Uncategorized

HELP! I’ve wounded myself and it won’t heal. Three and a half weeks ago I was out running the Vancouver Seawall and at about 10 or 11 km into the run, I kicked myself in the ankle. I didn’t graze my ankle, I didn’t scuff it, I full on knocked the bloody wind out of it! I kicked it so hard, I actually winced from the pain, a pain reminiscent of when I broke the so-called funny bone in my elbow. And when I finished the run at 23 km, I finally looked down and sure enough, it was all scabbed over. But it didn’t look too bad, just a little skin removal was all, it would heal in no time – or so I thought. Now, pretty much every run I’ve been on since, I’ve repeated the ankle kicking, kind of like when you bite your tongue and you keep […]

So it turns out that I am not the only diabetic to have found myself in a situation, like I did on Sunday, where I had no poker to draw blood with to test my blood sugars, and had no way of getting such a device in a timely fashion. After posting last night’s blog, I went onto a diabetes forum that I regularly frequent (tudiabetes.org) and posed the question to my fellow diabetics, What would you do? These were some of their responses: “Sewing needles work well, they’re pretty sharp. You could always poke yourself with your insulin needle. I jabbed myself down to the bone more than once by accident with them. Got lots of blood!” ~ Emmy “I don’t run, but I bike and i keep a safety pin on my helmet strap on the off chance that i forgot… i usually have water and it works

Thank goodness yesterday’s 32k was by far a much better 32k than the last time, (probably mostly because I had no feelings of having to puke) but that being said, it didn’t come without its own drama. Lots of drama. I was doing a pretty good job on Saturday of owning my relaxation. I wasn’t stressing, I wasn’t worrying, I wasn’t over-thinking. The second ’32 km’ found its way into my brain, my mantras came out strong: I’m gonna kick that run’s ass … that run’s going to be shaking in its concrete … I’m gonna smoke that run like it’s never been smoked before. (It helped that I had Mario next to me telling me things like “The run called; it’s scared” :D). But around 7 p.m., halfway through eating our regular Saturday dinner, which consists of angel-hair pasta mixed with olive oil and parmesan, chicken and Greek salad,

Dear devil driver, who purposely swerved your boat of a vehicle, right into the line of us dear runners, with a sadistic look in your eyes. If you were looking to scare us, you can pat yourself on the back, as you were successful in your goal. But, just in case you haven’t yet learned the lessons of life, please do allow me to school you a tad here: Karma’s a bitch jerk face! Have a nice life! 😀 Sincerely, Princess of Pavement Okay, seriously, what the heck? No sooner did I write yesterday’s blog entry about being in a no sick zone did a runner in one of the other clinics come to last night’s talk, and sit directly in front of me, and then proceed to announce that she’s got the pneumonia! Are you freaking kidding me? I had just finished telling my favourite running chicks that sick

T-25 days until Portland Marathon + T-27 days until Europe = NO SICK ZONE! Normally on run days I head to my brother’s house after work before my run, and hang out with my super awesome nephews and sister-in-law and brother, which is a great set up because I can change there and fill up my water bottles and spend much-loved quality time with the family. But on Tuesday, just as I was leaving their house, I noticed that my younger nephew was talking somewhat nasally. Hmm, I thought. Add to that his dripping nose + his somewhat non-communicative, grumpy state of being = oh crap, he’s sick. I practically ran to my car avoiding any kind of hugs, high fives or fist bumps goodbye, and lathered on the sanitizer, which, I discovered, can go bad in hot temperatures … lucky for me I had a back-up bottle in my