Treadmill Pain Threshhold

I started monitoring my heart rate during my runs because I wanted to have a base for future blogging experiments.  Instead of finding a baseline, I watched my heart rate reaching ridiculously high numbers.  When working at a good clip, but not completely out of breath, my heart rate climbs to 185 bpm.  If I really push myself, whether by speed or a hill climb, my pulse goes well beyond 200bpm.  I rarely feel light headed when this happens so I didn't think much of it.  But my husband and Mom pestered me about it constantly.  They wanted me to see a doctor, "just to make sure." So, I made the appointment.

The initial resting echo cardiogram said there was nothing wrong with my heart but my doctor was still very concerned about the numbers I was posting.  She referred me to a cardiologist who was to give me a treadmill stress test and an 24 hour holter to measure my heart.

I have seen numerous movies and pictures of treadmill stress tests over the years.  The patient is always smiling, young, females are fully clothed, and they show no sign of discomfort.  I had NO idea what I was in for!

Upon arriving at the cardiologist's waiting room, I sat amongst 10 other patients, all above the age of 60.  They kept looking at me awkwardly as I was clearly too young to be part of their "stint" club and my bright yellow shoes were obnoxious amongst their stoic attire.  I am sure they wondered what a fit girl was doing in that office and they pitied whatever the reason might be.

After waiting about 10 minutes, a technician called me back to the room where I was greeted with an ultrasound machine, 5 computers, and a treadmill that came from 1980.  The technician offered me new clothing for the test, which was a hilarious excuse for a "jacket."  Now I know why ALL the images on the Internet of treadmill tests are of men without a shirt.  I was to run with a mid-drift paper jacket, open to the front, with wires and patches covering a good portion of my chest and stomach.

The two women alternated taking my stats and hundreds of pictures of my heart at rest through the ultrasound machine.  When they left the room periodically, I watched my heart rate climb and settle with my breathing.  Out of pure boredom, I began to breath with different rhythms to see if I could adjust my heart rate with minimal effort.

Finally, it was time to jump on the treadmill.  Before I began, they told me two things: 1. There was an incredibly fit man yesterday that broke the time record for the last few weeks lasting 15:23.  They doubted I could beat him.  (Most people only last up to 10 minutes.)  2. They started at a 10% incline and it would go up 2% every 2-3 minutes while the tread sped up at the same increment.  Thus began the strangest workout I've ever endured.

We began really slowly.  I started at a 10% incline, but walked at a 15 minute per mile pace.  Within 2 minutes, I was speed walking at a 12% incline, and by 6 minutes I was slowly jogging at a 14% incline.  I watched my heart rate settle in the 160 range for a few minutes, but the second we passed the 16% incline, it climbed like mercury in a meat thermometer.  I am not sure if they were actually testing my heart rate, or my pain threshold.  Other than passing out completely, or vomiting violently all over the archaic treadmill, how would we know when I reached my absolute, top heart rate?

I have an incredible pain capacity.  I birthed both my boys completely naturally.  I didn't have so much as an IV in my arm, nor did I ever scream out in pain or curse at my husband as all the movies promote.  After 12 minutes of running up a steep mountain side, I was hurting, I wanted to stop.  I ran while tightly gripping the padded handle bar, petrified that I was going to fall off the 20% incline and make a complete fool out of myself - paper jacket splayed open on the floor.  I lasted 16:02.  The techs were thoroughly excited by this achievement but I just wanted to vomit as I felt my heart try to beat out of every pressure point in my head, neck, arms, and legs.  When I stopped, it wasn't because they told me to, I gave into the pain.  Ta Da!  We found my pain threshold!  My ending heart rate was 192 bpm.

Without a cool down, they literally helped me jump from the moving treadmill back onto the examination table where I got another series of ultrasound pictures.  I am sure the pictures of my heart looked like a fish out of water gulping for air at this point, so I shamefully adverted my eyes.

Next, I was fitted with my 24 hour holter.  Again, I was given only two instructions: 1. DO NOT SHOWER! 2. Do everything like you normally would.  If you go for a run at 6 am, do it, just do NOT shower!  Gross.

When I got home, my oldest son thought I was the coolest thing since the Transformers.  "With all those wires, Mom, you look like Cybotron!" Um, thanks dear, whoever that is...?

 

I slept fine that night with my little pocket computer, 5 patches, and numerous wires covering my chest.

The next morning I needed to go for a 3 mile run.  My doctor told me weeks ago to really go for it.  She said, "It doesn't matter if you wear the holter if you don't prove what is happening to your heart.  Make a game to see how high you can get your heart rate to climb."  My husband helped me pack my running Camelbak with the monitor, snapped a few pictures out of humor, and I set off with my dog.

Tucker LOVED this run.  I didn't have to remind him to behave himself once.  We set off at a good clip, averaging 8:00 miles, climbing up 3-9% grades throughout the route.  I felt my heart rate climb, so I pushed harder.  I didn't want the test to be inconclusive.  At the top of the hills I felt a bit faint and thought I might barf up my freshly consumed Cliff Bar a few times, but I made it home, finishing the route faster than I have ever run it before.

Finally, there was one small issue - I sweat a lot when I run.  I don't sweat during the run, but when I stop, especially if I pushed myself, I am drenched.  At 12:30pm I needed to drop Ethan off at school, where I go into the classroom and speak to teachers and numerous parents.  Not showering was NOT going to happen!   I didn't take a real shower, but I carefully made myself feel alive again.

By 2:45pm the monitor timed out and I was free. I don't know when I will get the results.  I was hoping I would get them before I leave on Saturday for the Vegas Rock 'n' Roll Half Marathon, but I doubt that will happen.  As of now, all I know is that my heart rate is really high when I exercise (Thanks for that revelation, Doc!).  Other than the extremely high beats per minute, my heart sounds and looks good.  I am happy with those results, but I am not sure what they are going to say about bringing my heart rate down.  My doctor informed me that having such a high heart rate for many years is asking for a heart attack when I am 40-50 years old.  I don't like the idea of long term medications, but I am also not going to stop running, nor will I stop pushing my limits improving times and distances. 

Backcountry Wilderness Half Marathon

Heading into the Backcountry Wilderness Half Marathon I had two goals: watch my heart rate monitor, and don't get hurt.  I wanted to recover easily for the Rock 'n' Roll Vegas Half in less than 3 weeks.  Adding to the stress, my heart rate has climbed to extremely high rates over the last couple months, leaving me a strict doctor's order to keep it under 185 beats per minute.  My doctor scared me enough that day to take her warnings seriously.  "You may feel good, but your heart is not.  You are on your way to a heart attack!"  I wanted a good work out.  I wanted to experience the racing environment that I crave, but I didn't want permanent damage. Therefore it wasn't going to be a race that I would go all out and take a stand to prove my running abilities.  My 24-hour echo cardiogram, and stress test are scheduled for next week.  Until then, it was about enjoying the ride.

Freezing before the race!

Randall and I ran the Backcountry Half together.  He said he wanted me to pace him so that he didn't go all out and regret it later when he was too sore to move.  But I know why he stayed, he didn't trust I would watch my heart rate monitor closely enough.  I knew he was babysitting me when he tried to take off a few times in the first couple miles and when I didn't follow, he slowed, looked around for me, and ended up letting me take the lead.  Once we hit Monarch Blvd, we settled into our pace and I was glad Randall was there.  He provided great company and camaraderie, making me laugh when it hurt.

I applaud the Highlands Ranch Race Director for making a route that was somehow uphill for the majority of the first 11 miles.  That couldn't have been easy!  Our map clearly defined the inclines, but until you run a course from start to finish, it is impossible to appreciate the ascents.  The course was extremely well planned.  The first 2-3 miles were contested on larger paths and dirt roads, allowing racers to pass easily and move into their projected pace groups.  By the time the trails narrowed to single track, passing was less of an issue and racers were polite, moving aside to let faster runners charge through.

After we reached the top of Monarch Blvd, the wind pelted our faces and a hard packed sleet assaulted our cheeks and ears.  I was not the only runner to moan at the pain of those sadistic, little ice balls.  I picked up the pace throughout those rolling hills, just to escape the torment of the cold; but my pulse fenced me in and I ended up slowing down again before crossing Daniel's Park Rd.  Once we reached the other side of Daniel's Park, the wind stopped.  Running through the scrub oak was majestic as the snow flakes politely fell on our faces.  A fellow runner took the lead, pacing us through the next 2 miles, and as he pushed to the front he laughed, "I am so glad I am not on the couch right now!"

I felt the best between miles 7 and 11.  I was in my element and my heart rate settled right at 177 beats per minute.  I no longer glanced at my watch every 30 seconds to monitor my heart.  I took in the views, listened to my breath, joked with Randall here and there, and enjoyed the up and down of the rocky trails.  The Douglas County Search and Rescue crews made up the majority of the volunteers on the course and they kept spirits high with their great smiles and hilarious comments.

We charged through the final 3 miles at an 8:00 to 8:30 pace.  I felt like a gazelle galloping down the slopes, jumping rock-to-rock, until we made the hard pavement for the final mile.  My body was so adjusted to the textures of the trail, that the hard cement really threw me for a loop.  We continued our sub 9 minute pace to the finish, but I was clearly tired.  Once I saw the Colorado Race Timing finish line, I smiled.  That smile stayed plastered to my face for the last quarter mile.  As we charged up the final ascent to the finish, spectators cheered, chanted, and made me laugh through the finish.  Their spirits gave me the last push I needed to finish strong.  One spectator saw I was smiling and screamed, "She's smiling!  She still has it in her!  Go smile to the END!"

That finish was an accomplishment.  I felt really good throughout the race and I did as I promised my doctor.  I didn't take any unreasonable risks, but I felt I finished strong.  We crossed in 2:07, only 7 minutes slower than the Denver Rock 'n' Roll Half and the Boulder Half a few weeks prior.  The trails were tough and the climbs relentless.  I needed to buy new Pure Connects a month ago, as the cushioning is gone, but I didn't because I had too many races to risk breaking in new shoes.  By the end of this race, my feet were blistered and my shoes were trashed. 

The finisher's party was really small, but I understand how hard it must be for a race director to get companies and volunteers for a race that is this small, cheap, and cold.  There was ample water at the finish and enough C.B. and Potts pizza rolls for everyone to have a couple.  I wish they would have placed the finishers dog tags around our necks as we finished, but they were clearly busy with other tasks and quickly remedied the mistake.  Once we received our dog tags, we headed to the warmth of the car.  I was shivering uncontrollably and needed warmth fast.

Before heading home to the kids, we stopped for lunch.  As we ordered, I was still shivering so severely, the waitress thought I was truly crazy.  "I didn't think it was that cold outside!" she snickered.  I told her we just finished a race and I was frozen from the finish.  Her eyes widened looking at me like I was crazy.  Some people just don't get it!

Finally, we headed home and I put our youngest son, Owen, down for a nap.  Next, it was time for us to rest.  We never rent movies, but after the race, we made an exception.  Randall, Ethan, and I all curled up on the bed in our basement, to watch Ethan's movie he's wanted for weeks.  Randall and I quickly fell asleep.  After a short nap, Randall whispered in my ear, "My body hates me.  My knees hate me.  My ankles are begging, 'why?' I think my blood is pooling! But it was worth it.  Thanks for running with me, Jen."

Love and Hate

My six-year-old Brittany Spaniel has more stamina after 8 miles than I will ever comprehend.  According to my husband, I need Tucker on my early morning runs.  Randall is afraid a bad man might snatch me at dawn.  Or, because we live amongst endless miles of open space, a coyote might find my calves a tasty snack.  Whether I agree with these theories doesn't matter.  I bring Tucker because every day he guilts me into it. 

Before our kids were born, we ran Tucker over twenty miles a week and walked him every night for at least 2-3 miles.  He was ripped.  Our veterinarian questioned how it was possible for a city dog to be so muscular and we always responded cautiously, "Um, exercise."  Now that our two boys ruined his comfortable workout plan, Tucker has filled out, as a middle-aged man often does.  He spies on us suspiciously whenever we get dressed or approach the door wearing any form of running attire.

Tucker always gets to go, because on the few occasions that he's been left behind, I return to a helpless animal that refuses to look in my eyes.  He lays right by the front door, waiting for my return, and when I finally burst through once more, he won't budge from that spot for hours.  I crushed his soul.

I love my dog, but I hate running with him.  No matter the weather or trail conditions, Tucker forces me tackle personal records.  There is no excuse for slow speeds, so-called taper or recovery runs, or a hill too large.  My Brittany prefers speeds faster than eight minutes per mile and grunts back at me when I request a comfortable nine minute pace.  He helps push my limits, but sometimes I do not want my limits tested.  While I love the extra help going up hills, I hate being pulled down again, face first, arms reeling for balance.  He doesn't get tired.  While I am ready for my ten mile run to come to an end, he displays only thirst.  It isn't fair. 

This morning, I ate way too much breakfast.  I knew better but the waffles were far too tempting.  I planned on finishing 8 miles, but by mile 4, I regretted my breakfast and couldn't escape the thoughts of vomiting half-digested Belgian goo all over the trail.  I felt debilitated with cramps so deep in my stomach I questioned how I would make it home.  I thought about calling Randall to drive me the rest of the way, but Tucker wanted to finish.  After a few rest breaks, aiming to keep my cramps at bay, I allowed Tucker to pull me up and down the hills, taking some of the effort from my stride for 2.5 additional miles.  It didn't ease the pain entirely, but I made it home.  

Tucker will remain my running companion.  Not because I am afraid of a rabid coyote or stray psychopath, but because he brought me home again.  He knew I didn't feel good.  Even after years of my tirades begging him to slow down and stop pulling, he didn't hold it against me.  Instead, he allowed the burden of my weight, and pulled me cautiously homeward.  My dog is the most obnoxious running coach, but I couldn't keep stride without him.

Runner's Remorse: Boulder Half

I rarely get caught up in racing splits.  I like to take every race one mile at a time and base my overall expectations for my performance on the conditions.  Also, I have never cried at the end of a race.  The Boulder Half Marathon changed everything, for the worse.

Waking up at 4:00 am is never easy, but I was excited to start my day of solitude.  I desperately wanted to achieve a simple and very attainable goal of running a sub-two hour half marathon.  I didn't want to go out too fast, just maintain a comfortable 9:00 pace, and coast to the finish with some energy left in the tank to take with me to my tutoring job at 3:00 that afternoon.  According to the race website, this wouldn't be a problem at all because the course was "flat and fast." 

I ate my typical race breakfast consisting of pinhead oats, slow-cooked overnight with cranberries, a glass of orange juice, and To Life White Tea.  In the car, I snacked on a Cliff Bar and about 15 minutes before the race I tossed back one packet of Gu with caffiene.  My husband gave me a good luck charm on my foot the night before and I checked to make sure it was still there before lacing up my Brooks.

I arrived in Boulder at 6:00 am, earlier than the racing director suggested, and already there was a line for parking that was over a mile long.  We parked on a field with grass tickling the undercarriage and divots throughout.  I am grateful I brought my husbands Subaru because getting out of there would have been tricky.  In pitch-black darkness, I made my way to the packet pick-up tent where I received my bib, shirt, hat, poster, and timing chip.

The full length marathon distance runners started at 7:00 am and I had a good hour to wait until the gun, so I walked to the beach and sat down to watch the sunrise.  I couldn't believe how few people joined me for one of the most spectacular sunrises I have ever seen.  There were thousands of people enjoying the pre-race festivities and yet, I found myself in solitude on the Boulder Reservoir. 

Because the parking situation only continued to worsen throughout the morning and packet pick-up was not well organized, the half marathon started 25 minutes later than originally scheduled.  The air was cold and I shivered uncontrollably waiting to hop in line.

Well over a thousand runners arrived for the half marathon.  The race directors did not encourage people to line up by projected pace, nor did they set up waves for the myriad of abilities. When the gun fired, 1,336 runners funnelled through a 10 foot wide course for well over a half mile.  It took over 3 minutes to travel less than 1/10th of a mile after crossing the starting line.  We were completely boxed in, literally tripping over each other, taking elbows to the sides, and jokeying for position on the edges.  People who intended on walking the entire 13.1 miles somehow began at the front of the starting line leaving runners in the rear.  Minutes into the race my goal pace was lost. 

So upset by the loss of time, I let my frustrations take over.  While I heard a sensible voice tell me to slow down, I was mad.  I wanted to run away from all of those people that stood in the way of my projected finish.  My official time on that first mile was 9:07.  Subtract 3 minutes of lost time walking, and I put down a 6:07 mile.  Of course elite runners compete at this speed for 13.1 and even 26.2 races, but I am not an elite runner.  I can run 8:30 for a 10k, but I cannot maintain a 6:00 pace for more than a mile or two.

Once I broke free from my fellow competitor's elbows, I glanced at my Garmin, which now registered 3 miles.  I felt a large cramp forming on my right side and I figured once I found my stride it would diminish.  By mile 6, my entire right side was engulfed in flames.  Mile by mile, my side stitch worsened and by mile 9, my entire stomach was so burdened by a constant cramp, I wasn't sure I wanted to finish the race.  I maintained between an 8:30 and 9:30 pace and focused solely on the fact that I would have a cold water bottle recharging my energy in just a few short miles.

By the time I reached 10 miles on a course that was anything but flat, I looked at my watch and realized, even with the difficult start, I still had a chance of finishing under two hours if I could just keep my stomach together a little longer.  However, those last 2 miles were completely uphill and every time I tried to charge forward, I slowed.  I listened intently to music, pictured Ethan and Owen cheering me on, and repeated a simple, primal mantra, "Water, food.  Water, food.  Water, food." I rounded the final corner, took in the finish line and my body only wanted to sit in the cool grass that surrounded the gates.  I mustered only enough energy to pathetically trot accross the finish line at 2:01:56.  Defeated, I struggled to rip off my timing chip and clumsily meandered to the water troughs where I expected to lift my spirits with a cold bottle of water.

The troughs were empty.  Empty.  I let out an audible moan, stumbled to the next one, my tunnel vision worsening and again, empty.  My backpack was empty at mile 10 and I was truly frantic.  My stomach cramps were so painful and I knew I desperately needed water to ease the pain.  "Where is the water?" I howled.  A lady pointed to the table about 50 yards from the finish line containing 20 coolers of Gatorade.  My eyes flooded with tears and for the first time, I cried after a race.  Twenty coolers split between over 2,000 runners would never suffice.

Runners were expected to use biodegradable cups the size of a shot glass to refresh themselves after 13.1 or 26.2 miles.  We waited in lines after satiating ourselves from each small gulp.  Fill your cup, drink, go back to the end of the line and start again.  I was not the only bereaved participant.  We were given 1/3 of a bagel, a tiny cup of cream cheese, a half of a slimy banana, 1/4 of an orange, and shot glass amounts of liquid.  Multiple people groaned about the food, water, long lines, and general miscalculations by the race directors.  Most of the food and Gatorade ran out before the full marathon finishers even crossed the finish line.

The Boulder Marathon was so focused on being green, they forgot basic racing essentials.  Runners need water.  Runners need food.  They need to refuel themselves after a race.  I don't care if the contest is 1 mile, or 250 miles, not providing participants with ample water is unacceptable and dangerous.  Fuel stations along the course ran out of supplies as well.  Men and women alike fumbled along the empty tables throughout the last few miles of the course as they were denied basic necessities.  A green race could have been contested with biodegradable supplies and recyclable plastic water bottles.

After my 3 gulps of water and a small snack, I sat on top of the hill where I started my morning and let my legs recover.  I watched the finishers trot across the finish line, waiting for my runner's high to bring me out of this slump.  Even after the most difficult duathon, I get a high.  It never came and all I had was remorse.  Wanting real food and water, I jumped into my car and headed to Boulder after fighting for 45 minutes to get out of the parking lot.

I ordered a sandwich and a bottle of water at Breadworks.  While the cashiere held his tight grip on my water bottle I fought an incredible urge violently to pry it from his fingers.  Once I paid, I ripped open the top and guzzled over half of it in seconds.  Within minutes, my cramps were gone.

What I love about racing is the way I connect with myself, especially when it hurts.  How I react to the pain shows my real spirit.  Those last few miles, I knew my boys weren't going to make it to cheer me through the finish, but I pretended they'd be there.  The thought of their smiles and shrill screams encouraged me not to quit.  When I wanted most to sit down, I dreamed of my kids.  They are my cherished motivation.  Next time, I won't let my irritations take over at the start of a long race.  It is crucial to pace myself and stick to the plan, even if racing conditions adjust my goal.  Finally, I will forever start to carry multiple bottles of water in my car.  Stashed away, just in case.