Plantar fascial fibromatosis, also known as Ledderhose’s disease, Morbus Ledderhose, and plantar fibromatosis, is a relatively uncommon[1] non-malignant thickening of the feet’s deep connective tissue, or fascia. In the beginning, where nodules or cords start growing along tendons of the foot, the disease is minor. Eventually, however, the cords thicken, the toes stiffen and bend, and walking becomes painful. The disease is named after Dr. Georg Ledderhose, a German surgeon who described the condition for the first time in 1894.[2][3] A similar disease is Dupuytren’s disease, which affects the hand and causes bent hand or fingers.
As in most forms of fibromatosis, it is usually benign and its onset varies with each patient.[4] The nodules are typically slow growing[1][4] and most often found in the central and medial portions of the plantar fascia.[1] Occasionally, the nodules may lie dormant for months to years only to begin rapid and unexpected growth.[4] It need to be surgically removed only if discomfort hinders walking.[5]
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In October I discovered I that a plantar fibroma had developed on my left foot. My left arch had given me intermittent pains for several months, but I had thought it was just a bit of plantar fasciitis. It only bothered me when I ran very rocky trails, giving me a sharp zing if I hit a rock the wrong way. But after running in Shenandoah with Matt, Heather, Keith, and Aaron I noticed there was a little bump in the center of the arch that was very tender to the touch. I went to see an orthopedist, a podiatrist, and my PT, who all diagnosed it as a fibroma with no real treatment options. Interventions like cortizone, surgery, and orthotics are likely to do more harm than good. Sometimes, when I’m feeling electric shocks zing through my foot waking me up in the middle of the night (I was dreaming I was walking through an electrical current until I woke up and realized it wasn’t a dream*), I fantasize about just cutting that little sucker right out. But I only have one long-term option: pain management. This injury is making the old days of IT band and plantar injuries look pretty darn good: at least with those injuries I could do things to alleviate the problem. But a fibroma is unlikely to go away, and all I can do is back off and try not to make stupid mistakes that will accelerate the hardening and eventually will make it painful even to walk. The first stupid mistake would certainly have been trying to run Masochist through the pain.
The first sign of the new order is my attendance at the Wilson pool. I am about as aquatic as my cat Leda. I’m pretty good at getting in and out of a hot tub. And I can swim enough to save my life. But I don’t do ‘laps’. When I was injured in college, my track coach tried to get me to aqua jog. After two weeks I couldn’t take it anymore and quit for the season. But Aaron and his Magic have gotten me into the lap lane for the first time in my life, and I’m getting the hang of it. Bubbles, breathe, bubbles, breathe…….
*The dream was actually a bit more detailed. In it I was trying to follow my father as we walked through this ankle-deep swirl of electricity. For anyone who has seen my father’s real feet, they’re what you’d get if you crossed the feet of an immuno-compromised ogre with a velociraptor, with thick green toenails that curl all the way around the front of his toe to click on the ground when he walks and splotches of untreated fungus on the top of his foot. In the dream my father couldn’t understand why I kept hopping and yelping in pain with each electrical yap, while his Shrek feet were entirely impervious to the electrical current.
‘B-E-A double-R U-N, Bear Run! And bear and her cub and a rub-a-dub-dub, c’mon little bear come ‘n give me a hug, bear run!’
I kept this little jingle up for far longer than Aaron could bear (pun intended), as we trotted along Jeremy’s run with Matt, Heather, and Keith. Heather was very amused that the first time Keith called out ‘Bear!’ that her instinct was to run in the opposite direction of the bear while Matt, Aaron, and I shot back towards Keith to try to catch a glimpse. The black bear of course took off like a bat out of hell, and I just caught a glimpse of its head (or maybe it was its butt).
But our second ursine encounter was amazing. Matt and Heather must be bear-whisperers because in all our running in Shenandoah Keith, Aaron, nor I had ever been able to watch a family of bears so casually as they shimmied up and down trees, rooted around in a creek bed, and balanced along fallen logs. It was a mom and two cubs, so we made sure to keep a comfortable non-threatening distance. Although black bears aren’t nearly as dangerous as grizzlies for humans, you still have to respect the aggression that a momma bear has around her cubs.
We saw one more bear in a tree — as soon as it caught a whiff of us it lumbered down with a smack, bringing the canopy down with it. Remarkable how such large animals can run so fast.
I was in high heaven — FIVE bears. Maybe the bears were so active because the park was technically closed due to the government shut-down, so humans had been scarce for the past week or so. Or maybe because it’s October and those bears are busy stuffing in the acorns before the cold weather hits. There must be a very health bear population in Shenandoah because in addition to the five live bears we saw many huge piles of bear scat of all different designs littered all along the trail. I was having awful PMS as well as a sore hamstring, so I took every opportunity to stop the group to look at more poop. I don’t know if any other women experience this, but for me PMS feels like being slammed by a bus. Each month my period can’t come soon enough because I’d way rather have daggers in my belly than have those days of droopy malaise that feels like a combination of a hangover, a cold, and what I imagine to be how the end of a 100 mile run feels. I try to be careful not to schedule races during PMS time, because trying to get that loaf to move is hopeless.
Matt and Heather are great fun to run with (and clearly good luck for spotting bears), so I’ll do my best to get them to come and liven up WUS from time to time. Each of them have come to WUS a couple times, but it’s a trek from where they are out in Virginia. B-E-A double-R U-N, Bear Run!
Belly shot! (as always) at the Megatransect, 26 miles, Lock Haven, PA Sept. 28, 2013boulder section over — just 20 miles to go!
This is the last time I’m gonna say it: Wussies, you all are missing out on a treasure trove of beautiful, challenging technical trail races just a short ways north in Pennsylania (we drove there in 3.5 hrs on Friday) that are impeccably organized with hard competition and great shwag (check out videos and photos at the website). Greg Zaruba (who has no excuse not to come to WUS now that he has a trail-running lady friend in Cleveland Park) is the only other one who gets it that these races are AWESOME. The fact that it takes the first male 4.5 hours to complete the ~26-mile Megatransect is testament to how gnarly this trail is (it runs more like a tough 50k). The iconic section is the 1-mile boulder field ascent that occurs around mile 6, which is made all the more challenging by the fact that you can’t use your hands to help navigate the rocks because you’ve been forewarned that the rock field is home to copperheads and rattlers. Although the weather was cool enough today that the snakes were unlikely to be active yet, I was still inclined to keep my nose out of chomping distance.
the cult of the mega
The Mega is an extremely popular race: the field of 900 sells out in 2 hours on New Year’s Day, nine months before the event is held. I failed to sign up (I was off doing the Redeye), but there were so many computer glitches during registration that a few more spots opened up and I was able to snag a spot a week later. As soon as I saw that spots were open, I emailed Zaruba so he could enter as well, as we had run together at the Magnus Gluteus in December and spent several miles fawning over the beauty and gnarliness of Pennsylvania trail races.
me and Kathy, post-Mega
Greg had initially wanted to camp at the start/finish area, but with temperatures in the 30s at night I wasn’t so keen. Fortunately my wonderful friend Kathy is always generous about letting me stay at her place when I visit State College, so Greg and I were able to crash with her. The Tussey MountainBack relay is only a couple weeks away, so also took advantage of our trip to State College to have Happy Hour with my team and sort out our shirt designs and leg assignments (tricky because some legs are flatter and longer and other legs are shorter but hillier, so it’s not clear which is more suited for the slower runner). Now that my former PhD advisor Eddie has moved to the University of Sydney I don’t get up to State College so frequently, so it was great to have a chance to catch up with the gang over some pitchers.
Neither Greg nor myself were planning to treat Mega as anything but a long enjoyable day in the woods. Greg has the Oil Creek 100 next week. And I had already expended all my competitive juices at the Women’s Half two weeks ago. But of course Zaruba blasted out at the start and I had to go chase after him. That would become the theme of the run, as I let Zaruba go again as I took some time to adjust to the rocks early on. After 10 miles or so I finally figured out that I felt all wobbly on the rocks because my shoes weren’t snug enough. Once I adjusted the laces I was good to go, but by that time Zaruba had a good 5+ minutes on me (I couldn’t even see him during the slow mile-long boulder climb when you have a long field of vision). Nor could I spot the first-place woman, who was also up with Zaruba (who turned out to be my friend Meira, a perennial winner of the Mega, Hyner, Rothrock, and the other major PA trail races).
I wondered whether I would ever catch Greg and Meira. But this was a race I wasn’t going to push, and I just kept going my own pace. And there was plenty to enjoy along the way: beautiful vistas over the valley, fields of ferns turning their autumn hues, massive waterfalls. Every year the Mega designs a new course (and each year a little longer), so every year brings new scenic surprises.
I caught up to Meira at around mile 14 at the fatty waterfall (she had fallen several times and described her day as a ‘mudfest’), and to Zaruba shortly thereafter. Greg and I ran together for a while until I got a large rock in my shoe during a creek crossing. By the time I got my shoe back on again, two more runners had passed and Zaruba was out of sight. I passed those guys back and made an effort to catch Greg. But I had to stop at an aid station and re-fill my bladder, which took a couple minutes. And after already catching up to Zaruba twice that day, I had lost some of my zeal for chasing Greg all day.
So instead I ran alone. I passed a couple more guys, but never saw Zaruba again until the finish. I was in good spirits, the course was spectacular, full of rocks and roots and hazards. Perfect for someone like me who gets bored easily. There were loads of lethal 2-inch stumps that I kept getting snagged on, but I managed not to fall the whole day. I had a hard near miss where I really should have gone down, but my legs had the strength to catch me, which I found surprising so late in the race.
After the mile 22 aid station the course went up a gravel road briefly and then turned back into the woods onto single track. Unfortunately I didn’t see the blaze for the turn (all other major intersections had volunteers directing — overall the course was impeccably marked) and kept heading up the steep gravel road. I didn’t see any blazes for a while, but thought they might have figured they weren’t necessary on a straight road. But after what was at least a half mile I got a sinking feeling about the lack of blazes. It was so late in the race I desperately didn’t want to backtrack. But after there were still no blazes after another bend, I made myself trot back down.
My heart sank when I saw the ribbon going into the woods, realizing that I probably had lost the lead. But there was nothing to do but solider on. At this point the race decided to kick a girl while she was down, and I had to ascend the most gruelingly steep and long climb of the day. Just as I desperately needed some sugar and energy, my gel malfunctioned (I ripped the top off, but it didn’t make a hole and no matter how I tried to use my fangs to spear the gel like a rabid wolf I could not extract the liquid inside). My heart sank even further when I spotted a guy I had passed miles ago at the top of the climb, giving me an indication of just how much ground I had lost during my ‘bonus miles’.
But I eventually passed him back and received confirmation from a volunteer along the course that I was still the first female, and finished the race in a good mood, despite the wicked ‘Green Mile’ finish — a mile straightaway of high grass along a highway. The finish area was wonderful — free barbecue chicken and pizza and great beer for all. My friend Kathy was waiting at the finish, along with Greg, who seems to know every PA trail runner (so there was lots of schmoozing). Kathy’s quasi boyfriend Dan also ran (who quickly became a winner in my book after informing us that he owns a stable of Arabians he competes in endurance riding).
winners pose for the newspaper photo
The Mega doesn’t give prizes for winners, but every runner got a great zip-up sweatshirt that was superior to most race prizes I’ve gotten. In many ways the Mega is a classic that has remained true to the roots of ultra running, where the emphasis is more on enjoying a beautiful day in the woods than on finish order, even among the top runners. At several times I had to plant my feet and take in the view for a couple moments.
The registration process for Mega is admittedly an ordeal. At the finish area they were even selling t-shirts that said ‘I Survived the Mega Registration’. But its cult following reveals it’s worth it. Wussies who like challenging courses should go see for themselves.
Grand Canyon, Zion NP, and Bryce Canyon with the Italianos
September 2013
zion np
Five recommendations for wussies traveling to Arizona and Utah:
(1) Definitely visit Kerry, Doug, Joe, and Michele in Sedona. Even if they happen to not be there (a rarity for Joe). If we move to Minnesota, maybe I can maintain my sanity by joining the real estate Red Train to Sedona.
(2) If possible, travel with Italianos.
(3) Caveat: if you do travel with Italianos, make sure you prep them for the quality of the American coffee they will encounter, the difficulty of finding beer on a Sunday in Utah, and the tendency for Americans to masquerade fried cheese curds as ravioli.
bryce np
(4) Two words: BRYCE CANYON. Big yes. [If you stay at Bryce Canyon we highly recommend the nearby town of Hatch, Utah as a delightful road stop where you can get a clean cheap room (you have to go over to the gas station with cash to purchase it) and an excellent hole-in-the-wall pulled pork BBQ.]
(5) Bring along a boyfriend who takes good pictures. We haven’t even downloaded Aaron’s high quality shots yet, these are just from my iPhone camera:
Clapper’s vision of the WHM finally comes to fruition
All of the elements were in place for a big performance. Fall had arrived early and the crisp morning was a stark contrast to the soggy heat of previous Women’s Half Marathons, which always felt like summer’s last putrid burp. I had increased my weekly mileage from the 40s-to-occassional50s range to 50s-to-occassional60s range during late July and August, and the added fitness had already shown at the St Paul Urban Trail marathon. But more importantly, I had a fire lit under me. The prospect of moving to Minnesota in 2014 was looming and I couldn’t be sure when I would be in town again for another WHM. If I were going to leave a mark on the course, a mark that would survive the carousel of speedy young things that come through each year, it would have to be today.
The fire was further fanned at the starting line by the appearance of Sonja (pronounced SON-ja, as they apparently say in Central Pennsylvania). In today’s cool weather there was definitely more bodily coverage among the female racers than in previous years. Heck, moments before the race started I had to convince crazy Robin to take off her long-sleeve. Now Sonja is a perfectly nice person, and I even had invited her to run with WUS last October. But if my embers weren’t already hot enough, all I needed was to see Sonja traipse up to the starting line in her itsy leopard print shorts (I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves here) to kick the flame up a notch.
photo courtesy of keith
One of my habits at the starting line is to identify runners who I will take particular relish in picking off during the race, based on what they are wearing. I won’t go into great detail about the fashion faux pas that really set me off, but Jen R and I have a very aligned views on this matter. In fact, I think the only reason Jen still shows up for the Women’s Half is for the chance to stand at the start with me pointing out the hot young things in overcooked regalia for me to cut down. ‘Martha, you GOTTA see this girl, you’re gonna DIE,’ Jen told me at this year’s start. I scoured the field for the tasty morsel. Then I saw her, walking down the hill with her father. ‘Oh my god, Jen, I KNOW her. That’s Sonja.’
I had been licking my lips for nine months for a chance to throw it down with Ms. Sonja, ever since last October when Sonja’s butt cheeks had gotten between myself and a much-desired post-race beer and sandwich. Dear Aaron would sooner get between a mamma grizzly and her cub than between me and a sandwich. I not-so-patiently waited over an hour for my male teammates-turned-zombies-from-overexposure-to-typically-concealed-female-body-parts to get their final drooling gaze of Sonja’s hind as it crossed the Tussey MountainBack finish line before they would join me at the post-race celebration. When Sonja finally arrived they whooped and hollered like steroidal orangutans. I hadn’t seen such decay of the male brain since the Preakness infield. Now this was just the icing on the cake — I had spent a good part of the prior six hours of the Tussey 50-mile relay race trying to herd these drooling monkeys away from their Sonja-viewing spots they’d stamped out and into the damn van so they would be at the next transition zone before our teammate arrived. And when I finally got those zombies loaded in, I had to listen to nothing but guy-talk where Sonja the butt of every dirty joke (pun intended).
keith gets mad props for cutting sonja out of this picture so I can be front and center (ps – what you see here is my true Game Face)
When we lined up for the start of the race today, I did not place myself front and center but a row or so back, and to the side. Some people commented on this after the race as a display of false modesty. But I have a style: I like to hold myself back until I’m really chomping at the bit, and then only kick it up when I can’t hold it back any longer. This might take 10 miles or 10 minutes. Today it only took 10 meters.
happy kirstin
Every time I run the WHM I get nostalgic about how carefree I ran it the first time back in 2009, my virginal VHTRC trail race. How I just enjoyed myself, utterly clueless about where the course went (Sean A told me the Doo Loop was in the second half so I was all befuddled), what the course record time was, or what skirts were back there chasing after me. I was so confused about trail running etiquette that I got to the first aid station after the Do Loop and hung around chatting with Mario R. popping chips and soda. After 30 or so seconds elapsed I turned to Mario, ‘Do you think it’s okay to go now?’ This year I had every reason to be more comfortable and confident: running faster, stronger, and leading by a wider margin over second place. No matter, I’ll never be able to go back to being that relaxed. As I told Greg Z. earlier this week, in this race I’ll always be the little fox scurrying for its life with the English hounds at its heels.
I went into this year’s race on particularly shaky footing. Part of my doubt came from recently increased weekly mileage, which has made my legs sloggier at the beginnings of runs. It was a foreign sensation and I worried that I had put on too many miles too quickly in August and was heading into the race with legs that were much less fresh than in past years. The timing of my period before the race only exacerbated this sloggy dead-leg feeling. And I’ve also suffered from a general feeling of angst lately that’s directly related to my recent faculty job hunt. Now I know that I should be relieved to have verbal offers for tenure-track positions at two excellent universities (University of Minnesota and University of Glasgow). But I haven’t yet committed to a university, it’s all still in limbo, and frankly I’ve found the months of applying, interviewing, and negotiating to be deeply draining. Throw on top of that all the emotional angst wrapped up in the prospect of leaving DC and starting a new life in an unfamiliar (and potentially frigid) city. My little train wreck of a head has somehow equated getting a tenure track position with a commitment to finally concede to entering adulthood and assuming all the responsibilities that come with it. No wonder I’m panicking.
I consider my chronic angst to be a natural part of being a Jew, in the vein of Woody Allen, Marc Maron, and other Jewish entertainers who use their neurotic tendencies to their great comedic advantage. Aaron of course does not suffer the same fate because his mother was not born Jewish and therefore his brain did not develop within the juices of self-doubt and neurotic terror that reside within a Jewish mother’s womb. Hence the reason why I entirely agree with the Jewish law that dictates that Jewishness is determined solely by your maternal lineage and your early embryonic environment (as opposed to Christian law, which follows the paternal lineage). Aaron assures me that not all Jews are defined by neurotic self-loathing, which applies mainly to the New York segment of Jewery from which my maternal lineage harks (Rye, New York, to be specific).
At any rate, it is my experience that Jewish anxiety is ingrained and entrenched from such an early intrauterine environment that it will never go away. But unlike depression and other mental disorders, anxiety can effectively be combated with humor, which likely explains why there are so many Jewish comedians. Rationalization can also weaken anxiety by actively recalling examples of trepidations that never came to pass (e.g., Yeah, remember that time when you really thought that you were an incompetent imbecile who was going to get fired and end up homeless and living in Rock Creek Park under Klingle Bridge? Now did that really happen?).
I tried to strut and look hard for this picture. Instead I look like a dopey bird watcher.
Thanks to a combination of factors — my underlying fitness resulting from Aaron’s encouragement to increase my weekly mileage, the competitive spark triggered by Sonja’s delightful bun-huggers, and the way that seeing VHTRC friends always puts me at ease pre-race (I particularly appreciated Matt W’s wonderful surprise appearance and Jen R’s biting starting line commentary) — I fortunately hit my stride fast and early and let my little legs pound their way out of trouble. By the time I saw Aaron at mile 6, I was a different kid, relaxed and smiling. Other than my right hamstring, which has plagued me incessantly for nine months and hurts whenever I try to run hard, the race was a gift. I couldn’t have asked for more. Beautiful day, so many friends, gorgeous flowers, delicious smoothies (I generally don’t like smoothies, but I sure like Mario’s). This truly is my favorite race.
hey sonja, you want a bourbon smoothie?
After the race I did speak to Sonja, who was bleeding from her shoulder and leg from two falls (and her arm was wrapped from a previous fall). She’s obviously an extremely talented runner, just needs to master those rocks and roots. I brought up some things we had in common — I had been at Penn State at the same time as she had run there, and how I recognized her from last year’s Tussey. She replied, ‘Oh, are you the woman who interviewed me after the race?’ Pause. ‘I believe that was a petite redhead named Tara.’ I decided I needn’t bother renewing last October’s invitation to WUS, as Keith & co probably had ten times already. Although I might try to get her to sign up for Bull Run, as that would greatly increase my chances of winning the race outright. Finish order: me, Sonja, pack of 30 men…..
robin smashes her PR
Robin also ran a great race this year (personally, I’m nominating Robin for Most Improved Runner of the Year for VHTRC — I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more), and I was curious whether Robin and Sonja’s solid low-40s times would fall in the top 10 in the history of WHM finishes. Here’s a rough list (it may not be exhaustive, but it looks like they both fall within the top 15 and could have won in several of the years in the era BM).
WHM top times.
1-4. me (1:33 ’13, 1:37 ’09, 1:37 ’12, 1:39 ’11)
5-6. Ragan (1:40 ’11, 1:40 ’12)
7. Heather (1:40 ’05)
8. Eliza (1:40 ’11)
9. Heather (1:43:09 ’10)
10-11. Laura Nelson (1:43:11 ’05) Robyn Ritter (1:43:11 ’09)
