Slave to the Grind

Your Semi-Weekly Vanillian Attack Response:
Before our regularly scheduled post, a quick response to the weird fixation Half-Fast seems to have with all things Feet Meet Street these days. First, I’m happy that Vanilla, the banker, besides puffing stogies and gleefully observing your disappearing home equity in a plush smoke-filled office somewhere, is taking his much needed tax payer bail out money to spend the time spell checking my referenced historical figures. Try this one: Charles Keating, banker. Did I get it right this time? And for good measure, I’ll throw another disgraced historical figure reference at you: Dick Nixon. Nixon once infamously stated that “when the president does it, that means that it is not illegal.” Applied here, when Nitmos spells it that way, it means it is not incorrect. I might be clothing myself in a mismatched Ghandi (yes, I said Ghandi) – Nixon cheap analogous suit but you are still walking around under a panda carcass pal. And everyone knows skinned, suited pandas aren’t moisture wicking. Score!

Now, on with the show…

My dominatrix training schedule has me tied up doggy style with a big red ball in my mouth. It’s been beating me in the rear with a riding crop and forcing me to call it Daddy. I’m slavishly hitting my Tuesday 800’s, Thursday tempo runs, Saturday 400’s and Sunday long runs in pursuit of my SOS2 goals. The schedule says to do it so I do it. The pain feels sooo good.

And now my knees hate me. Specifically, my MCL’s are pissed. Just for good measure, I think I have a spate of runner’s knee also. Fortunately, everything I read about runner’s knee is that there is not much to do about it other than R.I.C.E and stop slavishly following a training plan. Well, one out of two ain’t bad. Since I usually have a day’s rest between runs, I’m able to revive the knees just in time to destroy them again at the next scheduled track session. Then, I RICE ‘em again that night. What? Where are the holes in this plan?

Recently, though, it has gotten pretty bad. After back to back days of hard runs, Mrs. Nitmos and I took the kids to see Up on Sunday. I took one look at the long flight of theater stairs we were to climb and felt immediately Hugh Hefnerian. Up I went….slowly, painfully. Down I went for popcorn…slowly, painfully. Then back up to watch a cartoon about a spry old man who drags his house, with balloons, to South America when I wasn’t even sure I could drag my 38 year old ass back down the stairs again. I’d be happy with a balloon ride out to the parking lot. (Sidebar: Up was good. It’s probably my favorite balloon-carrying-a-household-object movie since Danny Deckchair.)

On Monday, my knees were still burning with fire so I decided to unshackle the chains and take a break from the training schedule. Tuesday? Nothing. No 800’s. Just me, Mrs. Nitmos, an evening watching my colt win his soccer league, and a late evening complaining to the cable company (Comcast) about their crappy cable (Comcast) and how it went out with seven minutes to go in game 6 of the Stanley Cup Finals (or, as I call it, being “Comcasted.”)*

I enjoyed the extra day break. I enjoyed it too much. I felt guilty so I returned to Mistress Training Schedule last night when I probably could have used a longer break. And she was pissed. I only did 4 x 800 but the last two felt like Mistress T.S. had me saddled up and furiously beating my haunches with the crop like Mine That Bird in the homestretch at the Kentucky Derby.** 800’s? 2:48, 2:53, 3:00 (who’s your daddy?), 3:00 (I said, who’s your daddy?) Horrible.

My goal is to average 2:50 across the intervals (roughly 5:45 mile pace) so I’m not quite there yet. But, the pain, oh, the pain felt so good. I love it a little rough. My knees are sore again. I iced them down last night again. I think I was treated rougher for taking a day off.

I’ll keep going back. I can’t quit her. However, based on where this is heading, I think we need to agree on a safe word.

Happy trails.

* I encourage all Comcast customers to complain at the first sign of trouble. They throw credits around like flying underwear at a Tom Jones concert. Or so I’ve heard.
** The gratuitous nipple pinching I did on my own. Feel the burn. Try it yourself in the last 100 meters of the final repeat.