Showing posts with label running injury. Show all posts
Showing posts with label running injury. Show all posts

21 March, 2015

For Runners: A New Twist on Dog Leashes

An Invention for Tumbling Runners - The Bowser Bomb




To paraphrase Lance: It's not about the dog.


It isn't often that we see the words "pedestrian" and "explosives" in the same sentence - usually for good reason - but in this case we can make an exception. By pedestrians I refer only to dog walkers of the ignorant sort, and the explosives are not so much Hollywood blockbuster finale as firecrackers. Really big firecrackers.
Before we get into the pyrotechnics, let's set the stage by considering the players in this drama:
You - the human who wants to run on a reasonably safe and pleasant route outdoors.*
The Dog – an unpredictable, free-spirited quadruped that chases vehicles, fetches balls, and snatches morsels of food from the tip of its nose quicker than you can say Jack Russell! (that last one being no mean feat, I assure you, having tried it myself countless times- and all of them at just that one party, if memory serves).
The Dog Walker – judging by its distinguishing features and largely erect, bipedal posture – a member of that sub-set of humans that serves dogs by picking up their poop and standing around idly while their animal smells things.
The Leash – any cable, string, rope, chain, or ribbon-like contrivance that tethers dog, walker, and runner into a Bermuda triangle of comical, hazardous, high-stepping dances that often result in injury, most likely to the runner.
The Problem The runner does not wish to dance; there is no music and the footwear is all wrong.

Avoiding this nonsense seems simple on the surface: if the walker and/or dog could just move to any other spot on the face of the entire earth - often just a teensy step to either side of where they are right now - it might negate the dog/leash hazard and all parties could go about their business unimpeded. We're just talking about enough clearance for a human to squeeze through, with reasonably safe footing, in an area normally roomy enough to accommodate everyone (assuming they were conscious).

The Solution an invention I've perfected at least in my mind, from the comfort of bed as I lie awake summoning the gumption to head out for early morning runs that runners can use to "manipulate the dog walker's spatial coordinates" (ie. physically move them), clearing just enough space to pass safely.

The only criteria I reckon we'd need is for it to be something that would stun more than harm, and be sufficiently light and compact to discreetly clip onto a hydration belt. Result: the Bowser Bomb.

The Simple 4-Step Bowser Bomb Process:

1) On approaching the miscreant dog walker, make all reasonable efforts to get its attention (clapping, clearing the throat, a quick toot from a hand-held Klaxon) thus giving it the opportunity to take the right action before things quickly escalate. This also affords you some measure of legal protection should questions of due process arise. Typically, unless you are downwind from a fire hydrant, the dog will notice you but its innate dearth of cat-level smarts means it will lack the executive thinking skills to figure out how to change the course of fate on its own. Plus it will be sizing you up on its own instinctive PE (play vs. edibility) scale. Remember, unlike its walker, it can't help itself; it's just a dog.
2) At this point, assuming the walker continues in its state of passive disregard (or active contempt - it all amounts to the same thing) and you are faced with stopping and turning around, jumping over the quivering leash, or blazing an ankle-twisting detour, it's time to discreetly reach for your BB. Just like a gel packet, place the BB's tab in your teeth and tear off the trigger, being sure to not swallow the contents out of habit. You can now lob the BB toward the walker, confident in your anonymity because, of course, its concussive force should render the walkers' short term memory kaput. In a perfect world the BB will soar close to the walker without making actual skin contact (superficial burns) and commence its "release of influential energy" (explode). If you've correctly matched your BB volume to the walker's general girth the results will be swift and sublime: the walker will experience a brief flight away from the BB's "event zone," simultaneously becoming limp all over. This not only cushions its landing, in the way a drunk driver usually survives collisions unharmed, but more importantly the leash is usually released, dropping to the ground and clearing the way as...
3) ... the runner strides over the grounded leash and continues running, safe and unimpeded.
4) More often than not the dog will be so impressed by this turn of events that it will just stare in slack-jawed wonderment before returning to smelling things. Should it choose to chase you, it will be more to gambol about and thank you for its new-found freedom than to take a chunk from your calf.

If it's a good day for the walker, it will not lose complete consciousness, and, instead, spring back to its feet within the half hour, likely not remembering a thing.

I'd imagine the BB will be most effective in one-owner/one-leash/one-dog confrontations. Clearly, something packing more firepower is needed to handle multi-leash dog walking services and the poly-dog clusters of stroller-pushing latte-sippers clotting up pathways in leisurely klatches that call to mind those ridiculous giant human doilies formed by suicidal parachutists linking arms in mid-air; the problem here is in the risk of running injuries when the ordnance size approaches what's used in mining and mountain highway construction. Runners might develop scoliosis if loaded down with BBs for large groups - the weight penalties alone would harmfully skew training plans. More pre-dawn tossing and turning will be needed to solve this one. If I can't sleep, at least I can dream.

* Bowser Bomb not intended for indoor use.

04 October, 2013

The Winter (and Spring) of Our Discontent (UPDATED)


UPDATE at bottom. Title is now more like The Winter (and Spring) Whole Freakin' Year of Our Discontent

If I had a dollar for every time that I cursed the weather this past winter I could finally afford a better-driving car - or at the very least replace that flat tire we've been driving around on since last November.
The sheer length and depth of steely cold that blanketed our region for what seemed like six solid months took me by surprise and caused no end of frozen eyelids, stuck nostrils, numb fingers, and chronic slow jaw. Worst of all, I blame it for my first running injury since tripping over that one kid's butt cheeks when he rolled in front of me as we rushed to escape the bucket of water tipping over our heads at the splash pad. (Doing that one over again, I'd probably just take the soaking since nothing could match the scolding I got from all the mothers watching - as if I was the first dad who'd ever done such a thing.)

Over the course of several weeks Plantar Fasciitis (PF) insidiously sank its pins and needles into that nameless spot it favours, just ahead of my left heel. I had wrapped up my training for the Around the Bay 30 km race in March and still managed to eke out a modest PB. For better or worse PF tends to disappear once a runner warms up, allowing said runner's optimism (to say nothing of distance and pace) to soar, which only further inflames the tissues and ensures more mornings of tender exits from bed.

Perhaps it was my aging old-fart body fed up with The Big Freeze of 2013; it could have been old-fashioned laziness; carelessness; false confidence in my base fitness and resilience... whatever the excuse, I swore off my routine of post-run stretching so I could get inside sooner and for this reason alone I think I brought on the PF. My own worst enemy, I went from nearly 90 kms/week to zero faster than you could say stupid age grouper who should know better. As the wind chills finally subsided from sub-human to merely sub-zero I tried to venture back onto the roads only to find PF's trademark painful numbness waiting to greet me the morning after like a meaty hangover. 

With the incredulity of a cowboy whose horse ran off with the saddle, my life slowed to a hobbling walk. I faced an uncertain future. Will I ever run again? And if I could, would it ever be as quickly? Is this the beginning of my own Great Downward Slide of decline, and if so, does this mean no more gaudily-coloured shoes? Worst of all: when I could ever eat another PB&J guilt-free? 

They say time is a great healer, but there's not much accounting for all of the collateral damage that occurs in its passage. While waiting for the PF to slowly meander out of my life I explored my alternatives. Swim training was out of the question because I was already grouchy enough. Cycling on the garage trainer was scotched by another first when that intimate affliction that begins with 'h' and rhymes with asteroids befell my netherdistrikt. Thinking that the universe was trying to tell me something, like... say, "Time to ditch the Spandex and take another look at bird watching," I cross-trained almost exclusively by crawling the walls from morning until night.

Then it happened.

One July morning I made it all the way from bed to bathroom to second slice of toast in the kitchen before I realized: I don't feel a thing. Not in a frosh-week sort of way, either - my feet simply felt blissfully unremarkable. I sluggishly emerged from my home within a few days, anxious to reacquaint with my territory the way a bear might on wrapping up its hibernation. The sunlight, the wind and the birds had re-jigged into summer mode, waiting for me like I owed them money. It was hard to jog - not from muscular atrophy (though that likely explains why my socks kept sliding down) but because of second-guessing every footfall, overthinking every tentative stride. I was convinced PF was just waiting to  jump out from behind the next bush to trip me. But it never did. With no fanfare whatsoever my body simply said it was go time, and after all of my frustration, who was I to argue? The Old Dog, New Tricks World Tour can now resume. And this coming winter there's no reason for me to play the victim role like I'm living in some Hans Christian Anderson tale. I'll be sure to find a warm way to get in my post-run stretches - I'm already sizing up a couple of the neighbour's cats to slip inside my jacket. I figure it's worth a shot; if it's not effective at least it should be interesting, and it sure beats PF.

*UPDATE: Who's the Ironman now, huh, tough guy?! I haven't run for over three weeks. The ODNT World Tour has ground to a halt, on hiatus until further notice. It turns out the hernia repair I had when I was 17 months old wasn't the last one I'd need before I cashed in my chips.
Make up your damned minds, already! Do you want to see the scar or do I blow out my candles?  
In '61, if what my older sisters tell me is true, I think I caused my first hernia by trying too hard to fart so they could keep lighting blue angels off my ass as I bent over the side of the bathtub. While the downside was they had a big box of matches, the upside was that my backside quickly caught fire (they were laughing so hard at my pyroflatulence that they couldn't hold the matches still) so Mom came running and doused my diaper, effectively limiting the extent of my hernia. So they say...
I suppose there's no point calling it warranty work at this late date. Looks like we got a smoking deal on the anesthetic anyhow, so who am I to complain? And they certainly didn't skimp on the stuff; I can only recall being three sheets to the wind and trying to breastfeed off every nurse on the floor. Good times...
This go round, a good half-century later, the soreness set in a few days after I moved two sofas to our basement with the intermittent help of my teenaged son. When I say intermittent, I don't mean he was coming and going throughout the ordeal - he simply wasn't always lifting when I was. Hardly ever, in fact. It seems we had different definitions of what, exactly, is meant by someone saying, "Okay... ready... NOW!" I was tugging and pulling in vain like some Arthurian wanker trying to yank the damned sword from the damned stone, and one time, frustrated that we were making no progress and we had so very far still to go, I looked around behind the sofa base and saw my pride and joy standing aside impassively, arms folded, clearly waiting to hear a sensible plan. It is not like my hulking offspring didn't want to help, he's just smarter than me and - like any self-respecting teen - didn't want to make an effort if it wasn't guaranteed to yield results. I couldn't promise that. I knew from years of shoving these gargantuan crusts of furniture up and down the throats of houses and apartments that we sometimes have to lift and get after it and make it up as we go. It is only when we are fully supporting the weight that the veils are lifted, and we see the taunting relationship between the true dimensions of our loads, the extents of our Duchamps staircase descents, and our cockeyed plans for both. The bottom line is that I learned as much about my own limits of communication that day as I did about the chronic weakness in my abdominal walls.

The sofas are now in the basement, where they shall remain until needed for setting up that promised colonization on Mars. With any luck I'll be scheduled for surgery before then.
In the meantime... the discontent continues as I soften back to the squishy state I was in five years ago. Maybe this detraining is actually that chance I've secretly coveted to catch up on some tv series I've missed out on. Hey, I've got two sofas to choose from!