All I want to do is run. If blame need be apportioned, it is Paul Turner’s fault for his suggestion back in 2007 about bootcamp. It took two years of exasperated banter about my motivation before he put the phone down without swearing.
In March 2009, without any desire to get fit, I booked boot camp and sent Paul the confirmation email. Not long after, another mate, Andy Blyth suggested we run the Gold Coast half marathon. Getting ready inside three months sounded fanciful, but we trained anyway. Following the first week of boot camp, getting fit seemed easy. In Melbourne, Paul was training too. In three months he would be on the Gold Coast with a group of people to run the half marathon. They’d already booked flights and accommodation.
History shows Andy and I didn’t run at the Gold Coast in 2009, both being cut down by injury in the final weeks of training. Andy’s right knee needed a second reconstruction. I tore my calf muscle badly. Following those setbacks and injury concerns into 2010, running a half marathon was folly, my body wouldn’t allow it.
The two years following that first session of boot camp have been interesting, riddled by the frustration of injury, two bad calf muscle tears and constant calf strains. More than a thousand dollars went on physio, massage, bandages, compression bandages, skins, runners and cold packs.
It’s been tough, but I’ve also run three official half marathons and two in training, all in the past four months, from July to October. It took two years of constant running to develop the fitness base. Perhaps I’ve never been fitter. Perhaps I’ll never be this fit again.
At 41, age is getting to the body. A partially slipped disc and a stress fracture cause back pain, sending referred pain into my right hip. I can’t get up without groaning. Rolling over in bed hurts. During September a bout of patella tendonitis in the left knee left me limping following a long run. Weeks ago Kristine cut the toenail off my right foot’s second toe. Running is better without it.
The last four months, though, hasn’t always been difficult. There have been good moments, getting high on endorphins after a run, watching the times grow shorter over longer distances. Finally developing confidence in the calf muscles, knowing they weren’t going to tear anymore, was crucial.
On 9 October, 2011, Paul and I ran the Melbourne half marathon, 21.1 kilometres through the city streets and into South Melbourne. Melbourne is a beautiful city. It was a pretty run.
Four months earlier, the night before the Gold Coast half marathon, sleep was wracked by paranoia, fear of failure, without faith in my body. I was panicking about my calf muscles and dreading the humiliation of telling people I couldn’t do it.
The night before the Melbourne half marathon there was no fear.
The Gold Coast half – the aftermath
On 4 July 2011, Andy and I were among 8500 people who ran the Gold Coast half marathon. Our times weren’t bad for a debut race, Andy finishing in 1:49:06 while I ran 1:45:22. The race was tough, my quads afire after 17 kilometres, making the last four kilometres almost torture. I couldn’t have run much further. Seconds after crossing the line, without any semblance of control, I pissed myself, just a little, but a little is a lot when you’re an adult. My shorts were damp with sweat and water, ensuring no one noticed.
The organisers of the event offered photos and video. The vision was embarrassing. I stumbled over the line, unable to run another step. Andy’s vision was the same, pain, was his simple description. We left everything on the track, happy with the times but those last four kilometres showed we weren’t adequately prepared. Simply, there weren’t enough kilometres in the legs.
My legs ached for a few days afterwards, requiring and getting massage. The week was run-free until Friday, a gentle three kilometres. In the weeks following, the intoxicating sense of achievement waned, replaced by desire, to run better next time. Analysing the race with Andy was hard to avoid, time the constant topic, trying to find reasons how we could’ve run quicker.
Paul was forced to impose reality. ‘You ran as hard as you could,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about your time.’
Two weeks after the half, 17 July, I ran ten kilometres in 47 minutes in the Redcliffe Jetty to Jetty event. The distance seemed pointless but it was the perfect build up to the Brisbane half marathon on 7 August. Besides, I was carrying an injury, and the race at Redcliffe offered further confidence.
During the Gold Coast half marathon I strained the peroneus longus, also known as a peroneal, on my left leg. The peroneal is a band of superficial muscle that runs down the fibula and becomes a tendon, attaching to bones on the underside of the foot. The muscle helps steady the legs. If you stand on one foot, it is the muscle that sticks out on the outside of your lower leg.
As I ran at Redcliffe, the strain hurt, but I quickly realised it’s one of the best lower leg muscles leg to hurt. Despite the pain, a peroneal strain doesn’t hinder running. It is not like tearing a calf muscle, quad or hamstring, which ends races and makes people limp. If you can run through nagging pain, a strain to the peroneals won’t affect your gait or time but it needs close attention in recovery, ice and compression. No one enjoys running with nagging pain.
The Brisbane half marathon was the chance for egotistical redemption. During the build up, I went against conventional wisdom.
The Brisbane half – lessons learned
Many books and internet searches recommend against running the full distance when training for a half marathon. Conventional wisdom suggests people run eighteen or nineteen kilometres and use their fitness base for those final two kilometres.
Prior to the Gold Coast half marathon, the longest distance I ran was 19 kilometres, which I did just once. Having struggled badly over the last four kilometres at the Coast, it was clear I wasn’t fit enough, and it didn’t make sense not to run the full distance in training.
On 24 July, two weeks before the Brisbane half marathon, I ran up to Nudgee beach and through the streets of Banyo, 21 kilometres in 1:47. The time was slow but it didn’t pose many worries. The night before, Saturday, had been big in the Arden Street Bar, roast lamb and lots of beer.
The following week, Sunday 31 July, another huge Saturday night forced me to quit after 90 minutes, about eighteen kilometres. Sharp, impact pain in the left hip lingered for three days, ruling out running until Thursday. I went light, four kilometres and repeated that on Friday night.
Sunday, 7 August, I pissed in the Botanical Gardens fifteen minutes before the Brisbane half marathon. It was dark when the race started at six. As pretty as the Gardens are, it’s a bad place to begin a half marathon. The starting gates were about thirty metres wide, the track narrowing quickly to ten metres. Thousands of runners came to a stop less than fifty metres from the start. Some ran into the person in front. Everyone walked for about fifty metres then started slowly. It took a long time to get free space.
The clumsy start added about a minute to people’s time. A woman in front of me turned to her friend and said I won’t get a personal best today.
Yes you will, her friend said.
They took off and I lost them in the mass of bodies.
After eight kilometres a break behind a tree added another minute to my time. Unprofessional, I thought as I rejoined the race, too much water in the morning, a stupid mistake and a waste of time.
When the race was fifteen kilometres old, along South Bank I caught the man carrying balloons with 1:45 scrawled in black on the pink surface. I ran past him, intent on catching the man carrying the 1:40 balloons.
At the seventeen kilometre mark, the man carrying 1:40 balloons ran past me on the final turn, a long way ahead on the other side of the track. There was no way to catch him. After completing the last turn, a glimpse of the 1:45 balloon carrier gave me hope that I’d beat him in.
Unlike at the Gold Coast, the last four kilometres weren’t rough. I didn’t exactly power to the finish, but didn’t drop my pace. When I crossed the line, the time read 1:43:59.
In a month my time improved by 83 seconds. The toilet break certainly hurt, as did the stuttered start, but those interruptions amounted to less than two minutes, and though it was a personal best, the improvement wasn’t what I’d hoped.
Clearly, the hours of training hadn’t been enough, kilometres run were too short. More needed to be done.
Recovery from the Brisbane half marathon was much better, no need for skins or compression bandages at work. The muscles ached for three days instead of four. By Thursday night I was running, just three kilometres, but pain free, good to turn the legs over.
With the Melbourne half marathon two months away, I increased training, a minimum of eight kilometres, no more three or five kilometre runs. By the end of August, every run was at least ten kilometres, always at a steady pace, 45 to 47 minutes.
Early in September I did another half marathon to Nudgee and back in 1:42. Two weeks later, when Saturday night beers impacted on Sunday, I quit after 18 kilometres. The following morning the inside of my left heel was swollen and bruised. Walking hurt. Kristine iced it and strapped it. It was an impact injury I’d had before, but not for years, the cause mystifying. I couldn’t run Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday.
Then I went to Melbourne. The heel was still bruised.
The Melbourne half – the build up
Melbourne was cold and wet on Friday 30 September, the afternoon clearing for a few hours before threatening clouds returned. It was almost five when Paul took me for a run around the Maribyrnong River, in the rain. It wasn’t the normal Melbourne drizzle. We ended up soaked. Twice he stopped to let me catch up. We did about ten kilometres in 41 minutes, a good run, much quicker than I’m used to. My heel still hurt but the swelling was gone.
Saturday we went to the grand final, drinking before and afterwards at Young and Jacksons. Sunday morning was free from a headache, but fatigue and dehydration were features. Later that day, along the Maribyrnong I ran 18 kilometres in 1:32, a time made slow because of the night before and a strong breeze.
The left peroneal twitched the whole run as it had done ever since the Gold Coast half marathon, nagging pain, not enough to stop. It was iced and massaged with anti-inflammatory cream on the swelling.
On Monday, Paul did the same 18 kilometre course along the Maribyrnong in 1:23.
A woman massaged me for an hour on Wednesday, which settled the muscles. She’d run marathons before and offered some advice. Crucially, she said it was okay to drink beer throughout the week. I was going to, anyway.
My final run before the half marathon was Thursday, about six kilometres along the Maribyrnong, another slow pace, about half an hour. An hour later, bruising rose on the left heel again, this time on the outside. There was more bruising on the pad beneath my little toe.
Given I wear orthotics, the bruising was a major concern. They had to be causing the bruising, which hadn’t happened before. I asked Kristine, the podiatrist who made the orthotics, for her opinion on the heel. She said ice and strapping, the same advice she’d given a week earlier.
‘Why is this happening now,’ she said. ‘What are you doing differently?’
I wasn’t doing anything differently, but two of the last three runs had resulted in bruising on my left heel. It had to be the orthotics, and that’s not to suggest any fault by the maker. Wearing orthotics transformed my running, I haven’t torn a calf muscle since they were made, but I didn’t wear them at the Gold Coast, a big mistake, most likely the cause of the strained peroneal. Initially the orthotics numbed my left foot but once worn in, they’ve never offered a problem.
After the chat with Kristine, I took the orthotic out from the left shoe then reinserted it, discovering a four millimetre gap at the heel. With both hands inside the shoe, I pulled the orthotic backwards and closed the gap. The runners are about eighteen months old. They’ve done three half marathons and a lot of kilometres. Over time they’d stretched slightly, resulting in a gap, four millimetres, between the orthotic and the heel, enough to have it out of position, which resulted in the bruising.
Not checking the runners after the first bruised heel was such a basic, silly mistake, like drinking too much water before a race. Amazing I could miss something like that.
Thursday night Paul and I studied a map of Port Phillip Bay, his son James helped too. We selected a patch eleven kilometres offshore, one renowned for snapper. On Friday we woke at six to go fishing in Paul’s boat. Launching after seven at Blackrock, by eleven o’clock we’d each caught a snapper, keeping two, Paul letting his go. James and Paul had never caught a snapper before. The last snapper I caught was in 1993, in Queensland.
The heel hurt, ensuring I sat most of the time, getting up to reel the line in if a fish was attached. Friday night, Russ came over for dinner, baked snapper. Afterwards we went for a drink at a local pub. A couple of hours later, at Paul’s, I applied more ice.
Russ asked about the ice. I showed him the bruising. ‘If I had to ice my foot like that I wouldn’t be running a half marathon,’ he said, providing a dramatic moment. The heel was sore, but it wasn’t that bad, not enough to prevent me from running. The ice was precautionary. Besides, I had all of Saturday to recover.
Saturday was cold and wet. Paul drove to the MCG to pick up our race packs. In the race precinct, a company selling tape offered free strapping. I had the heel strapped. The bloke doing the strapping didn’t seem too interested, probably because I wasn’t a woman, applying one length of tape, horizontally on the heel, covering the bruising. He could’ve used a band-aid.
‘See if that helps,’ he said.
I said thanks, anyway.
Later that afternoon, I bought a roll of tape from a supermarket. Paul strapped the heel as Kristine instructed during a phone call, one side of the heel to the other with a 50 percent overlay of tape. Once strapped, walking was easier, the shoe didn’t hurt to wear.
