Category Archives: Injuries
“STRESSED” OR NOT…
Yesterday I mentioned that this week I’d be getting myself thoroughly checked out: physical, vision test and a visit to the podiatrist.
Well, I called my foot doctor’s office and managed to snag an open spot on the schedule for Monday.
A quick jaunt to Burbank later and there I was lounging in the waiting room.
And by lounging, I meant sweating bullets.
You see, one reason for going to the office was to follow up on my new orthotics. But the other reason was this new and unexplained pain on the top of my left foot that flared up shortly after I ran my 3-pack of races. Read the rest of this entry
10K: OK or KO?
I’ve been nervous prior to runs and races before:
- My first 10-mile training run
- My first half marathon
- My first 20-mile training run
- My first full marathon
Yesterday, however, was the most apprehensive I’ve been before a run in a long long time.
And it was just a 10K recovery run.
PATIENCE IS NOT MY VIRTUE
Five whole days.
Five zip a dee doo dah dad-gum days.
Yup, it’s been five days since I’ve run one step or done any kind of exercise.
And it kinda sucks… correction, it totally sucks.
On Sunday I ran the San Diego Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon and during the race I got a cramp in my left leg (and a big ‘ole blister on my left foot). And running through the cramp basically ended up giving me a bit of a pulled muscle in the back of my leg (thinking it’s probably the hamstring).
POWER TO THE PACKET…
The other day I walked into a nearby McDonald’s.
Now in days past, I would have sashayed right up to the counter for a Chicken McNuggets super value meal complete with large fries, diet coke and an extra burger for good measure.
But these are no longer those days.
With the exception of a once a season Shamrock Shake (yum), I tend not to visit McD’s lest I have absolutely no alternative. Sorry Ronald, but please tell Grimace and the Fry Guys I said “hi.”
So, if not to stuff my face with the grub that made Morgan Spurlock a household name (still remember him), then why in the name of Mayor McCheese was I limboing under the Golden Arches.
THIS AND THAT…
(BTW, how’s that for a nickname for people who like the blog?)
Things are uber-zany at work this week so I only have time for a quick post today.
It’s the writing equivalent of when you don’t have time to get to the grocery store, don’t want to order a pizza and are determined to make dinner from whatever is left in the fridge… in my case a diet coke, some margarine, three types of mustard and some spinach lettuce. Oof.
THE FREAKY FOOT CHRONICLES: CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 2: “GOLDEN ARCHES”
A few weeks ago I wrote the first installment of the “Freaky Foot Chronicles” where I talked about my mildly mutant “foot digits” (aka toes).
Well, time to wax nostalgic about yet another of my maladies (one that several other runners I know share). The downside is it sucks. The upside is it’s a manageable condition that won’t prevent me from being a running fool for the next 40-50 years.
I’ve got high arches… really high arches. Not quite the St. Louis Arch arches or “McDonald’s arches” arches, but certainly higher than is considered normal.
THE FREAKY FOOT CHRONICLES: CHAPTER 1 (PART 2)
So you weren’t too put off by my tale of piggybacking piggies and socks that fit like a glove? Okay, then. Where were we?
CHAPTER 1: TOES- PART 2 “OLD MAN TOE”
When we last left my toes, things were hunky-dory. Injinji socks had solved my problem. Little did I know, yet another problem was waiting just around the corner. Or should I say on the back of a truck.
But like a Tarantino film, let’s throw linear story structure out the window. We’ll start in the here & now… or how about November 2013. I was at the podiatrist getting fit for new shoe inserts. As part of the check-up, they took x-rays of good ‘ole lefty and righty.
So, my foot doc took a look at my right foot x-ray and said something that no one wants to hear roll of their physician’s tongue. “Oh, that’s not good.”
THE FREAKY FOOT CHRONICLES: CHAPTER 1 (PART 1)
Ever since I started distance running back in the fall of 2008, I’ve come to the harsh realization that my feet are a bit of a mess. How big of a mess you may ask? Well, enough that I feel the need to break it down into chapters. Fortunately, they’re fairly tame… no rampaging fungi stories or pics, I promise.
So now that you know you won’t have to suppress the gag reflex, let’s talk about my feet.
CHAPTER 1: TOES- PART 1
(Yes, there will be two parts on this… kinda KILL BILL-like)
Toes. We’ve pretty much all got ‘em. Typically ten of ‘em. They aid us in traction, balance and help keep pedicurists gainfully employed. They feel like the less useful and less attractive cousins to our fingers. And other than stubbing your toe, which painfully reminds us they’re present, toes typically stay hidden in your shoes and fly under the radar.
For the most part, my toes are pretty typical. Five on each foot. My second toe is a hair longer than my big toe, which is not uncommon. There are stories that people with a slightly longer second toe have Celtic origins or descend from royalty. I’m cool with that. If Arthur can be hailed as King of Camelot by pulling a sword from a stone, why can’t my long toe at least earn me a knighthood?
But all is not well in the kingdom of Scott’s toes.
RUNNING NUGGET: THE BEST ICE PACK MONEY CAN BUY
As runners we all know about sprains, strains and sore muscles far too well. And at some point we’ve all had to have a heaping helping of RICE (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation). Well, today’s nugget is brought to you by the letter “I.”
I’m going to give you a little insight to help you in a post-race pinch and probably piss off the manufacturers of sports ice packs in the process. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve used many types of ice packs and they all basically work… it is pretty hard to get cold wrong, isn’t it?
I’m here to tell you about the best ice pack value for your buck and it’s not at the sporting goods store, running specialty shop or on-line.
It’s in your grocer’s freezer.
Let me tell you a story. After a recent race, I was driving a friend home and she was in pain. After limping the final mile of the race, her knee was sore as hell. She said she either needed some Advil ASAP or a samurai sword to commit Hara-kiri.
On Sunday, I didn’t workout at all. I didn’t go running. I didn’t hit the gym.
There were races I could have run… The Arizona Rock ‘n’ Roll Half or Full Marathon, Disney Tinkerbell in Anaheim, The Houston Marathon.
But I didn’t.
Instead I hit the grocery story, cooked some chili in the crock pot, watched a little playoff NFL football, and met a friend for a drink.
No real exercise to speak of whatsoever.
And I feel guilty.