Any. Time. Any. Where.

At a rehearsal dinner in Richmond, Virginia, on Friday night, I took the edge off a 5 hour drive and an entire workday crammed into 6AM-10:30AM with just shy of a bottle of Cabernet and half of a poorly-constructed martini.  The next morning, although not as rough as you would imagine, was not a seamless transition into the day. 

However, after three cups of coffee, eggs and country ham, the 6 miles I had to run, before the Wedding kicked back up again, did not seem unattainable. 

And so I set out, garmin strapped to my left wrist, into a half-built corporate park with roads, I quickly found, that ended as abruptly as they began.   After a mile, I was bored, unfocused and running, quite literally, in circles.  Stretching and a little anxious about completing the task at hand, I decided to run across a bigger highway than I'd originally thought and down by the University of Pheonix - Richmond Satellite.  This was a good move.  Hilly.  But a good move nonetheless.  I ran by completely deserted office parks, ungroomed college buildings, neighborhoods of thirty-somethings out gardening, strip malls and yoga studios with signs reading "Namaste" every few blocks.   Apparently Richmonders like their yoga. 

Down streets that turned into dirt roads so subtly you hardly noticed the dust cloud kicking up behind you, I saw kids out playing basketball on four-foot nets and others, chalk-in-hand, dismantling a sidewalk. 

I ultimately turned around in this neighborhood, at a chainlink fence keeping three large dogs from joining by jog, flew back across the highway and safely into the hotel parking lot with 6 more miles in my pocket and down one hangover!

This isn't the first time I've run in less than perfect weather, conditions or health and I'm sure it will not be the last; I'll chalk it up to proof that this sport of ours is equally as mental as it is physical and we are all the better for it. 

38 Days.

38 days from today, 30,000 people will be corralled in front of Central High School, waiting for the rope in front of them to release the tide, dialing up the volume on their iPods and wondering how the crazies (me) who refuse to pack into the street, will jump the fence from the sidewalk and join the rush down Broad Street. 

38 days from today, I'll get up at 4:30AM, throw on my running clothes, eat a peanut butter and banana sandwich with a lemonade vitamin water and a cup of coffee and meet my team in Center City around 6AM.  From there we will travel, together, up to the Central High School track to join the thousands of other runners doing their warm-ups. 

38 days from today, I'll attend the Runner's Mass at Our Lady of Hope at 7AM. I will sit in that beautifully, ancient church, look up at the cathedral ceilings and around at the pews filled with runners and pray.  I will think back to the five blocks I started with in December, the 8 miles I ran this morning at 5AM and all the miles in between and realize that I am lucky.

38 days from today, I will smile at you if you make eye contact and I will show you how much I love this race - just give me that moment.  Then, turn it around and show another stranger how happy you are to be there, at that moment. 

I often describe the Broad Street Run as a movement.  Partly, because it's crowded (by runners and spectators) and, as runners, we flow off each other, but mostly because it's a powerful thing to master a City this way, in a straight line down its core. 

38 days from today.

Dress up, Leave a Fake Name and be Legendary.

April 10, 2011:  This date has been circled, in blue highlighter, on my "Hilton Head Island" Calendar at work for almost ten months, a faded but resilient reminder of a promise I made back in June.  That's right, I registered to run, climb and crawl through the Bear Creek Tough Mudder.  If you haven't heard of this, follow the link below, understand that I realize this is ridiculous and continue reading.

http://toughmudder.com/events/pennsylvania/bear-creek-course-map-2011/

The 10-12 mile course includes fire, mountains, walls, water, mud and a lot of rope; all of the things that amp up an ordinary trail run from quiet to cut throat.  For months I've been secretly debating whether to follow through on April 10th.  This debate led to a running list of pro's and con's:

Pro's:
1. This is as close to a team sport as I've gotten since 1999 Spring Track;

2. The gimmick: I'm a sucker for matching shirts, slogans and face paint - from "Law Dogs" to "Dirty Girls" and my face on a milk carton (clever way to include the gimp in the first race I missed), I wore them all with pride;

3. donating to the "Re-Use Your Shoes" people;

4. The Support: Nothing like looking down from the top of a 12 foot wall and knowing someone with a matching shirt will be there, waiting; and

5. The Comeback: Where else to prove I'm back on top than on a mountain surrounded by snow and fire, covered in mud, bloody and bruised - but in one piece.

Con's
1. "What if I get hurt?"  There's break-an-arm hurt and there's re-injure-your-knee-and-end-up-in-therapy hurt.  Either way, Broad Street Run disappears and I'm starting over, again, for the Marathon.

This debate recently left  it's lonely spot in my mind and went out into the world:

"What if I get hurt?"

"You can't spend the rest of your life worrying whether you'll get hurt."

"I know that - but just until November, maybe I should."

"No, not even until November."

With that, 5 miles through Penn's campus and 45 minutes, the decision was made.  April 10th: All in, dressed up, anonymous and legendary.

Time.

Kahlil Gibran's idea of timelessness stuck with me today as my morning began with a different 6 miles than originally intended for this day, weeks earlier.  Perhaps it was, as needed, justification for skipping out on yet another official 10k or, rather, a reminder that all of this started on my own terms, for my own enjoyment and Gibran was obviously a huge backer of self-awareness and delight in simplicity.

Regardless, as I trudged through the miles, Gibran's words reminded me that we are not owed tomorrow and reinforced that as long as I run for myself, I'm running for the right moment.

I must have repeated, "But if in your thought you must measure time into seasons, let each season encircle all the other seasons, and let today embrace the past with remembrance and the future with longing," consistently for about 10 minutes and suddenly my legs were lighter, the sun warmer, the sound of Geese louder and I knew I was where I had to be.

Today's choice to ditch a 10k, race bib and all, for an unofficial run was more about peace than peace-of-mind.  Although I had no doubt I was ready for the 10k distance, I had severe anxiety about the pre-race warm-ups, crowds and shotgun start.  I just didn't want to pin anything anywhere and the thought of shivering in a crowd of strangers, as appealing as that used to be, simply isn't anymore.

So I chose my own path over a pre-mapped course and covered a great 6 miles down Columbus Blvd., past Penn's Landing and along the Waterfront until I reached the Casino, turned, caught the Sun shining off Camden and headed back along the same stretch of sidewalk.  It was not an easy 55 minutes and I was very happy when my Garmin beeped loudly at the close of the last mile, but it was my own quiet example of living in the present.  Totally worth it.

PS

8 Miles, 76 Minutes, 55 degrees at 5AM and a LemonadeVitamin Water.  Perfection. 

8 Miles through the crowd?

Dear Philadelphia:  I've come to expect a few things running through you in the early morning hours:

1. The lights at the Locust Street entrance to the Schuylkill River Path will never work - not at 5AM, not at 6PM and certainly do not contain actual light bulbs.  (I looked up today - completely hollowed out.);

2. City Hall at sunrise never disappoints;

3. The Fruit Vendor at 16th and JFK may, in fact, sleep on that corner because he's never not there fulfilling our fruit needs;

4. The Waterworks (specifically, its grass) is a geese-magnet, all year round, without fail; and

5. The only safe time to run down the middle of the Ben Franklin Parkway (other than in the Marathon, I presume) is at 5:30AM, during a work week. 

What I did not expect, dear city, was runner after runner that I passed between 5:30AM and 6:30AM this morning.  Groups of runners up and down the river, through the art museum area, down by Fitler Square and all over the Parkway.   Runners alone with Ipods mixed with pairs discussing the events of the day to come.  It was just after Boathouse Row, during mile 7, where runners mixed with rowers to form a crowd.  A crowd of Athletes early on a beautiful Thursday morning in March.  Well done, Philly. 

Éirinn go brách!

In the immortal words of Gavin Degraw:

"Belief:  Builds from scratch; doesn't have to relax; doesn't need space."

On the eve of my first 8 mile run in 6 months, I'm flashing back to the green carpet in the den of the house I grew up in.  There, a 4 year old sits playing "Memory" as her mom explains (for the 15th time that afternoon) about the bus ride the next morning that would take the trembling girl, pigtails and all, to her first day of kindergarten.  Same. Sinking. Feeling. 

Yesterday's 5 mile/45 minute triumph up and over the 30th Street Bridge is the outline of a friendly ghost, recorded on my running wall and, although present and benevolent, utterly without force.  Today's workout, all too reminiscent of physical therapy - right down to the standing hamstring stretches.

9 hours before I'll set out down the Path by the river, up and around the metal bridge at the last of the boat houses, I'm questioning carb intake, hydration, outfit choice related to weather and if I'm ready.   The only things I'm sure of are the banana and coffee I'll start my day with tomorrow at 4:30AM, the vitamin water I'll drink on the way to the gym and the existence of the butterflies that make the 4 year old in me want to hide.

That being said, I'll get up tomorrow, put on my running clothes in the dark, pull on a knit hat, set my watch and hit the pavement - all based on the purest belief that I've done it before and, by default, will do it again. 

Winnie the Pooh on Running:

"Promise me you'll never forget me because if I thought you would, I'd never leave."  ~ WTP

In my case, I'm not sure if it's Running (Yes, [R]unning suddenly became a proper noun; much like those that refer to a god as "[H]im, I've so chosen to refer to Running here.) that's more likely to forget me or if it's the other way around.  In the last 5 days, I've worked more than I've slept and, although workouts had moments of greatness, capturing them in writing seemed too far beyond those moments. But the constant remained: Running Shoes at the ready, a beautiful weekend and unlimited stress that needed cooling. 

Saturday, my red hair and freckles blended in amongst the shamrock-clad runners gathering at the base of the Art Museum Steps to embark on the annual "Leprechaun Run."  That morning I learned that people of all ages find green wigs and face paint amusing; that, from the base of the steps to the very top and back down is exactly .10 of 1 mile; and that when you are trying to take the steps two at a time and fall, in the middle of the day, a tourist is bound to have taken your picture - ask to see it.  This 3.68 Mile, 50 minute boot camp forced me to enjoy the moments at the top of the steps and the view on the way down.

Sunday: 7 Miles, 68 Minutes and the Ben Franklin Bridge just after sunrise.  In this setting, even Camden is striking and crisp - like the perfect Fall day.  My legs were sore, my mind was unfocused and my body completely unwilling.  But Running did not leave me; nor did I leave it.  Together we moved across the bridge and back through the hills before and after the Society Hill.  7 Miles later, well earned brilliance. 

I find that it's only on the other side of a stressful time, that one can look back and see what supported you and what didn't; what left and what stayed; what weakened and what endured.  I trust Running more now than ever and, in that, I find it's trusting me back. 

Tuesday: 6.18 Miles and 56 Minutes.

I ran it out. 

I didn't run from the day or toward an open field of peace. 

I didn't run so far that my doctor's eyes would roll or so fast that my overpronating right foot ached. 
[The overpronating wobble explained: 
http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,7120,s6-240-319-327-425-0,00.html]

I just ran it out.

In that sentence "it" equals:  bad news; anxiety; impending document review; the tiny lines around my eyes; a forgotten dental appointment and the consequential nasty voicemail; a lack of control over the day; utter failure to meet an important deadline and an inability to express any of this in words. 

Thankfully, silence, a little country music and anything over six miles can turn a hornets nest of a day into a reminder that I am the co-author of this novel starring clowns.  

3 Miles, unapproved.

Yesterday I got up at 4:30AM, threw on gym clothes, walked my puppy and headed out the door for one of the roughest lifting workouts I've had in a while - all because the block on my "Broad Street 2011" training schedule, 7 rows down and one column over, indicated it was, indeed, a "lifting day."  1.5 hours later, my fatigued arms were barely able to wash my hair, I'd been surprised by the small gift of a relatively hot shower and the usual pre-7AM-Zumba cluster of 10 middle-aged, highly caffeinated and pre-menopausal women complaining for the sake of it, was cut to a moderately-pitched gaggle of 4.  Needless to say, it was a fantastic start to a Monday and a great workout. 

10 hours later...I went outside the grid (of my training schedule), colored outside the lines (drawn by my physical therapist) and broke a promise (to everyone that I wouldn't add miles) - and it was the best decision I've made  in a while. 

I ran 3.25 miles in 31 minutes for the fun of it; not because a block on a grid told me to.  No regrets.

"Pain is weakness leaving the body." v. Pain

The scene:

After a 7 mile hills workout across the Ben Franklin Bridge and into Camden from South Philly:

Redhead sitting on carpet typing, legs straight out, back against green couch, hair soaked from run 2 hours earlier, faithful terrier at her side (on couch spooning large stuffed chicken) while she practices RICE on her aching achilles with frozen peas.  [Operative word is "aching."]

Three days ago, after a 4.5 mile run through Center City, Philly:

Redhead limping from elevator to office door, struggling to open door, shoes squeaking across clean marble floor in lobby, padding over new carpet and resting in doorway to office-turn-dorm-room-turn-office.  Deep exhale.  Having no cause to go any further, Redhead stretches in doorway; Achilles indicates through numbness that it may snap if pushed further.  Redhead backs off and focuses on hamstrings.  Peas, Carrots, Advil and a Flexor Patch later, there is relief.  [Operative words are "limping, snap, numbness and Flexor Patch (super allergic to NSAIDS in high amounts - this is a large tradeoff for me)."]

Two days ago, rest day, redhead tentatively walking in heals:

Wobble, wobble.  Heals off, 3 inches shorter, slippers on mid-morning.  Peas and carrots.  20 on, 20 off until you forget the off and end up with mushy vegetables.  Repeat.  In the middle of RICE, Best Friend kicks Redhead in the shin, hard and makes her focus (ok, not so much a kick as a very stern talking-to).

Gist of conversation:  Until you understand the difference between the spirit of "Pain is weakness leaving the body" and pain, you are not an athlete, you are just a girl that runs a lot and is, no doubt, injury-bound.  Not every day is game day.  Not every day is brilliant. Some are just pure pain.  Being an athlete, presumably, is the ability to sideline your emotion (and yourself) when you need to - all for the greater good (for me, the Marathon).

5 Minutes later:

Redhead gets over herself, gears up for MRI #4, makes appointment at Rothman Institute and begins holding her breath until March 22nd.

Today, my body said "keep going."  Last week was more of a screaming, "Are you kidding me? Stop!"
Lesson:   Listen. Relax. Trust.

A love letter.

Dear 6 Miles,

You saved me yesterday.  It was more than rounding the edge off the day or forcing me to breathe deep; it was not just the quiet of your confidence; it was, quite simply, beyond the beauty of you, a celebration of your consistency.  You are always there, right where I left you, waiting to set out and pour your calm out across my path.  

I've found few things in this life more consistent than you, dear 6 mile run, and I know enough of mistakes and disappointment, failures of trust and worthiness, to know that you are something worth holding onto.  

I know that you are the perfect distance.  You push me to run steadily for 56 minutes in one direction.  With that push, you focus me.  You encourage me to unwind in the first mile, suffer through the second, rally in the third and crush the road back.  You always include hills, even in a city, and you make me work to climb and take care on the descent.  You know me.  You understand that sometimes I don't want to talk; not for lack of things to say or some misguided dramatic response to the day.  You realize that these are moments that I need to own, alone, and you accept that silence without judgment. 

You challenge me in ways I'm not sure I fully understand and I love you for it.  When we begin each new run, I fall into you.  During those miles in between beginning and end, you wrap me up and quiet me.  After your miles expire, you slap me high five (in a Karen & Jack naked stomachs sort of way) and send me on my way.  

In that routine, I am comforted that in tomorrow there is hope and in that hope there is yet another day.  Sometimes that's all any of us need.  

Love, JC