Slacker!

I've been a real slacker for the last week. It's not that I haven't done anything; it's just that I haven't written about it. I'd apologize, but I'm actually not sorry about it. I just haven't felt that urge to put my thoughts down until today.

As I predicted, I jumped right back in to my training on last Tuesday. I'm actually kind of surprised how fast I bounced back from the wisdom teeth extraction, although there was one little hiccup the day after.

Here's the story:

Friday (9/18) I had four wisdom teeth extracted. By now that's probably old news to everyone, and if it's not it should be. It is my firm belief that oral surgery may be the best weight control device ever created because I didn't feel like eating a damn thing all day long. I had some fairly high calorie Odwalla drinks that night, but that obviously wasn't enough to keep me going. On Saturday I woke up feeling like all was right with the world and I was strong as an ox on steroids. I saw no reason to take things easy. I wasn't planning on running, but I also didn't really have it in mind that I was going to lay around all day. I hopped into a nice hot shower and washed the previous day's laziness off of me. Then, nicely wrapped in my towel with the steam from the hot shower wafting around me, I began to cautiously and gently brush my teeth. After a few moments of that, I started feeling weak and the world started going dark, so I sat down to give myself a chance to recover. I was feeling hot, so I unwrapped the towel. After a few moments, I decided that I had better lay down. I was faced with two choices: lay down on the bathroom floor or walk five steps and lay down on my nice bed. I've lain on a bathroom floor a time or two, but it's usually due to a combination of beer, wine and other spirits. When you're normally in the "lay on the bathroom floor" condition, you're also in the "I really, really, really need to be close to something that will catch my puke" condition as well. I wasn't at that point; I just needed to lay down, so I decided to head for the bed. I remember opening the bathroom door. My next memory was of Lisa on the phone with the extremely helpful people that answer when you dial 9-1-1. She said I wasn't responding to her and that I had foam coming out of my mouth. So, there I am crouched and leaning on the bathroom door, 100% naked, and with foam (toothpaste!) coming out of my mouth. If I had walked up on someone in that condition, I'd be scared too.

Here's a tip: if you have a need to call 9-1-1 and you think whoever you're calling for is going to need serious help, make sure you tell the dispatcher that they are either "dead" or "unconscious and unresponsive." Both statements are interpreted in the same way, and they send out a differently equipped truck with more paramedics than for someone who cuts their hand or breaks a leg or somesuch. Fortunately, by the time my paramedics arrived five minutes later, I had already gotten dressed and was sitting on the couch waiting for them. They thanked Lisa for getting me dressed, but really I did all the work, she just asked if I wanted to get dressed. They took my blood pressure standing and sitting, asked about what kind of drugs I was on, asked about the last time I had eaten or hydrated. You know, the old stand-bys. Then they suggested I take it easy, drink some water and have something to eat. When they left, the left alone. I stayed on my couch and proceeded to put the laziness I had just washed off right back on.

I took this CPR and first aid class at work earlier this week. That's where I learned the whole "say he's dead" thing. The class was taught by a couple of paramedics from Kent, WA. I told them my passing out story, and they told me I hit the trifecta. Apparently, most rescue calls take place in the bathroom or the bedroom and the patient is naked. My fun started in the bathroom and concluded while I was headed to the bedroom, and I was completely naked. That's called a hat trick, thank you very much.

Thanks to the passing out incident, I deemed it prudent to do my first run of the week (4 miles on Tuesday) at the gym on the hamster wheel. By then I'd had enough food and drink to keep me in calories and keep the blood sugar at a normal level for a couple of days. I'm not going to say I was eating great, but I was eating enough. There's not much to say about the run. It was at the gym on the wheel, where the scenery never changes. I was cognizant of how I was feeling and I was ready to stop at the slightest hint of trouble, but trouble never appeared.

Wednesday I went out for a six mile run. The route is familiar, and I don't really have a whole lot to say about it anymore. I got stopped at the Fremont bridge because an itty-bitty sailboat was going under it, and in order to accommodate its mast they had to raise the bridge. I was fine with that because I wanted a bit of a rest anyway. Standing there waiting for the bridge to go back down is a good barometer of how popular the route around the lake is. There was quite the traffic jam of bike riders, runners and people pushing strollers or just casually walking gathering at the barrier. Fortunately, everyone was smart about the order in which we all moved through the narrow walkway across the bridge. The bikers, due to their increased speed, went first. After them were us runners, and after us I don't care about because I was gone.

On Thursday I was undecided on what my plan was going to be. Was I going to run four miles or was I going to run six? I was so undecided that I didn't choose until I was two miles into it. That was the drop dead spot. If I went a step further it was going to be six miles, if I turned around right then it would be four. I kept going. I wish I had just turned around and made it a four mile run. I ended up turning off Grendel at five miles. I'd been walking for a couple of minutes at that point and I knew I wasn't going to start running again. I had mentally quit. Again. This is where I see the real advantage to running outside as opposed to on the hamster wheel. Just because I quit did not mean that I wasn't going to get the full six miles in at some speed. Sure, I could have flagged down a cab and had someone drive me the mile home, but 1.) I don't carry that much cash on me when I run and 2.) I'm too freaking cheap to pay someone $6 to drive me one mile when I can just walk it for free. So, even though I didn't run the whole thing, and even though I don't have a record of it, I still went the full six miles.

At this point I think I'll stop this entry. I have a long run (14 miles) to talk about, but it was special enough to warrant its own post. Fourteen miles should be celebrated on its own rather than lumped in with the sixers and fours.