Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | October 20, 2011

Are the Dog Days Almost Over?

It was eighteen years ago this month that my husband and I hopped in our car in Boston and headed up to southern Maine to embark on a new adventure. It was a beautiful fall weekend, with the foliage in full New England glory. We headed north, then turned slightly inland, taking in the scenery as we went. We followed our handwritten directions (long before the days of smart phones and GPS) and arrived at our destination: a place with the charming name of Puddleby on the Hill. And the name didn’t lie: it was perched atop a gentle knoll, with sweeping views of the southern Maine landscape. But we were not there to leaf peep. We were there to get our puppy.

I never had a dog growing up. One of my brothers was allergic. Bad enough that he was older and teased me and always got the front seat, but he also had to destroy my dream of having a dog? As a result, I was forced to make do with compromise animals. You know, fish, gerbils, rabbits. The pseudo-pets.

My first rabbit was as close as I got to a “real” pet. She seemed smart, for a rabbit, and while I couldn’t teach her to do tricks, I managed to get her to walk on a leash. Alas, she came to an untimely end, the details of which are a little unclear, but the story involves a large animal prying open a hole in her cage. The replacement rabbit, unfortunately, was a dud. It was lazy and showed no signs of intelligence. For the most part, it just ate and pooped.

I was insanely jealous of friends with dogs. In fact, when visiting my friends’ houses, I’d often spend more time playing with the canines than the people. I dreamed of the day when I would grow up and be able to get a dog of my own. So, it should come as no surprise that one of the first things I did as an adult was to get a puppy.

Driving home from the breeder, all those years ago, we learned quickly that she was timid and easily terrified. She’d never been in a car before, and the poor thing was quaking with fright. I held her in my lap to comfort her, but she managed to crawl up out of my arms and onto the back of my neck, where she hid behind my hair for the entire ride home.

As new parents, we were smitten with her. We planned to have her sleep in the kitchen, but we caved quickly to the sad and desperate whining and brought her into our room. And thus began a lifetime of bad habits. Fortunately, her timidity made her easy to train. She was petrified of cardboard boxes and paper bags, so if we wanted to keep her out of a particular room, all we had to do was put a shoebox in the doorway, and viola! Instant pet gate.

She quickly settled into our home. She’d sit on the window seat in our living room, watching the birds and squirrels outside, confused and fascinated. Like most dogs, squirrel chasing was her favorite activity as a pup, but she also loved running through piles of leaves, burying herself under the mounds that our oak and maple trees had shed.

When we moved into a small apartment in Boston, she had to abandon frolicking in leaf piles, but she quickly learned to enjoy long walks on the Charles. She and I would stroll down Newbury Street, early in the morning before any of the shops were open, then cut over to walk back along the river. She didn’t get a chance to chase many squirrels in Back Bay and much to my dismay, she never seemed the least bit interested in catching the mice that filled our apartment.

She moved with us from place to place, adapting to her new digs easily enough. Likewise, she coped well with the arrival of our children who inevitably pulled her tail, yanked her hair, and sat on her back. She never whined or complained.

Eventually, however, her health started to falter. Her age was catching up to her, quickly. We thought her time was limited. To diminish the impact her demise would have on the kids, we got another puppy, a replacement dog. Who’s now three and half years old. The Old Dog, much to our surprise, just kept plugging along.

The arrival of The Younger Dog made us realize that The Old Dog was, well, stupid. Within a day, The Younger Dog had figured out how to open every door in our house, something The Old Dog hadn’t managed in all those years. She also figured out where the dog food was stored and how to get at it. Every day, we’re grateful that The Younger Dog doesn’t have opposable thumbs. We’ve taken to hiding the car keys, just in case.

But having The Younger Dog around seemed to energize The Old Dog. She perked up. Of course, things were up and down. For a while she was having fainting spells, which have subsided for the most part. However, too much excitement still knocks her out. We no longer give the poor thing treats, lest she might keel over.

Which brings me to the issue of quality of life. Is life worth living if you can’t even have the occasional dog treat?

Of course, it’s amazing she’s still here at the age of eighteen. Eighteen and three months, to be exact. But her eyesight is starting to go, and she’s been deaf for quite some time. She frequently can’t stand up, and walking requires more effort than she seems to have. I came into the kitchen the other day to find her stranded – her legs had gone out from under her and she was unable to move. She never wags her tail anymore.

I know the time has come to make the tough decision. Heck, we probably needed to make this decision a while ago. But I just can’t bring myself to do it. The Voices of Reason – my kids – point out that it’s selfish to keep her alive just because I’m too chicken to do otherwise. And yes, I’ll gladly confess that I’m chicken, but what do you expect from the owner of a pet who’s terrified of shoeboxes?

I just have a hard time letting go of things, as a walk through our basement or a look at my closet would confirm. I’m also not so great in the decision-making department. So, this plays on my biggest weaknesses. I keep hoping that one morning, I’ll wake up to find that her hearing is restored, her eyesight is back to normal, her legs are functioning just fine, and she’s able to stand up and sit down with no effort. Maybe she’ll be able to have treats without passing out. Possibly she’ll even wag her tail again. I can dream right? But in the meantime, I guess I have to start learning how to say goodbye.

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | October 8, 2011

You Might be a #Runnerd If…

In honor of all my runnerd friends tackling Chicago Marathon this weekend, some musings on how to tell if you’re a runnerd. Feel free to add more in the comments.

You might be a runnerd if:

  • you read back issues of Runner’s World instead of watching political debates
  • work, cocktail party, or Saturday night movie, you’re sporting compression underneath
  • you can name at least three different models of Garmins and explain their features
  • you check out other people’s shoes when running
  • your shoe choice for any given run could be expressed as an algebraic formula, with variables based on distance, pace and weather
  • you have lucky socks
  • you can do pace calculations in your head
  • your ears perk up at the words “race weekend”
  • you have a Race Expo strategy
  • you can cogently explain the implications of a heel strike vs midfoot vs forefoot
  • you aren’t on a diet, you’re just trying to get to your race weight
  • you know the difference between gun time and chip time
  • you can discuss the benefits and drawbacks of Garmin, Nike Plus, RunKeeper and Polar
  • your social life gets planned around your race calendar
  • you always have a stash of BodyGlide
  • when researching vacation destinations, you search for races first, hotels second
  • Watching the Spirit of the Marathon makes you emotional
  • Watching Hood to Coast makes you more emotional (and then gets you thinking about who you want on your relay team)
  • BioFreeze, Salonpas, KT Tape: yup, you know what those are
  • And, of course, you’re probably a #runnerd if you’ve ever used the hashtag #runnerd.

Good luck to all the #runnerds racing this weekend!

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | October 3, 2011

Goals: Just Who Do I Think I Am?

Do our goals create our self-identity? Or does our self-identity create our goals? And are we ever too old to reach for new dreams? Wow, that’s pretty heavy stuff for this blog, which usually focuses on profound issues such as what flavor Gu is best (they’re all disgusting, if you ask me). But I recently I’ve given some thought to things like goals and self-identity. My epiphany was in the context of running, but these thoughts are applicable to other areas as well. However, there’s no need to go all crazy, big-issue, meaning-of-life here. Let’s just stick to running, shall we? You can extrapolate for yourself if you must.

See, I’ve always thought of myself as a slow runner. But I decided to conduct an experiment. I wanted to see if I could run faster simply by deciding to run faster. No speed-work, no complicated training program, no detailed race plans. If I just stopped telling myself I couldn’t do it, what would happen?

It began when I ran with my brother and my niece a few months ago. It was the first time I’d seen them in a while, so I thought a run together would be fun. But they, like 90 percent of the world’s runners, are faster than me. As we ran along, I kept looking down at my Garmin, slightly panicked, thinking “I can’t keep this up!” But I didn’t want to fall behind, partly because I enjoyed chatting with them, but also because I was in an unfamiliar area and didn’t want to get lost. So I kept up. And in the end, it turned out I was fine. In fact, when we were done, I felt more energized than usual. Hmm, I ran faster and felt better? Interesting.

Part Two came a few months later when I did the Chicago Rock and Roll Half Marathon. Somehow, I ended up in a fast corral, with the speedy people. As the race started and everyone took off, I found myself going much faster than usual. I forced myself to slow down, telling myself I couldn’t maintain such speed. Yet, when I crossed the finish line, I felt great and had a nice new Personal Record, too. Again, interesting.

I wanted to see if the Chicago RnR Half Marathon was a fluke, so I did the Oak Brook Half Marathon a few weeks later. I shaved another 4 minutes off my time. 2:03:57. Hmm. 2:03 is awfully close to 2:00, which is almost the same as 1:59. Could I possibly? No! Me? Under two hours for a half? Never! Well, maybe.

I decided to try. Should I have planned ahead and lost 10 pounds and done months of speed-work in preparation? Well, yes, but I really just wanted to see if I could run faster by simply deciding to run faster.

Sure enough, I did. Last weekend, I ran the Lake Zurich Half Marathon in 1:57:31. And I felt great at the end. Granted, I had perfect running weather, which helped. But still, good weather or no, that’s a fast time for a slow runner.

So it’s a little crazy, isn’t it? Since I thought of myself as a slow runner, I could never have an under-two-hour half as a goal, and yet I just ran one. Granted, I’m still slower than a lot of runners out there. But I managed to be in the top 20 women at Lake Zurich, so if I’m still slow, a lot of people are even slower.

I guess this all means I need to stop saying “Oh, I could never do that.” I thought I could never run a marathon, and I did. Then I thought I could never run a sub-two-hour half, and I did. So, assuming I have another marathon or two in my legs, is it ridiculous to have a sub-four-hour marathon as my goal? Well, if I get down to my race weight and start doing some actual training, including that much-detested but necessary evil, speed-work, I think it’s possible. And if I’m going to have a sub four-hour marathon as my goal, I may as well go ahead and shoot for 3:55, the Boston-qualifying time for my age group.

BQ? Ridiculous, right? To start eyeing a BQ at my age, well, that’s crazy talk. There’s a voice in my head that says I’m too old, that new goals and big dreams belong to younger people, that I should just stop and be content with where I am. But then there’s another voice in my head that says “Why not?” I know some of you will say that if I hear voices in my head, I really should go to a therapist. You’re probably right. But first, I plan to chase Boston. If I get injured, I get injured. If I can’t do it, I can’t do it. But I might as well try. And since slow runners don’t try to qualify for Boston, I guess it’s time to stop thinking of myself as one. As of right now, I’m just a runner.

A fresh start

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | September 12, 2011

Summer 2011: Am I Smarter Than Your Average Bear?

The blog’s been quiet. You thought I’d been eaten by a bear didn’t you? Well, sorry to disappoint. Granted, it was a summer of many bear encounters, but I managed to survive all of them intact, at least physically.

This year, we arrived in Montana before summer did and proceeded to suffer through the cold, damp weather that lingered well into June. It was rather quiet around Flathead Lake, as the rain kept “the summer people” away. However, the weather seemed to have the opposite effect on wildlife. And since there was a dearth of loud, badly-dressed, RV-driving tourists to scare them away, they seemed to make themselves at home. The fox strolled by at will, the deer ate every flower in sight, and we even spotted a mountain lion. The bears, though, were the most punctual visitors. They showed up like clockwork on Tuesday mornings. Why Tuesdays? Well, because that’s garbage pick-up day, of course.

Now, I spent the better part of a decade living in a densely populated town just outside of Boston, MA, and we had to take our garbage to the dump. No curbside service there. Ah, I have such fond memories of laying out the tarp in the back of the car, in case the bags leaked something disgusting, then driving over to the dump with the windows wide open, even in sub-zero temperatures. Good times, they were.

So imagine my surprise to find that in rural Montana, one of the most sparsely populated states in the country, we don’t have to haul our garbage to the dump. No, for a small fee (gladly paid), someone comes to our home and takes our garbage from the end of the driveway. Of course, that’s only if the bears don’t get to it first.

The trash, I’ve discovered, is like a siren calling to bear near and far. Come visit! We have pizza crusts, barely nibbled chicken wings, and apple cores! We even have grapefruit rinds, a surprisingly popular choice, based on my observations of what gets eaten the most. Maybe The Grapefruit Diet is all the rage in the bear world these days?

And so I’ve come to think of bears as giant racoons. They get in the garbage, make a mess, and for the most part they run away when you open the screen door and start screaming at them, but not before they give you a look that says “I was having a really nice time until you showed up.”

Is it nerve-wracking for me, a lifelong urban/suburban dweller, to find a bear sitting in my driveway eating grapefruit rinds? Well, yes, but not nearly as nerve-wracking as listening to my trigger-happy neighbor up the hill shoot what I really hope are targets all day long. (Note to wacky neighbor: Dear Sir, after all that target practice, you’ve got to be a good shot by now, right? Maybe it’s time to move on to a quieter hobby. Like knitting.)

I pride myself on being undaunted by wildlife. After all, I grew up in suburban Connecticut, an area known for it’s wildlife: squirrels, chickadees, Golden Retrievers. Some neighbors even had (gasp) mixed breed dogs. What’s more, once, at a tender age, I saw a show horse whose mane was left unbraided. Barely even brushed. Clearly, I have some experience with wild beasts.

So, I know that the rule of thumb is “leave them alone and they’ll leave you alone.” Mountain lions are shy, wolves stay far away, and bear for the most part will back off if they hear you coming. But there is one thing that scares me: a momma bear with her cubs. And this year, we had not one, but two sets of sows with two cubs each roaming up and down our lane. That’s a lot of bear per square mile.

What’s more, I noticed that one of the cubs was a bit adventurous. He tended to wander off (and I’m assuming it’s a boy, because let’s face it, toddler boys are known for ignoring their mothers and chasing whatever object catches their eye). And that’s a recipe for disaster. The last thing I needed was to be running along the lane and inadvertently get in between Scout Junior and his mom. Because the mom wouldn’t scold Junior and send him to bed without supper. No, she’d turn her mommy wrath on me. Which is exactly what happened to this runner down in Missoula.

So what’s a runner to do? I fretted. I was perplexed. What was the best way to protect myself from inadvertent bear encounters? I finally decided the answer was simple. No running on Tuesdays. Put the garbage out then lock the door and stay in the house until the Ursas Americanus moved along to the Wednesday trash pickup neighborhood. While it meant re-configuring my long run days and rest days, I decided that No Running On Tuesdays was the the right plan of action. And no more using that grapefruit body wash, that’s for sure. At least until the bears move on to a new fad diet.

The Little Wanderer

"Where in the world is your brother?"

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | August 20, 2011

From Worst to Best: The Chicago RnR Half Marathon

Note: this blog will return to Montana to finish out the end-of-summer posts after a brief detour to Chicago for the Rock and Roll Half Marathon.

Sometimes hard work, dedication and perseverance are the keys to success. Other times, success just sneaks up on you, like a creepy guy in a dark alley.

I hadn’t originally planned on doing the Chicago Rock and Roll Half-Marathon. When I was writing my Patch column on the race, I did some research and heard mixed reviews. While the event was touted as fun and well-organized, people also noted the course was crowded and had too many turns. Add to that the fact that August in Chicago can be brutally hot, and all chances for a fast time or Personal Record were sure to fly out the window.

But my friend Ilyse was planning to do it and wanted me to do it with her. What’s more, my friend Lisa was going to do it too, and we rarely get to do races together. I knew it wouldn’t be a PR-kind-of-event, but I was going to be in town anyway, and it seemed like a fun race to do with friends. So I signed up.

But Ilyse didn’t. Neither did Lisa.

Alas, the race was ridiculously expensive (over $100!), so I still had to do it, even if they weren’t. I paid my money, lots of it, so I was determined to be there – crowded course and oppressive heat be damned.

Fortunately, I discovered that a bunch of those crazy Twitter runners were doing it, including my speedy friend Chanthana. One pal, Michael, was coming all the way from Alabama for it. And since I was going to be local, and had already signed up, I had no excuse.

Confession: I didn’t train for this race. True, I’d been running all summer, but only casually. Not a single session of speed work. As a result, my pace had slowed to what should be considered a jog. I knew a PR was off the table to begin with, so I just planned to do it as a slow fun run. My only goal was to be faster than my time at the Buffalo Run Half Marathon three weeks earlier. In other words, as long as I didn’t take home a new Personal Worst, I’d be happy.

The run started out humid and warm, but soon there was a slight drizzle and the air cooled. The temperature was perfect. Somehow I’d ended up in a speedy corral so I didn’t even have to weave around people. The course, redesigned for 2011, was entirely on the streets of Chicago (instead of the Lakefront Path) and was not particularly crowded. I had some nice pacers to run behind.

I kept looking down at my watch thinking “I’m going too fast, there’s no way I can hang on to this.” And yet, every time I was about to fade, there was a refreshing sprinkle or a cool breeze or sometimes just a good song on the ipod. I kept going.

At one point when I was starting to slow, I got passed by a woman running with a dog. A dog? Yes, a lovely German Shepherd. Now, I’ve been beaten by a dog before, and I wasn’t going to let it happen again. I mean, I have to draw the line somewhere, right? I’ve been beaten by jugglers, superheros, pumpkins, Santas, Ninjas, Thing 1 and Thing 2, and I was almost beaten by a banana and the Eiffel Tower. So what’s next, gerbils racing me to the finish? Kittens? Turtles? No, the madness had to stop. I had to catch that dog. I picked up my pace and pulled up alongside. I chatted with the owner who informed me the dog jumped in at mile 6. Ha! A bandit dog, and not even running the entire route. No shame getting beaten by him. He’s got fresh legs. Four of them, in fact. I let them go on their way, my pride still intact.

As I headed for the finish, I realized I had managed to keep a faster-than-expected pace. Before I knew it, I crossed the line and had a shiny new PR. By how much? Well, that’s a good question. It was a full two minutes faster than last year’s Buffalo Run. But (shh) between you and me, I don’t think the Buffalo Run is quite 13.1 miles. My Garmin always puts it at 12.95. So, based on “official” Half Marathons in Athlinks, its a nine minute PR. Nine minutes! Which just goes to show: keep the expectations low, and you’ll always be pleasantly surprised. That’s my motto, and I’m sticking with it.

The start line. Perfect cloudy running weather.

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