Coming to terms as I am, with the unhappy fact that I’m in my forties and seriously out of condition, I recently embarked on yet another attempt to fight the ravages of time. Plastic surgery isn’t an option, nor is a red sports car or a 19-year old girlfriend. So I took up running. Unlike apparently everyone else in the western hemisphere, I’m not overweight, quite the opposite. My body type tends towards what could charitably be called “lean”, but more truthfully, (and more often) is referred to as “skinny”. Being blessed with a metabolism which curiously, causes me to lose weight when I don’t exercise, my life has been a constant battle to avoid being compared to the “Before” picture in the Charles Atlas advertisements.
I do try to spend as much of my free time outdoors as possible. My dogs all receive regular walks and I even know where my bike is, although it’s a little dusty right now. (Hey come on, we’re just at the end of winter here!) So despite my advanced age and lack of muscular bulk, I am in reasonably healthy shape. All my limbs are attached and I can walk up the 3 flights of stairs at the office without needing the emergency services on speed dial. However, a recent trip to the Doctor’s office showed my blood pressure was, for the first time ever, higher than normal. For the last couple of years, I have been spending far too long chained to my desk and as driving a computer mouse doesn’t tend to raise the heart rate in any way that could be considered healthy, I realize it’s time to take more drastic action.
Like many other people, I was part of the running craze in the early 80s and in addition to a number of shorter races, clocked up six marathons over about three or four years. I was in my teens and early twenties then so was more than capable of sinking five or six pints of a Saturday lunchtime then clocking up a leisurely ten miles before getting ready to go out for the night. Somewhere there’s a photograph of me, in full running gear, sitting on the curb smoking a cigarette and holding a can of beer near mile fifteen of the Bolton Marathon. Sadly, like my vinyl collection and my Morris Minor, those days are long gone.
My first attempt at resurrecting my athletic career came about six months ago but, as these things so often are, was short-lived. For the last twenty years or so the only running I’ve done has been the little panicked trot when the blare of a car horn has reminded me that jaywalking can have its consequences. More to the point however, is that I now live at just less than 9,000 feet and there’s no denying, the air is a whole lot thinner up here. Even the flatlanders down in Denver, a mere one-mile above sea level, are a good 3,500 feet lower than us, yet professional sports teams often cite the altitude as a factor when they receive a drubbing here. So I was well aware I wouldn’t be ready for the Ironman my first week out.
I started with what I thought would be a gentle introduction to the sport, covering only one mile and alternating between running and walking, 100 paces each. Despite my caution, I developed pains in my legs that within a few days made ordinary life extremely uncomfortable. The muscles felt fine but the pains were coming from the bones themselves. Concerned I was suffering from some kind of old-fart bone loss disease, I stopped running just about the time winter kicked in and the early morning temperatures were beginning to plummet.
Until a couple of weeks ago that is, when my doctor, struggling I’m sure to keep her face straight, assured me that bone pain is almost unheard of and what I was experiencing was nothing more dramatic than long unused muscles suddenly being asked to earn their keep. This wasn’t manifesting in stiffness, as I had assumed it would, but the dull ache with which I was so familiar. “Get out there and run.” was her message, “It will do you good”. So, with medical assurance that my crippling bone disease would only be temporary, I decided to give running another chance.
Another big advantage of running in my youth was that in those days I had the money for top quality shoes. Back then we snobs would tell ourselves that a jogger wore clothes worth $100 and shoes worth $5, while with a runner, the opposite was the case. Quality foot ware is vitally important for anyone who wishes to rack up the miles and I’m well aware that the beaten up tennis shoes in which I was running, were not doing my feet, ankles, legs or back any good at all. Unfortunately, I’m now tied to the other trappings of middle age such as a mortgage, two cars and, probably a bigger financial drain, a wife.
I’m also responsible for the economic well-being of several other financial institutions, banks, credit card companies and the like so despite my good intentions, I don’t have the folding money to shell out on a project that, let’s face it, has had a high failure rate for plenty of other people in the past. Luckily, the other night I happened across a shoe store going through the final stages of a closing down sale and was able to snag a snappy looking pair of Reeboks for only about the same amount as my first weekly wage. The uppers are a little stiffer than I would like and they’re blindingly white, but they’ll do.
Which means I have no excuse not to get my butt out of bed and hit the road. Every other day I’ve been setting the alarm for the ungodly hour of 5:30am and after a few brief stretches, have been plodding my way around a one-mile block of my neighborhood. Running the full mile without stopping is out of the question so again; I’m using the run-walk-run approach. This morning I only walked twice, for 100 paces each time and think it won’t be long before I can skip that part altogether. Over time, I’d like to build up to where I can do 3-5 miles comfortably. If you aren’t familiar with exercising at altitude, that’s a bigger achievement than it sounds.
For the moment though, my legs hurt, walking upstairs is a trial and my lungs are producing an astonishing amount of goo. But, I’ll keep at it. You’ll see me in the Ironman yet.
I do try to spend as much of my free time outdoors as possible. My dogs all receive regular walks and I even know where my bike is, although it’s a little dusty right now. (Hey come on, we’re just at the end of winter here!) So despite my advanced age and lack of muscular bulk, I am in reasonably healthy shape. All my limbs are attached and I can walk up the 3 flights of stairs at the office without needing the emergency services on speed dial. However, a recent trip to the Doctor’s office showed my blood pressure was, for the first time ever, higher than normal. For the last couple of years, I have been spending far too long chained to my desk and as driving a computer mouse doesn’t tend to raise the heart rate in any way that could be considered healthy, I realize it’s time to take more drastic action.
Like many other people, I was part of the running craze in the early 80s and in addition to a number of shorter races, clocked up six marathons over about three or four years. I was in my teens and early twenties then so was more than capable of sinking five or six pints of a Saturday lunchtime then clocking up a leisurely ten miles before getting ready to go out for the night. Somewhere there’s a photograph of me, in full running gear, sitting on the curb smoking a cigarette and holding a can of beer near mile fifteen of the Bolton Marathon. Sadly, like my vinyl collection and my Morris Minor, those days are long gone.
My first attempt at resurrecting my athletic career came about six months ago but, as these things so often are, was short-lived. For the last twenty years or so the only running I’ve done has been the little panicked trot when the blare of a car horn has reminded me that jaywalking can have its consequences. More to the point however, is that I now live at just less than 9,000 feet and there’s no denying, the air is a whole lot thinner up here. Even the flatlanders down in Denver, a mere one-mile above sea level, are a good 3,500 feet lower than us, yet professional sports teams often cite the altitude as a factor when they receive a drubbing here. So I was well aware I wouldn’t be ready for the Ironman my first week out.
I started with what I thought would be a gentle introduction to the sport, covering only one mile and alternating between running and walking, 100 paces each. Despite my caution, I developed pains in my legs that within a few days made ordinary life extremely uncomfortable. The muscles felt fine but the pains were coming from the bones themselves. Concerned I was suffering from some kind of old-fart bone loss disease, I stopped running just about the time winter kicked in and the early morning temperatures were beginning to plummet.
Until a couple of weeks ago that is, when my doctor, struggling I’m sure to keep her face straight, assured me that bone pain is almost unheard of and what I was experiencing was nothing more dramatic than long unused muscles suddenly being asked to earn their keep. This wasn’t manifesting in stiffness, as I had assumed it would, but the dull ache with which I was so familiar. “Get out there and run.” was her message, “It will do you good”. So, with medical assurance that my crippling bone disease would only be temporary, I decided to give running another chance.
Another big advantage of running in my youth was that in those days I had the money for top quality shoes. Back then we snobs would tell ourselves that a jogger wore clothes worth $100 and shoes worth $5, while with a runner, the opposite was the case. Quality foot ware is vitally important for anyone who wishes to rack up the miles and I’m well aware that the beaten up tennis shoes in which I was running, were not doing my feet, ankles, legs or back any good at all. Unfortunately, I’m now tied to the other trappings of middle age such as a mortgage, two cars and, probably a bigger financial drain, a wife.
I’m also responsible for the economic well-being of several other financial institutions, banks, credit card companies and the like so despite my good intentions, I don’t have the folding money to shell out on a project that, let’s face it, has had a high failure rate for plenty of other people in the past. Luckily, the other night I happened across a shoe store going through the final stages of a closing down sale and was able to snag a snappy looking pair of Reeboks for only about the same amount as my first weekly wage. The uppers are a little stiffer than I would like and they’re blindingly white, but they’ll do.
Which means I have no excuse not to get my butt out of bed and hit the road. Every other day I’ve been setting the alarm for the ungodly hour of 5:30am and after a few brief stretches, have been plodding my way around a one-mile block of my neighborhood. Running the full mile without stopping is out of the question so again; I’m using the run-walk-run approach. This morning I only walked twice, for 100 paces each time and think it won’t be long before I can skip that part altogether. Over time, I’d like to build up to where I can do 3-5 miles comfortably. If you aren’t familiar with exercising at altitude, that’s a bigger achievement than it sounds.
For the moment though, my legs hurt, walking upstairs is a trial and my lungs are producing an astonishing amount of goo. But, I’ll keep at it. You’ll see me in the Ironman yet.
