Plantar Fasciitis--The Heel That Wouldn't Heal

I had assumed it was a condition that happened only to road runners.  It started with some dull pain and stiffness in my arch following days that I ran.  So, I bought new running shoes, thinking the old ones were wearing out, and even added an orthotic to support my arch.  And I kept running.  After a rough couple of years of dealing  a knee problem and even working through a bout of walking pneumonia last year, I felt that 2009 was the year I could regain my running mojo.  I badly wanted to get faster again.  I wanted to take on more formidable challenges.  And at age 54, and feeling my best years already behind me, I wanted to accomplish something NOW while I still was "relatively young."  So, despite being fifteen pounds overweight, I set out to do something I hadn't been able to do since 2004--run a spring race.  I signed up for races in both May and June--the Berryman Marathon in the Missouri Ozarks followed a month later by the Chattanooga Mountains Stage Race in Tennessee.  A good plan, totally doable, and a nice base for subsequent ultras I hoped to actually hammer come fall.  I trained carefully, so I thought, trying to increase my mileage slowly.  But I wasn't running very well, and the weight wasn't falling off the way it used to.   Still, I kept plugging away.  Twelve days before Berryman, I did 4 hours 10 minutes on the Ice Age.  The last hour I ran with a sore foot.  By now, I had figured out I had plantar fasciitis.  I had been experiencing the painful morning "walking on glass."  Still, I kept training.  Six days later, running in Palos, my foot became sore after just 45 minutes.  I was actually running pretty well that day, turning the corner with some of my conditioning, but now everything I had worked so hard for was in jeopardy.  I thought about the crappy spring weather I had trained through--unseasonable cold and wet on sloppy trails much of the time.   And now, what?  No pay off?  So, I did what any other stubborn and driven runner might have done--ran an additional hour and a half that day on my bad foot!  I needed to "test it", see how bad the pain would get, see if I thought I could endure the pain for a full 26 miles if I had to.  As I trotted gingerly towards my car, I realized my spring races were a bust.  I had traumatized my foot more than I should have, but at least I had a definitive answer regarding my ability to do the marathon.

It has been a rough, almost surreal summer for me.  No real running since May 10th and just a

few hiking /jogging jaunts with my camera to photograph some of the trails I love.  But even the hiking aggravates my foot.  I've done a little road biking, but biking aggravates my foot.  I'm on my feet a lot for the work I do, sometimes standing one one place for long periods of time, and that really aggravates my foot!  However, I have found various ways to help control the discomfort.  1).  I wear a night splint--The Dorsal Night Splint.  It is light, easy to put on, and generally comfortable to sleep in.  It works great--no more walking on broken glass in the morning.  That being said, massage and stretch the foot before you get out of bed.  Yes, even before you hit the bathroom.  This is imperative.  If you don't, you'll strain or even tear some of the small fibers in your foot, undoing the progress you made by sleeping in the night splint. 

2).  Ice the foot.  Rolling my foot over a frozen can of grape juice has helped control the inflammation.  I've worn the label of the can right off!  3).  Take Aleve when the foot is sore.  4).  Massage the foot while pulling the toes back.  5).  Wear a heel cup or a thick, cushy insole.  As I've said, I've had pretty good luck controlling the discomfort of PF.  What has been frustrating is that I haven't been able to shake it completely, which means, no running, no hiking.  

I recently came upon some good information at petemagill.blogspot.com  and have been doing his recommended stretches (Look up plantar fasciitis stretches in the site index) the past twelve days with promising results.  The toe curls with the towel befuddles me, so I found a big marble which I pick-up 100 times with my toes.  Same motion; same benefit.  Regarding the ankle orbits (rotations), I find it useful to close my eyes when I do them.  They feel awkward (or maybe, it's just me who is stiff and uncoordinated), but with my eyes closed I am able to concentrate and get a better rotation on the ankle.  It really helps to "work the rotation" rather just do circles with the ankle.  That is, on the downswing, I point my toes, and then, on the upswing, I flex my heel.  I work both of my feet and legs even though I only have PF in one heel. For one, I'm using it as a preventative in my good foot, and two, it gives my bad foot a quick rest before coming back to do the next exercise.  My foot isn't heeled yet, but I finally feel like I'm making progress.  Due to my tight ankles and calf muscles, I'm attacking the root of the problem rather than just treating the pain. I had tried doing standing calf stretches on several occasions, but they always aggravated the injury.  Pete's stretches are done while lying on the floor--better in my case.  Finally, my podiatrist today offered to do a steroid injection which I will seriously consider if my foot has not improved after my upcoming trip to Ecuador.  The steroid needs to be followed by several weeks of light activity.  Seeing that I will be doing some "light hiking" on the trip, I thought it prudent to wait.  

It's funny.  When I knew I lost my May and June races, I held on to the hope I could still possibly do an ultra in July.  When that bubble burst, I thought could at least do some ultras in the fall.  Poof!  Well, maybe a 25k or two in the fall.  Poof!  Well, maybe I could at least do a little light running.  

It's been a funny summer, filled with music concerts, restaurants, sporting events, visiting friends, and house projects.  All sorts of fun and productive things.  I've spent a lot of quality time with my wife, who happened to take time off from acting.  It's been great.  But I haven't spent much time in the woods.  At times I'd normally be training, I'm painting the stairwell or hanging out with friends.  It's all "normal guy stuff", but it feels weird.  It doesn't feel like me-- 

I should be training.  Early on with the injury, I was depressed.   I felt empty.  I was in mourning over the death of my running season.  I've since managed to accept not racing for the year, but I still ache to be out on the trails.  It's worst on the days it's 80 and sunny.  And when I finally run again, I know it's going to be a long road back.  But that's ok--at least I'll be running. 

                  

Seduced at the 1998 Kettle Moraine 100-Miler

(Above)  Me awaiting Brian's early morning arrival at Mile 76.

(Below)  Brian looking strong at 5 miles.

The Brothers McGowan humming along.

Bri finishing in under 22 hours!

Bitten by the Ultra Bug:

In the spring of 1998, my brother Brian asked me to pace him for a ten mile stretch of the Kettle Moraine 100-miler in southern Wisconsin.  I had been running for a little over a year at that point--nothing longer than three miles at a crack, and set out to work up to ten miles.  A few weeks before Kettle, I managed to go for 112 minutes, the longest run of my life.   

My brother sent me instructions for pacing him.  Being a newbie, he forewarned me of things I may see on race day: Runners falling, runners bonking, runners quitting, runners passing, runners peeing and pooping, runners crying, runners bleeding, runners vomiting, runners talking to themselves.  And if this wasn't enough to raise my eyebrows, he added, "There is only one thing I ask here.  Please never say the words QUIT, STOP, or DROP.  I feel I can be the only one that will know when I've had enough.  This is one of the biggest challenges of my life and I give you my heart felt thanks for supporting me in this mission."  A very exciting day was on the horizon. 

Race day arrived and our family saw Brian off at the start, and then watched him as he whizzed past us, looking strong, at five miles.  It was then back to the house to relax while his wife Victoria crewed for him. There, I would wait for her call to return back to the woods.  The plan was to meet him at the Mile 76 aid station at Bluff Road early the next morning.  I was awakened at 4:00 am by Victoria who excitedly told me to get my butt out there immediately because Brian was running way ahead of schedule.  I quickly dressed and drove 40 minutes with my folks to Bluff Road where I sat by a tree and waited for Brian's arrival.  He soon emerged shortly after daybreak, jogging down an alley of tall pines, and we headed out for what would be a momentous day for both of us.  I had never been on the Ice Age Trail before and the beauty of the trail, along with the excitement of the event, was completely intoxicating.  My presence gave Brian the mental lift he needed, and we glided along the rolling single-track trail.  The weather was beautiful--warm and sunny--and the miles passed easily.  After ten miles, I was no way ready to stop, and we just continued to run and run.  Still rather new to running, I did not own any technical clothing, and "out of respect" for the racers, not wanting to appear as a poser, I misguidedly chose not to wear any tech clothes for the event.  I now shake my head in amazement that I went on to run 24 miles that day in cotton clothing--and later paid for it with some rather raw spots on my arms and upper thighs!  

The final five miles of the day were very tough physically, but unbelievably stimulating .  Me, pushing up the hills with hands on beat up thighs, and my brother, fighting off extreme fatigue and hallucinations.  With every turn, he would tell me the finish was coming up--and, of course, it wasn't.  And then, there were the imaginary lizards he kept seeing off the side of the trail.  Eventually, there it was in the distance, the coveted finish line, and just before crossing, I veered  off trail so Brian could enjoy his well-earned accolades.  In his first 100-miler, Brian finished 13th out of 98 starters in a time of 21 hours, 54 minutes, and 18 seconds!  I am still in awe of his accomplishment that day. 

I immediately sat down feeling tired, amazed and gratified by own accomplishment, and all in all rather dazed by the surreal flow of the morning's events.  And then came the leg cramps!  Both of my calves seized up no more than two minutes after stopping as I quickly learned the importance of eating and drinking in the course of running 24 miles on a warm day in June, a small detail I had pretty much over-looked in my naivete and excitement of the event. 

It was on this day that I was bitten by the ultramarathon bug.  My brother knew once he got me out there, it would happen.  And I knew if I could run 24 miles having trained to go 10, I could surely go 31 with a little more training.  With that thought in mind, I set out to run the Glacial 50k that coming October.  Little did I know the extent of the drama that was about to unfold that fall.    

           

 

The Big O gives me The Big Finger

It was in 1975, I believe, that I had just finished running the bridal path at Brown Deer Park, and I was driving on the curving asphalt road inside the park, when I swerved out of the way to avoid hitting a man jogging.  I had probably been messing with the radio and had temporarily taken my eyes off the road.  I didn't come close enough to the man to injure him, but managed to startle him, and when I glanced into my rear view mirror, imagine my surprise to see basketball legend Oscar "The Big O" Robertson

giving me the finger!  Oscar had lived in nearby Glendale when playing for the Milwaukee Bucks and although retired from basketball, must have been visiting Milwaukee at the time.  I was too naive to think of stopping to apologize and drove off probably more unsettled than Oscar was.  After all, it isn't every day that one of your sports heroes flips you off!      

Roots of a Trail Lover

(above) Pasture on the Wild Boar Trail, Willow Springs area, Chicago

(below)  The crowd goes wild as my dad finishes a marathon "back in the day".  Check out the racing bib and cotton outfit. 

I trace my love for trails back to my childhood in Brown Deer, a northern suburb of Milwaukee.  If a city suburb seems an unlikely place for these seeds to have planted, it is because our family was one of the first to build a house in our subdivision.  There were no trails in the area per se, but there was a lot of open field, where army battles were fought with plastic rifles, forts were built out of scrap wood, and shortcuts to neighbors yards were regularly used.  I loved the tall grass and weeds and to this day, I relish running through open pastures.  We had  no rivers or streams nearby, but we did have what we called "Beaver Creek", a large drainage ditch.  To a young boy, Beaver Creek might as well have been the mighty Mississippi and I fondly remember racing wooden boats, or simply, Popsicle sticks with my friends.  No wonder I'm still delighted when I get to cross a stream during a trail run.

One cannot underestimate "the play factor" when running single-track trail.  It is on these trails where you're more likely to hop over logs, bound on top of big rocks, climb inclines on all fours, and yes, drench your feet while crossing streams.  It is indeed running, but with a dash of grade school recess thrown in. 

My dad took up running back in the late 60s when people looked at you as if you were crazy for doing such 

a thing.  He quit smoking, became a vegetarian, and started exercising all in one big swoop.  His impetus for running was a book by Dr. Kenneth Cooper describing something called Aerobics, which had nothing to do with leg warmers, but rather, what we now call aerobic conditioning.  Wearing street shoes, his early workouts consisted of walking only, but they eventually evolved into run/walks, and finally, with the acquisition of some kind of canvas sneaker, running.  He wound up completing 16 marathons and years later, confessed he would have loved to have tried something called ultramarathons.   They seemed so outrageous and dangerous in that era, when the act of running any kind of distance was considered weird and possibly unhealthy.   Being the sole breadwinner of a family of four, he opted on the side of caution and curbed his intrigue for attempting a 50-miler.  I have no doubt he would have been a good ultrarunner.  He excelled at anything to which he applied himself.

My dad loved to do his weekend training runs at Brown Deer Park, which had a circular asphalt drive of something like two and a half miles.  I accompanied him for runs on occasion, but chose to do the three-mile bridal path which circled on the outskirts of the park.  Even then, 

road running couldn't hold my interest.  I remember giving him the business because he ran eight-minute miles.  It seemed kind of cute, a guy his age, grinding out miles at that snail-like

pace.  It's amazing how a few decades can change your perspective on things!  I train harder, have more experience, and am mentally tougher than I was when I was seventeen, but if the young me and the current me were to race, the result would be laughably humiliating.  Damn young legs!  Damn lean, young bodies!

Following high school, I ran a little bit here and there when the urge struck me, but nothing of significance.  I soon stopped running altogether and it wasn't until the fall of 1996, at the age of 41, that I was again bitten by the running bug.  I guess it was my version of a mid-life crisis. 

           

 

 

Single-Track Trail

(above)  Entering "The Needles" on the Chesler Park trail in Canyonlands National Park.

(above) The little-known ridge trail along the Cal-Sag Channel in Chicago's Palos  area Forest Preserves.

Ahhh, single-track trail.  It seduces you, draws you in, draws you close, and once you're on the trail you're compelled to follow it, anticipating it's constant surprises no matter how many times you may have traversed it before.  A freshly fallen tree, an encounter with wildlife, the first blossom in Spring, the first snowfall--a trail constantly evolves.  All trails have good things to offer, but it's on the single-track where the real drama lies.  Off the beaten path.  It's on the single-track where the secrets of the forest can be found.  The stone arch obscured by trees, the elusive fox drinking from a stream.  It's on the single-track where I find myself literally screaming with joy as I thunder down a winding descent.  It's on the single-track where I stop in my tracks as I encounter a deer watching me from no more than ten yards away.  She doesn't move, as many of the deer in the Chicago area show little fear of humans.  I stop and we gaze at each other in silence for a solid minute.  We are, in that suspended, elongated moment, not Man and Beast, but simply two of Nature's creatures.   Equals passing by.  It's on single-track where I've come upon sights so stunningly beautiful and awesome that my knees have literally buckled and tears have burst from eyes with excitement and disbelief. 

When I'm driving, I crane my head every time I see a trail leading away from the road.  It's a reflex action.  Where does THIS trail go?  And whenever I pass a familiar trail head, I wave to it (literally) and smile.  It is like waving to a good friend.   So many fond memories from the hours spent on that particular trail over the years, even when laboring in the late stage of a long training run.  You develop relationships with your regular trails--you learn their terrain, their surfaces,  their particular smells, their challenges, their visual delights, and as you run them, you become one with them.  They have been an integral part of your highs and lows and you have shared the heat and the cold and the rain.  There are days when you conquer the terrain, and others, when it humbles you, but always, always, there is an intensity out there--an intensity not just through physical exertion alone but exertion in such splendid, stimulating surroundings.  Pure sensory fulfillment.  Immersed in the moment, I'm sometimes conscious of my footsteps as I navigate the uneven terrain.  I love the sound of my footsteps, of my breathing, of the liquid sloshing in my water bottles, the creaking of my hydration belt, the sound of silence--yes, even in Chicagoland!--when I stop in my tracks in a remote part of the Palos Forest Preserves or Wisconsin's Ice Age Trail.  This is why I smile and wave--the memories are colorful and vivid and I quiver with anticipation of the next adventure.