A Visit From the Triathlon Fairy

Once upon a time, in a land known as the armpit of America not so far from here, there lived a an idiot triathlete named the Banter. The Banter was a mediocre athlete with virtually no talent and a penchant to continue to toe the line year after year with no real results to speak of. But you could always count on him to be middle of the pack to front of the middle of the pack or back of the front of the pack. But never packing.  Every so often, if the right people signed up for a different race than the one that featured the Banter, he would have a sparkle of success, which kept him motivated to continue to train and race for years to come.

That was before the dark times. See, the Banter started to get old. And with great age comes great vulnerability, only the Banter wasn't smart enough to recognize it. He got injured. A lot. More so in the past 5 years than the rest of his athletic life combined. He trained on like he was young and virile. He was neither.  He assumed that each and every injuric episode was an isolated, freak incident with no rhyme or reasoning attached. He didn't realize that once you start to have multiple freak episodes, they are immune to the term 'freak' and are replaced with the word 'normal'.

One day, after his most recent 'freak' episode, the Banter was getting desperate for some good news on his prognosis. He did what most idiots people do,  he fired up the googler. Upon typing in a few key phrases, it turns out that the Banter, apparently, had less than two weeks left to live. "That's odd," thought the Banter, "This is just lower leg pain. I had no idea it could be so life threatening." The googler was clear, death was imminent.  "Oh boy, what ever shall I do?" thought the Banter.

Upon that query, out popped a beautiful lady with tiny running shoes and lycra cycling shorts. "I am the Triathlon Fairy tasked with overseeing the wellness of the athletes, lest our sport continue its fall from grace. What ails you, my child?"

The Banter was speechless. For one, he's not used to hot chicks talking to him on purpose. Most of the time, it's borne out of obligation and, even then, accomplished with the utmost hesitancy. For two, why would fairies even participate in swimming, biking, and/ or running when they can fly, or blink, or whatever they do for travel? For three, there's someone outside of sport that cares about the maintenance of the field? For four, there was a triathlon grace with which to fall? This was a perplexing situation.

"Hello," said the Triathlon Fairy, "Are you there?"

The Banter blinked himself back into reality. "Well, TF, I do have some problems. How long do you have?"

The fairy sensed a trap, as she was significantly smarter than the Banter (which isn't difficult to accomplish). "Please limit your concerns to physical, sport related concerns. I'm due in upstate Pennsylvania tomorrow evening. And don't call me TF. It's insulting."

Sigh, thought the Banter. Another hot chick that's clearly in a hurry to get away to find another dude (he assumed that her next client was a male, since boys dominate the sport by about 3 to 1). And all of this after 60 seconds of interaction. That's a new record for holding their attention. Score a point for the Banter!

"Well, I have this rotator cuff problem in my left shoulder," said the Banter. Dammit, he thought, because where else would you have a rotator cuff problem? The shoulder is the only option. Surely someone of infinite beauty and intelligence would have known that. This is the reason the womens flock in the opposite direction.

"When does this 'problem' occur?" asked the Triathlon Fairy.

"Pretty much only when I'm swimming," replied the Banter.

"That does pose a problem. Swimming is one of the vital components of triathlon. It's a shame that most triathletes don't fully get that. They prefer to think that, just because it's less that 10% of the overall race, that it only affects 10% of the outcome. Triathletes never were an intelligent breed."

The Triathlon Fairy produced a stick and majestically raised it up. The Banter thought that she was going to bash it into his head and be done with him. He ducked and exclaimed, "Wait, I have more problems."

The look of frustration on the Triathlon Fairy was palpable. She paused, "What else do you have?"

"Well, I have this forearm tendonitis in my right arm, just below my elbow. It mostly pains me when I'm gripping the handlebars of my bike."

Again, the Triathlon Fairy raised her stick, this time with much verve. The Banter winced, awaiting the blow. The croaked, "And..."

She lowered he stick. "There's more?"

"Yes," answered the Banter. "I have this ankle pain. It feels like pins and needles when I try to run."

The Triathlon Fairy looked at him with a gleam of curiosity. "Let me get this straight, you have an injury that's holding you back in swimming. A different one that kicks in when you're biking. AND another that limits your running? Have you tried to strengthen your muscles, bones, and tendons by lifting some weights or something?"

"Yes, triathlon fairy!" said the Banter, who was clearly getting excited that he was able to keep the hottie in his vicinity for a few more minutes.

"And, did that work?" asked the Triathlon Fairy.

"I don't know," said the Banter. "I do know that, as a result of lifting, I now have an achilles tendon strain that hurts when I walk. Lifting hurt me in a different spot but it might have helped on the others. I'm not really sure."

"So, to recap, you can't reach your potential in the swim due to a shoulder problem. You are suffering on the bike due to a forearm problem. You can't really run much due to a chronic ankle problem and an acute achilles problem? It hurts even to walk?"

The Banter smiled, mostly because he thought the Triathlon Fairy just called him a cute. "Yes Triathlon Fairy. I think that covers it. I also have some mental/ emotional concerns I'd like to share with you..."

There was an immediate flash of dread in her eyes that cut him off. It was followed by a look of resolve, "I've got just the thing to solve all of your problems. When I'm done, you'll be an improved triathlete forever." With that, the Triathlon Fairy raised her stick one last time. With a tiny flourish, she swished her swoosher and disappeared, lest the Banter continue to dive into his head problems, which would ensure that she'd be late for her next appointment, possible her next several appointments. He's a mess.

The Banter felt something change inside of him, but he was hunting to figure out what it was. Was his shoulder feeling better? He mimicked a few freestyle strokes. Sure enough, on the pull phase he felt a sting of unhappiness, a sure indication that there was no change there. He massaged his right forearm, just below his elbow. Yup, still highly tender. He got off his recliner and took a few steps towards the kitchen, where the wine is stored. His ankles gave out three times in twelve steps, which is par for the course. During the other nine steps, his left achilles was screaming at him with every push off. Did she change his threshold for pain? Nope. Did she reduce his healing time? Unlikely. Did she make him any faster? Doubtful. Did she make him slower? Impossible.

He returned to his recliner, donning a fresh glass of red. With that elixir in hand, he figured it out. It's clear that she used her magic to remind the Banter's of his expectations for what makes a successful season. He decided to open up his goals sheet for the 2020 season and he gazed upon the big ones. The Banter's major goals for himself and everyone he advises, for every season, are as follows:

-Don't die
-Have fun on the journey
-Enjoy sport so that you want to do it again next year

All other details in sport pale in comparison. The Triathlon Fairy helped the Banter remember what was important in life.

Then he went back to the googler to figure out how to live past Thanksgiving. The news wasn't as good as his goals. Having forgotten the entire Triathlon Fairy encounter, he started to daydream. He still hoped to set a PR or two in the up-and-coming year and pondered how to accomplish this on injury topped upon injury. Remember... I told you he wasn't that smart.

And Then Something Happened... (Part 1)

Most of the greatest events in your life will sound like this, upon reminiscing. "So I was minding my own business when..." and excellence will ensue. A sister , albeit sinister version, to this would be, "Little did I know what I was in for..."

For example, I was minding my own business in a college theology class when the professor announced that we had to do a group project. My first pick in topics was full. So was my second. I just scribbled my name on a third and was partnered with a hot chick I now refer to as the Wife. What's funny is that when she tells the exact same story, with very similar details (she got her first pick), is she starts the story as, "Little did I know what I was in for..."

Well, in sport, there's a different catch phrase that foreshadows a tragic story is about to unfold. It's, "And then something happened..." and I've been living this nightmare for a few years in a row.

Two years ago, I was minding my own business and going for a run during a late January morning. I was in perfectly great shape and there was nothing special about this run. And then something happened. I stepped on an invisible object that caused a stress fracture in my left foot. I didn't really run again until April. Two plus months was more than enough to turn my running clock back to zero, and my clock wasn't all that speedy to start with.

Last year, I was minding my own business in mid-February and then something happened. Next thing I know, I was under doctor's orders to not lift or strain anything. Little did I know that I was in for no swimming, biking, or plodding for a few weeks. I recovered from that excursion faster than I did the previous year but it still put a major dent in my progress.

This year, I had successfully done 100 runs in 100 days. I had logged more 40 mile+ run weeks than ever before seen. I even hit 50 plus on an occasion. I was minding my own business on a treadmill run late one Friday night in April. And then something happened... I could feel the slight stretch in my left hamstring during a particularly fast 5k. The next day, I went for an easy 14 miler and put that tiny tweak behind me. Sunday's short run also felt normal. Monday was an off day.

So I was minding my own business on a Tuesday morning tempo run and then something happened. I was on mile 3 of doing some speed like work (nothing I do could ever be considered 'speedy') and the tweak turned into a full blown twerk. Nobody likes twerking. I ran back home at a pace that even I would have called slow. For reference, I was passed by several blowing leaves. Note: The wind was blowing in the other direction.

I decided to wait a couple of days before re-attempting my version of running. And then something happened... The twerk was still there. I cut myself off for another 10 days.

Here's the big fat lie of multi-sport: They say that if you're laid up in one of the disciplines that you can always fall back on the others to keep you entertained. They are complete idiots. What they don't take into consideration is the blow to your psyche. I've never had depression and I won't trivialize the hardships of people with the condition, but this was the closest I've been to what I think it would feel like. To put all of that effort and energy month in and month out to end up side-lined like this was excruciating. I didn't want to do anything expect curl up and wallow. I could feel the tendon stretch and be uncomfortable in the water and on the bike. My workouts in all disciplines struggled.

After my 10 day hiatus, I decided that I hated not running. On a fit of unintelligent desperation, I went for a run. This was a Monday. It was an easy 4 miler out and back with about 7 feet of elevation. After 3 miles, I was feeling pretty good and plotting out the rest of my week to get back to a 30 mile norm. And then something happened. At mile 3.5 I was walking in near tears as the twerk had reared it's ugly head. I resigned to another week off.

So my running has completely dropped off the Earth. My desire to bike was taking a hit by both the injury and the crappy weather pattern that's known as normal/ cold and wet for the armpit of America I call home. I happily have a few people that look forward to seeing me at the pool and will hold me semi-accountable for getting wet with them. It wasn't good but it's the best I had (and, truth be told, I'm not really all that worthy of their awesomeness, which in turn makes them all that much more awesome). On the bright side, I had been eating more. There's nothing like some weight gain to keep the unhappiness flowing.

The following Monday, I was getting desperate. I tried again. This time I didn't get the grace period of niceness that was allotted me during my last run. The hammy was tight the entire way. However, I remember thinking that I could keep this pace (slow) going at this pain level (mild) for quite some time. I once again started plotting my run mileage for the rest of the week. This plot line included an easy Tuesday morning run. I was 2 miles in to that 4 miler and then something happened. The twerk returned in it's full on ugliness (note: there is no such thing as a good looking twerk). I ran/ walked/ limped home.

As of this writing, that was a full 2 weeks ago. According to the googler, one of the paths towards healing is strengthening the glutes. Now, I'm into butt stuff! I'm rolling. I'm stretching. I'm doing bridges. I must say that things are looking mighty firm down there. Things in the hamstring area of my life have been looking up.

During this last bit of time, every once in a while, something would happen and I would re-tweak my twerk. I would pick something up and get sent a warning ping. I would do a sudden turn in just the right direction and feel a little extra stretch. These weren't painful, mind you, just enough discomfort to remind me that I'm not healed. Therefore, what I would not do is run on it.

And, at this stage of my existence, I am struggling to admit that I am afraid to run. No, not because I know I'll be slower than all of the work I've done this year should dictate. I don't mind being slow. You can't be me and be grumpy with slow. The running brings the pain and I'm just not in to twerking.

As it stands, I've got a half Ironman race on June 2nd. It's highly likely that will be my next run. I'm going to go for about a month without running and nearly 2 months without any real mileage so that I can survive a race. My big race goal is to not have any hamstring pain during the race. Any other kind of pain is acceptable, including mental anguish. This is not a good existence. Wish me luck.

8 Days Without Training Makes 1 Weak

Warning, the blog post you are about to read has been rated PG-13 by the Blogging Association of America (BAA). It has been deemed that some information may be considered inappropriate and possibly awkward for young readers, sensitive readers, or readers that have at least 8 functioning brain cells. The subject matter has been deemed as highly sensitive in nature, not very exciting and on par with Vogon Poetry. The reader is advised to proceed with the utmost caution.

Let it be known that this will be the only opportunity I am granting on this particular topic in person or in print. I'm not one who normally hands out personal or private information but for some reason I'm feeling the need to tell this story in this medium at this time. Should you see me in public and ask, I'll likely make a distracting joke and not really dive into the topic nor answer the question. Sorry.

Here's the thing, after all the recent attention I've given on being consistent and then on feeling S.H.I.T.ty, if one were to look closely at my training log, I dropped off the face of the exercising Earth. Here's what I mean. If you look at the first 3-weeks of February, things look pretty darn good.

The biking fell off a little bit at the end, but that was in the middle of a biking-based recovery week and some other life stuff happened (more on this in a moment). That was also linked to my drop in indoor exercise motivation.

Here is the last 2 weeks, including today's exercise, in all of it's lack of glory.

What you see here is the excellent bike ride I did with the Boy and the Outlaw on the 20th. And you see a couple of runs. And then there's this great big gap in training. That's the first time I went that long without training in more than 2 years, which includes a stretch of time when I had a fractured bone in my foot. I went back in my training log and discovered that the last time I took 8 full days off of training was in 2016 after my final race of the season. I took a 10-day off-season and promptly got busy doing the next rounds of doings. 

This week wasn't considered a planned off season. I had some work done, umm, down there. Now, let me promise you that I'm not going to dive into too many details or specifics about what they actually did to my crotchal region. All the major parts are intact and I won't be receiving a sympathy call from Lance Armstrong any time soon. After the follow-up visit (tbd), it's highly likely that this will be the last time I pay a man to put his hands on my groin. The reason I won't be broaching the subject again is that I've found that most people really aren't that interested in anything my crotch has to offer. Every time that I've brought up my crotch in conversation or tried to provide a visual, the patrons cringed. Here's a re-enactment. 

The procedure took place on the first Friday of down week. It was quick and I'd like to tell you painless, but I'm not one to lie. Perhaps I'll embellish a bit for comedic reasons but that's not the same thing. I did not cry. I did almost bite my lip off and was congratulated on the record amounts of perspiration left on the examination table. So I got that going for me.

I asked the Doc about the recovery. He says that I'm to be on light duty for at least a week. Then after 7 days, give 'er a try. He speculated that biking might be the most challenging of the disciplines due to pressure points. I suspected that running would be worse due to the impact forces and jarring on the body. He said that I might have a point and to make sure I run slowly. We both had a good laugh at that one, as if not running slowly were an option. I asked him about swimming. He paused and we both had our second good laugh in as many minutes knowing that I have no intention on getting in the water.

The recovery period was tough. Not because of the procedure but because of the gluttony and sloth. Whereas the average American bloke relishes in the concept of being forced to not exercise, it's not something at which I excel. I could feel my muscles atrophy, which is significant since I don't have much to start with. On the bright side, my hunger was boosted meaning that I managed to pack on all of the pounds I took off in the previous 7 weeks. Score one for the Banter! Oh, wait. Never mind.

Day 8 arrives. It was a chilly but pleasant morning. The type of day that I wouldn't have hesitated to run outside.  I decided to head out to the treadmill. I had no idea how my body was going to react to the first day back and I didn't want to be miles away should it take a turn for the worse. I hopped on the dreadmill and pushed the 'slow' button (easily recognizable due to it's overuse while the faster ones are seemingly untouched). It was clear that after the first mile, my legs were happy to be back. My crotch was still a bit sensitive. My lungs were on fire. O.M.G! It was as if someone reached inside my chest and squeezed all of the life juices directly out of my alveoli. This would be considered pretty good had I been attempting to make wine. But for a slow run?

I eventually got to 45 minutes and all of my cells, crotch-related and the other ones, were for once in agreement that I'd had enough. I came in and got cleaned up. I was afraid to wash my nether regions in fear of the pain. I shuddered to think about what I'd become.

Now, a smart man would have called it a day. The Banter? (I think the question answers itself.) I decided to put on some lycra and head back out to the workout room for a bike ride. I just had to know if I was more correct than the doctor about which discipline would be worse for wear. Since the run was slow, I decided to attempt to be fair to the competition and make the bike slow too. Normally I finish a weekend workout in 90 minutes with a normalized power around 230 watts (out of about 270). This day I went for 60 minutes with an NP of 183 watts. On a normal crotch day, this would be considered a recovery ride. And, since I'm recovering...

You'll be pleased to know that I was indeed, from my anecdotal n=1 pseudoscientific experiment, more correct than the doc. The areas of concern were not in contact with the bike saddle. The legs felt pretty good. The lungs weren't leaking any ethanol. I have to go back for a follow up visit in late April. I can't wait to tell him. (Ya know, because I'm trying to boost his knowledge base.)

Based on my running experiment, I decided to take one more day off. I have expectations to re-start normal training on Monday. It'll be more of the same. Run slowly, not necessarily by choice. Bike in the garage, begrudgingly by choice. Play with my crotch. Repeat. I'm happy to put this experience behind and am pleased that I can again get jiggy with it it happened early in the season. I'm so motivated that I may even get back in the water. (<--You're supposed to laugh at that.)

Yelling at Books

Warning: The introduction to this post contains spoilers on the literary pieces known as The Time Traveler’s Wife and The Game of Thrones. If you’re the kind of person who hates spoilers and are highly interested in reading either of these books above, I suggest that you skip the first section and head to the second. Having said that, Snape killed Dumbledore and it was a good thing. Also, Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker’s father and Leia is Luke’s twin sister while Vader never acknowledged that he had a daughter.

When Literature Physically Makes Me Angry

The Time Traveler’s Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger, is more about the Time Traveler and less about the wife. For some reason, this dude has a condition that sends him to various places and times at random. And, probably because the book was written by a woman (semi-intentionally sexist but I really couldn't come up with another reason), he couldn’t travel with his clothes. Along the way, he grooms a girl into loving him because he seemed to warp into and out of her life. Basically, she knew him at all stages of her life. She becomes the wife. Honestly, I am indifferent to this line of prose. So why am I bringing this up?

The time traveling dude was a runner. See, showing up at random places at random times, naked, meant that he needed to run away from a lot of people. (Because if a naked dude magically popped into my front yard, the first thing I'd do is chase him.) It’s possible that he became a nude runner after reading Born to Run and misunderstood that they didn't wear anything only on their feet. What ground my gears about the book was that the author dumped him into winter on one of his jaunts. Then gave him frostbite. Then cut off his feet. Which left him a bedridden and wheelchair bound invalid. Which is what got him killed on a subsequent bounce. How's that for romance?! When I read that foot-cutting scene, I was screaming at the book. Stephen King hasn’t written a bigger nightmare than that. That includes the hobbling scene in Misery, because that guy didn’t turn into a helpless idiot.

Apparently, they made TTTW into a movie, which I haven’t seen. There’s absolutely nothing in the book that I’d want to watch on screen (except, maybe, Rachel McAdams). 

Contrast this with another novel that I’ve read and yelled at the book itself. George RR Martin is famous for a few things. For one, he likes his sex scenes. For two, he likes killing off main characters to whom you got attached. For three, he seems to be interested in torture. In the Game of Thrones, there was a badass knight named Jaime who had a penchant for sleeping with his twin sister (no, not Luke and Leia). Instead of killing him off, George did something worse. He cut off the knight’s sword hand. Once again, I found myself screaming at a book, “You just don’t do that!” George did provide some redemption, since he left the other hand intact leaving the knight with an opportunity to return to badassness instead of a driveling nothing. George gets it.

How does this apply to anything?

In case you haven’t read any of the backstory of my recent blogging life, I’ve been giving my crotch a lot of attention. But, before that, I was an injured runner. Mind you, I’m not that good of a runner. Never have been. Unlikely that I ever will be. That doesn’t mean I hate it. In fact, quite the opposite, I absolutely love running.

So, when an injury takes running away from me, I physically yell. Only this time, it’s at my feet instead of a book. I was grumpy with my athletic state of being for quite some time. I feared becoming the naked guy who turned into a useless idiot because running was taken away. The fear was centered about the not running, since I’m already an idiot and may or may not be wearing clothes right now.

I would rather have the mentality of the one-handed night. No, I do not wish to do anything with my sister (I can’t believe you went there- ewwwwwwwww!). I’d like to believe that even under the worst of circumstances, I’d find a way to get back on my feet, literally and figuratively. It’ll take a nightmare of female-romance-author proportions to stop me from running forever.

So, after 7 long weeks of not running, I braved the treadmill and did a test run. This is a double whammy. The treadmill isn’t that exciting, quite the opposite. Running could have been potentially painful. The result- It wasn’t that bad!

I’m not going to attempt to call it ‘good’. I mean, I was running slowly on the treadmill and excited about it. Obviously there’s something wrong with me. It’s clear that I’m not 100% fully healed (in the foot or in the head). It’s also clear that the running isn’t making the injury any worse (jury's still out on the brain). I've run several times since then. I’m doing my due diligence in taking it easy on the mill. My times are, for me, insultingly slow. My ‘long’ runs are shorter than my short runs pre-hurting. But, I’m slogging my way back onto the road.

And when I get there, look out multisport world. No, seriously, look out. Otherwise, you’ll likely plow me over as you run by on the last leg of the triathlon course. Which might re-injure me and make me that groveling idiot in a wheelchair who can’t run again. Don't subject me to that fate. Please.

The Disappointing Significance of 38:44

A couple of disclaimers before we get to the meat and potatoes of this post. First, I'm going to update the status of my injury. This will be, hopefully, my last blurb on this particular injury (a bit of foreshadowing, perhaps?). Partly because I am personally bored in thinking about it and partly because I don't want to bore you on the subject anymore. I've got other stuff I'd like to bore you with.

Second, I was talking to some people who have read some of my back work. Anytime I put in some historical or societal references, I research them first. It helps out with the creative flow. See, I like to learn the facts before I completely distort them to benefit my needs. It's so real that Fox and CNN are currently in a bidding war for my services. Having said that, I'm going to do you a favor and advise you to NOT research the numbers 38:44 on your own, just to see if I'm telling the truth. What you'll find is a lot of information about guns. Then you'll get put on a list. You might get a visit from an undisclosed government official who "happened to be in the neighborhood and just checking things out." Let this be a lesson to you youngsters out there- Incognito Search is your friend.

Now, on to the story...

Do you know how long it takes a strain to heal? I do. It's roughly 5-7 days. If you're unlucky (which sums me up pretty nicely), it'll take 10-14 days. Therefore, an injury that took place on, say, January 26th would, even under the most dismal of circumstances, would be healed by now.

Do you know how long a hairline stress fracture takes to heal? I don't. You know why? Because the darn thing ain't healed yet. There are rays of light on the horizon (metaphorically speaking since the sun is afraid to show it's head in these parts of the country at this time of year). This past Friday, I went 75% of the day without a noticeable limp! Sure I was still the slowest person in the building. One of the snails that inhabits one of the other science teacher's room escaped and said, "Excuse me please," since I was blocking it's path in the hall. I'm also pretty sure that that stupid gastropod gave me a virus because I had a roughness in my throat and a tickle in my nose for the rest of the day. Still, injury progress is progress. I anticipate it being at least another week before the discomfort is gone and another week after that before I attempt running again.

So, what's a guy to do with all of this free time? Ideally, whatever he wants. In reality, it's whatever the Wife wants. Thank goodness that she always has brilliant ideas and wants to do things that are Banter friendly!

On Saturday morning, she suggested that we pack up the dogs and head down to the Keuka Lake Wine Trail. I like dogs. The dogs like the car. I like wine. I like the Wife. The Wife likes wine. She tolerates me. I was immediately thrilled. I didn't even flinch when she suggested that we go to the outlet mall on the way back. (True foreshadowing here-I would grow to regret this lack of flinching.)

The day went exactly as you'd hope. We drove into wine country with the intentions of tasting some delicious vintages along with a few undesirables. Hey, take the good with the bad.

Here's the Wife doing a handstand in 40º temperatures on a picnic table with Keuka Lake in the background. She's a fine specimen and I'm a lucky man.

Here are the dogs. Different winery. Same lake. They absolutely refused to do a handstand. My dog is the one on the left side of the pic. The Wife's dog is up on the rock. The dog on the right is the dog-in-law, which came over for a play date with the Wife's dog.

As far as visiting the wineries went, the harvest was good. We got roughly 1.5 cases mixed between whites and reds. That should last us through the weekend.

We stayed on the wine trail until they kicked us off. I'm typically not the kind of guy who appreciates closing down a joint. But, we drove 2 hours and they closed at 5:00. Stepping up to a tasting table at 4:45 isn't nearly on par with walking into a restaurant 15 minutes before closure. We are efficient drinkers and could easily sample everything on the list before the clock runs out.

Having collected our spoils, we headed towards Waterloo. The Wife had a $5 coupon to use at one of the stores. It makes sense to spend $30 on gasoline just to save $5 on a hat, right?... Right? ... We couldn't just hit one store. Well, with the doggies stuck in the car, we rescued them from their 4-wheeled crate and took them around. I hung out with the pups outside while the Wife went in. This is another version of win-win for me.

Until it wasn't. I lasted only 1 additional store. Even though I have no idea for how long I was out there, I am quite confident that I developed a minor batch of hypothermia. Sore foot from before? Check. Sore throat from before? Check. Runny nose from before? Check. Brand new full body vibrations? Check. (<-- Not as sexy as they sound.)

As you can probably predict, I didn't wake up in good shape. The shivering had long since stopped. The nose faucet, however, went from a slow drip to a steady stream. The voice is so deep that I actually sound like a male. The foot is marginally better.

If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm kind of an idiot. In case you need more proof than what's already contained in the posts of this blog, I'll toss at you some more evidence. A person of near average IQ would take some medicine, drink some soup, eat some crackers, and take it easy with a book, movie, or nonsensical gibberish on the Internet. A Banter-caliber intellect will try and exercise.

In a normal world, I would have gone for a run. The foot said, "Nope," so I headed out to the, um, bikey place. At least I had the foresight to bring a snot towel with me. Knowing that I wasn't going to be able to put forth any impressive numbers on the bike (duh), I was hoping for an easy ride of about 60-90 minutes. Despite the lack of, um, smart stuff in my head, I have learned that there's healing and therapy in exercise. Not today.

As a life-long athlete(ish) guy(ish), most structured workouts that I've encountered end at a highly predictable and recognizable number. Almost always, those numbers are in multiples of 5. Sometimes a 2. If I was adhering to a plan, I would have ended my ride at 30 minutes, or 40 minutes, or 45 minutes. Here's my ride data:

As I was riding, my energy systems did not improve. Nor did my mood. Or spirits. Or overall well-being. Not once would I have ever predicted of getting off the bike at 38:44. It's disappointing on multiple levels.

Oh, just in case you were wondering, if a guy shows up to check your browser history, here's what you do: open the door, blow your nose with an old tissue, offer to shake his hand (with the tissue still in hand mind you), give off a cough, and invite him in. If experience holds true, he'll turn and run without ever stepping foot into your house. And then, apparently, he'll call Fox and CNN to cancel the story and they'll rescind any job offers.

Injury Progression Timeline

When I got my initial prognosis, the doctor's office told me that I needed to do no running for 5-7 days post injury. That would have put me back running on the Wednesday of this past week or by Saturday at the latest. Here is the progression on the journey back to the run...

Thursday, January 26
The Banter goes for a run. He steps on a phantom object, resulting in a broken metatarsal. I hobbled around at work and then went to the doctors. The office confirmed that I'm a pansy. They failed, however, to confirm the break. Medical science just wasn't looking right, probably distracted by the density of pansiness packed into such a tiny person.

Friday, January 27
I take the day off. There's no escaping that I would have been useless at work. When I told them as much, they simply answered with, "Duh." I headed to the pharmacy to get anti-pansy pills. Walking from the parking lot to the pharmacy counter makes me wonder how to get one of those temporary handicapped stickers. I never thought that parking an extra 20 feet closer to the store would make a difference and I find myself ogling the old guy's cane that got to park in the blue lines.

Saturday, January 28
It's clear that pansy pills are not strong enough. I attempt to walk around to accomplish the mundane chores of life. I cannot put pressure on my left foot. I got a call from the producers of the Walking Dead, begging me to fly out for an audition for ghoul #6 in their next episode. In their words, I have the walk down perfectly and I would save them money on make-up.  I consider it but remember that I have to teach class on Monday.

Sunday, January 29
Either the pain was subsiding and the healing process has begun or the accumulated dosage of all of the pills had finally worked itself to a level that yielded results. I'm still walking goofy but, much to the relief of the Wife, I manage to not whimper with every downstep. I have this brilliant idea to go for a bike ride on the trainer. After 20 minutes of light activity I bag the workout early, I gingerly get off the bike and head into the house. The whimper returns. The Wife curses. I write an hilarious blog post about the injury. It's possible that I'm delusional.

Monday, January 30
I make the decision to go to work. Happily, the teenagers I teach are sympathetic to my injured plight and are remarkably helpful. By the end of the day, I'm exhausted. Every step uses the same amount of energy and concentration as 100 steps from a week ago. It's a shame that this effort doesn't burn the same number of calories since the amounts of gluttony have proportionately increased with my newfound levels of sloth.

Tuesday, January 31
I make the decision to use a different pair of shoes. They better matched my outfit and I was getting some pressure points on my left foot from the ones I used yesterday. I have to go to the store to purchase some supplies for an experiment. The grocery store is rife with science, should you know where to look. My gait is less obvious. If I walk slowly, I can almost not limp. The overnight low was quite chilly and there was some new ice on the pavement. As a cumulated result of all of the morning's decisions, I stumble on the ice. I was favoring my right leg. Upon the stumble, I switch my weight to the other leg. The one with the bad foot. The injury flared it's ugly head and I regressed back to a level of discomfort and injury which may have exceeded that of the original incident. I nearly pass out in the grocery store parking lot. After refusing to go down, I wobble in to the grocery store and gather the supplies. The kids remained awesome.

Wednesday, February 1
This is the early deadline originally set by the Urgent Care physician's assistant. Whereas I doubt that I would have made it through well enough to run under the best of conditions, yesterday's incident not only made running impossible, I was still only able to limp at about 78 minutes per mile. I was traveling in slow motion while the rest of life had hit the 2x button. I briefly contemplated getting an amputation so that I could get one of those painfree running blades. I table that decision for at least a month. I recognize that this is a horrible contemplation for both myself and for the honor of the awesome individuals that qualify for those additions.

Thursday, February 2
The damn groundhog sees his shadow and retreats for another month and a half. I fear for another parking lot fall. Yet, there were at least 3 steps today that were pain free. I was playing around with my gait. Every step I took was about 33% shorter than normal. Once I noticed that the last step didn't hurt, I tried to remember what technique I used only to fail at repeating the step. As small of a victory as I might have had, I know had a reason to be optimistic. I go to my calendar app and delete the previous note on the running blades. I schedule an appointment for early 2018 to go hunting for a stupid rodent in Pennsylvania.

Friday, February 3
The number of painfree steps hits double digits. It's unlikely that I'll be running tomorrow but I'm pretty sure that the healing path is sloped in the right direction. My triathlon club, Grim Reapers Fitness NorthEast (like them on Facebook!), has an event after work. We were to check out new team kits from the Pearl Izumi. They don't carry any jerseys with sleeves and I grumble. A fair skinned gargoyle like myself needs as much protection as possible. After the fitting, I coach one of my athletes in the pool. I pull up a chair and sit on deck. One of my GRFNE brothers videos several of my teammates in the water, including my guy. I provide feedback to anyone who wanted it and to 3 people who didn't. I have yet to see the videos. Several non-members of the pool ask my permission to use the lanes for swimming. I don't have the strength to tell them that I'm not in charge and grant every request. We finish in the pool and go drinking.

Saturday, February 4
If I'm wearing a compression sock, a supportive shoe, and walk really slowly, I resemble a normal person (at least in stride- not necessarily in physical appearance). Some people show up to my home to collect our old sofa and I actually help carry the load. The Wife and I went and lifted weights (her idea). I notice that the endorphins available when lifting actually help dull the throb from the foot. That, or the ego gene was kicking in while doing exercise with a hottie in workout clothes (she makes me flutter). Either way, I spend about 90 minutes not obsessing about the metatarsal. Life is getting better,

Sunday, February 5
It is now 1 day past the deadline set by the doctor's assistant for my return to glory. Man did she get that wrong, which is likely more my fault than hers. I am able to walk the house and the nearby surroundings without serious discomfort. Since I'm obviously not running yet,  I decide to give cycling another try. I haven't ridden with any sort of intensity in week and a half so I decided to go  easy. Success!

I have absolutely no idea when I'll be able to run again. This experience is giving me flashbacks of the speed of science, as told to me by one of my college professors. He said to make a guess as to how long you think the science will take. Then, double the number and change the unit to the next largest unit of time. So, if you think the science will take 2 weeks, it will probable take 4 months. If you estimate the science will take 4 months, it will likely take 8 years. Let's just hope that the physician's assistant who told me that I'd be back running in 5-7 days didn't attend that lecture.

Step on a Crack

Is there no end to the lengths my body will go to prove that I'm a big pansy? I get it, injuries happen. I don't mind the ones that make sense. Here are some nonsensical injuries that have happened to me over the years.

• I cut myself peeling an orange
• I injured my knee eating chips and salsa at a Mexican restaurant
• I strained my wrist looking at pictures on the internet
• I pulled a muscle in my back petting a dog

If I were born a hundred years ago, I'm pretty sure I'd be dead by now. Luckily modern medicine has made it their mission to keep unworthy blokes like myself alive and kicking so that I can bore you with nonsensical gibberish.

The Set-Up
One of the injuries that makes sense are repetitive stress injuries that happen to idiots who do not-so-intelligent ventures. This explains my Achilles tenderness that I've been nursing since September. During the off season, these injuries typically go away unless you find something stupid to keep you moving. For example, I signed up for a running challenge called the 100/100. This means that I pledged to do 100 runs in 100 days. As of this past Thursday, I had run n+1, where n= the number of days since the challenge started. A run is defined as 30 minutes of actually running, no walking allowed. Should you be doing intervals with a passive recovery, then the clock stops until you start moving at a gait where both feet leave the ground along opposite vectors. My average run, thus far, has been 37 minutes and all runs have been longer than 4 miles. This challenge is not for the weak minded. Or for anyone with a brain. Therefore, it's perfect for the likes of me.

This recent Thursday, I was out for a nice morning run (as if you can include the words 'morning' and 'run' in the same sentence and accuse them of being 'nice'). The goal was 5.5 miles of nothing special. Ironically, 'nothing special' is the bread and butter of endurance training. Given 8 runs in a week, 6 of them should be nothing special. And, even better, that number could go as high as 8 and still be listed as high quality training.

Not my foot

At right around the 3 mile mark, give or take a quarter of a mile, I stepped on something. I'm not sure exactly what. It might have simply been a crack in the pavement. It definitely wasn't a dead animal or a downed tree, of that much I'm confident. Said stepping was evidenced by the fact that my foot hit the ground (weird, right?) and that there was a sudden shooting pain in my left foot. For those of you who have studied anatomy, the pain was radiating outward from the the 3rd and fourth metatarsal, roughly 1 inch shy of the phalanges.

Initially, I ignored it and ran on. I assumed it would be similar to the sensation of stubbing one's toe, only further upstream. I expected the pain to subside on down the road. At the 3.75 mile mark, I stopped running and dutifully stopped my watch. Then, I peeled off my gloves. The temps were in the low 40ºs and the wind made gloves necessary. The lack of gloves aided in the loosening of my laces. My foot had taken on some fluid. I walked for a bit, with the watch still stopped, of course.

Crunching the Numbers
My Garmin doesn't normally tell the time of day. I have to specifically ask it for that information as it's typically not important in the context of sport. However, in the real world, I have a job that is ever obsessive about the time of day and gets grumpy when others disregard time's importance (unless, of course, it's a meeting where they are leading...). At the 4 mile mark  I was still walking and fumbling with the Garmin. Note: this is the geographical mark, not the Garmin mark, since the Garmin is not allowed to see me walking. It was clear that I was going to be late. What was not clear was if I could be in the late, but almost acceptable range or if I was going to be late enough that calling off the entire day was the better decision.

How my brain works

Doing maths was a great distraction to the reality of the situation. I pondered that the average person can walk at about 15 minutes per mile. According to the pace manager, I was limping about 19 minutes. Arrival would be about 30 minutes later (because I would likely stop to get the mail as long as I was out), putting me into the potential 'call the day off' category. I made the decision to try and run. At the apex of the tiny hill, I went for it. I turned on the Garmin because I wanted documented evidence that I was putting forth the effort and I'm an idiot by rote. This burst let me hit a pace of about 9:30 per mile, which doubled my previous speed, and lasted for about 3/10ths of a mile. Then, I beeped off, stopped, peeled off my gloves, and readjusted the laces on my ever-constricting left shoe.

It was at this moment, for the very first time in my life, that I wished I ran with a cell phone. I would have called the Wife and begged her to come and get me. Since the Garmin doesn't have a call function, I was stuck obsessing over the ever slowing walking pace and how much time it would take to get home.

Glancing at the time of day, I tried the running thing for yet a 3rd time. This happened between 4.65 and 4.90 miles into the run. The pulse emanating from down yonder made it clear that my best move would be to curl up in a ball and hope someone has pity. Unfortunately, it started to rain. On the bright side, I didn't need to ice my foot. Mother Nature was numbing it for me. Fueled by my need to not freeze to death, I hobbled the last 0.6 of a mile at roughly a 22 minutes pace. Aside: This experience is roughly the same as the average IM run for the Banter. Run a bit. Walk really slowly. Run a bit more. Walk even slower. Repeat until the finish line. /End Aside.

Me, out of the shower

True to my word, I stopped to get the mail. I entered my home, slowly and nearly frozen, at 7:25 am, which is about 30 minutes later than planned. If I hurried, I could make it to work by 8:00-8:10. Late but in the acceptable range. The most obvious problem is that I was incapable of 'hurrying'. I sulked in the ridiculously warm water of the shower, standing on 1 leg. I glanced down to survey the damage. My left foot had swollen to the point of looking like a sewed in structure commonly seen on a Cabbage Patch kid. I considered calling off the day. Then I got dressed, put on a compression sock, and went to work.


The Prognosis
As the day went on, I had no improvement. The swelling didn't increase (probably because it might not have been possible). The pain sure did. I'm assuming that the natural endorphins from the initial experience wore off allowing me to experience the damage in all its glory. Having gone in late, I left early to get an X-ray. I was at least 87% sure that I had some sort of fracture.

I'm of the opinion that "Urgent Care" doesn't live up to its name. There was nothing urgent nor caring about the experience. When you walk in (using the term 'walk' loosely here) and tell them that you may have broken your foot and, as a result, they have you walk (again, loosely) another 3 miles (undocumented, of course, since I didn't bring my Garmin) from one desk to another to another to finally get an X-ray back to the original. At the original, a perfectly able bodied nurse and a physicians assistant give you the news that there is no break in the bone and instruct you to stay off the foot. That shows you how much my 87% certainty means. Then they send you walking (loosely) out to your car without any offer of a mobile assistant device. All done in just under 3 hours. Aside 2: If any young entrepreneurs out there want a business idea, I'd suggest Valet Parking at the Urgent Care. You would have had my money that day. /End Aside 2.

On the bright side, healing is going well. If there's one thing I excel at, it's being an idiot. If there's another, it's embracing my inner sloth. Doing some more maths, I conclude that I could be back running by Wednesday. Next Saturday at the latest. If you don't believe me, re-read what the first thing I excel at is. Should this come to fruition, my metatarsal and my Achilles will both be healed and I'll run myself into a different repetitive stress injury that makes sense by the time race season starts. Hey, you gotta have goals, right?

Post Ironman Stress Syndrome

There are several Post <something> Disorders on the books. Take, for example, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. PTSD is commonly found in soldiers returning from war. Or car crash victims. Or those who have have heinous crimes committed against them. Some spend their lives trying to reacclimate to society while living in the personal hell of their mind forever scarred by the travesty they had just experienced. There are various degrees of horror on the PTSD spectrum, none of them are fun. Without help, sufferers may remain in a state of disorder for a very long time.

Some women have been known to experience Postpartum Disorders. PPD happens after giving birth. These new mothers can have mood swings, grumpiness, or full blown depression. It should go away on its own but, in persistent cases, therapy is required.

Most of the Post Disorders are caused in similar fashion. First, there was an event. Second, stress hormones were released. Third, body chemistry was thrown out of balance. Symptoms arise as a result of imbalanced chemistry as order is attempted to be restored.

Shortly after I did IMLP 2012, I diagnosed myself (because, as a guy, I don't normally go to the doctor), with a new Post Disorder that I'm pretty sure exists but no one has done the research yet. I named my disorder "Post Ironman Stress Syndrome." That's right, I was PISSy. My PISSy-ness helps explain the lag in posts during the month of August. But there's more to the story.

Being PISSy is not fun for you or for those around you. Symptoms include, but are not limited to:

• Lack of desire to remove yourself from the couch
• Penchant to watching bad movies
• Sleeping more than normal
• Overdeveloped desire to eat more than your activity level
• No motivation to exercise
• Urge to blow off normal household chores
• Neglecting or half-assing your blogging responsibilities
• Basically, you have gone from Ironman to what you perceive is the average person

After my PISSy self-diagnosis, my August starts to make perfect sense. In late July, I had an event, I.E. less than stellar IM performance (worst of my lifetime). This crushed the dream that I spent 10 months working towards. To say that I was stressed over the lack of performance would be quite accurate.

This emotional stress was compounded by the physical damage of an Ironman. You muscle tissues are shredded from the effort and distance alone. Then, I learned that the cramp I experienced during the IM run was an actual injury that took more than a week to subside.

My stress was worsened when I realized that for the first time in 6 years, I did not sign up for IMLP. As of this moment, my 2013 calendar is IM free and I am struggling to cope with that reality- which was slowly slipping away from me. IMLP fills up in a matter of minutes so I can't change my mind even if I wanted to.

When you are sore and hurt, what else do you do in your free time? If you're anything like me, you sit on the couch and watch bad movies. This position and activity lends itself to napping and snacking. Before the race, I was eating on par with my exercise. My stomach didn't get the memo that it was time to back off. I gained weight. I never actually want to do chores. As for the blog half-assing... that speaks for itself.

Luckily for me and my loved ones, I have found the cure. Should you find yourself in a PISSy situation, here's what you need to do.

Part 1- Watch this semi-NSFW video (turn down the volume if you're at work or in the presence of innocent/ judging ears).

Part 2- Go for a swim, bike and/ or run. Force it. You don't need to go hard. You just need to go.

Part 3- Sign up for races. Nothing cures PISSy-ness like spending money on sport.

I did all of these and I am seemingly cured. Since my condition, I have done 3 races (race reports soon to follow) and I signed up for a half-distance event in late September. I am training again. Losing weight. I have a plan for a 2013 IM.  I have focus. (Jury's still out on the blog.) I am no longer PISSy.

As with most Post ___ Disorders, PISSy can take over your life if left untreated. Everyone will know you as the PISSy guy/ gal. They'll avoid you as who wants to socialize with someone who is PISSy. They'll say things behind you back that they think you cannot hear, like, "Don't mess with him/ her, they're PISSy." Of course, these acts will only make your syndrome worse. You could slip into a state of depression. Then, you'd be PISS'D. And no one wants that.

Slacking or Injured?

If you haven't noticed, I haven't written much lately. The end of January marks the first round of mandatory state testing here in the great state of NY. The rest of the union seems to intelligently use the natural holiday season as a semester ending hallmark, NY decides that they want to be different. While my students were preparing to take some of their required exams, they insisted that I help. As if I'm some sort of teacher. For their benefit, I excused myself from my normal duties of writing and working out. On the bright side, they did well. I have no regrets

The First Run Back
Whenever I take a couple of days off of exercise, I can tell by the feeling in my chest. Some people have exercised-induced asthma. I seemingly have the exact opposite. My chest gets constricted. It's hard to breathe. I wease. The first run back is the worst.

To compound the unpleasantry, it was cold and there was snow on the ground. In normal winters, this wouldn't be a problem at this time of the year. The 2011-12 winter season has been especially kind to runners. This weekend proved divergent from the norm. The temps were at least 3º below freezing. The horror. The night before, a minimum of a quarter of an inch of snow fell. The conditions set were at maximum crappy. (I know this is the internet, but your sarcasm meter has to be dinging right about now.)

As if I didn't have the chest pain, lack of stamina, and sluggishness that accompanied that fateful first run, I had the sub-arctic conditions compounding my slow speeds. If this is the way the rest of the world feels when they start running, I totally understand why sedentarianism trumps working out. Fortunately for me, the feeling lasts just one run assuming that I can continue not not-running. Until that time, I had to suck it up on this dreary of experiences.

Season Ending Injury?
When heading out into the frost, one must observe winter running rules. In the form of clothing, layers are encouraged. Ear warmers and gloves are a must. Accelerating should be done at a Yugo pace. The same for decelerating. I know all of this.

I also know that caution should be taken when going around corners. Snow removal is poor at best in non-vehicle venues. At any point, white may give way to something more heinous. For those of you who are treadmillians, cornering is not a skill that you need. Running outside requires a special set of strategies. Let me teach you the proper way to turn a corner.

For those of us courageous enough to brave the elements, one must start the deceleration process well in advance of the aformentioned turn. The fastest way around a turn is to take the inside tangent. In the winter time, it is also the fastest way to riding the pavement. Never, and I seriously mean never, should you take a turn at 90º. That is a recipe for disaster. Turns should be taken wide and slowly.

Now, to summarize the run thus far, I am asthmatic. I am cold. I am slow. I cannot accelerate. I cannot decelerate. I must take turns at a girth much larger than usual. My pace for this run was significantly less than spectacular.

Mid-run, it happened. I was doing everything correctly. Slow. Steady. Wide. Bam. Down goes the Banter. I was probably hitting a 3.2 mph stride when the coefficient of friction between my shoes and the ground changed dramatically. Absent the wonderful force of friction, as is the case when hard rubber pulls backwards on ice, my shoddy momentum kept my upper body moving faster than my lower. I landed on all fours. The dog laughed at me. Both wrists were smarting. But the grunt of the action was firmly planted on my right knee.

I hobbled back home at a pace, if you can believe it, slower than before. I peeled of my layers in an effort to view the damage. By now, my wrists were beginning to recover. My left knee had improved. The right knee continued to be a concern. I'm in a bad place right now. It still hurts. I am not sure that I can continue. I may have to visit a doctor. Surgery. Rehab. Physical therapy. I just might have to spend the rest of my running life in a brace.

I've included a picture of the wound. It is not for the weak hearted. If you have children, parental discretion is advised. It may not be safe for work. Steady yourself and let me know if you think it is as bad as I think.

Ouch