November 2008 Archives

Three items to report on this glorious autumn morning (blue sky, a wisp of a breeze from the west, 33 degrees), two of which vindicate my urban walkophile-ness:

1. I couldn't help but notice while I ambled, capless, along my route this morning that the three bicyclists (pedal-philes?) I encountered were bundled up against the elements, their heads wrapped in helmets and various versions of the traditional balaclava (I almost typed baclava, which would be a different form of headgear). By the time I spied the third cyclist on the bridge, I'd already unzipped my jacket and loosened the scarf around my neck. Nothing against the two-wheeled commute, guys, but the wind you create as you slice through the lower atmosphere just makes you colder (he said, smugly).

2. Walking up the hill on the eastern edge of Minnehaha Park, I was startled by a huge bird that glided through the understory just ahead of me. For a moment, I thought it was an owl, but when it landed on the branch of a tree overlooking the glade about 30 yards away, I could see it looked more like a red-tailed hawk. I got a little closer before it once again took flight. I spotted it again a few minutes later and got a better look. The signature red tail was in evidence, and the sparrows, starlings and grackels in the vicinity were sounding the alarm. I got to within a few yards of the tree it was occupying before it unfurled its massive wings and glided back across the glade, where it could seek its breakfast in peace.
 
3. My ancient left knee has been only slightly annoying these past couple of days. The walk always seems to loosen it up and my labors on the EDM at the gym allow me to work the joint without doing further damage. But, it seems to be losing some range of motion. When I'm sitting zazen lately (always in the seiza, or kneeling, pose; I can't even imagine a half-lotus), I've had to add a pillow to my little bench so I don't have to bend my knee too much.

The pain, however, is not in the front of the knee, as you might expect. It doesn't really feel unstable, like it's going to buckle. It's more like a dull ache in the back of the knee. This could be a sign of arthritis, says fitness guru Marc David (but that only happens to old people, right?), or it could be a small tear in the cartilage, or a "baker's cyst" that fills with fluid when you've torn your meniscus or simply when your arthritis is flaring up.

I haven't done any baking in quite a few years, but the latter diagnosis sounds about right. When I tore the meniscus in my right knee back in 1998, the back of the knee was aching in a similar manner. Back then, of course, I was young and foolish and kept playing basketball until I could no longer walk. Today, I am old and wise (ha ha). I'll take my glucosamine and exercise with more care -- which is just another way of swearing off running.

Back on the EDM tonight after work, a little stretching (maybe), a 20-minute grunting session with the lifting machinery, and a quiet walk home. 

Valeriy's my new hero.

It occurred to me on the walk into the office this morning (glorious blue skies, soft NW breeze, 32 degrees) that I've maybe been beating myself up a bit too much about this running thing. I think I've been trapped in some weird paradigm that's dictating some false assumptions -- namely that running is sort of the ultimate fitness test, and that I'm wimping out if I don't suck it up and get that knee replacement so I can get back on the treadmill on a regular basis.

While it's true that whatever jogging I've been able to do since I began this fitness regimen almost two years ago has lifted my heart rate in a way that other activities generally haven't been able to match, the toll on my knees, calves and, lately, my left ankle have been akin to cruel and unusual punishment. And, I mused while striding vigorously across the Intercity Bridge (ice now beginning to form on the Mississippi), why can't I -- and the fitness gods -- attach some similar value to a brisk walk?

No, it's not the same as a 2 1/2 mile jog from Minneapolis to St. Paul, but my morning commute does involve covering that distance on foot at a moderately brisk pace. I mean, people who run marathons often walk part of the way, don't they? I'm just walking the whole way.

The more I think about this, the more this whole glorification of jogging/running is beginning to annoy me. Why isn't there a magazine called Walker's World? How come we don't have 5K and 10K walking races? Why does the sporting press worship guys like Usain Bolt and ignore Olympic 20K walking champ Valeriy Borchin (above)? It's not because he's Russian, I'll bet.

I'm suddenly feeling like an oppressed minority.

But, instead of moping around, I  think I'm going to simply create a new trend, right here, right now: Walking is the new running. Maybe I'll get T-shirts printed, start a Web site, lobby for a shoe endorsement from Keds -- turning down all offers from the walkophobes at Nike.

I like this. I can save my lower appendages, do something everyday that I really enjoy, and maybe even create a cult following. What's not to like?

(Photo: Anja Niedringhaus/Associated Press)   

I spent the weekend putzing around the house and avoiding the gym, but I was on my feet too much, and my tweaky left knee by Sunday evening had morphed from its usual benign tweakiness to a state of painful immobility that had me wondering whether I was going to be able to walk to work on Monday.

This may seem like an odd concern, I'll admit, given that the Dark Times have presently descended upon the city and our frosty, sub-freezing mornings and their seasonally appropriate northwesterly gales were certain to greet me the next morning. But, it's too cold for bicycling and the Crapmobile is, well, the Crapmobile, and the change in season has me in its thrall. I just want to get out in it every morning.

My knee's still a bit stiff when I awake on Monday, but I count as a good omen the fact that, when I slip on the frost-covered steps heading toward the street I do not go airborne. A block later, everything is loosening up nicely. I'm not really clear on why challenging your tweaky joints has the effect of making them less tweaky, but that seems to be what occurs on these occasions. For the half-hour or so that it takes for me to trek across the frozen lawn of Minnehaha Park, over the Intercity Bridge and up the hill to my St. Paul office, all my appendages are willingly cooperating with one another.

It all feeds this minor delusion I entertain -- that as long as I keep moving, I'm going to be OK. Or, as my old friend, Dan, puts it: "I want to live forever. So far, so good."

Forget everything I wrote yesterday about learning how to run all over again. I awoke this morning with a stiff and painful left knee, so I won't be jogging anywhere for a while. MLW suggested I take a dose or two of glucosamine, which often helps to loosen up her right knee after she overextends herself.

Isn't aging wonderful? Ten years ago, when I blew out my knee playing basketball, I had the meniscus cleaned out because I hoped to play a few more seasons. No need for a similar approach these days. At 57, the only competitive endeavors that are relevant are ones that don't require the use of my legs. (Scrabble, anyone?)

I'll throw back a couple of glucosamine tablets later today and fondly recall the days when my body allowed more freedom of movement. It's not that I miss the competition anymore; I lost my attachment to playing sports years ago. It's just that I have to reorient my behavior in such a way that I don't push myself to the point of injury.

The upside to all this: I have a great excuse to avoid running.

Motivation is a mysterious phenomenon. After a pretty sedentary week (a little commuter cycling, no lifting), this morning I climbed out of bed, unfolded my exercise/meditation mat and slid inexplicably back into my routine: a few sun salutations and other pretend yoga poses, some stretching, 30 push-ups, a little zazen. And then, for some reason that still escapes me, I pulled on my favorite red hooded sweatshirt, laced up my running shoes and announced to My Lovely Wife that I was taking the dog for a run.

Some context: Taking the dog for a walk is MLW's job, a task she dutifully performs nearly every weekday before she has her breakfast. The dog, Brigit, lives for this moment. She loves it more even than chewing on used Kleenex -- and that's saying something.

So, my announcement was met with some surprise from MLW and with some glee from Brigit, whose 10-year-old bones leapt off the couch and headed happily for the back door.

Some more context: I never do this. Thirty years ago, my body was allergic to sitting still. I can remember routinely bursting out of my St. Paul apartment and simply running down to Como Lake, maybe a half-mile away, circling it non-stop and dashing back home -- feeling that if I didn't do so, the energy vibrating throughout my frame might just cause me to spontaneously combust. I have no idea what that was about, but I'm no longer thus afflicted. I can happily sit still for hours at a time. It's like someone switched off the antsy gene.

Still, I felt compelled this morning to go outside and run. I was already sweaty from my workout and I'd been wondering for some time whether outdoor jogging might be more appealing than the vertigo I experience every time I climb on the treadmill. Would running on the soccer field up the street be easier on my knees? Would I be able to sprint in a way that my treadmill-phobia prevents?

So I hitched up Brigit to her gentle leader and leash, and we set off . . . into the coldest Saturday morning since March.

By the time we made it to the end of the block, my calves were already cramping and I was sucking wind like nobody's business, but I jogged gamely on, Brigit barely breaking into a trot. My knees were holding up quite well, I noticed, and my bright white running shoes were finally getting dirty. On the down side, it was beginning to snow.

At the soccer field, I paused to stretch my annoying calves and noticed that someone had deposited a soccer ball in the netting of the goal. It occurred to me that it might be more interesting to dribble the soccer ball up and down the field than to simply slog along with no particular goal in mind. Brigit, a big soccer ball fan, was cheered by this turn of events and did her best to impede whatever progress I might have been making toward the defenseless goal at the other end of the pitch. Despite her best efforts, the ball and I and she arrived together at the other goal, rounded it smartly and dashed back upfield, dodging imaginary incompetent midfielders and indifferent defensemen until, maybe 10 yards from the goal, I drove a shot just over the head of the imaginary 3-foot-tall goalkeeper and into the net.

A little more context: The soccer field upon which my dog and I were cavorting occupies a bit of green space on the campus of the Minneapolis Veterans Administration hospital. And it only just now dawned on me that, had I collapsed from a massive coronary, my status as a Vietnam Era veteran would've been pretty convenient -- had anyone actually been watching me kicking a soccer ball around in the mud and snow, which I fervently hope was not the case.

I was pretty winded by this time, but Brigit and I made one last run up the field and back -- emboldened perhaps by the knowledge that I was still vertical. Then, on the way home, I actually turned up the speed (so to speak) until I could feel my quads protesting, which persuaded me to give Brigit a break and walk the last block.

The whole experience (which I fear will show up on YouTube at some later date) made me wonder whether I need to learn how to run all over again. Nothing really felt comfortable; my gait seemed weirdly off-balance, my body seemed sort of misaligned. It was mildly exhilarating, I'll admit -- a kind of temporary insanity. But I'm OK now that I'm sitting down again.