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MuckTales

I think somewhere in the scriptures it says, “He who is not dirty let him become as a little piggy.” No? Well, I’m sure it’s going to make the next edition.

Jason and I did the Dirty last week with Abigail, Jeremy Rowley, my brother Drew, and his wife Simone. The Dirty Dish is a filth fest for runners. It’s really more about freeing yourself from acceptable hygiene practices than getting exercise. As you slosh your way through a 5 or 10K, whichever you’re tough enough for, you’ll find yourself in slimy pits, on top of muddy ramparts, or in the midst of a stinky lake.

I made duck feet and feathery tails for me and Jason. They went from pristinely clean to filthy in just five minutes.

Most members of our team were Dash veterans so they knew what we were in for. We expected muck in places where the sun don’t shine and being worn out beyond reckoning. We were surprised by one thing though: this year’s obstacles were a lot wetter. The water to dirt ratio was significantly higher than last time; there was less soggy soil and more pools of filth. We were in one of the first groups out the chute so the temps up in Soldier Hollow were still in the 40s and all those puddles were awfully cold. Most of us had numb hands and arms after our first dip but we kept moving to discourage our chilled extremities from giving ideas to the rest of our bodies.

You had to either go over or under these pipes. Under was a guaranteed mess but over was more precarious.
The slop ‘n slide was sloppier this year, so naturally more fun.

Another change for me from last year was the condition of my ankle. Tearing my tendon 3 months ago meant that this time I had to contend with a testy foot. Thanks to my injury I couldn’t just jump into the murky depths, I had to carefully navigate my way through them so as not to damage my tendon any further. That caution and instability made me feel infinitely weaker, a bit like an old lady, a curious state for an unabashed mud seeker. But even with all that extra care my ankle was still pretty aggravated with me after the run. I guess there’s just no pleasing some tendons.

Simone bypassed quite a few obstacles so she didn’t look like she had fallen into the vat of Hershey’s extra chunky chocolate that had swallowed the rest of us.
Jeremy, Drew, and Jason were giggly with delight throwing globs of mud at each other.

This year we continued our juvenile costuming tradition by naming our team MuckTales and dressing like ducks. Yes, MuckTales is a play on DuckTales, that Disney cartoon you watched incessantly when you were a kid. Jason and I came as two of the triplets. I believe we were Dewey and Louie but don’t quote me on that. However, you can quote me on this universal truth: sopping sweatpants make running really uncomfortable. The white sweatpants Jason and I wore to represent our duck feathers were a very bad idea. They absorbed all that muddy liquid like sponges and we came out of each trench about 15 pounds of gross sludge heavier. You don’t know chaffing until you’ve sprinted while sporting gritty dripping sweatpants. Although most of the other participants didn’t seem to recognize our characters, everyone caught on that we were ducks except for a delirious couple that thought we were piggies for some reason. (The feathers and beaks didn’t clue you in?) I guess with all our layers of goo we probably looked more like sewer treatment pond scrapings than anything else.

Our group, with the exception of Simone, looked like we had been dredged up from the bottom of a bog by the time we crossed the finish line.

We had a lovely grubby time running the Dirty Dash again. It was a bit chilly and I think our whole group was still cold hours later from that foul freezing water but it was all worth it for the chance to completely put aside cleanliness and see Jeremy get hit in his open mouth with a mud bomb. I will long treasure my mucky memories and the grime I keep digging out of my toenails. Dirt and fond recollections are the gifts that just keep on giving.

Rachel October 2, 2012 No Comments

Back to the Good Old Bad Days

Ever since I rolled my bad ankle while playing laser tag at my own birthday party two months ago (Boohoo!) the wellbeing of my peroneal tendons has been uncertain. A couple of doctor visits and an MRI later I now have a few things figured out but the fate of my foot is still a looming question mark. Here are all the gory details.

My First Doctor’s Visit:

Six weeks after my little misstep my ankle was still having issues. A normal sprain usually heals in 2-4 weeks so 6 weeks of persistent troubles didn’t seem regular. My slow recovery and the many eerie similarities between my current situation and my previous tendon tear experience convinced me that it was time to get a doctor’s opinion. My sports medicine specialist, unfortunately, didn’t have any concrete answers for me. He said that the prior damage to my ankle would definitely lengthen my recuperation from a sprain; 3 months of mending wouldn’t be unusual. But he also told me that once a tendon has been torn retears are common. When a tendon has been weakened it’s an easy target for more problems. So? The doc concluded that I may or may not have torn my tendon again. Hmm…not exactly the non-answer I was looking for. He said I could wait it out for another month to see what happens or I could get an MRI and find out exactly what is going on. I chose the MRI and the path of information.

My MRI Results:

The machine used for this MRI, though not as friendly to those fidgety in tight places, produced a much clearer image than the open design one that magnetically photographed my ankle last time. The radiologist reported that my peroneus brevis suffered from advanced tendinosis and my peroneus longus was healed in intervals. Additionally, he noted that there was quite a bit of fluid surrounding my peroneus brevis. I had no idea what all of this meant.

My brace is a longtime frienemy. I hate that it’s become a necessary part of my life again.

My Second Doctor’s Visit:

I made another visit to my doctor after my MRI to decode the results and figure out my next course of action. My doc was great; he spent over half an hour looking at MRI pictures with me and explained everything I was seeing. Thanks to his helpful conversion of medical talk into layman’s terms I think I understand my MRI details. Allow me to interpret for you.

Doc Speak: The peroneus longus is healed in intervals.

English Translation: Your peroneus longus looks better than it did before you had surgery. Your last MRI showed fluid buildup around it and that is no longer there. Go longus!

Doc Speak: The peroneus brevis tendon shows signs of advanced tendinosis.

English Translation: Unlike tendinitis, which is an acute short-term tendon flare-up, tendinosis is a lasting problem involving the tendon’s structure and it takes considerably longer to heal. This particular case of tendinosis is a result of your recent ankle injury and, by the way, you have an associated partial tear in your tendon but it’s not completely ruptured.

Doc Speak: There is fluid retention around the peroneus brevis.

English Translation: Fluid isn’t good. Fluid means your body is hurt and can’t figure out how to heal itself.

Ugh! As my comprehensive translation indicates, my peroneus brevis, the tendon that I had surgery on 4 years ago due to it being torn almost to the point of rupturing, is once again torn. Of all the ridiculous things! Tendon, did I offend you in a previous life or what?

My Course of Action:

According to my newest MRI, the tear in my peroneus brevis this time is worse than its previous one and this tendon is in poorer condition now then it was before my surgery. I find this assessment hard to believe because my tendon was so messed up last time that it was almost beyond repair. However, since the MRI machine I used the first time didn’t give a very sharp image that is hopefully the main reason for this grim report. I’m crossing my fingers.

Another ankle surgery is now a real possibility for me. The recovery from my last one took forever and almost drove me into the funny farm so I’d like to avoid a repeat of that near-insanity if possible. Is there any hope?

My ankle might heal on its own. It will probably take a couple more months for it to get its act together, given its current state, but it could repair itself. The fact that it has slowly been improving over time, instead of plateauing, is a positive indication. If its progress ever levels off that could mean that my body has done all that it can on its own. So far I’m still making headway, thankfully. The fluid surrounding my tendon is a bit of a downer though; it’s a bad sign. It means my body is having a hard time coping. But, even with the fluid, my doctor was optimistic that avoiding surgery may be possible. It all depends on how my foot is doing in about two months.

Until then I have been instructed to massage my ankle meanly to increase blood flow to the area and do strengthening exercises with the elastic band my physical therapist gave me the last time I rode this pony.

I’m wishing for a tendon miracle. (My tendon doesn’t have a very good track record in the miracle department.) I have an appointment scheduled with my surgeon at the end of November but I’m hoping that I’ll get to cancel it. The last thing my questionable stability needs is another trip onto the operating table. Physical activity is one of the few things that stands between me and iffy sanity. Take that away and I’ve got some real cuckoo potential. Tendon, please don’t make me go down the lazy road to crazy again.

Rachel September 6, 2012 2 Comments

My Timptation

About 7 weeks ago I messed my bad ankle up playing laser tag. Whether I undid my surgeon’s tendon reconstruction handiwork with this booboo remains unknown. I got an MRI on it this morning though so hopefully I will have some answers on that front soon. (I’m crossing my fingers for the “right” answers.) But that will be the subject of another post’s ramblings.

In the meantime I got my doctor’s approval to undertake a feat that few attempt even when they aren’t one ankle shy of cooperative legs.

In between two vertical challenges a sprawling meadow gave our legs a little break.

Mount Timpanogos is not Utah’s highest peak, it’s not even on the top-ten list for the state, but it dominates the Utah Valley landscape with its 11,749 feet and is one of the most popular climbs around. We made plans to conquer the 16 mile trek to its top with our friends Adam and Abigail a couple of months ago but then my ankle injury left the feasibility of this conquest a little uncertain. Finally, last week my doc said if I wore my brace I should be able to scale this behemoth unscathed thus we decided to still go for it. Of course, what the doctor exactly said was that my ankle would be very sore but taking on this twelve-hour hike wouldn’t do any permanent damage so he had no medical objections to the activity. Since I am pretty much the most stubborn person alive, pain but not permanent injury was good enough of an endorsement for me.

The trail up Timp travels through diverse vistas. Each region is so different it's hard to conceptualize the entire area as a unit.
When we stopped at the saddle for a snack break Adam immediately fell asleep and started snoring.

The last time I hiked Timp I was a teenager; I’m not going to confess how long ago that was. Adam too hadn’t traversed this trail since he was an adolescent and Jason, despite his years as a scouter, had never made it all the way to the top. Since the thought of ascending Timp hadn’t ever even occurred to Abigail, we were all kind of green to the experience and oblivious to the suffering we were about to endure.

The blooming wildflowers were everywhere. They painted the landscape with stripes of color.
The climb from the saddle to the peak was pretty rough. Wobbly rocks and dizzying heights made the going slow.

We began our climb around 7 AM to give ourselves plenty of time to get up and back down the mountain before it got dark, which was wise because construction on the trailhead parking lot forced us to park near another connecting trail instead and hike in nearly a mile to get to the actual start of the trail. We ended up doing nearly 2 more miles of climbing than we had anticipated; that’s over 17 miles in total for those of you who can’t count.

The wedge-shaped peak looked intimidatingly severe even from the saddle.
This ugly shack marks the top of Timp. It may not be much to look at but the view from it sure was.

The scenery along the Timpooneke trail is beautiful and constantly changing. First you travel through thick growths of pines and aspens with the occasional waterfall offering you its flowing chatter until you end up in a boulder-strewn grassland. Then, a sharp climb through pine covered precipices later, you find yourself in a stretching alpine meadow full of brilliantly colored wildflowers with the starkness of the triangular peak looming in the background. Once you leave those blossoms below the landscape becomes harsh. From the saddle up the terrain is nothing but rock. With lots of loose stones and over 1000 feet of vertical gain that last ascent is a bugger.

The panoramas from the ridge were spectacular and otherworldly.
We crossed paths with a herd of mountain goats; we counted over 40 in total. A few of them let us approach surprisingly close.

The weather during our trek was perfect. A nice breeze and some afternoon cloud cover kept us pleasantly cool for the most part. Mother Nature was in a good mood and her hillsides of vibrant blooms, which are apparently prettiest this time of year, seemed to echo that cheery humor.

The steps to the stony summit seemed never-ending.
The trail passed a few mossy waterfalls as they gracefully cascaded toward the valley bottom.

How did our group and my ankle fare? I’d say overall things went rather well. All of us made it to the top and that counts for a lot. I think Adam and Abigail got a bit more from this hike than they were bargaining for though. Adam, who proudly admits that he hasn’t exercised in years, struggled a little on the steep slopes from the saddle to the peak. He lagged behind us on the way back too and was so exhausted he actually fell asleep on the side of the trail when he stopped to rest for a minute. Luckily, Jason randomly decided to backtrack to find him right about then or we may have tramped all the way to the bottom without realizing that Adam was snoring in a grassy patch hours from finishing his descent. Abigail didn’t close her eyes unexpectedly mid-mountain but I don’t think she was the happiest of campers the last few hours of our expedition; she just wanted to be done. I guess when you’ve never hiked that far before you don’t realize that throbbing swollen feet, achy knees, and utter fatigue are the price you must pay to see your world from an extraordinary perspective and obtain some bragging rights. As for my ankle, I was proud of it. It gave me grief the last few miles and its aggravation didn’t subside when the trail ended but, since I was expecting more resistance, I was pleased with it all things considered.

Jason, as always, was a trooper. He didn't whine even though his backpack was hurting him and left big welts on his back.

Both Jason and I are glad we trudged into the wilderness. Achieving that mountaintop goal was a highly satisfying and breathtaking experience. I’m not sure Adam and Abigail feel quite as enthusiastic about their accomplishment but I’d like to think that with time, after the torturous aspects of our adventure have been forgotten, they’ll realize how beautiful the slopes and valleys they were so eager to leave behind actually were and decide that the misery of their extreme workout was worth the chance to view one of nature’s unaltered masterpieces.

Rachel August 15, 2012 No Comments
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