Sunday, February 27, 2011

Runner's wave.

I ran 6 miles in 57 minutes this morning after 2 large cups of coffee and 3 even larger glasses of wine the night before. The highlight of this run was not the pace (9:30min/mile) or the not-so-mere act of completion after a late night; nor was it the warm morning that made me regret my choice to leave the shorts at home or the the "run of shame" I saw heading up Front Street in his black popped collar, going-out-jeans and black buckle shoes. 

No, the highlight came at about Mile 3.25, as I left the Sugarhouse Casino and made the turn back along the Delaware River toward my neighborhood.  An older runner, probably in his late 60's, and moving much faster than I was, looked at me, smiled and gave me a two-fingered, slightly peace sign of a wave over his right shoulder as he passed.  It struck me that, even though I was the only one on the sidewalk and I was running right at him, I was still shocked at this small kindness from a complete stranger. This, my friends, is at the heart of the runner's wave.  Running may be between you and the road, but the familiarity among runners and our community that is disjointed but tangible should not be easily overlooked.

Although not every runner participates in this gesture and, admittedly, I've only given this particular wave a handful of times and feel much more comfortable with a mutual exchange of smiles, it is a nicety I think I want to try a little more often.  Mostly, the wave is received from the old timers and given in return to their acknowledgment of a younger runner.  On my next run, I'm going to change that with a few well-placed waves along the way; hoping all the while that someone will notice, just as I did today, and pay it forward.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Between Thunderstorms.

I woke up yesterday knowing for certain that (1) there would be coffee waiting for me 3 floors below; (2) it would be raining and (3) at some point between my 4:45AM coffee and sunset, I would have to run for 45 minutes, rain or no rain. 

After a few sips of coffee, feeding my terrier "dinner" (yes, in lieu of teaching him "breakfast," we call every meal dinner) and walking him, half in PJ's and half not, I had the great treadmill debate with myself in the shower.  Once again, the poor hamster wheel didn't stand a chance as I took my rain jacket out of the closet and packed for my run. 

Hours later as the windows on my 19th floor office shook, the treadmill found itself back in the running.  This time it's opponent was the old and familiar, "What if I just skip today's run and catch myself back up tomorrow?"  Neither option really "blew my skirt up," as my old boss (at the Butcher Shop where I spent my formative years learning how to cut steaks and fillet fish), Scott, would say. 

Then there was a sign:  Enough stillness and sun between storms to convince me if I changed quickly enough, hurried outside, found the stupid satellites with my GPS watch in record time and headed out for my 45 minutes of therapy at just the right time, I may stay relatively dry.  About 9 minutes later , I was half-dressed in my running gear when another storm rolled through.  Deciding to screw dryness, I headed for the door just in time for another calm to sweep through.  There was a thickness to the air and an unexpected heat that reminded me of warm September days and training in shorts.  Other runners had the same idea.  The streets were alive with hooded, happy people sprinting through the lights and stop signs trying, no doubt, to get in a certain distance before the next storm. 

My 45 minutes took me toward Christian Street and up toward 26th, back around to the South Street Bridge and through to the UPenn campus by Franklin Field.  There are slight inclines back there that make you work despite the lack of warning and an entirely new energy.  Old buildings mixed with modern, bars mixed with libraries and a world, like most college campuses, unto itself.  After Penn, I headed back through the park by the Schuylkill River and into the office without a second thought of rain. 

An hour later, calmer and slightly more focused, I walked down Market Street with one of my best friends, a new runner experiencing for the first time the highs and lows of training for a race (the Broad Street Run) as she told me how she'd come to feel like she owned certain stretches of sidewalk in the city simply because she ran on them. 

I completely understood. 

As a runner, you are likely to feel alone and solitary against an empty sidewalk or path - this is where the therapy mixes with the sport.  There is an intimacy in that emptiness that only a runner can understand.  You develop a relationship not only with yourself but with your surroundings.  And so my dear best friend put it perfectly, "We own where we run."  And, if I may add to that sentiment - I think it owns us too. 

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

4.5

Today 4.5 miles took me over and lasted almost 45 minutes.  It wasn't fast or powerful; the hills were unrelenting and steady and I needed the breather.  The old comfort settled in and the run was just that.  Aching ankles walked me back to my office, three-day-headache free and lighter.  The elevator's 19 floor ascent convinced me that the tension in my shoulders took a break and my 45 minutes accomplished a lot more than the distance I logged. 

Had it been a normal day or a moderately manageable week, those 45 minutes would have sent me home to fuzzy socks and a glass of wine next to my terrier.  However, this week was filled with tug-of-war days and marathon nights. 

I took the 45 minutes and added the Royal Tavern, two beers I couldn't pronounce, an odd encounter with a bartender and an economy-sized honey bear and the shower radio blasting Le Ann Womack's "I Hope You Dance."

"When you come close to sellin' out, reconsider," I raved as the blue and white tile danced around me - 45 minutes and 4.5 miles never felt so good.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Unbreakable.

I wish I could run up the Art Museum Steps at full speed, unafraid and untouchable.  To trust myself enough to know that even if I fell, I wouldn't break.  To understand that breaking didn't always mean a bone.

As I sidelined my gps watch today and chose cross training over a paced run, I watched people take on these steps and remembered a time when I, too, was fearless.  A time when I held on to more than just not quitting. 

I hope it's not just my age typing these words or the twinge of cynicism that comes from an injury; but I dare say that if I were ever given back moments from my fearless teenage days, I'd haul that girl to the base of the Art Museum Steps, get a stopwatch out and shout at her until she moved her ass up those steps so quickly the only thing discernible was her red hair.  Because, right now, she could do it and something is holding me back. 

I suppose I envy the athlete in any of us who lets go, if only for 60 seconds, and leaves it all on the field (or the steps) just for the silent smile (to himself) at the certainty that there was nothing left to give in that moment.

SugarHouse.

The first time I ran 6 miles (other than the '90's) was late February 2010.  It was the kind of cold flasks of whisky were made for.  I was wearing running pants that doubled as painting pants that I'd had since 2002.  Consequently, they were covered in spatters of my yellow kitchen from my first apartment in the city, blue from the 2nd bedroom in my first house and green from my 3rd bedroom in my second house.  That first 6 miles was the unexpected product of my first runner's high.  Unplanned, brilliant and fierce, I literally circled Rittenhouse Square Park until I hit an even 6.25, stopped, looked around, jumped up and punched the air, "Yes!"  An older couple, holding hands, walking toward me looked once at my paint-covered pants and red vest, back at each other and then once more at me, understanding, I still believe, that they'd witnessed true greatness. 

The 2nd first time I ran 6 miles happened Sunday.  It was a block mid-way through my training program that caught my eye months ago.  And so "6 Miles" loomed over me like a ghost, ever-present, slightly threatening and ever so chilling.  The morning was sunny, wind-free and crisp the way Fall days settle as opposed to the way Winter days fall.  I extended my usual route from Catharine Street down Front Street to Callowhill and through to Columbus Blvd.  This is where I stopped recognizing street names, buildings grew larger and more run down, sidewalks were torn and quiet for 11AM and, all at once, what I heard was just my footsteps falling in line with my breathing alongside the emptiness the low tide left on the Delaware River. 

My halfway point appeared out of nowhere, just beyond the worn down emptiness of the shelled-out buildings and the sidewalks.  Sugarhouse.  A manicured casino is exactly 3 miles from the beginning of all of my South Philly runs.  Who knew?  Turning on my heel, 3 hard miles after the first 3 ended, 6 miles was mine again.  Back through all of the familiar neighborhoods, my mind didn't leave my new stretch of broken pavement.  Back from beyond where I thought I could go, 6 miles was tamed and I realized in that moment that I wouldn't soon lose it again.

Friday, February 18, 2011

A first.

3 miles
11 trips up and down the art museum steps
40 pushups
90 crunches
45 dips
38 minutes.

This wasn't just a run and it wasn't a first. The palpable soreness I feel all over my body is a direct result of cross-training outside on the first ridiculously beautiful day the groundhog predicted  (screw you naysayers) and also not a first. The climb up and jog down the "up-down" path by the Art Museum Gazebo was a horrible idea placed in the middle of this cross-training rotation and, again, not a first.  

The last trip up the art museum steps, I went past the plateau with the fountain, which I'm positive is not nameless, and headed directly, albeit slowly and Terminator-esqu, for the pillars and up 15 more steps.  This view, Philadelphia Runners, is worth the extra 50 yards. Sheltered by the art museum itself, I watched a city, quieted by distance and a setting sun, and breathed in and out slowly, savoring that moment; that first.

From the top of those steps, anything seems possible; everything conquerable.  After a workout that beat me up and 15 pushups, 1 mile and about 14 minutes left to go, that moment on top of those steps underneath the roof and next to the pillars carried me through to the end.

When I push myself to climb, hike, lift or fight again, I'll think back on that moment, refocus and smile.  Fellow runners will catch my eye at those moments, smile back, and understand.

I kicked ass today.

What I take for granted:

My puppy will wake up me every morning between 4:30AM and 4:45AM by standing on my chest scratching at the covers and kissing my face until I open my eyes;
That there will be skim milk in the refrigerator and Splenda in the navy blue, striped sugar bowl;
That the shower will be hot and my slippers well-holed;
That coconut M & M's will be more than just a fad;
That Amber will be there to cut my hair every 6 weeks waiting with cheap white wine and a salon full of organic;
That my parents will call me each night at 7PM no matter where life has taken them;
The availability of a Jersey tomato;
That my pepper steak will never be better than my mom's; and
the overall clean that the smell of Windex suggests.

No where on this list is the peace that I felt last night mid-mile 5 of what was, by far, my strongest run.  Although I do not take the ability to run for granted anymore, I was reminded recently that the peace I get from running is a rarity to some and a distant memory to others - something to be noticed and celebrated because it may not always be there.

Gut check: Not everyone gets to do what they love and even fewer find peace when they do.  When you're healthy, you feel untouchable and when you're recovering, you are driven.  But when it's taken away, it's gone.

Having skated too close to losing these runs, I needed to refocus on each moment I'm out there.  Mission accomplished.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Not every run.

Not every run will be meditative magic; not every mile will transform you; and not every hill will drive you.  Sometimes, your mind is too wound up; your body too beaten; and your will without its edge.

Tonight, I smiled through a bad run, convinced that no one has ever felt worse than I did in these 4 miles (or more dramatic). Inside the pain and fatigue, my unfocused mind could barely move in the same direction as my feet.  I was, quite pathetically, all over the place (with my breathing, my pace and my motivation).  Even my loyal Garmin turned fair weather friend tonight.

My response?

Work through what I could, table what wasn't important, leave the guilt of (god forbid) cutting a workout short behind and go where I wanted to go.

I think it takes our inner athlete's loss to our inner child every once in a while to accomplish something even greater than a masterful workout.  Today I reminded myself that I run because I love it, not because it's a means to an end (the marathon) and not because I have a distorted sense of obligation (to check blocks off my running program).

So, although the 4 miles I put down tonight were not great, I smiled a lot, ran next to a beautiful sunset and did not turn myself over to our adult tendencies toward guilt and disappointment.  Still a win in my book.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Three Words: Ben. Franklin. Bridge.

Dear BFB:  

I'm certain the last time we met I was about 8 pounds lighter, slightly tanned, incredibly freckled and in much better shape.  It was the quiet Saturday morning of Labor Day weekend that only a city 50 miles from the Jersey Shore can enjoy.  I ran back and forth across the Delaware twice that day and then added 4 miles on the Philly side.  I took you for granted and acted as though it wouldn't be 5.5 months until I'd see you again and barely waved goodbye.

Over the last few months, I've driven across you, under you and at the base of you almost every day, eyes fixed on the runner's path.  You were never far from my thoughts.

Today, almost exactly 165 days after my last run across you, I made the turn onto the path, through the chain link door and began the initial Philly to Camden incline.  Apparently, you've grown since the last time I saw you because that initial incline almost killed me.  But, as always, the plateau and the downhill were well worth that uphill; The view of Camden made it appear still and clean from far away and the view of Philly captured a sleeping giant slowly rising.

Of the few runners I passed on my way, all were struggling, some were smiling and others were steadfast in reaching the middle where, for a few brief seconds, the world righted and you were on flat ground. Precious flat ground.

5 miles and 49 minutes later, I felt like I'd said "Hello" to an old friend and made a solid promise to return with no want for warmer, wind-less days.  We have a lot of catching up to do.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

My favorite 3.1 miles.

My day began in a gym in West Philly listening to basketballs hit the court and fall through the net so rhythmically it stopped short of choreographed.  I realized, then, that I missed the way a gym felt on a cold Saturday morning, much the same way I missed the teams that trudge there to practice and the unspoken "we're in this together."

Three hours later I was on my way to my first race post-injury.  Deep in thought. Nauseas.  Cursing the very idea of running up and down the hills of the main line for three point one miles.

My parents were coming; Cousins were everywhere; "Serious" runners pranced about; and I was puking in an elementary school bathroom with miniature toilets and sinks close enough to the ground for your average 7 year old to reach.

Minutes before the race started, I broke away from all of the spandex, mittens and ear-warmers and took a jog a few blocks off the race course.  This is when I calmed down.  When it came down to putting left in front of right and simply breathing the cold air in and pushing it back out again, the people faded, the guy playing the harmonica at the start line got amped up a bit and the cold sky fell all around me.  This was just me and my sport again.

Waving to my parents as I began took me back to my high school cross country meets and suddenly the 7:10 mile I threw down to begin this 5k felt familiar and welcoming.  I just had to trust myself up and down the hills; trust myself to fight; trust myself to turn corners, fix my eyes on a goal and meet it.

Mile 2 was considerably slower but with every hill that turned up, I mentally thanked every single person that, over the last 4 months, pushed cross training, lifting and physical therapy even when my attitude sucked and my will just wasn't there.  Because of you, even though Mile 2 was slower, it was not unbearable and far from impossible.  Because of you, I am stronger.

Mile 3: I owned you, slapped my dad's hand as I turned a corner, cheered on a member of a cross country team who had fallen behind his group, commented on a team wearing tutus (I secretly covet this idea every time I see it and swear I'm going to find 4 people who are willing for my next race) and relaxed enough in my own self to actually enjoy the race.

Mile .1: I thought about the phone call I got from my doctor on October 5th.  Clicking the off button on my cell phone.  Walking blindly out of my office.  Stunned.  Wondering how long it would be before I healed; if I would heal; how I would heal and when I would run again.  When I crossed the finish line 37 seconds off my personal best, I realized that while it may be a long road back to where I was, I'm enjoying the scenery.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

"The wind is your friend." - my dad.

When I was in middle school, I participated in "fun runs" held at a Shore high school track 200 yards from the beach under the Friday night lights of an amusement park on one side and a highrise on the other.  Looking back, this was as much a social event for parents as it was a way to run excitable pre-teens into the ground. 

The proximity of this track to the ocean created a wall of wind on half the track - sometimes the wind was a truck running you over and other times it was simply ever-present and accounted for in your 7:07 minute mile that was supposed to be south of 6:30 min.

At 12, it was long established what kids were naturals and which were not.  I was not. My best friend, was.  To say this irritated me would be the kind of understatement only another siblingless individual could understand.  Simply put, I was out for blood at every "fun run," to no avail, and her parents still have each of her "1st place" medals in her room at her childhood home.     

In our last race of the Summer of '92, I left it all on the track.  For 3.5 laps into a 4 lap mile, I was winning; her brown ponytail was not whipping back and forth in front of me and she was not leading, I was. 

And then the wind hit us.

Rather, the wind hit me, as she was drafting behind me and, ultimately reserving enough energy to; lay it out in  in the end and crush me.  Lesson learned and remembered (clearly). 

The wind can be harsh and biting or it can design the perfect ending to the perfect run.  Ultimately, as I learned the hard way, the choice is yours, runners. 

Last night, the wind almost made me regret my trek up the Art Museum steps.  While it may have meant to simply knock me back, the wind also turned me around, at dusk, to look down the parkway at a crisp city on a clear night.  The silence was beautiful and the moment it created I will not soon forget.  In that perfect ending, the wind truly was my friend. 

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Dear Security Guard.

Dear Security Guard at a moderately high rise of a building in Center City, Philadelphia,

Your consistently slow-to-smile, sleepy-eyed shrug as I walk through your front door at 5:15AM gym-bound, has become a welcome part of my morning routine.  In the last four months you have seen me enter and exit your building on at least 90 separate occasions and we have exchanged only eye contact.  I respect this about us.  We offer no pretense and accept no frills. You think nothing of my repeated, caffeine-deprived attempts to use the incorrect set of elevators and only mildly nudge me in the appropriate direction with a tilt of your head and a flighty wave of the hand and I, in turn, relish the silence that your rubber-soled shoes leave as they stomp back to your desk after such an encounter.

Thank you for understanding that sometimes it's a little too much in the morning for me to wipe residual black mascara out from under my eyes, change out of my pajamas at home rather than at the gym, take off my stripy socks that don't match my running shoes or otherwise brush my tangled head before slapping on a knit hat in the winter. 

Thank you for holding the door open for me the first time I attempted crutches and for skipping the quizzical bullshit the next day when I showed up without them. 

Thank you for only feigning recognition at the person that leaves your building a few hours after I arrive; with straighter hair, clothes that match, shoes that click on the marble floor and makeup that doesn't look like I slept in it and an entirely different attitude, I would like to think I don't resemble that 5:15AM girl at all. 

Thank you, once again, for the mouth-full-of-PB&J-"Goodbye" I get as I walk out of your door each day. 

This is, perhaps, one of the most honest relationships I have.  You, dear security guard, were made for me. 

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Ginger Ninja.

When I run, grace escapes me.  Recently, I've been called a dying gazelle; the terminator; and a newborn doe.  

Lately, because of the snow and sleet, along with their good friend, wind, I've been decked out in black leggings, black layers that include tank tops, those lulu shirts with the utility thumb holes, knit hats that cover and protect the ears and mittens - yes, black mittens that cram my fingers into the tightest possible space while still pretending to be a "medium" and fail miserably at elevating the temperature in my hands or promoting circulation.  All of that is usually streamlined under a fitted black hoodie that covers everything from my hips to my forehead, leaving the smallest space for my eyes, cheeks and mouth.  A few runs in this getup and I've taken to calling myself a ninja, a lot.  Ask anyone who sees me pre, post or during a run - it's ninja this and ninja that.  

So, today when I got the unsolicited "Ginger Ninja" in an immediate response to my winter running detail, I felt validated in the most obscene way.  Gone are the days of the Bambi and Arnold Schwartzenegger references, a sleek ninja has replaced them!  

Ridiculous that this thought is what fueled the fastest run I've had since my training started: 5 miles at 9:15min/mile with a steady warm up and cool down.  It may have been the melting ice or the sun and the promise of a 40 degree day, but this run felt different.  It wasn't so much of a struggle as it was a challenge and that familiar smile was back, albeit hidden under my ninja hood.  

Although the locked gate at the iced over Ben Franklin Bridge walkway was a major letdown this morning, I would be remiss if I didn't thank the girl walking down 6th Street at 8AM in a long tank top, tights and heals for taking my mind off of my failed hills workout and refocusing it on what led to your walk of shame and why you didn't at least take a sweatshirt on your way out the door (or call a cab). 



Saturday, February 5, 2011

Thin v. Fit

In response to the approximately 30 months I spent as a size 2, cardio obsessed, calorie counter, my father would calmly and quite frequently repeat, "Do not confuse being thin with being fit."  Like any other well-balanced, teenage girl with wild eyes, red hair and a large attitude, I (more than once) responded to my father from the far wall of the utility room at our old house where a doctor's scale stood loyally by for most of my life, "If I ever weigh more than 120 pounds, I'll kill myself." And there it was, our continuing battle of wills over my weight, my outlook and my fitness.

I was once a 5'9, 116 pound cardio junky that skipped breakfast, ate half a turkey sandwich with an apple and raisins for lunch and about 1/4 of a plate of whatever my mom made for dinner.  On top of my aversion to, well, eating, I routinely followed up every high school field hockey, basketball and yes, track practice, with at least 60 minutes on the treadmill.  I thought I was in the shape of my life.

13 years later I am a 5'9, 138 pound recovering cardio addict who's father still warns against confusing being thin with being fit.   Please don't mistake "recovering cardio addict" for an entirely masterful transformation.  Up until October 5, 2010, I was defined by running and running, alone.  We're talking 6 days and 55 miles a week without a foundation and without a net.  Anyone reading this would have seen the neon "Injury-waiting-to-happen" sign over my head from a mile away.

On October 6, 2010 I sulked;

On October 7, 2010 I discovered I couldn't even do yoga;

On October 8, 2010 I threw a very informal pot-luck pity party; and

On October 9, 2010 I sucked it up, walked past the treadmill at the gym and sat down to stretch before what would become one of my favorite lifting workouts full of dumbbell flies and barbell bench presses.

In the month that followed, I fell in love with how strong I was getting while my legs rested.  The commitment and the workouts filled the void running's departure left and my attitude was finally in line with my father's.

I began physical therapy in the end of November.  While excruciatingly methodical and slow to give me the "cure" I wanted up front, Physical Therapy finally did what my father had tried to do when I was 16.  It broke me down and built me back up, as an athlete, not just a runner.

Today, there are callouses on my hands from lifting, I can successfully bench press the barbell, the strength in my hamstrings makes hills less painful and more attainable and I am as steady as I'll ever be.

13 years after he began, my father finally has a daughter that knows the difference between being thin and being fit.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Week 3.

I ran on Tuesday.  It was a solid, make-it-mine and throw-it-down kind of run in a cold fog that almost hid me.  It was in my old shoes and my old socks, well worn down and familiar, as alone as I needed to be.  It was pain free and fierce in a way that made me hang on to it a little longer than I normally would.  This was as fluid a run as I've had since this began placed down neatly into a storm of imperfection.  It had simply been that kind of a day with those kind of moments that ultimately turn into a tearful nighttime cry in the mirror, head down, white-knuckling the sides of a sink.

While Tuesday hurt more than just behind my right knee and at the burning inner edge of my left ankle, I ran through it all, held on for dear life a few times, leaned into the punch and got up the next morning - ready to do it all over again.

There is something to be said for what gets you out of bed on those cold mornings when your puffy eyes won't open up all of the way, the coffee isn't made and there's no milk in the house.  For me, that Wednesday, it was waking without pain where it should have been behind my right knee.  If I'm given a pain-free morning, I will take it and I will own it until the rest of the world rights itself.

Today I ran.  It was steady and slow, the way home should be, with a bitter wind that woke me up - down to my toes, rattled me out of Tuesday's fog and reminded me that simply putting left in front of right may be a triumph some days, but is consistently a blessing.

Today I realized I can breathe again;  I guess I'm getting my wind back.

PS - Dear Olive Green Coat & Yellow Lab:  Even though you had a black coat on today with an excessively fury hood, I hope you know that cold wave over my right shoulder as I passed you was not up at god or at the geese on the water, it was all yours, buddy.