St. Peter's Fiesta 5K - June 2011

My second race fell on an off day from work for me; it was to begin at 6:30pm on a Thursday meaning I had all day to think about whether it would be my last or not.  For those of you not wanting to relive the entire story obviously it was not my last as I am still running to this day, but for dramatic effect let’s keep the suspense going.

I had all day to think about the pain in my right knee and left Achilles.  Why did I worry about it being my last race?  Sure, rest would probably have done the trick.  It might have been 6 weeks of rest.  It is easy to keep running, or keep exercising when you get into a pattern; however once you stop for any extended period of time it becomes so much easier to stick to that pattern as well.  I feared that 6 weeks off from running when it was still so new to me would take away my new found passion so I threw caution to the wind.

I began to get myself psyched up for the race before starting the nearly 2 hour drive from Cape Cod up to Gloucester.  The drive and the music I played got my mind off of running and allowed me to enjoy the summer afternoon.  Unfortunately as I got closer to Gloucester the clouds and fog began to roll in.  By the time I parked near the YMCA on Middle Street there was a light drizzle in the air.  I figured this could only hurt my chances of a pain-free run.

I got my bib and shirt from the kind folks at the YMCA.  They allowed me to change down in the locker room.  It was deserted and silent, alone with my thoughts, how fitting.  As I changed I stretched my legs and could feel the pain still there, somehow I thought that maybe race day would provide a miracle.  It did not.  I returned to drop my gym bag at my car and felt sober about my running career.  Before I left to head to the race area I posted a message on my Facebook page thanking my 3 running mentors, my Uncle Steve, Deanna, and Emily, and of course my mother.  I felt as if I was getting ready to retire from running before I even got started.  

The St. Peter’s Fiesta was going on, a celebration of Italian heritage which struck home with me thanks to my heavy Italian descent on my mother’s side of the family.  The crowds were sparse at best thanks to the cool and raw weather.  I tried my best to avoid the carts of sausages, fried dough, and the like, there were a few stationed right at the starting line which seemed more than a coincidence.    

There was a light rain at race time and such a crowd at the starting line; unfortunately it was not organized.  What I mean is that I have since learned at half marathons they have the pace times along the side of the starting line, meaning if you plan on running a 9 minute mile you line up behind that sign.  Here it was everyone for themselves, slow people in front and all.

When the race began it was hard to get going.  I was trotting, trying in vain to get around slower runners and even some with strollers.  The slick road only made things slower.  Finally I was able to break free and turn my engine on.  All I could do was give it my all and hope for the best.  Luckily there was only one hill during the race, which was a plus.  We ended up heading down to the State Fish Pier, around a barrel and back into town.

The cheering crowds along the streets helped me stay focused.  I kept my legs churning but paid attention, like I was waiting for the ‘other shoe’ to drop.  Then through the mist and fog I saw the finish line and more importantly I saw my time.  22:48, 7:22/mi.  I crossed and caught my breath.  I grabbed a pair of bananas and a bottle of water before sitting on the sidewalk and taking stock of my body and how I felt.  Sure my legs were tired from running all out but there didn’t seem to be any new damage which was what I had been dreading.

I smiled and people watched as I recovered.  With all of the pain and uncertainty going into the race I had shaved a minute and a half off of my previous 5K time.  To top it off I had no injured myself worse so I knew that my running career was not over after 2 races.  I did not stick around very long after finishing.  I had to work the next morning and still had a 2 hour drive home, plus I was hungry too.

I returned to the YMCA to shower and encountered a bit of a problem.  There was a line of guys waiting to use the showers.  I had been in the locker room and counted only 3 showers, using some rough math I was looking at probably an hour wait for a shower.  Yeah, I decided that I would drive home in my running clothes since I was alone I would not be offending anybody with my old gym socks scent!

I made sure to send a follow up post to Facebook letting everyone know that not only had I survived the St. Peter’s Fiesta 5K, I had run a great race.  I was still on my runner’s high all the way down the North Shore.  I remember having to stop and get gas before I hit Boston.  I was so hungry that I bought a big back of Jack’s Links Beef Jerky and ate it one-handed while I drove. 

I knew that I was going to have to rest up my injuries after the race but it was comforting knowing that rest would solve my problems.  I had been so close to having to give up my new found passion, but I was lucky.

Have any of you come close to having to quit running?  Have any of you gone into a race expecting it to be your last, or even expecting to aggravate injuries?  Or would you have been smarter and postponed your next race until you healed?  Maybe I just enjoy the dramatic moments.      

I used the arrow to point me out in the crowd.

That was how I prepared before the race.

Looking to The Man at the Wheel for inspiration.

The First Setback

After the CapeAbilities 5K in May I felt unstoppable.  I had gone from not running at all to running a fairly good time in a 5K within 6 weeks.  I wasn’t fooling myself about stepping up in race distances, but I was much more comfortable in my running skin.  That being said, two events combined to give me my first taste of setbacks that come with running.

The first event was after having several drinks one night I decided to sign up for the St. Peter’s Fiesta 5K held in Gloucester, Mass. near the end of June.  That was not really a big deal since I was already itching to run another race after my first.  Plus I love Gloucester, it has been my favorite place to visit since I began doing travel writing in January 2010.

The second event was what really caused a problem.  As of the First of June my longest run had been 10 miles.  That had come after gradually working up to it like I had read was the wisest way to train.  That was all well and good but then I discovered that June 1^st was National Running Day.  It is in my nature to be a little overzealous and I was on that day.

I mounted one of the treadmills at the gym in the back row with the intention of doing a 10 mile run.  Then I got a message from my friend Emily that she was not feeling well and was not going to be able to come and run on that day.  Well, seeing that she was my running mentor and the reason I even attempted my first real mile I decided to dedicate my National Running Day to her.  What did that mean?  It meant running a Half Marathon distance, 13.1 miles. Remember, I had only done 10 miles once, and was now planning on doing 13.1.  Yeah, nothing could go wrong, right?

I knew I was running a long distance when I actually had to reset the treadmill at one point since it only went up to 99 minutes.  My legs were growing tired but I felt I needed to run the full distance since I told Emily I would.  I pushed past my 10 mile high and kept going.  Finally after 2 hours and 12 minutes I completed 13.1 miles and proudly turned off the treadmill and sent Emily a message telling her what I had done.

One thing became apparent right away, struggling through the last few miles had taken its toll.  My muscles were so tight and sore, my only thought was to get home and get some ice and heat on them and see how they felt in the morning. 

Within a few days of my 13.1 I developed soreness in my left Achilles tendon and a sharp pain just below my right kneecap where patellar tendon connected to the tibia.  I found out later it’s called ‘jumpers knee.’  Remember I had signed up for a second race which was rapidly approaching.  When I admitted to Emily that I had become injured by running a half marathon distance to show off for her she was not too thrilled.

I was disappointed in my injuries but determined not to give up since I had already become so passionate about running after only 3 months.  What happened next were various trips to the store to buy ibuprofen, an ankle brace which would cover my Achilles as well, and a knee brace.  I would put on a sock, the ankle brace, and another sock on my left foot to keep the Achilles secure and minimize the pain.  I knew any damage to that particular spot was doom for a runner.

I tried my best to combine rest with shorter runs but it was not working.  Working in the restaurant business did not make resting feasible no matter how much I tried.  I was also afraid to do any sort of stretching especially in the Achilles.  The ‘jumper’s knee’ pain was on the outside of the bone and one day I figured out it was from landing wrong as I ran.  Walking with my feet pointed straight ahead was virtually painless.  However, once I took a step with my right foot facing outward slightly it became unbearable.  Even if 1 out of every 100 foot strikes happened with my landing in that fashion it still ended up being hundreds of times during an 8-10 mile run.  No wonder I got injured, I was not paying attention to my stride.  It reminded me just how far I still had to go.

I was in constant pain in both areas and was wondering if my race in Gloucester might be the last one.  I began to wonder if running was not meant to be.  I began to think of my own worries before I began running.  There was the worry about my left knee which I had hurt when living in Las Vegas in 2000.  While moving a 20 foot tall ladder in the back stockroom of a Target store the ladder closed up and slid toward me the bottom rung took out both of my knees.  I had periodically suffered through tendonitis in my left knee afterwards and always had believed that it was only a matter of time before one wrong step did me in while running.

I decided I would run the St. Peter’s Fiesta 5K as if it was my last and go from there.  My right knee and left Achilles would be hurting but I would not dream of quitting.  I hated the idea of wasting money.  So I would go and give it my best shot.

What were some of your first injuries?  How did they affect you mentally as well as physically?  Did any of you suffer similar injuries to me?  How long did they take to get better?  Did any of them become worse?