The Picture of Cory-an B.

Well, he's done it again--sped through a marathon at a pace that left many far better trained than he far behind him. As you have read, Cory credits his success on his freakishly intense workouts on the stairmaster and the exercise bike. Which I do know to be true. But com' on man! You can't run 26 miles at an 8:48 pace without doing large chunks of running. There's got to be something else going on here.


Something sinister.



Something dark.



Something disturbing.


Something, well, how can I say this? . . . Something so TOTALLY EVIL that only an attorney would do it.


And that frightening reality, I'm convinced, can only be explained one way. Or, at least, can only be explained one way that entertains me as much as my following supposition.

Doesn't it make sense that what's really going on here is that, hidden in his attic, covered with lead-lined blankets, and inside a Fort Knox-quality safe, is a painting of Cory? A painting that right now is ravaged with injuries that would scare off Mother Teresa? A painting of a 63-year-old man with a broken pelvis, a sports hernia, an inflamed Romulus-and-Remus tendon, a stent in the heart, and--most horrible of all--grey hair.

Meanwhile, the Cory we see runs on like a Hollywood superhero.

This is a picture from 29 years ago, but pictures of him following this year's Boston Marathon would look identical. Well, almost identical. I think this year he finished with a beer in each hand.

So, watch out South Africa! Here come Dashing and Doofus!

BOSTON 2011

Thanks to prednisone, acupuncture, massage, and a big-ass tail wind Boston turned out OK. I took it fairly easy with the thought in mind that all I was out to accomplish was to get a four hour marathon to use to move up a few corrals at Comrades. For some mysterious reason a nine and a half hour fifty miler starts you way behind a four hour marathon, although there is no comparison in the degree of difficulty of the two. A nine and a half hour fifty is way, way tougher.

Anyway, I resolved to maintain a moderate pace and just get through it without beating myself up--if the dreaded pes anserine bursitis would let me. The Gods of pain kindly loosened their grip enough to let me go the distance and the last several weeks of stair master and stationary bike drudgery seemed to have been enough to stay in reasonable shape. My qualifying time got me a spot in the rear of the first wave so once the gun went off and the elite runners took off, leaving me to trudge along at a gentlemanly pace, I pretty much had the road to myself, until, that is, the fast runners in the second wave caught up and began to pass me by the thousands. That was hard to take. I was sorely tempted to pick it up and go with them, especially when I got passed by a guy dressed like a giant French Fry. I was really steamed by getting dropped by somebody in a foam-rubber suit and took it as a direct affront to my dignity as senior gentleman runner. I was just about to abandon my resolution to behave reasonably when the French Fry's partner also blew past me dressed like a big sloppy Cheeseburger.

At that point it dawned on me that it just didn't matter if I got passed by the whole fast food menu; all I needed to do was just plug along and get in under four hours. From then on it was fun. I slapped hands with all the little kids and laughed with all the early morning drinkers standing out in front of the taverns. I winked and smiled at the Wellesley girls and soaked up the support of the crowds lining the whole way up Heartbreak Hill. The final stretch as you round the corner where the Elliot Lounge used to be and then turn for home down Boylston is like no other race in the world. The roar of the spectators and the joy of the runners as they were pulled toward the tape actually sent a shiver through this jaded old body. It was a great day. Conditions were so good that the winner broke the world record and I managed a 3:51:01 without doing any real damage to myself.

So, it's on to Comrades. Now that ought to be something. I was talking to a South African guy who I met right after the finish at Boston. He said the hilly part of Boston, including Heartbreak Hill, would be considered the flat part of Comrades. Oh well, at least it's only a little more than twice as long.

Two Gentlemen

The Steve Miller Band was right. Time does keep on slippin', slippin', slippin' into the future. Not to mention that my new legal name is Maurice, because I speak of the pompitous of love. (Can you believe that Steve Miller is still not universally recognized as the Wittgenstein of our era?!) But back to me and Cory. Cory is in Boston right now, preparing to run the Boston Marathon tomorrow. If all goes well, he will improve his starting position for the Comrades Marathon. If things go REALLY well, he will kiss all the girls at Wellesley College, whether or not he improves his starting position at Comrades Marathon. In any event, it continues to look like our Comrades race will really happen. We now have rooms booked in Pietermaritzburg for the entire time we're in South Africa. I confess I used a subterfuge to obtain them, telling the booking agent that I was looking for rooms for two gentlemen coming to their country for the Comrades race. Boy are they going to be surprised when Cory and I show up! We've been called many things by many people, but the closest we've come to being called gentlemen was before the New York City Marathon, when that Orthodox rabbi pointed at us and warned his daughters, "Now you see why I've warned you about gentile men!" At this point, we are 5 weeks out from our flight to SA and 6 weeks out from the race. I have my typhoid and Hepatitis A shots, my malaria tablets and Cipro. I have my Indiana University Cross-Country Team singlet. I can only think of two things still missing. (1) A team name. Surprisingly, this is actually a requirement for final acceptance into the race. Considering how stupid it is to put our old bodies through this torture, I was thinking "The Crimes Against Nature", but Cory seems to think that is not a great idea. (By the way, it was right after I suggested that that he decided we should get separate rooms in Pietermaritzburg. What an odd coincidence.) We are considering "Two Gentlemen from Indiana", but there is that whole "false pretenses" legal thing. We have about two weeks left to come up with a name, so I'm sure inspiration will strike. If not, we'll just call ourselves by some random number. Like 46664. I'm sure that wouldn't raise any eyebrows. Anyway, the other thing that is missing is the brainwashing. I find on my long runs that when things start to hurt and there's still a long way to go, I tend to forget that this thing I'm doing is great and rewarding, etc. I tend to point out to myself, "You're the one who decided to do this; and you're the one who can un-decide it." If I can find a good brainwasher so that I cease to realize I have a choice, I'll be completely ready for the race. Actually, I think I've got it--the thing that will make my brain a compliant gob of jelly. Time to load my iPod with a continuous loop of Steve Miller! Space Cowboy!

Temporary Setback

     To quote the famous Canandian philosopher/woodsman, Red Green, this has been the winter of our discount tent. Nothing is more boring than talking about the weather unless it's talking about one's infirmities and injuries so I'll be as brief as possible:

     1. Did the JFK. Got beat up by it.
     2. Caught the flue or the grunge or the mange or some crap that wrung me out and wouldn't let go for a month.
     3. Started crawling back after the first of the year with the knowledge that Boston was coming up and Comrades was a month after that.
     4. Went out on a cold, rainy-ass, miserable March day (Is there any other kind? I've forgotten) and did 18 hard miles on all hills. 
       5. Developed a pain below my left knee that hurt like a mother.
     6. Went back to the doctor who did a scope surgery on my left miniscus two years   ago.
     7. Got x-rays and an MRI. No miniscus problem, no stress fracture. So, what is it?
     8. Consider several things. Feels like stress fracture. Did they miss it?

     The rest is covered in the e-mails below exchanged with Jim:
                                         

---

From: jim
Sent: Saturday, March 26, 2011 11:07 AM
To: Cory
Subject: broken but unbowed

Hey, Dude,

Have you gotten confirmation of your self-diagnosis?  (Having all of your multiple personalities agree doesn't count as confirmation.)  If so, what practical advice did your doctor have?  By "practical", I don't mean "stay off of it"; I mean, "resume full training after __ weeks of the exercise bike."

I went out to the Fort yesterday for a long workout, and was reminded that 56 miles of uphill is a slog, plain and simple.  I'm about to go onto the interweb to research "reversable lobotomies."  I'm pretty sure that's the way to go.  And maybe "reversable" isn't that important.

By the way, Immanuel Kant defines being a moral human being as incessant toiling that puts one on the path of progress from bad to better.  (Yeah, a really cheery philosophy.)  Anyway, I hope that, in your physical character, at least, you are finding yourself on that path.

Jim

From: Cory

Sent : Saturday, March 26, 2011

Subject: Broken but unbowed

                        Well Dude, here’s the story. After rejecting the theory of Patellar Tendonitis because research indicated it would be more centrally located and higher on the leg I came back to the theory that it was a stress fracture because of the location and the symptoms. I exchanged messages with the doctor’s staff and asked them if they felt sure the MRI had been read correctly or maybe it focused too much on the knee joint because of the earlier surgery.  They got back to me and said they re-read the MRI and called the person who originally read them to consult and they were sure there’s no stress fracture. I had mixed reactions to this because in some ways a stress fracture would be good because the recovery time is fairly finite whereas if I don’t know what the problem is it’s hard to predict how things are going to go. Fortunately, the re-reading seemed to reveal something new or, at least, something that wasn’t in the original report which was some inflammation in the Pes Anserine Bursa, which, as everyone knows, is located under the Pes Ansrine or “Goosefoot” tendon where the Sartorius, Gracilis, and Semitendinosus tendons join and insert into the medial surface of the tibia, about two to three inches below the joint, on the inside of the knee.

                        This problem is most commonly caused by overuse of the hamstrings, “especially in athletes with tight hamstrings.  Runners are affected most often. Improper training, sudden increases in distance run, and running up hills can contribute to this condition.” You will not be surprised to learn that the NPABA ( National Pes Anserine Bursitis Association) has named me as it’s 2011 Poster Boy.

                        How do you treat this tragic condition, you ask? Well, with major doses of common sense. Yes, indeed, I am a dead man. Nonetheless, I have done the research and here’s what they say: “Reduce the strain on the injured tissues. Stopping the activity that brings on or aggravates the symptoms is the first step toward pain reduction.”  (Now that was unexpected advice). “It may be necessary to modify some of your activities.”  Long-term, improving flexibility is key. The hamstrings have to be taught  a lesson in flexibility.

                        The good news is the big PAB (Pes Anserine Bursitis) “usually responds well to treatment” and “athletes may return to sports or play when the symptoms are gone.” DUH. One site actually says “ If the symptoms don’t come back, the athlete can continue to progress to full participation in all activities.” DOUBLE DUH.

                        Fortunately, there is, in addition to the futile admonition to employ  common sense, a medical approach. The doctor called in a prescription for a Medrol Dose Pack, proper name: MethylPrednisolone. This is some kind of steroidal britzkreig which is supposed to knock the snot out of inflammation. You take decreasing doses for six days until the medicine, and hopefully, the inflammation is gone. I’m on day four and it seems to be working. I have also been going to acupuncture and taking Chinese herbs I get there and to massage, where I have been given holistic creams, emoulents, and more hands-on contact with a woman than I’ve had in years.  Tomorrow, I’m going to sacrifice a chicken and bury it in the backyard.

                        In the meantime, I continued to work out on the bike and the stairmaster  hard every day  (total of 3 hours today) and I’ve added some upper-body weight training and a lot more core work and stretching to my routine. I have resolved to “get tough” with the thought being that I’ll be able to run when the time comes but I’m going to miss a lot of running in preparation. I haven’t ruled out Boston but, if I do run it, the goal will be not to beat myself up so bad that it threatens Comrades.

                        Well, that’s the scoop. How you doin’?

Cory

Still Crazy

Well, I ran 35 miles on Sunday. No, I didn't have a good reason. I wasn't raising money for orphans or saving Timmy from a well, or even doing my small bit to reduce our use of fossil fuels. Nor was I being pursued by the Carmel, Indiana Fashion Police. Though, if you've ever seen me after I dressed myself to go running, you would know that's an ever-present danger.

I just had gotten the idea of running 35 miles in my mind, and then I couldn't come up with a good reason not to. (If you are a follower of me and Cory, you know that none of the following are considered a good reason: avoidance of pain, exercise of good judgment, demonstration of mental health, obeying a physician's orders.)

It went okay, with Cory joining me for the miles from 7 to 20. You see, he's been dealing with some sort of inflamed bursa in the knee and hasn't run for 3 weeks, so naturally his first day back running he chose to go 13 miles. (When either of us questions our own sanity, we can always point to the other and assure ourselves that "I'm not that crazy!")

But to continue, last week, I got the information about the major hills on the Comrades course to try to get a sense of what to expect. The measurements were in meters and kilometers, but I got out my conversion formulas and--voila!--I had the hills expressed as the increase of feet of altitude per mile. The hills were tough, but survivable, as long as we were slow and steady. Then I had an awakening! The numbers I had come up with were actually yards per mile. The hills were all THREE TIMES AS STEEP as I had calculated. At this point I put a bullet in my brain. Or I would have, except I once again was off by a factor of 3. My ceiling is very upset with me, I might add.

So where does that leave me? It leaves me knowing that this race is going to be less fun that "a 56-mile footrace in Africa" sounds like. Luckily, Cory is on the mend, and keeping up with him is a good motivator. Besides, I hear that Durbin, South Africa has some hard-nosed, relentless fashion police.