4.27 miles.

I used to be able to tell you, within a tenth of a mile, how far A was from B at any point on one of my routes.  If I ever thought about how odd that ability was, I'd have attributed it to my father's steadfastness; I covet his ability to find his North even when it, too, was running from him.  


It seems this is a skill in my father's daughter that needs a little polishing of late.  Today, for instance, I misjudged the distance from Cochon (incidentally one of the best BYOB's in the city and completely devoted to pork) to the Ben Franklin Bridge by about 3/4 of a mile.  Last August, without hesitation, I would have told you it was close to 2.3 miles. 


Yet as I ran down Christian Street through the rocky, unplowed, un-iced, unloved neighborhoods to Front Street, I was high on the cold air in my lungs and paid little attention to what my Garmin Forerunner was beeping at me - because I was Ben Franklin bound and that's all that mattered.  


The turn onto Front Street actually produced a little improvement, traction-wise, and I was back in the zone marveling at how many different variations of the color red people can think of to paint their front door when the cobblestones at Walnut Street turned my jog into a hopping I-hope-no-one-is-watching-this trot across ice-filled craters.  


Still, I had my eyes on the Bridge (or in the direction thereof) as I made a familiar turn onto Elfreth's Alley with the smile of someone returning home from war on my face.  This is my October Ocean City and my calm before the storm of a huge run.  Elfreth's Alley was traditionally where I stopped to stretch before a double bridge run; where I marveled at the flowers, the age of the homes and the fact that people actually lived in these seemingly inaccessible masterpieces.  How could I have forgotten it is exactly 1.87 Miles from my favorite BYOB?  
   
As I ran back, toward completion of my 4+ Mile run, everything, at once seemed brighter.  As if, for the first time, I put the pace aside and let the miles fall just as they always had and always would ever after. At that moment, something my sage of a friend said to me on Friday came screaming back, "Life becomes life around us and whatever it becomes is just what was meant to be.  We don't have to change anything; we just have to BE."


After rounding the corner up Catharine Street, after the 32nd red door on Front Street was a fading dot over my right shoulder, I decided it was time to actually be in my 4.27 miles for a while and enjoy the ride with no rush to or reservation about where I should be - even if it means the Ben Franklin is a little out of reach for a little longer.

Your mom's a day of rest.

A good friend shared this with me yesterday amidst a forsaken afternoon fueled by a "cross-training" block on my calendar and elliptical anxiety (will there be one, will I be flanked by the dreaded heavy-breathing-out-of-shape grunters on either side, will this feel like a workout or a warm-up), and I thought it was worth paying forward to you:

"Running has an uncanny ability to mellow the soul, to take the edge off hard feelings, and put things back into healthy perspective."  (Runner's World, March 2011 - for other loyalist subscribers).

By the time I read this last night I'd discovered that no one goes to the gym on a Friday night (a solid plus if you (1) hate gyms and (2) hate the "January" rush at gyms more than you hate the actual gym) and the elliptical is just not going to cut it in the "mellow the soul" department.

After a less-than workout last night followed by mandatory-rest-Saturday (I swore on something sacred under the scary watchful eye of my physical therapist that I would adhere to this ridiculously slow-to-progress and well-rounded-to-the-point-of-delerium running program up to and through the Broad Street Run) this message hits: home, me, all of the angst and then some.

I started running because nothing would take the edge off.  I kept running because, once I started, I recognized myself again.  Suddenly I was there, staring back at me in the mirror, a little more flush in my cheeks, perhaps, and presumably where I'd always been; not so hidden anymore.  Running gave me back a drive I'd been missing and a confidence that was buried years prior.  I had a thing, all my own, to work on, with and through with no one else to lean on but me.  In that, there was a peaceful balance.

When I had to stop running, few people understood the loss and less people than those few were willing to stick around and shake me out of it.  Now that I'm back, I suppose you could say I'm hyper-sensative to my edge, how un-mellow my soul may become and the complete fucked up perspective I bring at times.  It comes from an "I can't ever go back there again" attitude and not an excuse for bad behavior.

So, on this rest day, let's just say, I'm regretting my sacred promise, counting the hours until 8AM tomorrow morning when I can run and that I'm sorry...for the edge.  Sometimes.

Peas & Carrots

Before I begin, it's worth saying that I'm not some sort of Forrest Gump diehard.  Yes, since 1994 I've heard "Run Jenny..." and "Me & Jenny we go together like ....," you guessed it, "peas and carrots."  I suppose I can thank Tom Hanks' twang for adding a little southern sincerity to the mainly northern accents I come across as a woman, named Jenny, running in Philadelphia.

As I sit here at the end of a long week (of work, snow, training, not-so-much sleeping, cleaning, cooking and barely anything outside the 23 blocks from home to work and back again), my (right) knee is pleasantly numb thanks to my giant bag of Peas & Carrots.

Over the last 12 months I've tried a lot of different frozen vegetables and some fruit - even frozen puff pastry in a very desperate moment (did not work out well - trust me, not a good idea) - on my super sore tendons and nothing can touch the depth to which Peas & Carrots can go to mold to where you ache (although frozen cranberries can be a very close second, oddly enough).

Few things in this life are so consistent as this.  I say, take advantage while you can.  Smash a bag on the floor a few times and place the frozen goodness on your most inflamed tendon and let defrost.  It will fix you, if only for a short while, and you will live to run another day.

So, when pain hits mid-run, I will not panic.  I will not flash back to terrible injures, distant and still not-so.  I will not pray to god to make me a bird so I can fly far, far away either.  Rather, I will focus on the giant bag of frozen veggies waiting for me in the freezer, suck it up and throw down another mile.

My practices are not designed for your enjoyment.

I used to keep a Running Journal (the one that came free with my one year subscription to Runner's World - nothing flashy.  Just a little notebook-jobby that never left my backpack and smelled faintly of tiger balm and suntan lotion) that was a cross between my diary and my coach.  While it shouted (in all caps, no less) tips about proper hydration, sodium intake and the science behind a tempo run, it also held on to more than just the way each run felt when I was fighting to put left in front of right.  That Journal knew when I was sleeping and why I wasn't, what I was anxious about and what dulled the panic and how I coped and when I couldn't. And so, a gradual reliance on the meditation of running - without music, blackberry alerts or conversation - grew in me and there it always remained - written down, underlined and highlighted like a kaleidoscope's view of the world I was piecing back together.

I saw the familiar cover of the [Runner's World Welcome-to-your-new-addiction] Journal today.  In someone else's hand, it seemed unrecognizable and slightly abstract. Knowing that the place I left last year's training highs and lows was safely tucked under a stack of my Boyar's Market (great deli in OC, NJ that taught me the finer arts of butchery and breakups) T-Shirts on a shelf hidden behind sweaters I never wear in a closet I don't look for them, was only a slight comfort.  

My last entry (from my last mudrun at Fright Land, no less) will remain just that for a while longer.  I guess I need a few more miles on my knee before I trust that there will be any after that worth writing about.

But that's not to say I'm just out there are willy nilly and not keeping track - what kind of obsessive would I be if that were the case?

On graduation day from physical therapy, my person (read: the woman at the Rothman institute that actually put me back together when a doctor couldn't) sent me home with a running program in hand, better habits, a little trust of my knee and a plan.

Today, 4 weeks into running and 2 weeks into my (Broad Street Run) program, I made the following notation next to today's date on a calendar on my wall: "3.15/30 Min."

While it's not easy and it's so far from where I was last summer, 3.15 miles is more than I could have hoped for 2 months ago, beyond the 5 blocks where it all started back up again and all I need right now.

Sidewalk Anxiety.

Dear City of Philadelphia,

I understand from my friends at Channel 10 that we are about to get slammed by yet another "perfect winter storm."

I hope this note finds you well-rested and ready to salt the crap out of our major streets and intersections.  In the off chance that you get a bit of downtime in the next 12 hours and find a few hundred extra bags of salt lying around, I'm begging you to take care with those sidewalks and running paths down by the river.  I'm not asking for perfection, just a little traction and about a one point five mile stretch - anywhere.

You see, Philly, I'm just back to running and have a great 3 mile run planned for tomorrow morning.  Yes, I'm so obsessive and slanted toward OCD that, as of 6:15PM in the middle of a sleet-filled disaster, I'm still planning on running tomorrow morning.  I'm like the mailman of running, if you will.  No, I haven't sought help for these tendencies.  Some, believe it or not, find it endearing.

To be clear, dear City, I'm begging for clear paths and sidewalks because I hate treadmills.  Yes, I said it.  I hate them with their calories per minute and miles per hour and incline levels and age/weight requirements and most of all for the way they pit one against the other. (Shockingly, I am so competitive that if you're next to me on a treadmill, I'm looking at your MPH and Incline and I've already set out to beat you before you even realize what's going on.) I hate few things - treadmills (along with liars and my mom's chicken divan) top the list.

So, as I slide back into the kitchen to remove the spaghetti squash from the oven in the hopes of actually creating something spaghetti-like with it, I thank you again for listening to one crazy runner's rant and I will rest my head peacefully tonight, knowing all the while that you will be salting up a storm during the next 12 hours.

Love, JC

Olive Green Coat & a Yellow Lab.

I got to a point in my training, not too long before "Stress Fracture" was delivered to me as the shit end of "We have good news and bad news," where I would think to myself "I'm not lacing up my shoes for less than 5 miles."  What's worse is, I may have said this out loud from time to time.  How plainly obnoxious.

Tonight I ran about 4.0 miles and it was worth lacing up for.  According to the PECO tower, it was 35 degrees as the last hint of daylight was dancing across a thinly frozen Schuylkill River and compared to recent runs past, this felt almost balmy as I set out.

This particular run took me past a park I just discovered and onto the path where I trained religiously last year. Ten minutes in, I saw the same older man in the same olive green and tan oversized winter coat walking the same aging yellow lab on the grass on the river-side and all at once, I was back.  This was my guy; the one that I'd seen on three prior runs at this time; the one that may or may not recognize me yet.  But soon, he will.

This is the comfort I've missed.  When you run at the same time in the same spot for months on end, you develop a familial attitude toward the faces you pass along the way.  You create stories for them, wave to them in a way you've never waved to anyone else in your entire life, nod respectfully at the true hard-core athletes and always expect their reactions to your ridiculous "Good Morning!" at 5:06AM on a Tuesday.  But all the while you lean on their consistency to get you through the next quarter mile.  It is exactly that camaraderie and spirit among runners that I've been missing.  Through all of the extremes (heat, cold, rain, snow, pain, heartache, happiness and joy) we are out there, among our people, consistently.

So, a quick thank you to my olive green coat and his yellow lab.  You will never know what you gave me back today but I'll smile at you every night as I pass by and hope you notice.  

Broad Street Run: Not your average 10-Miler

Today, the 32nd Annual Blue Cross Broad Street Run is 97 days, 56 training runs, 255 miles and at least one new pair of running shoes away. If you blinked, you missed the Registration for the Country's largest 10-Miler, having opened on January 16, 2011 and closed 30,000 runners strong and only 5 days later.

www.broadstreetrun.com

On a January Monday with a high of 13 degrees, last year's 98 degrees and cloudless run down Broad Street through every open fire hydrant between Sommerville and Packer Avenue(s), seems like it never happened and motivation may be lacking for the 2011 10-Miler. 

Please allow me to remind you (and myself) why we train in January and February with layers on, swaddled by gloves, hats, ear guards, face masks and whatever else we've picked up at the running store that promises to take the edge off the wind, for a race in May. 

This run is inherently Philadelphia.  From North to South and all of the front porches, stoops, sidewalks and neighborhoods in between.  You will pass entire congregations on the steps of some of the oldest churches in the city.  You will hear school bands and singing groups.  You will pass old men playing cards and kids with homemade, misspelled signs.  Strangers will offer you everything from water to beer and a high-five.  Runners passing you will hit you with the tough love our city is known for and this will kick you in the ass enough to move another mile.  Finally, when you are down to just trying to put one foot in front of the other, you will hit the navy yard and see uniform upon uniform and ship after ship.  I don't care who you are, there will be chills experienced here. You will cross the finish line and you will smile, not because your picture is being taken (look up!) but because you just moved with 30,000 other people in the same direction toward the same goal. 

Some runners will give you tips for this race, especially if it's your first, - my advice is simple.  Treat the Broad Street Run as an experience.  Take a deep breath at the start, read the signs and smile back at the strangers.  Never turn down a high-five, run into every fire hydrant and turn to watch the finish line after you've crossed it.  Catch that look on someone else's face!

One Year Ago.

January 23, 2010 was bitter and bright and, unlike today, without the ugly, leftover snow you can only find in cities about a week post-storm.  This turned into the day I chose running over brooding or therapy or medication.

At about 8AM I piled on every warm piece of running gear I'd amassed since my days of Upper Township Middle School Cross Country (Yes, I'm thirty.  Yes, I covet items I wore in the 90's.) including my standard red puffy vest with its navy blue liner that was my first purchase at a trendy store and has consistently been part of my wardrobe since 1992.  Once dressed like a hobo, I set out for my office, which would later become home base for all of my runs, alone, accompanied and otherwise.  By its fountain I would meditate to my breathing or expensive heels clicking on the sidewalk or the traffic on Market Street and pretend to stretch.   When I couldn't put off that maiden run a second longer, off I went down Market Street into a world I knew nothing about, looking (literally) for a path I'd never set foot on in my decade's worth of living in Philadelphia.   Suddenly, as Thirtieth Street Station loomed, so did the entrance to the Schyulkill River Path.  Down an unexpected number of steps, I was off and, for lack of better word, running.   

This run was the beginning of an obsession.  An obsession that would yank me out of the dark and remind me that I am exactly where I am meant to be. Period.  I'm not sure when it happened or how it happened but running re-focused an otherwise lost woman and slapped a smile back on her face.  This is something vacations, therapy and yes, medication and ridiculous amounts of wine could not touch.  

Yes, 2010 was a year full of competition and personal bests (PB's) with highlights in the form of trail runs (Tyler Arboretum, I'm coming for you this April!), the Broad Street Run (You, dear BSR, will always be the love of my running career and the cornerstone to what I accomplish) and various half marathons and mud runs throughout the greater Philly area.   

But then, again, 2010 giveth and 2010 taketh away.  On October 5, 2010, my favorite Doctor at the Rothman Institute slapped me.  Or, at least if he had actually slapped me, my reaction would have made more sense.  

After a brilliant 20 mile Saturday run followed by a 5K mud run on Sunday, I was in so much pain I couldn't walk.  X-Rays and an MRI later, "Stress Fracture" came out of my doctor's mouth, followed by "restrict walking" and other words like "crutches" and "complete rest."  To say I was numb would be an understatement.  I was dead.  In late November I began Physical Therapy for the residual (albeit ridiculously painful) IT band syndrome and assorted other tendon-hating-on-me-for-over-using-it issues.  In late December, I was cleared to run again.  3/4 of a mile never felt so good.  

So, if you haven't already guessed, this blog will detail my humbling road back - from .75 miles to 26.2 in November 2011.  I am a Philly runner and I will not hide it - I am a huge believer in Physical Therapy (now, at least) and I will not tone that down here.  What I will do is detail a really rocky and hard-fought start (a year later, to the day) to what I hope will be crossing the finish line in the Philadelphia Marathon in 2011.  But, first things first, the Broad Street Run.