What A Strange (and dangerous) Sight

I saw a curious thing on my run this morning. The curious sight was another runner, which is curious in two ways. First, I usually don't see other runners out. I live in an area with a lot of steep hills and not a lot of other houses. Not so many people run here. Second, she was running in long black pants and a long-sleeved black hoody.


It's HOT here in the Northeast! Many of you know that I'm not such a morning runner; I prefer afternoon/evening. But it is hot. If any running is happening, it's happening in the morning these days, before we climb well into the 90s. If I can get out while it's still in the 80s, I have a much better chance of not getting into a dangerous heat/dehydration state. 


But there she was all bundled up, running - and sweating. It reminded me of my little brother in high school. He was a wrestler. He and his teammates would often try desperate measures to make weight - sitting in the "hot box" in sweats, spitting for hours into a cup - trying to get rid of mere ounces of water weight. They had reasons - if they were just a fraction of a pound over, they could not compete. Tough break to not win a state championship because of drinking too much soda. But that doesn't mean it was healthy.


It also reminded me of lots of articles in various fashion magazines when I was younger about losing those last few pounds before a big event. These articles never mentioned the truth: if you want to look a certain way or fit into a particular dress for prom/reunion/wedding, you have to plan ahead - months ahead. Instead they offered desperate women desperate, and ineffective and potentially dangerous, solutions. Sit in a sauna in sweats, wear a plastic bag under your sweats, wrap your thighs/stomach in plastic wrap (!?!) for quick, spot reductions.


The truth is that none of those ideas even make any sense. No, you can't do "spot" reductions; you lose weight across your whole body, not just your thighs. Loosing water weight is just temporary. And loosing too much water is simply dangerous.


Our bodies need water to function. Water carries nutrients to our cells and carries away waste. It helps us maintain our temperature. Our muscles are made up of about 70% water. Without adequate water, our muscles and core temperature rise and can overheat. Our muscles have to work harder, using up more of their glycogen stores - fuel. Overworking our muscles unnecessarily is not just a matter of comfort; it's a matter of safety. Our heart is our most important muscle. Inadequate fluid has the same effect on our heart as other muscles. 


I don't actually know why she was running in that outfit - maybe it's all that was clean and she really wanted to get in her workout. But as I was struggling to deal with the heat and stay hydrated, she really surprised me and got me thinking a lot more about hydration. There's no way I can stress enough just how important proper hydration is when exercising.

If you're going to be out in the heat, carry water with you. I always carry at least a small hand-held water bottle with me. Start drinking early - before you feel parched. By the time you feel thirsty, you're already well on your way to dehydration. And drink often. If you wait until you're really parched and then drink a whole lot of water, you can have just as many problems as if you don't drink enough. You can flood your system, throwing your electrolyte balance off. Better to drink small amounts often. And if you're doing any longer, endurance kind of exercise, you might try taking electrolyte capsules or mixing some electrolyte powder into your water. 


Also, stay in the shade as much as possible. Reschedule your workouts if you need to. Perhaps go for a swim instead of a run. I moved my long run to tomorrow rather than today because the weather is supposed to break - tomorrow might be overcast and only in the 80s. And keep an eye out for signs of trouble: severe headaches, dizziness, nausea, rapid heartbeat (hard to tell if you're already working out), disorientation. These can be signs of heat exhaustion or heat stroke. Get to a cool place, sprinkle cool water on yourself, lie down and elevate your legs, drink something cool, and get medical help if your symptoms get worse.


There's no need to not get your exercise just because it's hot, just do it safely.


Julie

Let The Adventure Continue

Kilimanjaro was not my first climb. I started rock climbing years ago with my father. We were on vacation, just father and daughter. He wanted to try climbing. He remembered climbing once as a young man and thought it would be fun. I was afraid, but I would not say no. At first, it made no sense to me: knots, rope that became spaghetti in my hands, the jigsaw puzzle of my body moving over the rock. After two days, a new world appeared in those rocks. The ropes did not bind me; they led me up a path most could not follow. They connected me to a world where I could look down upon the back of a Red-tailed hawk soaring below, calling to its mate; where body parts became chess pieces on a Precambrian board. Two years later, ropes fluid in my hands, tethering me to my companions, I ventured into the barren, glacial world of high-altitude mountains. We climbed through the cimmerian hues of pre-dawn, the only sounds the growling of the wind and rhythmic crunching of our crampons on ice. I glanced behind me. The clouds lay like silvered pillows below us. Above in the midnight blue, stars shimmered. The sky was just beginning to lighten to a deep cerulean in the east, silhouetting the crater rim. I turned back into the wind and continued climbing, tears stinging my face in the cold.


This is an excerpt from a larger piece I wrote about my Kilimanjaro trip with Above & Beyond Cancer.


My dad is the reason I started climbing; he may be the reason for many things I do. Growing up, I always thought of my dad as just a good, solid guy. He would always do the right thing; do what was needed. But there were glints of adventure in his eyes. 

Whether turning the family van down deserted, rutted dirt roads in the Badlands of South Dakota in search of buffalo - the women calling out "Gene, do you know where you're going? We're going to get stuck!", my grandfather chuckling beside him - until we found ourselves stopped in the middle of hundreds of stinking buffalo; or hopping on a bicycle to ride across the state of Iowa with Ragbrai; or deciding the perfect father/daughter vacation would be climbing in the Tetons; or using his retirement not to play golf, but to travel to far-flung corners of the world with his wife, an adventurer resides in his breast.


Dad, you've given me many things, but the best may be a sense of adventure. Thank you.


Let the adventure continue!


Julie

A Good Day

Yesterday was a good day. This is the time of year when I get to visit what feels like every doctor in the world. Well, at least my world. Mammo was earlier this week - all OK. Yesterday was oncologist and surgeon. 

First up was PK - onc. There was the usual followup with my study nurse (for the drug trial I took part in), and reminders to get a colonoscopy when it's time. Then we talked about ultra running and my upcoming climbing trip to Russia. One of the many things I love about PK is  that, while he always makes sure I have great understanding of the reality of my situation and all it's seriousness, he also encourages all the joys in my life - the things that make it worth living.

Then he told me to come back in a year.

That's a big thing! After 11 years, I'm out for a full year - I know, he's totally going to miss me, isn't he? But seriously, that felt mighty important!

Of course, I've been in the game long enough to know the limits of this new development. I remember last year, while celebrating 10 years of healthy survivorship, his finding a lump, as though I needed reminding that I never truly get to put this behind me. Scans, biopsies, back on a 3-month schedule. 

But for now, I'll take the year.

On to surgeon (we talked about her kids - yes her daughter should play bass - and the Olympics). And lunch.

Jean Georges is just a couple of blocks from my hospital. Nearly 11 years ago I got into a lunch habit there. We decided to go there after my last onc. visit before I started chemo. I was due to get back all my scan results that day, and everyone was expecting a lot of bad news. We figured an excellent lunch was appropriate: if the news was bad, it would be my last good meal for quite a while; if it was good, we had something to celebrate.  I read the surprise on my doctor's face as he read the results. Celebrate.

After that, I started stopping in at Jean Georges frequently after doctor appointments. I never planned it, never made reservations, often just sat at the bar. Whenever the news was good, or I just needed a little pick-me-up before the next round of chemo started, I stopped in for lunch. Eventually, when my death did not seem imminent, I realized I ought to cut back on my lunches; if I wasn't dying immediately I shouldn't spend all my money on lunch.

But yesterday felt worthy of lunch. I sat outside on the terrace; it was a perfect afternoon - cool breeze, the sounds of Columbus Circle slightly muffled by the hedge. I had tuna tartare with avocado and spicy radishes in a light ginger/soy dressing, beautiful black bass with young peas and fiddleheads, some lovely wines, and finally, shortcake with strawberries - a masterful creation that elevates this simple picnic dessert to lofty heights. 

As I delighted in each bite, I reflected. I measured my cancer life in meals. Spring pea soup, lobster, crab cooked 4 ways, beef tenderloin, slow-cooked cod, and desserts made with berries which were a perfection of ripeness.

As pleased as I was, my reflections were also bittersweet. Because this is a world filled with too much cancer, my life is not only measured in meals, but in other lives. My good news was always tempered with loss - Gretchen, Roslyn, Janet, Sharon, and so many others, too many others. And now, Kerri.

The piquancy of the tuna tartare was matched by memories of Kerri, one of my climbing partners from Kilimanjaro. Her triple-negative breast cancer had metastasized, and she had died just the night before. I had not known Kerri long, but her gentle nature and almost palpable love of her 3 year old daughter charmed me. 

No, I've been at this too long to believe my good news is anything but ephemeral. It is worth celebrating, but it is just a moment. And like friends, a good vacation, a good meal, worth holding onto for as long as possible until they become happy memories.

Julie

If you would like to read more about my friend, Kerri, you can read her beautiful tribute on the Above & Beyond Cancer blog.

Bummer!

I'm sitting around tonight feeling disappointed. Surprisingly so.

I'm going climbing - that's not the disappointing part. In July, I'll be joining two of my friends from Kilimanjaro and climbing Mt. Elbrus. Elbrus is in Russia, in the Northern Caucasus. It's the highest peak in Europe, one of the 7 summits.

OK, that's not at all disappointing. In fact, that's quite exciting. But yesterday, while I was searching around on the internet, I found a race - an ultra marathon around Elbrus. The race is scheduled for a few days after my climb.

I quickly found myself all a-flutter at the possibility. A real mountain race. A tough mountain race. There were two races to choose from: a 28K trail race (the safer bet), and an 81K ultra marathon around Mt. Elbrus (the one my mind kept returning to). There was also a mountaineering traverse and and adventure race, both for teams. The timing was perfect. Well, maybe not perfect - I would just be coming off a big climb, but I would already be there.

I fretted about the wisdom of trying a race right after climbing. I would be tired, my legs would be tired. On the plus side, I would already be acclimatized. I sent out messages to friends - just how crazy is this? I emailed my coach and my friends, Fred and Charlie. They both have done some very impressive endurance events and also climb, which is its own kind of endurance event. They both understand what's really involved. I like to think of them as my crazy barometer. If I run an idea past them and one of them says, "I don't know, Julie, not sure that's such a good idea," then I know that I am way over the line!

But the funny thing is, they never say that. They understand what it takes. They also know me. They know I'm serious in my understanding of the situation, my consideration, and my preparation. No matter how much I may joke about things, I take my preparation seriously.

And so, as I suspected, Fred did his checking, talked about the difficulties, but encouraged me to try. Charlie, who I'll be climbing with, thought it sounded like fun and thought I should try to stay higher on the mountain to acclimatize. Neil, my coach, thought it would be a good challenge for me. He always laughs and tells me I like challenges that are just beyond my reach. And then he tells me all the reasons it makes perfect sense for me to try.

I put in an application - excited, but nervous. I got it in just at the last minute - the deadline was today. I went to sleep dreaming of mountains.

But this morning I had an email waiting for me from the race directors. They have canceled the event due to lack of applicants. (Does this mean I was the only person crazy enough to sign on?) This would have been the inaugural event, and the region has been closed off and on in the last few years, so they had a tough time getting the word out.

I'm disappointed. I'm really disappointed. It's odd since I only found out about it yesterday. For less than one day I thought I would be doing a really hard, but cool race. It's not like I had a lot of time invested in the idea. I spent most of the day yesterday trying to decide just how crazy an idea it was. I only decided right before bed.

But I think goals are like that. Often, the hardest part is deciding to commit. We dither; we debate. We are sometimes paralyzed by indecision. Once we decide, though, we've already taken a step. Once the decision is made, we're wedded to the idea. We're already moving toward the goal. We have taken action. Once that barrier has been broken, each consequent step is easier.

That's true no matter what size the goal or what type. Fitness/health, or something else. Large or small. The process is the same. We consider; we decide; we act.

Because deciding is action.

The distance doesn't matter; it is only the first step that is difficult. ~ Marie Anne de Vichy-Chamrond

That was today's Life-Cise Daily Tip. It seemed an appropriate quote for the day.

Julie

Out Of The Closet - The Truth About What's In My Head

Do you exercise with music? Most people do. Music blares at the gym. Just about every runner or cyclist has earbuds in.

Music can be a great motivator. It can keep us going, or going faster, long beyond the point when we lost interest in our workout. A British study from a couple of years ago found that when music was sped up, people exercising on a stationary bike pedaled faster and enjoyed the music and workout more. Conversely, they pedaled slower when the music was slowed (Scand Journal Med & Sci in Sports. 2010 Aug;20(4):662-9. Epub 2009 Sep 28.).

But I don't. I came to serious exercise from outdoor activities like hiking, climbing, and skiing. One of the points of being outdoors in nature is enjoying the surroundings - it just seemed wrong to bring external music into the scene. I got used to paying attention to my body while I exercised instead of being distracted by music. When I started running, not listening to music was a safety choice as well. I have only narrow, windy roads with no shoulders or sidewalks near me, and people make TERRIBLE drivers.

It's not that I don't have music while I exercise, it's just that my music is internal rather than external. I have a constant soundtrack running in my head. The only problem is that I don't have much control over the play list. Tunes arise unbidden, sometimes to rather humorous effect. And once implanted, I'm stuck with them; there's no skipping to the next tune in the cue.

It's not surprising that I have a lot of music in my head. I am a professional musician, after all. But my brain does make some curious choices sometimes.

Yesterday, I got up early to run a half marathon trail race. Around mile 8, my energy began to fade. The Ramones came to my rescue. My brain played "I Wanna Be Sedated" over and over. Good tune. Good energy. Maybe not the right lyrics for a race, but, whatever. The Ramones were briefly interrupted several times by Smetana's Moldau, usually when I ran past a stream. At least the Ramones had a good tempo for a race. At one previous race, my brain played Barber's Adagio. It's really hard to run fast to Barber Adagio.

There definitely is an ironic streak to my brain. When I ran the Potawatomi 100-Mile race back in April, my soundtrack was Schubert's String Quartet No. 14 - Death and the Maiden(??!!!). Really brain, Death and the Maiden? That's what you think is appropriate for my first attempt to run 100 miles?

It's not just while exercising that my brain asserts it's rather odd-ball musical humor. In times of stress, my musical brain kicks out the hits.

In 2001, when I was starting my first round of chemotherapy, my brain produced a soundtrack that I kept a secret for many years, too embarrassed to tell anyone. Just remember, I am a classically trained musician; I went to Juilliard. I have played with excellent orchestras, opera companies, and chamber music groups. I have spent my life playing some of the greatest music ever created. 

But apparently disco had an oversized impact on my developing child brain.

I had been in the infusion suite for a few hours already, Ron had gone to put money in the parking meter again, the nurses were in the next room. One of them came in to give me the Adriamycin push. This was it - the heavy drug. And then it was done and she was gone. I was alone again. It was time for me to get to work - everyone said how important positive visualization was - this was the time. 

I closed my eyes to concentrate. I did some deep breathing exercises. I visualized cancer cells being destroyed. And then I heard "ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive...." It was so loud that I thought the nurses had changed the station from the crappy light jazz-ish stuff they usually played. I opened my eyes - no, no one was there and some Kenny G rip-off was still playing. Annoyed, I closed my eyes and quietly scolded myself. "This is serious, Julie. Concentrate!" Back to killing cancer cells. But there they were again, the Bee-Gees. Nothing would make them go away. I started to giggle, overwhelmed by the absurdity. Of all the great music in my head, in a crisis, this is what my brain comes up with? I opened my eyes to see Ron and the nurses standing in the doorway, staring at me as I sat in a room by myself, laughing out loud. I started laughing so hard I could barely catch my breath. I could hardly gasp out the words to tell Ron about the Bee-Gees in my head. He wondered about the drugs they had given me.

Each week, there was another tune - tunes I hadn't thought of in years. Gloria Gaynor, "I Will Survive". Thinking that the problem was the image I was using, I'd try a different visual image, but my brain just changed the tune. While busy imagining blowing up cancer cells, there was Queen with "Another One Bites the Dust." The next treatment, I switched to a martial arts theme - yup... Carl Douglas, "Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting." 

Well, if my brain couldn't produce anything profound in a crisis, at least it kept me amused. 

And a little embarrassed. Except for Ron, I wouldn't tell anyone about my chemo songbook. Would you be broadcasting to your friends that these songs had become very special to you, that disco might be saving your life? It wasn't until several years later that I started to come out of the closet about it. I was on tour with my quintet. We had been on the road all day, driving across Wyoming and South Dakota. Marc and I were in one car. It was late; I was driving; the radio was loud. "Stayin' Alive" came on. Marc wanted to switch stations, but I wouldn't let him. I laughed as I listened and sang. Sensing there was a story involved, Marc prodded me. I told him all about my chemo songbook. We laughed until we cried.

Now, 11 years later, I think it's time to come out about what's in my head.

Julie