I am hobbling around like an old lady in need of a walker. My legs, which appear to be on strike, are no longer responding to commands from my brain.
Me, if I had glasses, a perm, and a walker. In other words, future me.
Seven days without a run. When I go on vacation I go all out. My laziness was followed by one misguided attempt at a long run. I selected a route that was too long and too difficult for my current (lack of) fitness level. It was my staple route last summer as I trained for the Marine Corps Marathon. I have successfully run this route many times. In hot weather, which I hate. I forgot that I built up to it. Adding hills to the course one at a time. I blame Spring Fever. I temporarily lost my mind. I wanted to check out all the local trails to see which ones were passable (lesson – do not run uphill, no matter how gentle the incline, in shoe deep mud because the effort will suck the will to go on right out of you and you may still have 16K to go on). I wanted to check out all the hills to see which ones were clear for hill training (lesson – when glycogen-deprived do not modify your route on-the-fly to include extra hills ‘”for fun”).
For the first time ever in my not-long-but-not-short running career I took a nap midrun. And by took a nap I mean I took a nap. 6.5K from home I stopped my watch, layed down on a park bench, and closed my eyes. I set a deadline of three songs to pull myself together. It took four. I purposely fastforwarded to include Stairway to Heaven as one of those songs. Just kidding. I am of the age that I was tortured with StoH during elementary school dances and I have long since banished it from all my music devices. A mere 1.5K from home, my pace having slowed to something comparable to glacial, I stopped running entirely. I nearly stopped moving. A man, and this is not a joke for comedic effect (I wish it was, sigh), strolling with the aid of a walker actually passed me during my walk of shame. He seemed very confused as he “sped” by me in my high-tech-look-how-fast-I-am running gear. I was too tired to smile encouragingly in an I’m okay kinda way. He was too old to be in possession of a cell phone from which he could call 911 on my nearly dead behalf.
When I arrived home I promptly fell to the floor and instructed Husband to remove my runners. Yes, I was that dramatic. He took pity on me because my face was simultaneously bright red and worrisomely pale. And I may have been sobbing. And my left leg refused to straighten. I had the first ever reported case of DOMS. During onset muscle soreness. Five hours later I can barely move. My body hates me. And I kind of hate it back.
Title Reference: The Romantics – Talking in Your Sleep. 1983.
Is it possible to bonk at the starting line of a half marathon? I submit yes. Worst. Race. Ever. (I’m feeling a little melodramatic. And self-pitying. Indulge me.) The most distressing part? I was poised for a PB. Fit and ready and filled with hope. I think I shall return to my comfy world of lowered expectations and easy races. From step one my 200-pound legs refused to run, much as I coaxed, bargained, threatened, sweet-talked, and bribed. My time, irritatingly lower than expected, is the least of it. I think, for a brief moment, I hated running. I never hate running. I don’t even love/hate running. I’m annoyingly in true love 4ever with running. I, gag, heart running. Today though, I had momentary feelings of, if not hate, certainly intense dislike.
By 3K I was already engaged in an internal debate: to go on or not to go, that was the question. My sky-high heart rate voted stop. My weary legs voted stop. My broken spirit voted stop. My stubborn brain voted go. At every excruciatingly long kilometre marker I re-talked myself into soldiering on (if this course was measured in miles I would have quit. For Sure.). I pulled out every hackneyed sports psychology trick and nothing clicked. Everything – and I do mean everything – was annoying me. The suffocating 99% humidity. The happy-go-lucky runners who, unlike me, had not spontaneously combusted at 3K. The absence of scenic water along “The Waterfront” race. The head-breeze that felt gale force. The many spectators spectating blankly at me and my self-pitying suffering without even a feeble clap (notable exception, my peeps who are Awesome, capital A). A nearby pace bunny and his peppy, but endless, discourse about every bloody inch of the race route. I did not think good thoughts about the bunny. I may, in truth, have thought about the bunny stew.
I have been conducting the post-mortem for hours now. Husband has almost talked me off the well-now-Marine-Corps-is-screwed cliff. I still don’t know why things went so wrong so quickly. I had a rough week at work that resulted in a calf muscle strain (don’t ask) that seemed better by Saturday, a mini-cold and stuffed sinuses on Friday that also resolved by Saturday, and a little less sleep than I would have liked. Meh. Nothing to merit such a craptacular run. But otherwise I was trained, tapered, and left the gate at the proper pace. The one thing about running a control-freak like me hates? The dastardly randomness of good days and bad days. Hear this Half Marathon, like Montezuma, revenge will be mine! Until then, bring on the chocolate scones.
Title Reference: Deep Purple – Smoke on the water. From the album Machine Head. 1972.
Posted in My Amazing Races
Tagged bonking, exercise, health, marathon, race, race report, race results, running
I still remember the first time I swore. I was in the sixth grade. I shocked myself at the slip of my tongue, worried about the repercussions of uttering a foul word in the school yard. Fortunately my minor misdeed went unnoticed by my teachers and my permanent record remained unblemished (until I brought my older cousin’s ‘boys in swimwear’ calendar to school in grade eight). I don’t think I swore for another three years. I just don’t have a potty-mouth. Husband tends to giggle when I swear, the words sound so unnatural. Cussing remains a linguistic taboo and even the most prolific of swearers will show restraint at the office or around small children. To this day my own swearing is restricted to late-night toe stubbings, bumping my ill-named “funny bone” on my desk, and computer malfunctions. Why do the expletives flow when I’m in pain or deeply frustrated?
Stephens and colleagues (2009) studied the relation between swearing and the experience of pain. Many assume that swearing as a response to pain is maladaptive. By encouraging catastrophising and drawing focus to negative thoughts and ideas, swearing is thought to decrease pain tolerance and increase pain awareness. The presumed result? More pain. However, this hypothesis had never been empirically tested. The researchers questioned the dogma, wondering why a curse-filled response to pain was so prolific if swearing only serves to exacerbate the negative sensations. Anecdotally, many people feel a release of pain with a well-timed curse. I will admit to a less than ladylike thought or two during a particularly tough slog. I call it the “angry run” and I get some sort of weird boost of power when I’m completely PO’d. It may be a psychological placebo, but dark thoughts do sometime help me get to the metaphorical finish line. I’ve heard more than a few runners curse hills, the wall, the runners around them, and the air they are breathing, so this is not an unheard of reaction to a challenging run. Would we be better off thinking about rainbows and lollipops or should we let the swear words fly? As Stephens et al. asked, will a good blasphemy minimize our (aches and) pains?
Pain, in their study, was measured by submerging the unclenched nondominant hand in freezing water for as long as possible. During submersion, participants either repeatedly uttered a cuss word or a neutral word of their choice. As it turns out, people can handle more pain for a longer duration when swearing. Both pain tolerance increased and pain perception decreased, opposite to what one would predict under a “swearing is maladaptive” hypothesis. Profanities, it seems, are hypoalgesic – they serve to lessen the experience of pain. Furthermore, fear of pain typically predicts pain, except when one is swearing. This hypoalgesic effect may, in part, stem from a reduction in the aspect of the pain experience that is caused or exacerbated by the fear of pain. Think about the pain you fear. Now imagine ameliorating that pain simply by cursing a little mantra. F-bombing The Wall comes to mind. Telling the DOMS to go to H-E-Double-hockey-sticks. That sort of thing.
Is it true that women can handle more pain? In this study men were able to tolerate the cold water for longer, although both men and women showed similar increases in tolerance under conditions of swearing. Interestingly though, swearing offers the gals more relief from their perceived pain. Perhaps because men swear more often than women the words become less potent and therefore less effective at reducing perceived pain. Over-use it and lose it! Although females report more pain catastrophising than men, only catastrophising males showed a diminished hypoalgesic effect. Once a man starts exaggerating and fixating on the pain no amount of swearing can help him, but even the most embellishing of women can still benefit from a linguistic release. Uttering a profanity may help some of the people some of the time, but it isn’t a cure-all.
Why does swearing make you feel better? Theories abound, mostly emphasizing the emotional networks in the brain. The limbic system, in response to a threat, will initiate a fight-or-flight response. The classic fear response is characterized by an increased heart rate, a state of readiness, and pain inhibition. Swearing, by eliciting an alarm reaction, may initiate that same fight or flight response. The authors speculate that aggression, rather than fear, may underlie the alarm response generated by swearing. Swearing, they propose, “may serve to raise levels of aggression, downplaying feebleness in favour of a more pain-tolerant machismo”. If you need a little “pain-tolerant machismo” during your next tough run try the R-rated blue streak.
Reference: Stephens, R., Atkins, J., & Kingston, A. (2009). Swearing as a response to pain. NeuroReport, 20, 1056-1060.
Title Reference: Gwen Stefani – Hollaback Girl. From the album Love. Angel. Music. Baby. 2005.
Posted in Running Tids & Bits, The Science of Running
Tagged bonking, exercise, fitness, running, running science, science, sport psychology
The Toronto Star recently published an article entitled “Any schmo can run a marathon”. Coach potatoes of the world listen up, you are built to run! I submit that if Homer Simpson can do it, you can too. Homer, like many, was inspired by watching the TV special Great Moments in Olympic History. One such moment, in 1984 when Portugal’s Carlos Lopez becomes the oldest Olympic marathon runner ever at age 38, struck a chord with Homer. “38!? That’s roughly my age! Marge, after a lot of thought [very quick pause] I’ve decided to run the Springfield Marathon!”. Marge uncharacteristically shows more mocking than support, retorting “oh, puh-lease, you get exhausted watching the Twilight Zone marathon”. Little Lisa is the lone voice of encouragement, wisely observing that “running is good exercise, it adds years to your life”. Homer to Lisa: Stay out of this Lisa. I would have pegged Homer more as a drunken bar bet marathoner than a roused by the Olympics runner.
The beauty of the marathon is that anything can happen. Over 42.2K there will be highs and lows, and higher highs and lower lows. It’s a comedy, drama, romance, and horror movie all rolled into 42.2 mini acts. Homer experiences all this and more in the first act, erm, mile. “I can’t believe it! I’m actually running a marathon”. Cut to Homer clutching his chest. “Argh, I hit the wall! This is so painful!” Moments later the pain subsides. “Hey, I got my second wind!” Oh, no, he clutches his chest again. “Oww, another wall, I can’t …”. Pain subsides. “Woo hoo! Third wind!”. Ever dedicated, his adoring fans (i.e. the other Simpsons) cheer him on. Marge: Hey! Grampa’s running! Lisa: That’s not Grampa, dad’s just dehydrated! Homer needs a FuelBelt.
As in most marathons, the running mortals battle their own demons while up ahead the elites battle each other for a win. The 97th Springfield Marathon race was a showdown between runners from Australia and Djibouti, the latter is comment worthy for his conspicuous lack of shoes. Kent Brockman, race announcer, paints a telling portrait: Two weary warriors now burning with pain and exhaustion. But only one will win the grand prize, a walking tour of Springfield. Suddenly a third contender comes up from behind, “running on sheer pluck, moxy, and grit, all of which he’ll be tested for after the race”. This Italian dark horse wins the prize, perhaps not surprising given that he is trained in the highly successful Rosie Ruiz Method. Who is this mysterious winner and why are the townspeople calling for a rerace? Watch (just the first 4 minutes) and see:
Reference: The Simpsons, Season 12, Episode 14 “New Kids on the Blecch”, original airdate 25 February 2001.
Posted in Celebrity Sneakers, Reviews on the Run, Running Tids & Bits
Tagged bonking, marathon, running, TV show review
The Hare and the Tortoise
(Translated by George Fyler Townsend, 1867)
A Hare one day ridiculed the short feet and slow pace of the Tortoise, who replied, laughing: “Though you be swift as the wind, I will beat you in a race.” The Hare, believing her assertion to be simply impossible, assented to the proposal; and they agreed that the Fox should choose the course and fix the goal. On the day appointed for the race the two started together. The Tortoise never for a moment stopped, but went on with a slow but steady pace straight to the end of the course. The Hare, lying down by the wayside, fell fast asleep. At last waking up, and moving as fast as he could, he saw the Tortoise had reached the goal, and was comfortably dozing after her fatigue.
Slow but steady wins the race.
Popular retelling of this centuries old tale has the Hare quickly establishing a daunting lead, then inexplicably stopping for a rest before the push to the finish. The translators have us believe that the cocky Hare, so certain of his running prowess, decided to nap for a time before hippity-hopping to a win. I’m not convinced. A competitor like the Hare would not stop before breaking the tape and having the laurel wreath placed upon his head. A competitor like the Hare would delight in a crushing victory; he would never allow the Tortoise time to catch up. I propose that the Hare went out way too fast, hit the wall three-quarters of the way though the race, and stopped not out of choice but necessity. Hare succumbed to crippling muscles spasms and overwhelming fatigue and collapsed in a heap by the wayside. The Hare is a sprinter, with no strategy for an endurance event, and he paid dearly for his lack of pacing. With rest he found renewed energy and although he tried to make up for lost time, it was too late.
The slow and steady Tortoise, with her sensibly even pacing, had won. After the race, to save face, Hare told a little white lie, pretending he opted to “sleep” away some of his lead, when in reality with his glycogen stores drained he had little choice but to nurse his leaden legs and hope for a quick recovery. Most runners know that when you charge out of the gate too quickly, legs freshly tapered and high on pre-race adrenaline, you rapidly deplete your energy stores and risk a magnificent flame-out in the final kilometres. The Hare learned this lesson the hard way. The wise Tortoise finished strong by maintaining her steady pace over the final quarter of the race and with a little kick left at the end she won the footrace and achieved what few runners can: the negative split.
References:
Aesop. Est. 620–560 BC. The Hare and the Tortoise in Aesop’s Fables.
Townsend, G.F. 1867. Three Hundred Aesop’s Fables: Literally translated from the Greek.
Title Reference: Jefferson Airplane – White Rabbit. From the album Surrealistic Pillow. 1967.
Hitting The Wall. Those words strike fear in the hearts and minds of marathoners. In the marathon it is the point of almost no return, the point at which you question your will and ability to go on. Or so I’m told. Boston marathon winner (and Canadian marathon record holder) Jerome Drayton once said “To describe the agony of a marathon to someone who’s never run it is like trying to explain colour to someone who was born blind.” I don’t think I have ever hit the wall. I’m not sure how I will respond if I ever do. I hope that I have the resolve to tear it down brick by brick, in Run Fatboy Run style. To my endless amusement, race directors build symbolic walls at the 20-mile mark for marathoners to run through. I look upon those giant inflatable archways as life-sized placebos – if I can run through it I won’t hit it. Maybe the inflatable placebo works, maybe that’s why I’ve never hit the wall. Or maybe I have hit the wall and I don’t know it. Like Drayton said, some things can’t be explained. I’m going on faith that I’ll know it if it happens, but will I? What is it like? I get tired, my pace may ebb and flow, my legs feel heavy, running becomes more difficult as the miles go by … is that a bonk or is that a marathon?
Bonking. I’m not alone in my confusion. Scientists hotly debate what the wall is and why we hit it. Many point to physiological causes like muscle glycogen depletion, low blood sugar, dehydration and general fatigue, but plenty of studies have shown that the wall strikes before true depletion. Others argue that we hit the wall when our brain starts telling us that we can’t (or shouldn’t) go on, even though we have not hit our physiological limit. In truth bonking may not be one thing. There may be a body-bonk, a brain-bonk, and an ultimate-bonk when both the brain and the body put on the brakes. Although much ado has been made as to why we hit the wall and how to avoid hitting the wall, considerably less scientific attention has been given to the actual experience of bonking. What does the hitting the wall feel like? Perhaps the occurrence is so gruesome that marathoners won’t talk about it and therefore researchers can’t study it. Buman and colleagues set out to try. Their objective was to assess the frequency of hitting the wall among marathoners and to identify salient phenomenological characteristics of the experience. The runners who reported bonking were presented with a list (see below) of the 24 most commonly reported characteristics of hitting the wall and they indicated if the experience exceeded that of a typical race or training run, specified when the effect became significant, and rated the impact on overall performance.
The List. The 24 characteristics commonly reported as part of the experience of hitting the wall: generalized fatigue, loss of running form, renegotiating performance standards/race goals, muscle cramping or muscle pain, unintentionally slowing pace, difficulty breathing, loss of concentration, deliberate direction of attention away from race, increased motivation, increased effort, clearer focus on race objectives, confusion, decreased motivation, irritability, lightheadedness, decreased sense of pace, nausea, dehydration, limb heaviness, increasingly negative attitude, desire to walk, shifting focus to surviving race, intentionally slowing pace, and desire to quit. This does not sound good. Not good at all.
The Facts. Only 43% of respondents in Buman et al’s study reported hitting the wall. I say “only” 43% because many studies report a bonk rate of closer to 55%. I’m astonished that around half of all marathoners bonk – I guessed in the neighbourhood of 25%. The upside is that almost all go on to finish the race. Although more men reported wall hitting than did women (45% versus 37%, this gender pattern is consistent with other research), all who hit slammed into the wall around 19.72 miles. Finish times did not differ between those who did and did not hit the wall – so the faster are not more immune to bonking.
The Bonk, defined. From the list of 24 bonking characteristics, four things differentiated those who hit the wall from the non-bonkers: (i) generalized fatigue, (ii) unintentionally slowing of the pace, (iii) a desire to walk, and (iv) shifting focus to surviving the race. The remaining 20 characteristics were reported by both bonkers and non-bonkers alike, although bonkers may have experienced those characteristics more intensely or felt more impacted by them. So how do we save ourselves from this fate? The authors found that the odds of hitting the wall were about 1.82 times higher for males than for females. So Step 1: be a woman. They also found that a greater distance for the longest training run was associated with a reduction in the odds of hitting the wall. Step 2: Don’t forget the long run. I like a few of my long runs to be within 30-minutes duration of my expected marathon finish (for instance, if you expect to run a 3:30 marathon a few long runs in the 3-hour range may help you push back the wall). Expecting to hit the wall, surprise surprise, increased the odds of hitting the wall. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. Step 3: Fill your well to boost your confidence. Hitting the wall in a previous marathon also upped the odds of doing so again. Step 4: See Step 3.
The Lesson. I think Yogi Berra said it best: “Baseball [running] is 90 percent mental; the other half is physical.” Poor math skills aside, I think this quote and this study reinforces what we already know about running a marathon: prepare your body, prepare your mind, then step on the starting line full of confidence.
Title Ref: Pink Floyd – Another Brick in the Wall (Part 1). From the album The Wall. 1979.
Posted in The Science of Running
Tagged bonking, long run, marathon, running, running science, sport psychology
My Running Shorts: short stories about my life on the run.
