Runner Insight

Chickadee

It was an early March day, and we were returning from a nice long walk in one of our favorite parks.  To get to this park on foot requires that we walk along a busy street on the bike and pedestrian path. In fact it’s the same path I run on all the time.  But it is along a very busy street, with lots of cars and trucks traversing the blacktop.  

All of a sudden, T stopped in the middle of the path.  I stopped as well, as I was holding her elbow while she guided me.  She seemed to be lost, and pondering where to go.  I was really confused, as I’m the one who always gets lost in the middle of places I know! 

So I asked her “What’s the matter? Are you lost?”  

She didn’t answer me right away.  She kept looking to her left, then to her right.  I prodded again, saying “What is it?  What are you looking at?”  

She then said, with a bit of reluctance, “There’s a chickadee just outside the white line on the road.” 

I immediately wanted to go get the poor little bird, and said so.  But seeing the obvious insanity of sending a blind woman to the edge of a busy street heaving with rushing traffic to try and locate a tiny cloud of feathers, she would have none of that.  

She asked me if I was done with my coffee.  I said yes and gave her my empty Starbucks cup.  She then made her way to the edge of the road and scooped up the little bird into the paper cup.

She put the cup with the chickadee peering out, onto the grass near a bush.  I naturally wanted to see it.  So T brought me over to see our nearly road kill.  

Once I saw the tiny ball of fluffy feathers, I wanted to hold it.  With a sigh T said, “Okay, but we are not taking it home!”   

I said, “I’ll take it to my mom’s.”

T could see I was not going to leave the chickadee there in the grass.

The little bird was wobbly, leaning to one side, and its wing kind of drooped and splayed out on that side. According to our best guess, it looked like it had probably flown into a car.  If it had gotten hit by a car, it would probably have been more dead or disfigured. But since he was still awake and alert, and not too startled, we figured he was probably dazed.

I wasn’t sure if it would even live very long, but I really didn’t want it to die alone or be lunch for a local cat or something. I know, circle of life and all that, but I really have a soft spot in my heart for birds. I raised a sparrow when I was a kid, and I couldn’t leave the cutest little fluff ball here to become an interesting diversion for a playful or hungry predator. 

 “He shouldn’t die alone,” I said in the saddest, most pathetic voice I could muster. Unable to refuse my puppy dog eyes and plaintive request, T relented and let me carry him to my mom’s.

I held the chickadee close to my body as we walked the few blocks to my mom’s place. 

Once there, my mom and I cooed and awed over the bird, encouraging him to try to drink some water and eat some oatmeal. I don’t think he did, but we certainly tried to be persuasive with the menu of presumably attractive (to a bird) items that we had available. 

After a bit, T said she had to get back home, but reminded me in her most fervent “tough guy” voice, that under no circumstances was I to bring the bird home.  

I agreed, saying I would try to call my friend Vickie and ask if she could care for the bird.  But of course (you can see the foreshadowing from a mile away ) when I called Vickie she was not home.  

My mind was racing, what should I do? How could I make sure that my little “Phoebe” would be well cared for? You know, I have such a warm glowing feeling for birds in general, and this one in distress made my heart expand, kind of like the Grinch’s heart where it “… grew three sizes that day.”  So I asked my mom if she had an old tissue box I could have.  

I was going to make my little charge a soft, cozy nest.  So with the make-shift nest ready, I put the chickadee in it and set off for home.  

My plan was to leave the bird under a spruce tree near our home, where I always heard lots of little birds.  When I got to the tree, I took the injured bird out and tried to put it under the tree.  But the fuzzy little thing refused to get off my hand. 

As I knelt there in the grass next to the tree wondering now what I was going to do, my cell phone rang.  It was T calling me.  “Hello,” I answered the phone. 

“Where are you?”  T said, concerned. 

“I’m trying to put the chickadee under this tree by Shopko, but he won’t get off my hand,” I said in a somewhat desperate voice.   There was silence on the other end of the phone.

“Okay, bring the bird home. We can put him in the bushes over by our house,” T said with some hesitation. 

“I love you. See you in a minute.”  I flipped my phone shut fast as I could so she couldn’t change her mind. 

Now let me point out to you that it’s not that T doesn’t love animals. It’s just that she knew that with my vision issues, the job of caretaking this downy delight that I was determined to take on, would eventually fall to her in one fashion or another. And she didn’t really need one more responsibility on her plate.

Back in the Kleenex-box nest the bird went, and I slowly walked the block to home. T was waiting for me on the steps.

So I took Phoebe – that’s what we started to call our chickadee ’cause that’s the song they sing “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee, Phoe-bee” – out of the box, and T brought us over to a bush in the alley near the fence.  

As I was going to release Phoebe, a big, barking, black dog approached menacingly towards us.  Okay, not a good plan. 

I said, “How ’bout under the porch?”  T agreed, so once again I tried to get the bird to hop out of my hand.  But Phoebe was having none of it.  

Again I turned sad eyes on T and said, “I don’t know what to do, I think he just needs a little time to get his strength back.” 

T just looked at me for a long moment, then said, “Alright, bring him into the office.”  This little fuzz ball had easily wrapped itself around my heart, and was starting to attach himself to T’s too.

Once inside the warm office, I dug out my heating pad and put it on low under the  box.  I covered the opening in the Kleenex box with a tissue to keep the heat in.  

T and I worked on our computers, checking on our little Phoebe every few minutes.  He – or she, we don’t really know which – was sleeping.  After an hour or so, we heard Phoebe trying to get out of the box.  I took the tissue off and Phoebe hopped out.  

His wing didn’t seem to be drooping as much, and the fact that he was hopping seemed like a good sign.  I went to see what I could find in the kitchen for him to eat.  I really had no idea what chickadees ate.  I assumed little insects and seeds.  Hmmm, fresh out of both.  So I had some corn and bread that I mashed up.  I brought in some water too.  Once again Phoebe refused to eat, but I did get him to take a little water.

By now, his strength was building and Phoebe was hopping all over the room, but he did tire easily.  He would go exploring under the desk, then have to take a little nap. His eyes would close for a few minutes.  With all the hopping and flapping and his wing back in its normal position, I thought perhaps Phoebe was ready to be set free.  So I scooped up my little bird-brained friend, and we headed outside. 

Phoebe had been so active, I was sure he wanted to go, but when I opened my hands to allow him to jump off, he just sat there, looked at me for a moment, then turned his attention to his wing and proceeded to preen his feathers.  He seemed to be saying, “La, la, la. What?  I’m not going anywhere.”  So T and I looked at each other and laughed.  What a personality this little guy had.  So we agreed, Phoebe had decided that he needed more time to recover. 

I put Phoebe back in his box, but he just didn’t want to stay in it.  I was trying to come up with something I could rig up for him, so he wouldn’t have to be confined to the box, but not hopping all over the office. I was having a hard time keeping track of him, and did not want to squash him. 

Pheoebe had hopped up T’s leg, and was resting there.  She looked at me and said, “Do you want to maybe get him a cheap bird cage?” I could tell he was working his own little bird magic and casting a spell on her so that she was beginning to fall in love with him. 

So T looked up the phone numbers to a few of the local pet stores, and found a bird cage for under $15.  She went to the mall a few blocks away, while I was in charge of watching Phoebe.  Easier said than done!  After T left, Phoebe jumped out of my hand, and I lost track of him. 

Then I heard flapping and scratching coming from the space heater in the room.  Thank goodness it wasn’t on.  Phoebe had managed to hop/fly/I’m not sure how?  through the metal grate protecting the heating pan.  By the time I bent a few rungs and coaxed him out of his little jail cell, poor little Phoebe was totally exhausted, and I could feel his tiny heart was beating so fast.  He fell asleep right in my hands. The trauma of the whole day was taking its toll; he spent a lot of time napping that day. 

T came home a few minutes later with a small bird cage in hand.  She also got some millet seed and was told that most birds would eat this.  T put the swing and perches along with a food and water cup into the cage.  Then we put Phoebe in his new home for the time being.  

We had decided that if he was strong enough in the morning we would let him go outside.  I was still concerned about Phoebe getting enough to eat.  I wanted to go to the pet store just around the block to get some wild bird seed.  Not seeing the need, since she had just brought home millet from the mall, but noting that I was not going to let it go, she finally gave in and drove me to the store. 

The place was just about to close, and the owner was helping some other customers.  So we set out on our own to look for the seed. That’s when I heard it, an old crackly sounding, “Heloooow.”  I moved towards the greeting, thinking it was a clerk to help us, when T grabbed my arm and directed me away from the mystery greeter.  I asked what was wrong.  Why was she so freaked out?

She then brought me over to a very bald parrot!  Okay not exactly bald, but his entire body had no feathers on it – his wings had a few feathers and his head looked mostly normal, but the gruesome sight of the oddly proportioned “naked” bird still haunts T to this day.  I must admit it was not a pretty sight, but I felt bad for the bird.

Eventually we got some seed and left that little shop of horrors.

When we got back home, I filled Phoebe’s seed cup and watched as he went from the swing to the food, choosing to sit in it, rather than eat it. 

I kept asking T to look and see if he was eating, as I could not see well enough to make it out.  She watched, and to our surprise the chickadee ate a few seeds!  I was very happy and optimistic that maybe Phoebe would be okay.  

T found an old towel, and we draped it over the back half of the cage, and shut off the lights, as Phoebe had perched on the swing and put his little head behind his wing. Nighty-night.

Now you might think this story had a happy ending, and I suppose, in a way, it does. But the next morning when we went to check on Phoebe, T couldn’t find him. Then she spotted the bird lying on the bottom of the cage…dead…yes our poor little Phoebe had died. Probably the shock to his system, along with the internal injuries were too extensive. He had been doing so much better the night before. We were both surprised and sad that our little distraction from the everyday routine was gone. 

But I was also able to look on it as a gift.  With my eyesight the way it is now, I am not able to see birds the way I used to.  So to be able to hold and look at this little chickadee up close was truly a gift from God. 

Even though the time we had with our little Phoebe was limited, he melted our hearts, and we still to this day reminisce about the day a bird no bigger than a chicken’s egg turned our Saturday into instant parenthood. 

How ‘bout it?

-Vision Runner

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What I Did Wrong: 5 Lessons From My Marathon Experience

I think it’s important to look at an experience and figure out what could have gone better, in addition to what went right.  So, in considering my first marathon experience, I wanted to expand on some of the things I did wrong with my marathon training and preparation for the race.

As I look at it, I see about 5 significant things that I could have done differently to improve my overall marathon experience.  

I recently heard it said that it’s not “Experience is the best teacher,” but rather “Someone else’s experience is the best teacher.”

Obviously experience, whether your own or someone else’s, is a good teacher, but in the spirit of providing you with the best instructor (someone else’s experience) I’m going to share with you lessons from my own marathon trials and tribulations. That way, if you should decide to train for a marathon or half-marathon, these lessons that I learned could be beneficial to both of us.

After all if we’re going to spend 6 months training and preparing for an endurance race that lasts multiple hours, it would be wise for us to do more things right than wrong.

So…Away we go.

One of the first things that I know I did wrong during my marathon training program (and actually, I was aware of it when it was happening) was not doing any strength training, especially core strength exercises.

Even though it wasn’t until over a year later that I found out that my back was way out of alignment and that I was running over 13 lbs heavier on my right side than my left, by doing the core strength exercises I know I would not have had as much trouble with my right hip and foot during the 26.2 mile race.

Not to mention it would have been a quicker and easier recovery afterwards.

Another thing I should have done but chose not to (purely from an immediate gratification standpoint) was training in hot weather.  Since the Missoula Marathon is in mid-July, it should have been a no brainer…but I despised running in hot weather.  Big mistake on my part, as we had the hottest summer on record! 

By only training during the cool morning hours, my body was not prepared for the 90 to 100 degree weather that day. I totally screwed up my water and nutritional intake.  While I was racing, I was consuming way too many power gels. But I was in a panic – not knowing what else to do, trying to maintain my fuel tank and hydration levels.  Granted, in temps over 95 degrees I’m not sure how anyone can stay hydrated running for more than four hours, but I clearly didn’t help the situation.

The third major mistake I made was a mental error: starting out too fast.  For some unexplained reason, in my mind I thought I could run a 4:00 marathon – even though I had never run that fast in any of my training runs.  In fact, I had not done any speed work at all!  So that I chalk up to plain ol’ ego! 

By starting out at too fast of a pace, I set myself up for right hip pain, my foot going numb, and hitting the wall at mile 20.

And the one genuinely stupid thing I did, that I actually knew better than to do was wearing a pair of socks that I had not washed yet. And believe me, I paid for it with a nasty blister on the back of my heel.

Remember that thing I said about someone else’s experience being the best teacher? Well take advantage of this last lesson, cause this one I learned the hard way – I couldn’t have known it before I did it – but you can, now that I’m going to tell you: never, never sit down right after the race!  Not only will it be excruciating to try and get back up, but it’s embarrassing as you’re providing entertainment for anyone watching when you do try it. Walk around for about ten minutes or so after hitting the finish line.

I know the first instinct is to sit – for crying out loud you’ve just run 26.2 miles!  But don’t do it!   You’ll thank me when you don’t have to call for help to get off the toilet! Sure, it’s funny…but I’m not really kidding.

So now that you know what I did wrong, you won’t have to make the same mistakes – you can make your own. For that’s what it’s all about: learning from your mistakes, so the next race will be that much better.     

Ready to Run?

How ‘bout it?

-Vision Runner

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Do What Ya Gotta Do 

Last year I ran in a little 4 mile race that took place in an area of town I am not as familiar with.  The Missoula Roots Run is in conjunction with the Missoula Roots Festival:  lots of live music, arts and crafts and plenty of food!  Having lived in Missoula all my life, I knew the area but had not run in this particular part of town since the mid-90’s.  So while I “knew” where I was, I was still a little bit nervous about running this race and staying on the race route. 

The race started at 11 a.m. which I thought was kind of a late start for the end of August.  But as it turned out, it was quite pleasant: not too hot yet with blue, sunny skies.  

The time was getting close to the start of the race, so T positioned me somewhere in the middle of the group of runners off to the right side.  

We were waiting for the bang of the start gun to go off when Anders, the owner of our local running store “The Runners Edge,” announced that we had to wait a few minutes to start the race as there was a train crossing right on the road we were starting on.  

As we stood there, a gal who was waiting next to us said she has seen me running out by her house.  I commented on the hill we would be running less than a mile into the race.  I told her I had not run hills in years, and was not sure how I would do.  She told us about what a fellow runner had advised.  

He said, “If you want to be good at running hills, Run Hills. If you want to run fast…Run Fast.”  

This was such a straight-forward concept, but very profound at the same time.  How many times do we say “I wish I could….”  But how simple it is, really: If we just simply did it, eventually we would get good at it.  

Me, personally, however, I do not wish to be good at running hills…

How ‘bout it?

-Vision Runner 

P.S. The hill was fairly easy, and I also ended up with lots of help on the race route as people were so generous when they saw I was using my white cane.  I am so grateful for the kind and loving women who took the time during their run to make sure I was okay and following the right route.  Sure makes me proud of my fellow runners! 

And I finished the four miles in about 46 minutes…Not too bad for a blind runner.

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