --in the right direction and then slid into second!  Whoa!  How did he know how to do that?  More surprising was that this was the 1994 strike shortened major league season and he hadn't even seen a game in four months!  He had just been paying attention and remembered.  

Like a lot of kids he started playing Little League as soon as he could.  The picture above is from 2002. But after a summer or two our town switched to the "Junior Baseball"  league which meant that each year all the boys would be sorted into three groups based on playing ability; average, above average and exceptional.  Not blessed with a ton of natural athleticism (he takes after me that way) he was graded into the average group, called "National", that first year.  

But this is what he loved to do.  When not playing for his regular team, Matthew was always organizing neighborhood games either in our cul-de-sac or in our backyard.  He would make posters and place them on the group mailbox on our street or take them door to door trying to get kids to play.  The gate in our side yard still has the outline of the stickers he used to write "HOOD FIELD", the old location of his tike sized ballpark.  

The next year he ranked the same, National, but had a great coach who became a family friend and for several years playing at this level was just fun and didn't matter.  But as Matthew got older and neared middle school years many of his closest friends started playing the higher American or Federal level ball.  He wasn't really embarrassed about it, but with his love for the game he expected to move up.  

During the winters he would get in as much baseball as possible,  which in dreary western Oregon meant indoor lessons.  BioForce, a baseball academy,  was his winter sanctuary and he told me over and over on the way home how good it felt just to throw the ball and be around the game.  At home he would stare out the window at the rain-- like Rogers Hornsby. I knew what he was waiting for.  

As parents we tried to make springtime happen sooner for him by taking our March vacations in Arizona.   Starting off the baseball season early with the warmth of pro training games was something we all enjoyed, but Matthew was the main reason we went.  

In his last year of junior baseball Matthew went to tryouts and really gave it his best effort.  But by then the prejudging and labeling of years of playing at the lower level was too much for him to overcome.  He would play his last year at the same level he had played all the previous- at National.  Soon after the start of each season Matthew would emerge as the unofficial captain of the team.  The coaches saw his desire and heart and his teammates admired his devotion and knowledge of the game. For Matthew the other things were more important than raw talent.  

He ended his last game by scooping a hard hit ground ball at his shortstop position, quickly running over and stepping on second base to get one out and then throwing down to first to complete a double play.  His team slapped him on the back in the post game huddle and I noticed small tears in his eyes as he knew he had played his last JBO game.  I felt his mixed emotions too.  It was the end of a long time, middle school and junior baseball were over.  

What seemed like an impossibility just a short time before became a remote chance--he would try out for the high school freshman baseball team.  "Stro",  as the head coach is known, was a no nonsense type of guy.  Shaved bald, tanned, with a goatee and bulging eyes he is Mr. Intimidation.  But he also had a reputation for leaning toward kids with a positive attitude, good grades and plenty of heart.  You had to have skills to offer but attitude was important to him too. Maybe, just maybe, Matthew would have a chance against kids who had been sorted higher and played on more advanced teams during all the previous junior baseball years.  It was a long shot but he had nothing to lose.  He had been practicing his pitching and would try to go out for the freshman team as a pitcher. 

The tryouts are really two weeks of very hard practices.  Pitchers and catchers would report for two hours before school and everybody would practice for three hours after school.  In all, he would be at school from 6 am to 6 pm.  For five hours every day Stro had a chance to check out his hustle, talent and determination.  Every day when I picked him up, exhausted, I'd ask him how it went and he'd reply that he was told to come back the next morning.  At the end of the two weeks he had made it to the final day of cuts.  He walked into Stro's office to find out and got the news--he was on the team.  

The season was one of a huge door opening up for Matthew.  He was an equal now, just one of the team.  When not pitching, he played first base.  Never as strong as most of his team, his hitting was not his strength, but his pitching and defense were solid.  In one memorable late summer game he came to the mound in relief after most of the other pitchers had given up huge hits and he shut the other team down in the last few innings.  The Bowmen had lost the game but he had proven his ability to make good teams miss the ball.  

This year was less stressful.  After his summer league performances it seemed a sure thing he'd be on the JV team.  He played well during the frequently rained out spring season this year. The team won all but three games - but there are no playoffs for junior varsity. His season being over until summer ball, he's been enjoying a short break but felt the need to follow the varsity team to Pendleton for the playoff game.

I had initially shrugged when he asked to go and even that very morning I wasn't sure if we would do it.  But I can feel my son moving away from me.  At 16 years old he separates more and more all the time, doing his own thing and weaning himself from his parents.  He doesn't seem to remember or really care how much time we used to spend together when he was smaller.  All I know is that my time with him is getting short.  So if he wanted to spend all day with the old man there really was only one answer.  I sent a text to his phone:  "Still want to go?".  "Can we?" came back when he was between classes.  "Yes.  Meet me at the office at 11".  "k, thx!".   The top picture is from my phone on the ride back home after the game.  

The varsity lost the game -- despite our long drive.  But it's baseball and there is always another game.  Most of those same players will be playing summer league ball next week.  And the my boy,  who never played higher than National, will be right there with them...throwing strikes.  

Busy as a B

I took Brandon to the mall the other day after school to get some dress clothes; a shirt, tie and some black Dockers.  Most of the time, you see, my boy is clad in those big athletic shorts and a sports team t-shirt.  But when you are going to be honored for your brains and passion for history by a huge national organization,  a trip for fresh duds is a must.  

It has been a busy week for the boy. He started it off when he played his trumpet in the  spring concert at the middle school.   He has also been practicing with the marching band so that he can toot the trumpet in the Junior Rose Parade next month.  It has been fun watching him gain confidence this year and I am soooo glad that someone in the family will continue the music gene forward.  

Friday he stayed after school to video record his campaign speech, he's running for next years  student body council.  Today is election day! It isn't a lark, he really wants to be involved in the middle school scene during his last year there.  But he's running against someone with much more name familiarity, her dad was recently the mayor of our town, but I still think he has a good shot at it.  The posters he stayed up late painting last week each had a square with a big red check mark in them.

Brandon is a two sport man, and I mean two at the same time!  A few months ago I wrote about his basketball playing over the winter and he had so much fun with that he joined a spring league which plays 2 games at "The Hoop" every Sunday.  He's been able to play power forward, which he prefers to the post position he had most of the regular season.  Forwards get to take more jump shots I think.

Of course his main thing right now, other than school, is playing baseball.  He as emerged as the main stopper in the pitching rotation and has a wonderful strikeout to walk ratio.  He does very well despite throwing almost all fastballs.  He's a bigger kid for his age and unless the smaller boys he's throwing to can hit the "1" ball he feels there is no need to go to the junk.  

So yesterday the back of the Exploder was filled with baseball gear, lawn chairs, coolers, and our dress clothes hanging over the side windows.  We (well really just he) was multi-tasking big time.  We had  to be in Canby for an 8 a.m. game and afterwards change into the ties and buttoned shirts using  a nearby warehouse parking lot-- which was quiet on a Saturday.  We got to the hotel in Kaiser where the Daughters of the American Revolution were holding their annual state-wide meeting.  Brandon was on the agenda as being the Oregon winner of the history essay contest. 

His essay was about the Gettysburg address.  He entered the contest because we had just gotten back from a family east coast history trip which included two days in Gettysburg and four days in Washington, DC.  Gettysburg was his favorite part of the entire two weeks and so the inspiration was all bottled up.  The timing was good too.  He wrote it after Obama had been elected but had not taken office and so was able to use the national mall setting as the back drop for the story.  He ended the report with Lincoln sitting in his chair watching the inauguration from his memorial.  

They announced during the meeting that he was also the regional winner (northwest states) and his work would be entered into the national contest with a possible return trip to Washington DC.   He did a fine job of being receptive and polite while being surrounded by the throngs of old ladies at the luncheon.  It was a fairly formal event, at least by our standards, and he handled himself well.  

I had mixed feelings about the DAR when we were done.  Their promotion of history is wonderful and I had no idea that many of their fundraisers and energies are spent filling in the holes in school budgets.  But I also couldn't help noticing that the only minorities in our large meeting room were the hotel wait staff.  The very nature of the organization makes it very exclusionary, to be become a member is quite a process with particular documents required and only certain lineage qualify , there was a palatable overtone of elitism amongst the white glove wearing "pages" and the southern drawl speakers.  But I digress...

We left the luncheon and Brandon changed back into his baseball uniform in time for the evening game back in Canby.  I kept watching him in the mirror during the drive as he admired his medal, frequently placing it in the palm of his hand to judge it's unexpected weight.  

His team won all three games over the weekend, earning first place and he received his second medal in as many days.  He was very overwhelmed by everything that had happened and I could tell during the last game that he was tired.  

His new burgundy shirt is hanging up in his closet now, practically lost in the sea of sweatshirts and replica jerseys, and his shiny gray tie is draped around it's collar.  But it will be there for him if he needs it later.  Who knows when this busy boy will need to go the closet to find it.

Irresistible Rain

I woke this morning to some legs that felt like they had run eight miles at a 8:23 average pace the day before.  They were comfortably uncomfortable, if you know what I mean.  So my fuzzy plan for the day was to take it easy and look for that magic moment when the day when beckon me into my shoes and out the door.  

The boys didn't have school today and so I asked them if there was something that they wanted to do together during the morning.  They surprised me by wanting to ride the WES commuter train--which harkens back to a few years ago when they were both train nuts.  I wasn't surprised that Brandon suggested it but was shocked that the 16 year old would eagerly get his carcass out of bed early on a morning he could have spent unconscious.  We stopped at Starbucks for drinks and then got on the train in Wilsonville for the roundtrip that took a little over an hour.  

When lunch was over a light rain started falling and by the time I had puttered around in the garage putting away tools and sweeping the floor, the rain was no longer light.  From the protection of the open garage door I stood at the edge of the wetness and watched miniature waves of water roll down the street out front.  I listened to a bird preach the most beautiful sermon from the pine tree that stands over our driveway, and wondered what type of bird it was.  I tried to predict whether each chorus of it's song would have four notes or five or six.  

With the boys baseball games and practices postponed for the day I set about mapping out the remainder of the afternoon.  The rain continued to gather, wet and warm, and windless, it came straight down.  The little bird had left and now the only sound was that of the torrent.  I couldn't take it anymore.  I had to put on my running clothes and go get in it. 

I told the boys I wouldn't be gone long, this was going to be about running in the rain, no measurements needed. I grabbed Hannah, a spare towel and drove to the middle school.  The place was deserted except for a dad and a few girls kicking a soccer ball around on the side grass, he hatless and seeming to not notice the weather.  

I started to run right away, staying to the outside of the track where the puddles were smaller, Hannah's folded leash in one hand and my diaper in the other. I wore shorts but had put on a long sleeved poly shirt, my lime green bike jacket, cap and gloves.  My legs rarely get cold but my hands usually do.  

Hannah stayed by my side for the entire first lap but then lagged behind and started cutting the corners, being with me on the straights, her typical off leash pattern.  She's gotten slower and her tongue droops out the side of her snout earlier than it did when she was a pup, but her enthusiasm remains the same.  Avoiding puddles isn't on her worry list, hence the extra towel.  Let her get muddy legs and a wet underbelly.  It's not on my worry list either.  

If I did have a bother, it's the nursing home that overlooks the far end of the track.  I fret that a resident there, to me stuck in their small room,  will see me outside moving free and lament their own situation, hindered by age and circumstances.  I would feel bad if that's what they thought.  But little I can do.  

In a few minutes I was warmed up and impervious to the rain.  As long as I kept moving I would be warm.  All I needed to do now was coast through the gray and the green and the water and the space -- and rejoice.   This was something I asked for, a thing that wanted to be done, a place I had to go, a feeling I wanted to embody.  Let it rain and let me soak it up.  Moving as intended.  Exposed and vulnerable, as is natural. Breathing and pumping the way I was supposed to.  Getting closer to the truth but knowing that the answer will never be fully seen.  Another beautiful day to be alive.

The magic had culminated as the daylight continued to fade and I savored what was left by walking the last lap with Hannah, slowly and sometimes pausing to make it last.  The rain continued and now with a hint of a breeze, for the first time it did feel a bit cool.  At the end of the track I wiped down Hannah with the towel and then we loaded up and went back home.  It rained hard for the rest of the night.