Road to Hope

The Hamilton Marathon was fabulous!

It was a gorgeous sunny day.  A bit of a nip in the air which called for a Tim Hortons coffee stop part way through to warm up but otherwise, no complaints.

Doug and I arrived at the start line in plenty of time.  Especially considering that the race start was delayed by 10 minutes to allow time for all the buses full of runners to get from the finish to the start line.  Apparently there's a lot of traffic in Hamilton on a Sunday morning.

We met up with Scully who had come out to cheer as well as Barb, Cathy and John, some pretty amazing runners from St. Catharines.

Once the gun went off, our race stalking plan went into action.  We raced to the 8k spot where we met up with Erin.  Hi Erin!  Despite the fact that we were freezing, Doug and Barb handed off vests and jackets when they passed.  I guess standing around doesn't burn quite as many calories or create quite as much heat as running does.

Next stop - right at the top of the Red Hill Expressway.  That's where we caught up with Klari with her perfectly coordinated Boston attire and matching cowbell.  We were at kilometre twenty-two and as soon as the runners passed us, they turned right, ran down the on ramp, ran on to the expressway and headed down down down the escarpment to the beach strip.  No wonder Hamilton Marathon is one of the fastest races in North America with such a huge downhill stretch.

Doug, right before heading on to the Red Hill.

It's hard to believe they shut down a highway for five hours.  

Our plan was to race down Centennial Parkway to catch the runners again when they came off the highway at kilometre thirty.  Well, apparently all roads in Hamilton are pretty busy on a Sunday morning because, by the time we got there, we had missed Doug.  Off to the finish line we went. 

Standing at the finish line of the Niagara Falls marathon a few weeks ago, we saw all sorts of runners who were in obvious pain and distress.  But we were watching the runners who were running a marathon in over four and half hours.  Many of them were running their first marathons and, even for experienced runners, running 5+ hours is hard on the body.  The finish line after 4 1/2 hours is not always a pretty sight. 

Standing at the finish line of a marathon waiting for four people who, combined, have run over 80 marathons is a whole different ball game.  They know what they're doing and they make it look (almost) easy.  

Doug was hoping for a 3:45 finish time.  He got a 3:38, placed first in his age group and got a guaranteed entry into the 2012 New York Marathon 

John finished in 3:57. 

Cathy ran a 4:03

And Barb did a 4:04. 

But the craziest thing of all was this kid who beat the pants of all of them. 

There was some confusion as to whether he was 13 or 15 years old but, either way, holy bananas!  He finished in under 3:30.  

I have yet to stand at the finish line of a race and not feel all sorts of conflicting emotions as I watch person after person complete whatever journey they were on to get there.  

Hamilton was no different.  

My Marathon Man

It's marathon weekend.  Again!

This time, we're heading to Hamilton.  Me with my trusty camera - Doug with his trusty Asics.

My marathon man is at it again but things are a little different than they were in April.  On Sunday, instead of taking part in the ancient tradition of the Boston marathon, he's taking on the three year old Hamilton marathon.

This time, instead of taking hours and hours to wander through the Boston expo, we will probably take 15 minutes to wander through the Hamilton one.  Apparently it's in a tent by the finish line.

Instead of 26,000 runners, there are 2,500.

Instead of throngs of spectators lining the streets and screaming for hours there will probably be long stretches with no one other than police officers holding back cars at traffic lights.

Police officers...and me and my posse - ready to collect excess clothing, refill water, hand out lip balm, cheer, scream and take lots of pictures.

Cause that's what we do for the people we love.

It was an interesting summer with both of us training for marathons.  Maybe because it was my first but all summer long I felt like my entire life revolved around my running schedule.  I was always in some phase of running - planning a run, getting ready for a run, running, recovering from a run or cross-training to prepare for the next run.

Doug, who did the same training I did plus an extra month's worth, didn't seem at all phased by the whole thing.  Perhaps because he's done it before but he made the whole thing look easy (though I know very well that it's not).

I would hardly know he was running a marathon in two days except that it's on the calendar.

I've been at the finish line now for three of Doug's marathons.  Each time I've had to follow him in my mind, looking at the clock and sending him courage as I waited at the finish - scanning every runner until I spotted his familiar gait.  It's fun, exciting but emotionally draining too.  Especially when I see runner after runner limping, grimacing in pain, collapsing, crying or looking downright ghastly.  One gets to see some pretty nasty things when they hang out at the finish line of a marathon.

Doug is a great runner and I'm not really worried about him but I always feel better once I've got him in my sights.

This time will be different. This time I get to stalk him. There's one long stretch where he's on his own but I'll still get to plant myself at 2 or 3 spots along the route.  Provide support should he need it and reassure myself that yep, he's fine.

Only then will I race to the finish, find the perfect photography position and stare down the road willing him to appear.

He always does, looking the way he always looks - strong and steady.

A few hundred metres from the finish line of the Niagara Falls marathon (3:35)

Coming up the home stretch of the Cleveland marathon (3:42)

Stay tuned for next week's photos and recap of the Hamilton Marathon.

It's Not You, It's Me...

My swim cap and I have officially broken up.

It's nobody's fault really.

We jumped into the relationship quickly without really getting to know each other.  We were both so excited and I think we were hoping we would work out our little differences over time.  There were days when it seemed like we might.  But there were more days when we just couldn't seem to communicate about anything.

He wanted to venture off on his own but I wanted him to stay with me.  He wanted to do his own thing and didn't to realize the impact his lack of cooperation was having on me. I'd tell him where I wanted him but, within minutes, he was running off again. We just couldn't work it out.

I talked to my friends about it.  I asked for advice.  I did everything people told me to do but still - he kept sliding off my head.  It made me crazy!

This week, we have been on a trial separation.  He sits on the side of the pool, by my juice boxes, and I swim without him.  He's there if I decide I need him but he's not bothered if I go it alone.

I thought I would miss him but, after two days apart, I realized that I felt better on my own.

So we're done.

Officially.

Interestingly, now that I'm free from the frustrations of that relationship, I'm able to focus on other things that were also bugging me but I was too preoccupied to notice.

Like my goggles!

Hello?!?  Are you really supposed to completely fog up every two minutes?

When I had to stop every 2nd length to fix my swim cap, I'd also have to adjust my goggles so it didn't feel like a big deal.

Not that I'm free to just swim, I'm becoming annoying aware of how quickly and completely my goggles fog up.

I've tried spitting in them (a lesson learned my scuba diving lesson) but that doesn't seem to work at all.

After speaking to a few swimmer friends, I've been told that goggles really shouldn't do that so perhaps I should invest in a better pair.   And here I thought goggles were goggles.  And swim caps were swim caps.

I'm sensing another breakup in my future...

Baby Bear Breathing

I have a problem.

Ever since I learned how to swim as a little kid, I could only breathe on my left side.

Breathing on my right felt so unnatural that I completely stopped trying to do it.

That means that I can only breathe every second, fourth or sixth stroke when I'm doing the front crawl.

Every second is a little bit too often but every fourth is too long.  If I breathe every fourth, my body remains in a mildly panicked state because I feel like I'm going to drown.

Lots of people have some sort of irrational issues with water.  Mine is that if I can't breathe exactly when I want to, I panic.  I've learned enough self control over time that I can control my swimming panic but controlling it is NOT the same as not panicking.  All control means is that I don't flail about all wild-eyed, grabbing at anything that looks like it might support me.  Instead, I force myself to calm the eff down and just keep the slow steady breathing going until it feels natural again.

On top of that little issue there's the fact that my right shoulder was starting to get tired and mildly sore during swims but my left shoulder was not.  I figured it might have something to do with always breathing on the left side.

So, on Monday morning, I decided that I was going to learn how to breathe on my right side.  Or drown trying....

...which, given the fact that there are three eagle-eyed lifeguards within arms length, I wasn't too worried about.

To make things even more interesting, the swim team was there and they were practising the butterfly.  Thirty kids butterflying back and forth creates some pretty major waves in the pool.  And bizarre currents.  So I figured I was practising right side breathing AND open water swimming at the same time.

I swam six lengths forcing myself to breathe ONLY on my right side.  As soon as I started, I was immediately transformed from a fairly graceful swimmer (I like to think anyway) to an elephant seal.  My head came way out of the water to breathe because I couldn't judge how far out of the water I needed to be.  My legs were almost vertical because my head was so high.  My arms weren't used to the new breathing routine so they slapped the water rather than cut into it.

The lifeguards must have wondered what the hell happened to me over the weekend.

From shallow end to deep end it went kinda well but when I turned around I was now facing the butterfly-ing teenagers every time I inhaled.  Thanks to the waves they were creating, I choked twice and had to stop in the middle of the pool to cough, catch my breath and stop sputtering.

After six lengths I had managed to go from panicked to mildly stressed so that was a good sign.

Now that I knew I could do it, I switched to breathing every third stroke.  Breathe on the left, stroke, stroke, breathe on the right, stroke, stroke, breathe on the left.  That's the perfect breathing timing for me because it's not too short, and not too long.

It's. just. right.

Kinda like baby bear breathing.

Pretty good front crawl technique but I think his head's a little too low in the water....

Anyway, I spent the rest of my swim trying to breathe very deliberately.  Every third stroke, unless I had a moment of panic.  When I felt the panic rise, I was allowed to switch to only breathing on my happy side but only for a few seconds until I got back under control again.  

I swam 1.5 kilometers on Monday - sixty lengths of the pool.  And, at the end of it, my right shoulder didn't feel tired or sore and neither did my left. 

I think I'm on to something.  

But I'm thinking that if I do want to try a triathlon next summer I had better do some open water swims first to get used to breathing in choppy water.  Cause if a few kids doing the butterfly in the next lane was enough to make me stand up, plant my feet and pretend I was fine as my heart pounded in my chest, I can't imagine how crazy swimming in even mildly rough water is going to feel. 

One of my rules is that, if something scares me, I have to do it.  Between starting a blog, Around the Bay, marathon training, forcing myself to cycle down crazy hills and now swimming outside of my comfort zone, I'm beginning to think that 2011 was the year of the scary. 

Radioactive

Between swimming, injuries, diaversaries and life in general, there are so many things to write about.  

I had my appointment with Dr. Prince, sports injury doctor extraordinaire, last Friday and figured an update was overdue. 

My appointment was scheduled at 8:40am.  I got there at 8:20 and was out by 8:30am.  He checked out my ankle and my shins and said there is a pretty good chance that I have a stress fracture.  The bone on the inside of my calf (where the problem is) is the weight bearing bone so he said that stress fractures on that bone can be harder to heal.  He mentioned the possibility of an air cast...yuck. 

But first, a diagnosis is needed.  

He sent me for an x-ray and made a referral for a bone scan.  The x-ray I could do anytime and the bone scan may take a week or two to schedule. 

The x-ray may not find anything but, if it does, it beats waiting for a bone scan.  

Since I was ahead of schedule, I headed to the x-ray clinic and was there at 8:55.  It opened at nine and I was first in line.  So, by 9:15am, I had been seen by a doctor, had my x-ray and was at work.  

How wonderful was that? 

Oh wait, it gets better. 

At around 1pm on Friday my cell phone rings.  It's the nuclear medicine department at the hospital calling.  Can I come in on Monday for my bone scan? 

Ummmm....sure?

So yesterday I went to the hospital at 9:30am.  They injected a radioactive something or other into my arm and then took several images of my lower legs.  I asked and was told they were checking out the soft tissue and circulation in my legs. 

Ok.  

Then I had to go back at 2pm, once the radioactive material had time to circulate through my body and go into my bones.  They had me lie down on my back and my side and their machine took three images, each one taking 15-20 minutes to complete.  I was left alone during these so I actually had three mini naps - it was quite peaceful. 

Let's recap.  I called Dr. Prince last Wednesday and got in on Friday morning.  By 9:15 Friday I had been seen and x-rayed.  By 1pm I had a bone scan appointment and by Monday at 3:30pm I was done.  By the end of the week I should know the results.  Not sure what everyone else's experience is like with this sort of thing but I'm pretty damn impressed with the efficiency. 

On a fun note, I am now officially radioactive and have been given a letter to take with me if I'm traveling over the border in the next three days.  Apparently I will set off all sorts of alarms.  I've tried lighting up dark rooms and starting my car without the key but no luck.  Apparently those things only happen in the movies. 

Monday morning, in honour of my impending radioactivity, I came home from my early morning swim to find my nuclear-themed breakfast waiting for me. 

Gotta love a man with a sense of humour.  And the ability to make my breakfast shake just the way I like it

9th Diaversary

Nine years ago today was the last day of my pre-diabetes life.

The day before the day everything changed.

I knew I was sick.  I knew something was terribly wrong.  Hallowe'en 2002 was the last day of my life without diabetes.

It's too bad that I was feeling too poorly to appreciate it.

The next morning, November 1st, I had an appointment with my family doctor.  Within hours I was in intensive care.  By the time I went home a week later I had learned what a glucometer was.  I had learned how to count carbs. I had forced myself to prick my own finger and draw my own blood to check my sugar.  I had sat on the edge of the bed in my open back gown with a nurse beside me - working up the courage to give myself my first needle.  I had had my first low in the middle of the night and had to ring for the nurse because I had no idea what was happening.  All I knew was something was NOT right.

Nine years ago, I went into the hospital as Céline and came out as Céline but everything had changed.

I was now a person with diabetes.  And, trust me, that was a very very scary thing.

I remember shaking uncontrollably when we stopped at the mall on the way home.  I was terrified to go in, terrified of having a low and not knowing what would happen.  I remember having my first low after I left the hospital and trying hard to ignore it in the hopes that it would go away.  It didn't.  I cried when I realized that willpower didn't work.  I couldn't push through a low.  I had to acknowledge it, stop whatever I was doing and deal with it.

I hated that.

I still hate that.

I also remember feeling better as soon as they gave me insulin.  I was looking pretty awful by the end.  Severely dehydrated, 35 pounds lighter that I had been in June, pale and weak.  As soon as my blood sugar started dropping I felt and looked immensely better.

Insulin is NOT a cure...

...but it is a miracle.

Nine years ago today, I had severe ketoacidosis and my blood sugar was around 35.  I was dying.  Dying of a disease that was a guaranteed killer before 1921.

Thanks to Drs Banting and Best, the Canadian doctors who discovered insulin, I was handed a new life.

One that involves a lot of finger pricking, needle pokes, medical appointments, highs and lows but a new life.

Many people never have an experience that shakes their world.  I had two by the time I was 22 years old. Each time taught me some pretty important lessons.

The first time happened in 1991 and it taught me the value of family and friends.  I learned to appreciate every moment because I had learned how easily moments can disappear and lives can change.

In 2002, diabetes taught me about priorities.  It changed my life and, in return, gave me the courage I needed to change my life.

I left the path I was on and forged a new life.  Along the way, I changed everything.

It's been nine years already.  I remember how overwhelmed I felt after I had lived with diabetes for only one week.  All the carb counting.  All the meal planning.  All the highs and lows. Then a month went by.  Then a year.

It's almost been a decade.

I'm starting to forget what life was like before diabetes.  What it was like to eat what I wanted, when I wanted, without worrying about anything.  What it was like to go for a walk without pockets full of fast acting carbs just in case.  What it was like to not have calloused fingers or needles in my purse.  What it was like to travel without an entire carry-on devoted to diabetic supplies.

Some things I can only imagine.  Like what it would be like to go for a run in nothing but shorts and a t-shirt.  I started running after diabetes so I will never know what it is like to run without fear of having a low.

Other things I would never have experienced without diabetes.  I would not have started blogging.  I would not have discovered the DOC.  I would not have started running, cycling or swimming.  I would not have taken up photography.  I would not have many of the friends I have today.

My life has been immeasurably changed with my diagnosis.  Some things have changed for the worse but most have changed for the better.  Because I learned, again, what's really important.

Nothing like a life-altering event to show you what the priorities are.

Next year is ten years.  I think that calls for a party don't you?

Addicted to Chlorine

I'd like to say that Wednesday morning dawned bright and beautiful but, at the time I'm talking about, dawn was a long way off.

Despite the dark, rain and cold, I popped up ten minutes before my 5:30am alarm.  It's crazy how my body bounces out of bed on swim mornings and yet refuses to wake up on the days I get to sleep in until 6:30.  Bizarre. 

Anyway, I bounced down the stairs, down the street, through the change room and out to the pool.  

Seven lanes were set up.  Six swimmers, including me, were milling around.  

Where's the swim team?  Where is the large noisy group of boisterous teenagers? 

We asked the lifeguard.  Nope, they're not coming today.

Whaaaaat??

We looked at each other like little kids on Christmas morning.  We each get our OWN LANE! 

Best. Swim. Ever. 

I just put my head down and swam.  I felt my body move through the water.  I tried out different breathing techniques.  I thought about what my arms and legs were doing and tried to fix little things.  I swam fifty lengths without once worrying about anything.  

Even my swim cap seemed willing to behave and I would get 6 or 8 lengths in before I had to adjust things. 

It was absolutely lovely.  

When I finished the lengths and headed to the deep end to pool run, my friend Mary called out.  Céline, have you tried the new running clinic on Wednesday nights?  

Ummmm....no?

"It's awesome" yelled the lifeguard across from the pool.  "Best workout I've ever had in the water."

Really? 

Apparently on Wednesday nights there is a one hour running clinic that basically involves vigorous pool running and other activities geared for runners. 

Sounds right up my alley. 

Is it crazy that I'm actually thinking about swimming on Wednesday mornings and then going back Wednesday nights for more?  

Mary does it.  The lifeguard loves it.

Why the hell not?