Happy Birthday, Limerick!

Today Limerick is legally allowed to vote, buy cigarettes, and--in certain states--get tattooed (although she cheated this law long ago).

Today she is 18 years old!

Once upon a time, I thought 18 was old for a horse. But looking at Lim, I don't think that way anymore. Just like some 50-year-old people look much younger than they really are, the same can apply to horses.

And she really, truly looks good. Every time I see her, I can't get over what a transformation she has gone through between now and last year. She hasn't looked this good for over a decade--if ever.

However, as she becomes older, a part of me becomes more fearful for her health. Just like with older people, older horses are more prone to a wide variety of health issues. Her tough physical journey of last year still has me on edge, and I am ever watchful of how much she poops (and how it looks), how much she pees (and ditto), how much water she drinks, whether she finishes all her feed, how she is eating, how her body condition looks, and etcetera, etcetera.

The older she gets, the more motivated I am to pay off my debt so I can begin saving for a horse farm. Unfortunately my stint of unemployment last year has really knocked me back in my plans but I think that with dedication and determination, I can be debt-free again within a couple years and begin saving.

In the meantime, Limerick, stay healthy! Happy birthday!

Lim earlier this week, sporting a braid and flower
(done by my husband!)

"Love, having no geography, knows no boundaries."

I had a long post planned about the glory of Rachel Alexandra in the Kentucky Oaks and the shock of Mine That Bird's win in the Derby.

Instead, I need to mention something else.

I'm sure you remember your childhood pets. I certainly remember all of mine.

The anoles that, when knocked out of their cage by one of our cats, would skitter over to the dollhouse my grandfather had made for me. I would find them hanging on the miniature curtains or perching on the just-right furniture, one slender reptile foot smothering the wooden face of a doll.

The mice and hamsters. The gerbils and their endless burrowing at the corners of the glass tank they lived in.

And the fish! I remember the 10-gallon aquarium my parents bought in 1989. The color scheme was orange, yellow, and brown and it held a pair of red and black swordtails. Before long I began helping my dad clean the aquarium. Not long after, I wanted my own aquarium.

First we bought a one-gallon betta bowl. I choose a pearly white betta but he unfortunately died not long after we brought him home. Then I picked a beautiful red betta and named him Fanner. I loved that fish! I spent hours watching him. I thought bettas were one of the most beautiful things on earth.

(I still do.)

A few months after the betta bowl, we bought a plastic terrarium to use as a fish tank. It was probably about four gallons in size. I added a chinese algae eater, a pink kissing fish and another betta to this tank.

Yet a few more months later, I got a five-gallon glass aquarium. To this tank I added yet another betta and a 3" common plecostomus. I named the pleco Peppered Pizza. Pizza didn't do all that much yet I instantly thought that, second to the betta, the pleco was the coolest fish ever.

Pizza grew. Fish came and went. I got a 29-gallon aquarium and complied all my fish into this one tank, save the bettas. The bettas eventually passed away but the 29-gallon aquarium prospered. Pizza continued to grow. By now, I knew that plecos could grow to be a foot long or more and wanted to get a larger aquarium.

But what else could I put in a larger aquarium? A little tired of community tanks, I wanted to graduate to jumbo fish. And so, one day in early 2000 I came home with a 75-gallon aquarium, an aquarium stand, and all the fixings.

Pizza moved into her new home. Two baby oscars followed not long after--but that's a story for another day.

Pizza grew rapidly. My interest in plecos blossomed to fever pitch. I was able to sex many plecos and confirmed that yes, Pizza is a girl. I also found out that her latin name is Liposarcus pardalis.

L. pardalis! She was an estimated ten years old and I finally knew what she was.

My pleco family began to grow but I held fast to a soft spot in my heart for Pizza. She was the one that started it all. And she was old! Or so I thought.

In the fall of 2005, Pizza was moved to a 180-gallon aquarium. She continued to grow and grow, eventually topping out at around 16 inches. She was a dwarf compared to my fat, 20+ inch Glyptoperichthys gibbiceps. Yet I still had a special spot in my heart for her.

Her spine was crooked. Superficial skin tumors developed. But her appetite and attitude remained. She was an old girl; she had seen it all. While she stayed away from the bullish G. gibbiceps, she didn't take any crap from the other plecos in the tank. Still, I watched her carefully. In 2007, I had a beloved oscar euthanized by a vet that specialized in fish and I was prepared to do the same for Pizza if necessary.

"I can't believe Pizza is 19 years old," I told my husband earlier this year. "That's older than Limerick." In fact, I suspected she was most likely even older than that--possibly 21-23 years old.

I remember seeing her in that aquarium full of tiny plecos at Jungleland Pet Shop in 1991. I remember her shoving other plecos away with her giant pectoral fins by snaking her body back and forth. I remember her coming up to the surface of the 75 gallon aquarium when I fed the oscars. She knew there were protein-rich pellets up there and, partially on her back, glided around sucking down the pellets. I remember all the moves she has been through--first from aquariums, then to different apartments. Four aquariums, three homes. Always with me.

Today she passed away peacefully. I was still at work when my husband told me. My sorrow was instant, and while I knew that it had been inevitable, I was also surprised by her death. When a animal is a part of your life for nearly 20 years, sometimes you feel as if they will live forever.

Then my husband told me something amazing. One of our other catfish--a lima shovelnose--was darting about the tank, up and down, up and down. The lima is not a laid-back fish but she is also not one to go bersek without rhyme or reason.

"Now she is hovering over Pizza's body," my husband said. He took a cell phone photograph for me. I was amazed and touched. I was not alone in my sorrow.

Love, having no geography, knows no boundaries.

Rest in peace, Peppered Pizza, and thank you for the past 18+ years.

I miss riding

To be specific, I miss riding a rational Limerick.

I feel that riding her will help my calf recover more thoroughly. I don't know why; I just feel it. But most of all, I simply miss my presence atop her high-withered back. Every time I lift myself aboard, I am back within my soul.

The last time I had a truly good ride on her--one completely free of nerves on both our parts--was January 1st. That's almost four months. One-third of a year. Crazy, isn't it?

Sometimes I worry that I will forget how she feels beneath me. How any horse feels beneath me. I know it's impossible. When you've been riding for almost 23 years, you just don't forget. When you've been riding that long, every single time you climb into a saddle or onto an equine back, the muscles alive beneath the sleek hide, you feel deep within the bones of your legs and hips and lower back that that horses--with all their wild beauty--were truly made to be ridden by us fortunate, grateful humans. You feel like you are home.

Every time you climb aboard, an ancient part of your soul remembers...

Among our first conscious signs of ourselves, in the limestone caves of Spain and France, they are already there, prancing, stampeding, and evidence suggests that we had already begun to see them as something more than themselves...There is what looks like an altar to the horse in the south of France, in a cave at a place called Landes, dating back fifteen thousand years, a "kneeling sandstone figure" of a mare amid skulls and horsehead figurines. Our awe in their presence--who has not felt it, just standing across the fence from one?--is as old as anything we can call ours.

-John Jeremiah Sullivan

The hawk and the toad

A cold rain fell from gray clouds when I set out for my run yesterday. It was 3:40 and I wanted to run a winding four-mile route, ending up at the gym at around 4:15 for a short swim.

The rain stirred my spirit and I wanted to run long and hard. I relish runs in bad weather. The worse the weather, the better the run. But my still-healing calf requests patience and an easy 10 to 9-minute-mile pace.

Pulling the brim of my white Nike cap down low, I ran up the sidewalk along Leask Lane. I crossed the street twice to continue following the sidewalk, which started and ended without reason on either side of the road.

I hadn't gone a quarter mile when I saw the hawk. Instantly recognizable with its large wingspan and gliding flight, it swooped down through the drizzle and rain and out of sight just ahead of me. I ran quickly to where it had ended up and searched the sky above me.

It was perched atop a street light, head cocked towards me, one brilliant dark eye on me. It had seen me long before I saw it. Content that I was nothing of concern, it shook the rain from its feathers and groomed its white belly with that hooked beak. After a minute, sleeker and satisfied, it focused on the ground before it. I made a kissing noise at it. It ignored me.

I had to go. I had to meet my husband at the gym. Casting one last look at the hawk, I resumed my run. I ran across the intersecting side street by the street light. And there, right in the middle of the unmarked right lane of the road, was a small toad.

I applied the brakes and turned back to the toad. I reached for the toad. A middle-aged guy in a Lexus SUV pulled up to the intersection in the other lane, pretending to not notice the strange behavior of the runner on the road in the rain.

I picked the toad up and looked at it. It was small and wet and cold and did not protest. Since it was not fat, I guessed it to be a male. I half expected it to reward me with a sudden stream of alarmed-toad pee but it did not. I knew that if I left it on the road, it would either become hawk food or roadkill.

Should I put him in the grass by the curb? In the bushes a dozen feet up the sidewalk? I knew that none of these options were good. The road was too close. My run was going to take me to the Danada trail head and beyond. Perfect; I could drop the toad off at the big pond there. Perfect.

The toad fit snugly into my right hand. With my keys in my left, I ran carefully. I did not want to jar the toad around and force him to bail out of my hand as I ran. Yet I did not want to squeeze him so tight that he was uncomfortable. To further complicate things, I knew that running with an altered gait could do plenty of damage to my healing calf.

So for the next mile, I had the not-so-easy of task of running with unaltered biomechanics for the sake of my legs while, in one hand, carrying a toad ever so delicately and smoothly, as if it were a ripe peach that was not to be dropped at any cost.

The rain continued. I had been a bit cold before encountering the hawk but now I was warm with the energy of an important mission.

At last I passed the barn and ran up the limestone trail head. I ran down the gentle slope to the left and searched for a clearing to the pond. As soon as I found one, I slowed to a walk and headed for the edge of the pond. I placed the toad on the pebbled edge of the water. I gave him a little nudge. He did not move. I stroked the toad along the side of his head with my index finger and he leaned into the pressure. I stroked the other side and he shifted his weight and leaned into that side. I smiled.

I turned to leave but had a thought. It was cold and wet and the toad was exposed there on the pebbles. I picked him up again and he croaked. I did not hear it but I saw the vocal sac blow out red and round and my hand vibrated with the croak.

How amazing, I thought. I have handled countless toads, particularly as a child, but never had one croak and sing in my hands.

I set the toad in a nest of grass on the bank of the pond. He croaked again, and again. I hoped he would find a mate there. Finally remembering that I had to be at the gym soon, I turned and left.

Today is Day 1 of Week 1 of my 18-week marathon training. I am generally only superstitious when it comes to horse racing but I hope the toad brings me good luck during my marathon training.

A sunset at the barn

Yesterday evening while I was waiting for Limerick's beet pulp to soak, I wandered down to the lower barn to check on the horses. The door at the west end of the barn was open and I was treated to a gorgeous sunset. Also, the stall doors at that end of the barn were aglow with orange light. I thought it was beautiful and took the best pictures my Blackberry would allow.

I love my heart

It’s amazing. I have, especially of late, always been acutely aware of the beating heart within my chest.

But until I saw it on an ultrasound screen on April 2nd, I never truly made a connection with it. I lay on the gurney next to the ultrasound machine, electrodes all over my chest and abdomen. I felt warm goo and slight discomfort as the ultrasound probe jabbed my ribs. The technician adjusted the monitor so I could see it. On the screen, in black and white and gray, was my beating heart.

“And this,” the technician said, “is your heart.”

The technician focused on my mitral valve. It billowed open and shut, open and shut. Although I was at rest, the heart’s pulsing was so rapid that I marveled at how it must look during exercise, during my runs.

After the initial ultrasound I had to walk, and then jog, on a treadmill. They were hoping to get my heart rate up to 192. After the maximum heart rate--or as close as they could get--had been reached, the treadmill would abruptly stop and I was to immediately lay back down on the gurney so the technician could ultrasound my heart again.

Honestly, that was probably the most difficult run I have ever done. I had running pants and shoes on but nothing on top except for the zillions of electrodes and a hospital gown. A huge tangle of wires connected me to various machines. The treadmill was narrow and short, with handlebars on one side and in the front. The room seemed so small and claustrophobic. Suddenly, falling off the treadmill was a real threat.

“I hope I don’t fall off this thing!” I said.

“You won’t—no one has fallen yet!” the younger technician said. I recalled what they had told me—that they were not used to young, healthy patients in the room.

“Well, it would be ironic if I was the first,” I said. They laughed. I gripped both handlebars tightly. I knew it would make running even more difficult but I was so sure I would fall off the treadmill without holding on.

(As a result of my hearing loss, my balance isn't the best. My center of balance can easily become disorientated. I am a klutz!)

The younger technician set the treadmill at an ever-increasing incline and pace. As I walked, then ran, she periodically took my blood pressure. A large screen with squiggly lines tracked my heartbeat and displayed my heart rate. After fifteen minutes of this torture (of which the only bright side was the fact that my calf was not hurting at all), my heart rate was at 179.

As planned, the treadmill stopped abruptly and I laid back on the gurney, doing my best to not trip up in the trillions of wires around my torso and legs.

More warm goo. The uncomfortable probe. Suddenly my heart was there, pounding clearly and furiously on the ultrasound screen. I waited for it to palpitate.

Laying there, waiting and watching the mitral valve billow open and shut at a dizzying pace, I realized that my heart would not abruptly stop on me as I had once worried. I realized that this incredible, truly involuntary organ was always working, always beating. As I slept, as I ate, as I watched television, as I ran, as I groomed Limerick, as I read, as I swam under water, lungs held tight with air, as I held my husband’s hand, my heart was beating. No matter what I was doing, it was beating.

And right there, I suddenly fell in love with my heart.

Sure, it will palpitate. Its beating will plunge if I run then stop. It will skip or add beats. It may even hurt. But it is doing none of these things on purpose. It is how it is—mitral valve prolapse and all. I regretted the years I spent smoking. I regretted the bad food I ate in college. I regretted the years I didn’t exercise as much as I should have. I regretted everything that could have hurt it.

My heart may not be perfect, but it is there for me. And it’s up to me to be there for it.

The calf saga, continued

After two insanely long weeks of no running whatsoever (including one torturous week of no cardio workouts at all), on Tuesday I finally ventured forth from my apartment in running clothes, brand new orthotics nestled snugly within the soles of my New Balance 826's.

Suddenly feeling like a pompous dweeb in my running tights, I began walking.

I walked not just because I was trying to take it slow and easy, but because I was scared. If the pain returned then so would the frustration and the self-loathing. Not being able to run due to an injury has been far more depressing than I thought it would be. I have read first-hand accounts of the anger, depression, and frustration that injured runners struggle with on a daily basis as they heal. I would sympathize but in my heart I didn't truly understand.

Now I do.

I have tirelessly been doing all I can to help my calf heal. I bought a foam roller and The Stick, two pieces of physical therapy paraphernalia that no runner should be without. I religiously kept my calf wrapped in self-sticking athlete's tape, and when the tape no longer self-stuck, I borrowed from Limerick's bottomless stash of Vet Wrap and began using that.

I saw a physical therapist for a free injury consultation and he concurred with what I had known all along--mild strain. He recommended that I purchase orthotics for my over-pronation (when I run, my feet--particularly the right foot--roll inwards upon landing). He also gave me a routine of stretches I can do for my calf.

That very evening, my husband and I visited Naperville Running Company (which is fast becoming one of my favorite stores!) and there, one of the employees helped me choose orthotics for my running shoes. I also bought a pair of Zensah calf compression sleeves to replace the Vet Wrap. To my distaste, the only color available in my size was pink but I bought them anyway.

That alone tells you how dedicated I am!

And so, every night I have been doing the following, in order:

• Remove the calf sleeve
• Do the prescribed stretches
• Use the foam roller and The Stick
• Put the calf sleeve back on (and there it will stay until the next evening, showers being the exception)
• Ice the calf for 20 minutes

I also ice the calf in the morning and, at work, I will borrow an ice pack from the freezer in the hair-raisingly-disgusting employee break room and ice my calf on and off throughout the day.

And back to Tuesday. I walked for a quarter mile. Tentatively, I broke into a slow jog. My calf felt okay. I jogged further. Still okay.

After a little over a half mile, I felt a slight twinge of pain in the calf. Right away, I slowed to a fast walk. It continued like that for another mile and a quarter, with much more time walking than running.

I was disheartened but not discouraged. The next day at work I decided to schedule an appointment for a sports massage on my calf. The physical therapist I had seen highly recommended the massage, anyway.

The past 24 hours have been excellent for my calf!

Yesterday evening I tried another walk/run. This time there were no twinges of pain and I spent far more time jogging (at a yawningly-slow pace but hey!) than walking. I walked at the start and ends of the run, and I walked up the steepest part of the hill at the end of my route.

I was elated! I was so happy to be out and running, pain-free, on the limestone trails that I had a huge smile on my face. I probably looked like a maniac but fortunately, no one else was around to see.

Then today at lunch I went back to the therapy office where I had my original injury assessment for the sports massage on my lower legs. It hurt at times, and the therapist noted that she could feel the strain (not to mention several other knots here and there). She said I was doing all the right things and to keep it up.

My marathon training is scheduled to begin next weekend. Originally, I thought I would be starting it with a 35-miles-per-week running mileage but now it will have to be lower. No biggie; I'll be happy to just stay on schedule for the training.