Breath Bowling

I recently visited the pulmonologist, to check on my lungs.  I've reached a point in my tempo runs where the bottom of my lungs constrict, and the back of my throat gets tight.  Makes it a little harder to breathe, but nothing I haven't really dealt with before.  However, with the amount of running I've been doing, I expected that I'd be seeing a marked improvement in my lung capacity.  At least, I would expect that the breathing gets easier at some point, right?
My pulmonologist referred me to a lab for testing, something called a "complete PFT" to do a workup on my lungs, to rule out asthma.  Since I'm an allergy sufferer, there was a chance that the lung situation is not necessarily chronic.
So off I went to get a chest x-ray, and to visit the Lung Lab for a workup.
And I can honestly say it was one of the more memorable experiences I've had in the hospital.

I arrived in the morning and was the only patient in the lab, along with another pulmonologist and a Russian technician, who were processing reports at their desks.  The lab had a small, clear-paneled booth (reminiscent of a telephone booth) with long plastic tubes attached to a cardboard-tube contraption hovering near a chair (bolted inside the booth) which you face while seated.  Outside the booth is a computer that generates statistics of your testing, and nearby is a chair where the pulmonologist of the Lung Lab sits and yells at people all day long.

I've been yelled at in my life, but it's usually been within the context of leaving milk out of the breakfast table, or being coached through sprint repeats on a track; it's rather absurd to have a medical professional screaming loudly at precise intervals while pressing on the back of your lungs while you are fully conscious and in no hurry whatsoever.

"And now breathe out, evenly, ok, now IN DEEP DEEP BREATH KEEP GOING and now OUT! BLOW OUT! KNOCK DOWN THOSE PINS KEEP GOING KEEP GOING ok and inhale deep, ok good...."

The first step in a "complete PFT" (Pulmonary Function Testing) involves forcefully inhaling and exhaling into the cardboard tube.  Meanwhile, a computer shows you an animated image of a bowling ball which, no matter how forcefully you exhale, never reaches the pins at the end of the pixelated alley.  It's rather disheartening, but the doctor assures you that your lung capacity is 100%, very healthy.  This is after he's also introduced himself to you three times already, shook your hand thrice-over, and has meticulously explained the statistics that are populating on the spirometer read-out.

The second step involves inhaling a methacholine aerosol mist that causes the airways to spasm, while the doctor inquires about what you do for a living.  Then you're supposed to try and knock those pins over again while he screams, even closer, in your ear.  For asthma sufferers, the capacity usually drops by 20%.  (Mine only dropped 8%, so that was good news.)  After 5 rounds of misting and breath bowling, you feel slightly dizzy, which is (as the pulmonologist joked) "exactly how he likes his women."  Afterwards, he asks if you need a glass of water, which you politely decline, because you're surrounded by an arsenal of unknown prescription drugs and a loud, forgetful lung doctor who seems to enjoy dropping double entendres.

In between methacholine rounds, small talk reveals that the doctor likes to spend his weekends outside the city, and refers you to the best apple orchard in Vermont.  While you may assume that perhaps small talk might relieve the yelling, each round involves more laborious coaching, as if yelling these breaths out of you will make you birth a lung baby.  He asks again after round four if you need a glass of water, and despite your refusal, brings over your abandoned iced coffee, mentioning it's probably not the best thing to be drinking during this sort of test, but puts the straw up to your lips anyhow because you're "still looking piqued."

The last step in the PFT is removing all the mist you've unsuccessfully (judging by your bowling score) exhaled by way of a bronchodilator.  "Lips sealed, nice and tight... just stay like that for three more minutes." He mentions that he should do a recording of his voice, or perhaps you could do a recording, so he could save his lungs from having to coach people all day long on their breathing.  But he's not sure you would have the time, because he's not even sure "if you are single."  You might give a tight-lipped smile, hoping he has a report to process.  Probably, he will begin arguing (loudly) with the Russian technician about COPD instead.

After reviewing your computerized read-outs of your exhalations, he will assure you that your test is pretty normal, and that there is a small percentage of a chance that it could be a false negative, but you can rule out asthma, most definitely.  He will then regale you with the story of how, once, he was on a bike ride in Vermont and got chased by a pack of wild dogs, to the extent where he was sprinting so fast that he felt a touch constricted in his lungs and thought it "was probably a touch of EIA", and that your experience was probably much like his, so you simply "shouldn't push so hard."

You may neglect to mention you are training for a marathon, and cover up your smirk with a cough, compliments of the bronchodilator.  You might then pick up your bag, thank him, and make a hasty retreat for the door.

"Don't forget to go back to your doctor!" he will yell at you from down the hall.

All very strange, you will think.  But your doctor will be able to tell you soon if you need an inhaler before you go out and push too hard in the future.  Hopefully she won't yell at you about it.

Throw in the Towel

Cross-training.
It's a lovely thing.
When you're tired of running, you can go work out in some other way.
Like in a swimming pool.  There's nothing quite as fulfilling as swimming through the crisp, cool waters of an Olympic-sized pool on a bright day, swiftly gliding through the water instead of pounding the scorching pavement.
I was lucky to grow up around outdoor pools. Clean, outdoor pools.  Summer meant swim team, college years involved lifeguarding, and there's nothing quite as relaxing as enjoying the newspaper in the morning, dipping your toes poolside while catching up on the funnies.
But now that I've been in the city, I've realized that a good, clean pool is hard to find.  So difficult, in fact, that I often wonder if my California pool experience was some sort of weird hallucinatory dream-state induced by too many print ads.  Those crystal clear waters?  That slightly sweet smell of chlorine, mixed with the whirring sound of a Kirby pool vacuum?  People laughing and tanned, enjoying some BBQ and a margarita poolside while watching their friends take swan dives off a 3 meter?
It might as well be Narnia.

Let me talk about trying to find a decent place to swim laps in this city.

First off, you must understand that the weather dictates EVERYTHING here.  To the extent that water fountains shut off for 8 months out of the year, choosing outerwear is like buying a car, and bus stops are sheltered seating areas.  Imagine then, what happens to the outdoor pools operated by the NYC Dept of Parks and Rec:  much like the water fountains, they run dry for a long time, grey leaves and bits of debris littering their empty caverns, only to be swept out and revived with millions of gallons of chlorinated water by June, signaling the sweet smell of summer fun.  Hark, the return of crystal clear waters!

Or so one imagines.
Try to find a place that is not only large enough to accommodate swimming a full 25 meters (standard lap) from one end to the other, but also clean.  Kudos to you if you can locate a place where the depth dives to more than 3 feet, or the lanes have appropriate markers, or (that holy grail of lap swim) lane dividers.
I worked at an indoor pool for the YMCA on 14th that's actually quite lovely, but flounts questionable locker room behavior.  The Rivebank State Park indoor pool is a nice find, which boasts a great facility with showers even (!), but they charge a fee.  A search for masters swim teams in NYC yields one, if not two, potentially promising basement pool clubs.  But all this intel has been gathered over the past 10 years, so the promise of a free, outdoor, Olympic-sized pool that offers lap swim-only hours is something of a red herring.
Yet, every June, the neighborhoods wait anxiously at the iron gates of the NYC outdoor pools, seeing for the first time in months the promise of a relaxing, sun-drenched afternoon, splashing about in the crystal-clear waters of an Olympic-sized oasis.

I signed up eagerly for the free NYC summer lap swim program online, locating a pool in close proximity to the office, so I could choose to swim in the early morning, or late evening, bookending my work day perfectly. The lap swim program in the summer is free, so you can imagine how thrilled I was to have a cross-training option that involved being outdoors in the glorious sun, out of the humidity for a whole two months until the fall returns.  I had rigorously researched location, vainly seeking out pictures of each pool, trying to determine how well they would suit all the required criteria.  I had stumbled across this one near work while out for a run one afternoon, surprised that it looked so promising.

Bring a lock, towel, and suit, instructed the registration page.  

Off I went, early one morning, to check out the scene.
However, I was too early - like, by a week - and when I arrived at 7am, the pool (in all it's crystal-clear glory), was suspiciously bereft of patrons, and lifeguards, too.  I asked a park attendant who was sweeping nearby about the lap swim schedule, and then discovered that my much-anticipated joy would have to wait until next Monday.
So I waited. Daydreaming about dipping into that cool, wonderful cavern of relaxation, I could hardly wait for the week to be over.  And so July 7th arrived, and that's the day I wanted to weep.

Arriving that evening of July 7th at the local pool, I salmon-ed my way to the deck area, whilst the general neighborhood population swarmed past me out the gates.  Regular pool hours were over, and only pre-registered lap swimmers were allowed in now.  Herds of kids and teens and frazzled moms with strollers streamed past me, many in wet undershirts, soaked boxer shorts, and mismatched two-piece bathing suits.  One kid was sporting only a diaper, though it looked as though he had spent all day in the kiddie pool.

I asked where the lockers were, only to find that the outdoor security space was devoid of a changing room, so I had to trek over to the other end of the park to change into my swim gear inside a 4-stall bathroom, overpopulated by vain teenagers petting down their wet hair and knotting up their wet t-shirts into cute outfits.  Once changed, I trekked back to the lockers, secured my valuables, and giddily headed over to the water.
Finally arriving at the water's edge, I was surprised to find that there were only three lane lines set up for the entire pool, dividing the 50m pool into three large sections.  Apparently, most swimmers were organizing themselves along the end-to-end black lines striping the bottom of the pool, swimming counter-clockwise fashion around the marker, in lieu of having no lane lines to sanction off space.  Ok, I thought, this is a little...grassroots.  But, I got in on the fast end, sliding into that gorgeous water for the first time, my excitement rising, a smile on my face as I was about to begin my FIRST LAPS OF THE SUMMER!
Whoosh, off I went, gliding under the water in a streamline, gazing down at the black stripe on my left, making sure I was steering clear of the swimmers passing on my left, gazing down at the bottom of the pool...
which for some reason looked a little cloudy and here I am swimming past the halfway mark and ohmyGod what is that

I sputtered up, mid stroke, and pulled a large tangled clump off my face.
A tangled clump of hair.
Someone else's hair that had somehow managed to starfish suction its way onto my cheekbone.

That image of the kid in the diaper flashed across my mind.
I started swimming for the end of the lane, trying to quickly end this first lap.
Oh look, there's a scrunchie, roaming along like sagebrush by the 30m mark.
And there's a family of Band-Aids, having lost the original owner, drifting along in the choppy waters.
Now another clump of hair has latched onto my hand, happily along for the ride, and I can't shake it off mid-stroke.
Nope, not going to flip-turn here, for fear that something will end up in my nose and detonate in my sinus tract.
This water is looking cloudy and murky, and I'm pretty sure those are human skin cells, not dust.

1500 meters later, I jumped out, down-trodden by the cloudy, dirty waters I had just forced myself to endure.  I had waited so long, and for what?  Was this what I had to look forward to for the next two months?

...

The reality of the outdoor pool situation is tainted by a little problem called "improper pool attire."

It's no joke, folks.  When your local pool crew tells you to wear a swim cap, you can do us all a favor by complying.  You can do my face a favor, in fact.

Today, I'm headed back, if only to despair once again at the state of the waters.  Fingers crossed it's a bit better, but if not, I'll have to resume the hunt for that elusive perfect outdoor NYC pool.

Hunger Games

Running almost every day makes you hungrier, and at weird times.  And by weird times, I mean, like all the time.  It's a logical enough equation: expend calories, get hungry, refuel body's caloric deficit, resume life.  But I think my body is confused about when it's okay to get hungry, and when it's not okay to get hungry.
It feels sort of like having a sugar-drunk toddler hanging onto your leg while you try and answer emails.

"nuugghghhhhhh! fooooooood....!" it wails, throwing back its fat little head, shaking your pant leg.

It's 9:38am. I just ate breakfast an hour ago.  There was enough protein on my plate to kill a small Shetland pony, and somehow this hunger-beast is wailing for more.
Let's pretend it wants water, I think as I pick up my water bottle for hydration, let's hope that drowns out the feeling of my stomach walls collapsing in on each other.

It's unfathomable to me how I can have a full, macros-balanced, delicious breakfast, and then have hunger again an hour later.  It's not a fiber issue, it's not a protein issue; I can only assume that my body thinks it's operating on a different time zone.

Now it's 10:24 where I am, but it's apparently lunchtime wherever my stomach is, so obviously we have to start feeding again, or so I'm told by this tiny monster that has moved from wailing to teeth-gnashing.

11:15 rolls in, and it's now growling at me.  Time to seek out the nearest vending machine full of whole food proteins...
Whoops: that doesn't exist.
How about a cup of tea instead, I try to reason with my irrational hunger.

Have you ever tried to reason with a toddler?  Yeah, it's a lot like that:

Me: It's 11:17 and we can have a cup of tea with some milk in it, because you are not allowed to be hungry right now, so shut your little trap before I end up shoveling you full of Twinkies from selection aisle D3.

Hunger: nuugghghhhhhh! fooooooood....! nuugghghhhhhh! fooooooood....! nuugghghhhhhh! fooooooood....!

This has gone on for two weeks now.
And when you have a child behaving in this manner, there's really only one way to enforce discipline: you ignore the bad behavior.  You give it no respect, nor notice.  You let that little beast throw any manner of public or private tantrums, and simply turn your head as it exhausts itself, finally shuts up, and goes to sleep.
Eventually it will learn to be self-sufficient.

I'm surprised no one has put together the correlation between parenting and negotiating with your stomach, because for me, they are basically one in the same at this point - and it's enough to convince me to abstain from having children.  (Unless they are quiet monsters who will always operate on my time frame and do whatever I tell them.  But, we don't really get a say in that, do we?  I've been blessed with a rouge beast, and the irony is that there's no one to blame but myself.)

So, I'm proud to say that, after two weeks, not only have I learned to ignore my hunger pains, but the hunger itself puts up a fuss for about 30 minutes, and then gives up.
I'm hoping it's learning to feed itself.