I hate the metric system!

It was too good to be true. Really, it was. And I should've known better.

I hopped on my bike to work on my cycling trainer for a while tonight and almost immediately I was amazed by how easy everything felt. I was pedaling very comfortably and maintaining a good pace. Too good.

Could it be that all of my training in recent weeks -- the increase in my running intensity, my consistently grueling trainer sessions -- was finally paying off? Paying off in the form of much-improved conditioning that suddenly made my cycling trainer work seem unexpectedly easy?

Heck no.

I was about 8 minutes into my trainer session when I forced myself to do a reality check. I mean, I was pedaling away at more than 20 mph with minimal perceived effort. Or so I thought.

Closer inspection of my bike computer revealed that when I increased my cadence ever so slightly I wasn't clicking away at a brisk 25.4 mph clip. Instead, I was going 25.4 kilometers -- %$#*&@! KILOMETERS -- per hour.

Bloody metric system. I was suspicious of it even as a wide-eyed lad in grade school when my teachers insisted that we learn the system -- replete with the useless deci- and deca- prefixes I've never heard used, even now, some 30 years later -- because someday in the not-too-distant future "everyone in the world will use the metric system." What kind of Kool-Aid were they drinking? Were they expecting Canadians, armed with meter sticks, to violently storm across the border and forcefully install their units of measurement upon the staunchly old-school US of A?

I was crestfallen -- because of my workout, not America's failure to follow through on the once seemingly imminent transition to the metric system. Crushed.

I wasn't suddenly in better condition. I wasn't enjoying some sort of miraculous improvement in training. I was slacking.

That 25.4 reading I discovered to be gauged in kph? That translates to a rather pedestrian 15.78 mph. That's slower than my average mph for a workout. Considerably slower.

I stopped pedaling immediately upon realizing my computer was providing me with kph readings instead of mph. I adjusted the computer to show mph readings, as it normally does. And I completed the rest of my workout, as hollow as it now felt after those first 8 minutes were essentially wasted, in dispirited fashion.

I'm not sure how I managed to inadvertently switch from mph to kph in the first place. But I'm pretty sure it won't happen again. At the very least, from now on I'll be sure to check the readings on my computer before I even get on my bike.

I definitely don't need to again feel as disappointed as I did when I discovered I was in metric mode.

Rough morning

He didn't even have a chance to get up on the wrong side of the bed.

Only moments after waking this morning and promptly stretching his front paws skyward, Big Dog -- my gentle, good-natured, generally gentlemanly, occasionally aloof 82-pound canine companion -- felt out of sorts. I could see it immediately in his eyes.

He was blind.

I knew what was coming. I have been here before. Too many times to mention.

A seizure was on its way in freight-train fashion.

Seconds later -- just enough time to grab him by his harness, get him into a safe position on the floor and get my arm under his neck to protect his head -- his body seized violently. His legs extended stiffly from his body, his claws outstretched. His mouth opened widely with his lips retracted sufficiently to reveal his sizable teeth. His eyes closed shut firmly.

Then it was on.

An uncontrollable full-body clench enveloped him. His paws moved violently, as if he was trying to escape hastily from the villain that had so suddenly, so unexpectedly, so mercilessly descended upon him. The tension within his body was immeasurable.

I hung on for the ride. I rubbed his left hip and spoke softly, encouragingly to him as my arm under his neck and head provided the slightest bit of comfort.

For about a minute Big Dog's entire being was well out of his control. The foam his mouth produced in that short time proved as much.

Then it was over. Done.

Big Dog, still on the floor, still in my arms, looked toward me. I could tell he was still blinded by the episode. Then, almost instantly, he recognized me. Still dazed, he precariously lifted himself from the floor and moved toward me. He shook his body and was back. He had regained control of his body and his vision returned.

He joyfully wagged his tail and wanted to play. I let him outside and he ran around the yard for a few moments. When I let him back inside, he grabbed a tennis ball to play. He had rebounded completely. Quickly.
It isn't always this way. I know this much. Today was only Big Dog's second seizure -- as far as I know. The first came on Oct. 24. He responded just as well after that one.

But one of the dogs with whom I previously shared my life -- Swoosh, perhaps the smartest dog that ever lived -- didn't respond so well from seizures. He had so many of them. Had them in clusters, in fact. Had to be hospitalized in intensive care at the University of Minnesota's Veterinary Hospital on multiple occasions as the result of his cluster seizures, which always elevated his body temperature to dangerous levels and sometimes caused lack of bladder and bowel control and prolonged periods of blindness. Spent the last couple years of his life on medication -- phenobarbitol -- to better control his seizures.

Swoosh died prematurely. He was about five years old when he succumbed to liver failure. His death blindsided me. There was no hint of liver damage prior to his final day of cluster seizures -- double-digit seizures within hours. Even the U of M's incredible veterinary staff couldn't save him, no matter how many blood transfusions they gave him.

His liver failure might have been the result simply of all of the seizures his organs endured. Just as likely, I think, it was the result of the phenobarbitol he was forced to take for the final year of his life to control his epilepsy. Initially, he was on the lowest dosage possible, administered twice a day. As the seizures persisted and became more frequent -- the time between his first and second seizures was three months; eventually he was experiencing cluster seizures every three week or less -- the dosages increased. Just prior to his death, I had switch him to another medication -- potassium bromide -- that was thought to be gentler to his liver. He didn't live long enough to find out.

That's what scares me so much about Big Dog's seizure today. It's not the seizure itself, but what it might portend. Four months passed between Big Dog's first two seizures. Will they, too, become more frequent, more severe, as they did with Swoosh? Will he also have to be administered drugs multiple times a day to control the seizures? If so, what toll will it take on his body?

Big Dog is only about six years old and is in otherwise perfect health. If these episodes are going to be part of his life, he couldn't have a better home. I'm plenty familiar with canine seizures, thanks to Swoosh. I'm no longer terrified by them. I know what to do, how to do it. I'll ensure he gets the best care possible.

I just hope he doesn't need it.

Do you believe in miracles?

YES!

OK, so clearly there was nothing miraculous about the performances of the U.S. hockey teams -- both men's and women's -- at the 20th Winter Olympiad. My runs the past two days? That's a different story.

However embarrassed I was after gushing in yesterday's post about the small signs of progress I experienced in that day's run, I now find myself even more uneasy about what I wrote.

After all, the achievements in yesterday's run were so minor. Were they worthy of even mentioning? I have run so much faster. I can run so much faster. Unfortunately, after months and months of nuisance injuries and serious lack of desire, I was beginning to doubt I could recapture the speed -- relatively speaking, of course -- I once possessed.

Then, today, I put yesterday's feats comfortably in my rear-view mirror. Somehow, miraculously to me, I managed to surpass them. I lopped 27 seconds off my best four-mile time this year and shaved 9 seconds off my best final mile. I finished Wednesday's run more than 2 minutes faster than Monday's. Unbelievable.

It's inexplicable really. What's the reason for this sudden improvement? My level of training hasn't changed. Nothing has changed. Nothing I can pinpoint, anyway. Except maybe I'm running with renewed vigor. I'm not sure why that is. But it's like I've rediscovered the fire I lacked for so many months. I feel like pushing -- really pushing with every stride -- myself again. And I'm doing it easily.

All of this is resulting in regained confidence, which, undoubtedly, will lead to greater determination. Faster times, I hope, will follow.

There's still a long, long way to go before I'm running at the pace I once did -- I'm not running any sub-8-minute miles now and in June I intend to again string together 26 of them -- but I'm getting there. One run at a time.

Out of nowhere

Training for endurance sports still is curious to me after all of these years. No matter how many runs I do or how in tune with my body I become, I'm occasionally surprised -- maybe stunned is a better word choice -- by how positive things can happen when I least expect it.

Today was one of those occasions. I had no reason to expect anything positive out of my four-mile maintenance run today. It was supposed to be, as much as anything, just another chance to get out the door and get my body used to running on a consistent basis. My expectations for the run were minimal.

Then, out of nowhere, I turned in a decent training run. We're not talking about anything record setting, but for this time of year, where I'm typically at in my training at this time of year and how I've felt physically and psychologically with regard to my training in recent months, it was astonishing to me.

It came without any warning. Yesterday's run was just a bit shy of miserable. Nothing painful or overly strenuous, but it was work. I felt like I was laboring throughout my run. It was all I could do to finish my last mile in under 8:45. Maybe the 20-mph wind I ran into at the start of my run drained me. No matter. Four-mile runs, at this point in my running career, shouldn't feel that difficult. Especially after choosing not to run for a few days prior to yesterday.

I shouldn't have felt strong today. Certainly not more so than yesterday, when I was better rested. My nutrition and hydration hadn't improved significantly either. But when I headed out today, something felt different. Not immediately. But I soon knew I could do something extra today.

Would it be extra miles or faster pace? I had a half-mile to figure it out. It's at that point when I veer off from my short-run trail to log additional miles. Today, with daylight waning, I opted to work on my pace.

I was running strongly at that point. I hit the half-mile mark about 10 seconds faster than yesterday. No feat there, really, especially considering how I felt yesterday. The question was, Could I maintain this pace for the rest of the run?

Somehow I did. I even ran my final mile in 8:16 -- again, not exactly blazing for me, but I'll gladly take that pace in February -- almost a half-minute faster than I did it yesterday and only a second off my best mile so far this year. I finished the run 1 minute, 42 seconds faster than yesterday and 25 seconds faster than my previous best time this year.

The best part? It felt good. It felt smooth. It felt almost natural again.

I felt strong.

And psychologically? I haven't felt this good about a run in a long, long time.

Brrr.

I picked a good time to run three days in a row, six times in seven days. Add to that another intense cycling trainer workout yesterday. The way it worked out, I was due for a day off. Today worked for me. Very well.

It just so happened that today also is part of our coldest weather we've experienced in more than two years. We achieved Friday's high temp at 12:01 a.m. It became considerably colder after that. Daytime temps hovered at -10 Fahrenheit. Strong winds made it feel even colder.

It will be Saturday afternoon before the mercury rises above 0 again. So I think I'll take Saturday off too. I'll tell myself that I need some time off, that I deserve it, that nothing good could come from me running in sub-zero temps. Truth is, I'm just a wuss. But keep that to yourself. It's a closely guarded secret.

When?

Tell me when this cycle training is going to get easier. Huh? When?

After successfully fending off feelings of workout-evading guilt for several hours this evening, I caved. Finally. Just after 11 p.m.

I made my way to the basement, exchanged my warm laze-about-the-house clothes for biking apparel and hopped on my bike. Immediately, I noticed the temperature of my weightroom. How could I not? It was 51 degrees down there and I was wearing only cycling shorts and a short-sleeved jersey.

The discomfort caused by the chill didn't last long. It was quickly replaced by the kind of discomfort it seems only an intense workout on a trainer can provide.

When I finished, I was nauseated. I could barely stand. I wasn't sure if I would pass out, vomit or both. The journey up those 13 steps to my home's main living level was a struggle. I'm not sure why I felt so horrible. I usually only feel like that after runs of 17-plus miles. This was only a half-hour workout. Guess that means I'm finally pushing myself again.

I mixed up my cycling routine a bit for this workout. I still played with my gears a bit and watched the mph reading on my computer. But I attempted to periodically shift to easier gears with the intent of working on improving my cadence. I did this futilely.

I can't seem to allow myself to pedal furiously with virtually no resistence. It felt like I was going at a 25-mph clip, yet my computer revealed that I was only going 14 mph. That's not for me. I'm more of a big-gear masher, à la Jan Ullrich. It seems pointless to pedal quickly, in an easy gear, only to manage 15 mph when I could shift to a tougher gear and, with the less perceived effort, crank at 20 mph. It just makes more sense to me. And it feels a lot smoother.

Someday, perhaps, I'll master the easier gear/higher cadence thing. Probably about the same time I'll learn to enjoy my trainer workouts.

That likely won't happen anytime soon.

Minor milestones

Ran for the third straight day today. Felt better physically than I have in weeks. The discomfort I had been experiencing on the right side of my abdomen/front of my right hip/right side of my lower back chose not to accompany me for my run.

It was just another of my short runs. Four miles. Nothing special.

But upon completion of my run, I had logged 116 miles so far this year. That's more than I have ever put in this early in a year. Small achievement.

I had another small achievement that resonated more with me. I improved my time for the four miles for the third consecutive day. That's not to be confused with a PR. No way. Not even close. But it shows my running economy is slowly improving.

I also finished my final mile faster than I had in each of the previous two runs. I became a little quicker for that final mile each run this week. I finished my run today with an 8:23 last mile. That's still a minute off from where I should be come peak marathon-training time, but it's a good sign. Only once this year have I run that mile faster -- 8:15 on January 31 -- and that might have been a fluke. I had no similar times anywhere near it. With this one, 8:23 represents a nine-second improvement from 8:34 on Monday and 8:32 on Tuesday. That's the way I want to improve my speed. Gradually. Consistently.

Now I'll take a day off and see if I can respond similarly on my next run.

Enough already

When is this going to end? It seems like every time I sneeze, something falls apart. Not literally, of course, but my body has spent the better part of the past year failing me in various ways.

Last year I endured a prolonged respiratory illness. I had an abscessed tooth that led to a root canal. I endured countless running/cycling-related injuries. Now I have something new, something different nagging me.

And no, it's not Greatest Girlfriend Ever. She doesn't nag, hence her title.

Now I'm experiencing some sort of mild tightness or discomfort on the right side of my abdomen. It doesn't hurt too bad, but it concerns me.

It's on the right side of my body, first of all. The same side as I had the tooth problems. The same side that provided me with ankle problems last year that, I think, eventually resulted in Achilles discomfort and pain in my right hip.

I had been experiencing some residual discomfort in my right hip occasionally during my runs this winter. I worked on strengthening my core and that helped. I was able to get past it. But just when I did, this abdominal issue arose.

I'm not certain they're related. I'm fearful that I injured my abdomen while doing some overhead weightlifting while on my physio ball. That I might have a hernia didn't occur to me until my neighbor suggested it after I told her of my abdominal discomfort.

Worse yet, for some reason I've been experiencing a dull, achy feeling on the right side of my lower back with frightening consistency lately. I don't even want to think what that might be. No sense in adding raging hypochondria to my myriad neuroses.

I choose not to think of these aches and pains. I hope they will heal with time. I hope someday -- someday soon -- to completely regain my health.

A bloody mess

Took The Boyz -- my dogs -- along for my run today. We don't run together often anymore. Gone are the days of them joining me for 500 miles a year. Nowadays they come with me only occasionally; mostly during the winter months when it's cooler for them; typically when I figure we won't encounter the kinds of distractions that cause them to absolutely lose their minds.

Today was a near perfect run for us. Despite two inches of fresh snow, it was my easiest, most comfortable run in months. Ah, the joys of eight-paw drive.

We had the trail to ourselves. The usual distractions -- other dogs, squirrels, deer -- were nowhere to be found. Accordingly, the boys were well behaved.

They ran effortlessly, it seemed. They set a decent pace. They ran ahead of me, keeping a slightly-less-than-taut tension on their leashes. When I hit some slippery patches and briefly lost my balance, the strength I found in their leashes allowed me to quickly correct myself without falling.

I wish I could have been as helpful for Champ. He took a nasty spill not long after we passed the three-mile mark. To his surprise, there was glare ice under the fresh snow as we rounded a curve. All four of his legs flew out from under him at once. He careened across the ice for several feet.

He rebounded nicely, however, and finished the run without further issues. He seemed well enough, but I was concerned for him nonetheless upon our return home. My concern grew exponentially when I discovered several spots of fresh blood on my dining room floor.

I immediately called him to me. I checked him for injury. He didn't outwardly act hurt. And my inspection revealed no source of the blood on the floor. So I checked Buster, my second suspect.

Sure enough, he was bleeding. There was blood on the bottom of one of his back paws. Somehow he managed to break a nail during our run. I hadn't noticed anything unusual about him during the run. I didn't notice anything different about him when we got home, either. Except he was bleeding.

I'm not sure he was aware of it. He didn't even tend to his broken nail after I had stopped the bleeding.

His broken nail looked painful enough to me. It looked like I could see a sort of pulp inside it. But it didn't take long before he was running around the house, toy in tow, looking to play. Like nothing had happened. Tough guy.

Wish I had that kind of resilience. I was still queasy from the mere sight of his blood.

Resurrection!

Finally, after nearly a month of making the most out of the final breaths of my two very unreliable laptops and a dinosaur of a desktop, I'm back. Back with a new computer that should serve me well -- cross your fingers and knock on wood with me -- for the next few years.

In my typical fashion, I exhaustively researched my options for a new computer. Then I researched them some more. It's sickening. I did online research when possible. I scoured newspaper ads and articles. I went to retail stores to check out laptops and their components. Heck, I even bought a laptop last week with the intent of not using it until I did a little more research.

Good thing, too. I changed my mind this week. I upgraded my purchase and ended up getting a much better value. At least I think I did.

Through it all, Greatest Girlfriend Ever showed the patience of a saint. Even when I complained incessantly about my computer issues. Even when I asked her to do web research for me. Even when I asked to use her computer. Even when I repeatedly dragged her with me to look at computers. Maybe especially then.

My research and indecisiveness were no match for her patience. She simply listened to what I had to say, offered opinions when asked, rolled her eyes when I got into a pointless point-counterpoint debate with myself and walked away to give me space when I needed to sort things out for myself.

How great is that? That even a guy as obsessive as me can find someone who can love him despite his many foibles?

Thanks to my new machine, with which I'm still becoming acquainted, I'll again be able to post and tinker with this blog. I'll have to fill in some holes from when I was unable to blog, but gradually it will appear that I wasn't dead for almost all of January.

As Mark Twain once said, "the rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated." I am indeed back.

Sign of life

It has taken forever, it seems, to regain some of my former running, um, speed.

I'm not fast. Make no mistake about that. Never have been. But once upon a time I used to routinely run miles in under 9 minutes. OK, so it wasn't that long ago. Maybe a couple of months, at most. And I'll still occasionally log a sub-9-minute mile during my winter maintenance runs. But running that pace doesn't come easily in the winter. I know that. I expect that.

Maybe it's the extra layers of clothing I'm carrying. Maybe it's the constriction of my leg muscles caused by my compression shorts and running tights. Maybe it's the uncertain footing. Maybe it's the cold air. Maybe my muscles never fully warm in the winter climate. Maybe it's simply my offseason take-it-as-it-comes mindset.

Whatever it is, speed is little more than a rumor in my training log in January and February. So today when I clocked my final mile in 8:41 -- I did it rather comfortably, too -- it was a small victory. A sign of life in them there legs.

Sure, there's a long, long way to go before I'm running that same mile more than a minute faster. Getting back to point won't be easy. Never is. I suspect it will continue to become more elusive as I age. But somehow, as inconceivable as it seems now, I will return to that kind of pace.

It can't happen soon enough.