It's Wednesday morning and I've just walked (hobbled) downstairs to make coffee and walked back upstairs without spilling any. I can use the flat of my right foot (gently) and my left heel. Should be able to make it to work.
I am definitely going to make a pair of huaraches. I found a great series of videos on YouTube which show clearly how to do it. Looks pretty easy.
Showing posts with label recovery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label recovery. Show all posts
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
Barefoot Running - Too Much Too Soon
It is Tuesday evening now. Two and a half days since my barefoot five mile run.
I am still pretty incapacitated. My feet don't look that much different than they did on Sunday afternoon.
The blistering is so extensive I haven't been able to walk. I've had to take two days off work. And I've been getting around by sliding along the floor on my arse.
Today, for the first time my right foot was able to bear some weight and I've been able to take a few crutch-aided steps. But it doesn't take long for the huge blister on my left foot to start feeling full to bursting and I have to get off my feet again.
Do I feel like a complete numpty? Of course, I do.
I'm hoping that by tomorrow morning my left foot will have healed some more and I can hobble into work.
I might take a taxi.
Jeez.
I've been passing the time reading Christopher McDougall's Born to Run and researching barefoot running on the internet.
I might get myself a pair of huaraches. In fact, I might make a pair. There's instructions on YouTube. Cool.
I am still pretty incapacitated. My feet don't look that much different than they did on Sunday afternoon.
The blistering is so extensive I haven't been able to walk. I've had to take two days off work. And I've been getting around by sliding along the floor on my arse.
Today, for the first time my right foot was able to bear some weight and I've been able to take a few crutch-aided steps. But it doesn't take long for the huge blister on my left foot to start feeling full to bursting and I have to get off my feet again.
Do I feel like a complete numpty? Of course, I do.
I'm hoping that by tomorrow morning my left foot will have healed some more and I can hobble into work.
I might take a taxi.
Jeez.
I've been passing the time reading Christopher McDougall's Born to Run and researching barefoot running on the internet.
I might get myself a pair of huaraches. In fact, I might make a pair. There's instructions on YouTube. Cool.
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Barefoot Running - The First Five Miles
So this morning I decide to try running barefoot. It's been on my mind to do it for some time now but today when I wake up I feel really up for it.
I do a bit of googling to see what I should do to get started but I am in the mood for running, not browsing, so I'm not taking much in.
There is, though, a clear message coming through about taking it easy to start with so I reckon, OK, I won't go for a ten miler, I'll just do a quick five.
I get up and dress for running, except my feet of course, put my Mizuno shoes and a pair of socks in my Salomon back pack and go out the door.
Ouch. Now I know what tenderfoot means. My plantar nerve endings seem to be feeling every speck on the gritty tarmac. Hell with it. I start running.
Interesting. My natural, barefoot, instinct is to avoid striking the ground with my heel. I am running on the outside and front of my foot. This is not a conscious choice, I am going with the flow here.
I am feeling socially exposed in my barefoot eccentricity but the guy around the corner spraying wax on his car through the smoke of his lip-dangled cigarette doesn't give me a second glance. Or a first one for that matter.
The surface of the sidewalk varies in its grittiness. Sometimes it is really ooo-oooh-ouch and I walk for a bit. Walking doesn't really help much because your foot is in contact with the surface for longer at a time. I run again remembering to look out for broken glass. There isn't any.
It takes me about fifteen minutes to get to the Roehampton Gate entrance to the park. This is about twice as long as usual.
But when I get into the park I pick up speed. The surface is lovely. The well-worn trail is surfaced with broken stones and packed sandy earth. It is damp and cool. My feet feel wonderful. Oh yes, this is the real thing.
I pick up speed. My stride is shorter that usual and, as I said, the footfall more to the front of the foot. Despite my tender feet I am running pretty fast. I overtake a couple of runners.
A passing cyclist shouts, 'Barefoot!', at me as he passes and gives me a grinning thumbs-up. Thanks, mate.
I am really enjoying this and am momentarily tempted to do a full circuit of the park. But there is a definite muscle ache at my right hip and stress signals from my ankles and lower calf which I put down to my unaccustomed gait. Best not push it.
I turn back at the fallen tree before I get to the first big hill and head for home.
The soles of my feet feel somewhat tenderised but they do seem to be coping with it all very well.
Oops, I stub my right toe. Ouch. Seems OK, though.
A South African cyclist passes me shouting, 'Hey, there's Zola Budd. How you doin', Zola?' Whatever.
Out of the park and back onto the pavement and the little stones and grit are really irritating.
For the first time I see some broken glass. A busted beer bottle. I dance around the shards and congratulate myself on getting through uninjured until I realise that a sharp irritation on my right sole might not be a stone.
I stop and find a little piece of glass stuck to my right foot. It's not very big, maybe an eighth of an inch long. I pick it out with my thumbnail. There's a bit of blood but not much. I continue running wondering what toxic substances and misanthropic life forms are getting into the wound.
But, you know, all in all I'm feeling pretty psyched. This has been a good experience.
Nearer home the guy is still out washing his car, buffing it now, wish a fresh cigarette on the go.
I unlock the door and step into my flip-flops which I left waiting there.
And then the pain starts. Oh dear. Now that I am not running the blood is pooling in my feet and, ooh ooooh oooooh dear. And there's blood. Not from the little bit of glass, but that time I stubbed my toe I tore a flap of skin off a blood blister and there's blood dripping onto my sandal.
I sit down and look at my feet. Jeez. I mean, what the....! Through the mud and the grit I can see that my feet are extensively blistered. About a fifth to a quarter of the surface of the sole of each foot, mostly at the side and the front, is covered in blood filled blisters.
And they hurt. Oh dear. Oh dear. There's a good reason torturers beat the soles of your feet. Because it hurts.
Somehow I haul myself all the way upstairs to my room for my first aid kit. I grab a towel and crawl back downstairs and fill a bath. There is a certain amount of groaning and some howling. And most definitely a whole bunch of whining.
In the bath there is whimpering as I clean and dress my feet. I have to keep my feet raised or else they fill up with blood and HURT!
Now here's a thing. Have you ever tried to get out of a bath and get yourself toweled dry without putting your feet on the floor? Ain't easy.
In conclusion, I really need to start taking seriously those warnings to start out easy. But, pain and mashed-up feet aside, it was a wonderful experiment. And as soon as I'm healed up I'm out there again. Without shoes.
I do a bit of googling to see what I should do to get started but I am in the mood for running, not browsing, so I'm not taking much in.
There is, though, a clear message coming through about taking it easy to start with so I reckon, OK, I won't go for a ten miler, I'll just do a quick five.
I get up and dress for running, except my feet of course, put my Mizuno shoes and a pair of socks in my Salomon back pack and go out the door.
Ouch. Now I know what tenderfoot means. My plantar nerve endings seem to be feeling every speck on the gritty tarmac. Hell with it. I start running.
Interesting. My natural, barefoot, instinct is to avoid striking the ground with my heel. I am running on the outside and front of my foot. This is not a conscious choice, I am going with the flow here.
I am feeling socially exposed in my barefoot eccentricity but the guy around the corner spraying wax on his car through the smoke of his lip-dangled cigarette doesn't give me a second glance. Or a first one for that matter.
The surface of the sidewalk varies in its grittiness. Sometimes it is really ooo-oooh-ouch and I walk for a bit. Walking doesn't really help much because your foot is in contact with the surface for longer at a time. I run again remembering to look out for broken glass. There isn't any.
It takes me about fifteen minutes to get to the Roehampton Gate entrance to the park. This is about twice as long as usual.
But when I get into the park I pick up speed. The surface is lovely. The well-worn trail is surfaced with broken stones and packed sandy earth. It is damp and cool. My feet feel wonderful. Oh yes, this is the real thing.
I pick up speed. My stride is shorter that usual and, as I said, the footfall more to the front of the foot. Despite my tender feet I am running pretty fast. I overtake a couple of runners.
A passing cyclist shouts, 'Barefoot!', at me as he passes and gives me a grinning thumbs-up. Thanks, mate.
I am really enjoying this and am momentarily tempted to do a full circuit of the park. But there is a definite muscle ache at my right hip and stress signals from my ankles and lower calf which I put down to my unaccustomed gait. Best not push it.
I turn back at the fallen tree before I get to the first big hill and head for home.
The soles of my feet feel somewhat tenderised but they do seem to be coping with it all very well.
Oops, I stub my right toe. Ouch. Seems OK, though.
A South African cyclist passes me shouting, 'Hey, there's Zola Budd. How you doin', Zola?' Whatever.
Out of the park and back onto the pavement and the little stones and grit are really irritating.
For the first time I see some broken glass. A busted beer bottle. I dance around the shards and congratulate myself on getting through uninjured until I realise that a sharp irritation on my right sole might not be a stone.
I stop and find a little piece of glass stuck to my right foot. It's not very big, maybe an eighth of an inch long. I pick it out with my thumbnail. There's a bit of blood but not much. I continue running wondering what toxic substances and misanthropic life forms are getting into the wound.
But, you know, all in all I'm feeling pretty psyched. This has been a good experience.
Nearer home the guy is still out washing his car, buffing it now, wish a fresh cigarette on the go.
I unlock the door and step into my flip-flops which I left waiting there.
And then the pain starts. Oh dear. Now that I am not running the blood is pooling in my feet and, ooh ooooh oooooh dear. And there's blood. Not from the little bit of glass, but that time I stubbed my toe I tore a flap of skin off a blood blister and there's blood dripping onto my sandal.
I sit down and look at my feet. Jeez. I mean, what the....! Through the mud and the grit I can see that my feet are extensively blistered. About a fifth to a quarter of the surface of the sole of each foot, mostly at the side and the front, is covered in blood filled blisters.
And they hurt. Oh dear. Oh dear. There's a good reason torturers beat the soles of your feet. Because it hurts.
Somehow I haul myself all the way upstairs to my room for my first aid kit. I grab a towel and crawl back downstairs and fill a bath. There is a certain amount of groaning and some howling. And most definitely a whole bunch of whining.
In the bath there is whimpering as I clean and dress my feet. I have to keep my feet raised or else they fill up with blood and HURT!
Now here's a thing. Have you ever tried to get out of a bath and get yourself toweled dry without putting your feet on the floor? Ain't easy.
In conclusion, I really need to start taking seriously those warnings to start out easy. But, pain and mashed-up feet aside, it was a wonderful experiment. And as soon as I'm healed up I'm out there again. Without shoes.
Sunday, 30 January 2011
Ten Miles Richmond Park
After a second recovery day yesterday it was time for a ten miler.
It was afternoon by the time I got out the door struggling against tight muscles. What an old fart.
A real Sunday in Richmond Park. Plenty of walkers and cyclists of all ages. Runners too, of course.
The really fit looking black guy with the blade-style prosthetic left foot was running towards me at one point. I love to see him run. There is something sure and relentless and unforgiving about his steady, fast pace.
Then I heard heavy breathing and scuffing feet behind me and although I had promised myself to take it easy I couldn't let a heavy breathing scuffer overtake me. I pulled forward. The heavy breathing got heavier but stayed with me. It sounded young and female.
The breathing behind me faded a little as I struggled up the first steep hill. But along the flat section beyond the top of the rise I heard it getting nearer again. Shit. She wants to make a fight of it. I put some more into it and edged ahead but she was still there. I held it for a bit, not wanting to provoke her too much. I wasn't sure how much of a battle I could take without losing my porridge and peanut butter.
Then came the downhill section and I could hear her hammering away behind me. I had to really open up then, knowing that, if she caught me, in the fight to stay ahead I could easily lose both breakfast and dignity.
I opened up some more and heard her slip farther behind. Then it sounded like she cut across to the car park there.
Anyway, I slowed down when I crossed the road at the next gate and looked behind me. There was nobody there. Jeez. That's it, no more racing. I did some recovery jogging for a bit and sped up for the last third of the run.
I lay down in a hot bath rather than have to stand up in the shower, made myself a smoked fish sandwich and crashed for two hours.
I've got a lot of miles to do before I'm fit for a run across Europe.
Wasn't able to time my run because the battery has gone in my watch, the old Timex Ironman Triathlon Speed and Distance System. Dunno whether to replace the battery or splash out on a new watch.
It was afternoon by the time I got out the door struggling against tight muscles. What an old fart.
A real Sunday in Richmond Park. Plenty of walkers and cyclists of all ages. Runners too, of course.
The really fit looking black guy with the blade-style prosthetic left foot was running towards me at one point. I love to see him run. There is something sure and relentless and unforgiving about his steady, fast pace.
Then I heard heavy breathing and scuffing feet behind me and although I had promised myself to take it easy I couldn't let a heavy breathing scuffer overtake me. I pulled forward. The heavy breathing got heavier but stayed with me. It sounded young and female.
The breathing behind me faded a little as I struggled up the first steep hill. But along the flat section beyond the top of the rise I heard it getting nearer again. Shit. She wants to make a fight of it. I put some more into it and edged ahead but she was still there. I held it for a bit, not wanting to provoke her too much. I wasn't sure how much of a battle I could take without losing my porridge and peanut butter.
Then came the downhill section and I could hear her hammering away behind me. I had to really open up then, knowing that, if she caught me, in the fight to stay ahead I could easily lose both breakfast and dignity.
I opened up some more and heard her slip farther behind. Then it sounded like she cut across to the car park there.
Anyway, I slowed down when I crossed the road at the next gate and looked behind me. There was nobody there. Jeez. That's it, no more racing. I did some recovery jogging for a bit and sped up for the last third of the run.
I lay down in a hot bath rather than have to stand up in the shower, made myself a smoked fish sandwich and crashed for two hours.
I've got a lot of miles to do before I'm fit for a run across Europe.
Wasn't able to time my run because the battery has gone in my watch, the old Timex Ironman Triathlon Speed and Distance System. Dunno whether to replace the battery or splash out on a new watch.
Friday, 28 January 2011
Recovery Day
Last night on the way home from work I did a detour to make the journey up to five miles. Half way through I had to start walking. Bought a couple of chocolate bars and munched them to get my energy up. A drink might have been a better idea. Completed the run but very weary, running for a bit then plodding. Early to bed.
This morning resting heart rate is 62 beats per minute, that's about 20 above my base rate. Time for a recovery day.
Shows how far I am from full fitness. Today is Friday so I'll do a ten miler Saturday and Sunday and make sure I just sleep loads and eat right.
On a different subject, I'm correcting the final version of Road to Endorphia, the book about the John O'Groats to Lands End run. Once it's finished I'm going to publish on Amazon where it will be available as a Kindle eBook.
OK, let's go. Takin' it eazy.
This morning resting heart rate is 62 beats per minute, that's about 20 above my base rate. Time for a recovery day.
Shows how far I am from full fitness. Today is Friday so I'll do a ten miler Saturday and Sunday and make sure I just sleep loads and eat right.
On a different subject, I'm correcting the final version of Road to Endorphia, the book about the John O'Groats to Lands End run. Once it's finished I'm going to publish on Amazon where it will be available as a Kindle eBook.
OK, let's go. Takin' it eazy.
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