There is a half-marathon at the end of this week. That means rest, hydration and carbs. None of which, admittedly, I'm naturally prone to indulge in. I'm a twitchy, constantly in motion, coffee-drinking, low-to-no-carb girl by nature. It's easy, it's what I've always been and it's gotten me this far.
But, I must admit, I've enjoyed this week. I ran, but not intensely, I challenged myself with lifting and cross training and focused on eating small portions of carbs every day. My focus was placed on stretching and strengthening as opposed to crushing my morning runs. The heat helped to slow me down and I found myself suddenly grateful for the tapering excuse.
It still feels unnatural and I'm convinced the increase in carbs (and maybe the heat) resulted in a lower energy level but, again, I'm reminded that this week will pay off tomorrow when my run isn't painful because my body is rested, hydrated and properly fueled.
I may not be a fan of tapering but I certainly respect it.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
A waterfront run in Philadelphia? Yes, please.
On Father's Day, 2011, I discovered a few things, on an early morning run, about the simultaneous absence and beauty of the Philadelphia Waterfront.
Passing Front Street, Columbus Boulevard bound, you dead-end at a closed sandwich shack and wonder "who goes here for lunch?" because it's so far out of the way, surrounded by empty buildings and no parking lot. There is a river just on the other side of this small shack, larger warehouses in the background, I'm sure of it at this point.
Municipal Pier (or what used to be a working pier) is on the horizon - rough with echoes on a Sunday morning, not even the lost seagulls stop here. Running beneath this building's shadows is both humbling and slightly creepy and still I'm sure the view on the other side is perfection. I can almost hear the docks welcoming the water.
Just before you cross Callowhill to find the Moshulu, there is an empty space where only trash and weeds gather. A little desperate, footsteps absently pick up here but the view of the river is uninterrupted in its crispness.
From the Moshulu to just before the SugarHouse Casino, the path is clear and manicured, the river at your fingertips, boardwalk laid out at your feet with fishing piers and docks, oh my. Just after the new fishing pier at Race Street - simple in its boards and trees - is where exhaustion and its old buddy dehydration tapped me on the shoulder. Stupidly, I didn't turn around to say, "hello." Instead I trucked on through Northern Liberties, passing the Piazza, and let dehydration kick me in the shin. Still nothing. 3 miles later, as I rounded the corner to my house, I stopped moving and didn't start again until the following morning at about 6AM.
This was one of those beautiful runs where my body was screaming and my mind was pretending it spoke a different language. I should have stopped. This run was a day ruiner to the tune of being hit by a large truck. However, the stupid in me looks at this experience and says "mentally, you're tough enough to do this Marathon thing."
Passing Front Street, Columbus Boulevard bound, you dead-end at a closed sandwich shack and wonder "who goes here for lunch?" because it's so far out of the way, surrounded by empty buildings and no parking lot. There is a river just on the other side of this small shack, larger warehouses in the background, I'm sure of it at this point.
Municipal Pier (or what used to be a working pier) is on the horizon - rough with echoes on a Sunday morning, not even the lost seagulls stop here. Running beneath this building's shadows is both humbling and slightly creepy and still I'm sure the view on the other side is perfection. I can almost hear the docks welcoming the water.
Just before you cross Callowhill to find the Moshulu, there is an empty space where only trash and weeds gather. A little desperate, footsteps absently pick up here but the view of the river is uninterrupted in its crispness.
From the Moshulu to just before the SugarHouse Casino, the path is clear and manicured, the river at your fingertips, boardwalk laid out at your feet with fishing piers and docks, oh my. Just after the new fishing pier at Race Street - simple in its boards and trees - is where exhaustion and its old buddy dehydration tapped me on the shoulder. Stupidly, I didn't turn around to say, "hello." Instead I trucked on through Northern Liberties, passing the Piazza, and let dehydration kick me in the shin. Still nothing. 3 miles later, as I rounded the corner to my house, I stopped moving and didn't start again until the following morning at about 6AM.
This was one of those beautiful runs where my body was screaming and my mind was pretending it spoke a different language. I should have stopped. This run was a day ruiner to the tune of being hit by a large truck. However, the stupid in me looks at this experience and says "mentally, you're tough enough to do this Marathon thing."
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Media 5 Miler, 2011
Not since the Tyler Arboretum Trail Run (10K, Annual, April) has a course so beat me, broke me and built me.
The heat, the hills and the Friday night happy hour crowds force focus that's often fleeting at 7PM after a long work week. The inclines are steep and quick and lined with house parties complete with kids, signs, water balloons, high-fives and, well, happy hour. At times, this was empowering and at others simply a life saver (If I could somehow find the house that had the hoses out front pointed at runners like a beautiful rainstorm, I'd send you a fruit basket, wonderful people). Although, I must admit, there was a woman, in a sundress, immediately after a water station and at the base of the hill that would come close to breaking me, that was swirling a glass of wine; a glass of wine that I came within inches of grabbing from her and pounding on the spot. Aside from that small daydream, however, the focus stuck.
On this run - in this race - I was struck by the community of runners and that which surrounded them. This was a force running through neighborhood after neighborhood in a giant embrace by its surroundings. The generosity of the cheering around me was only mirrored by the kindness of the runners next to me. Just after mile 1, my shirt came off and, along with it, the neon orange tough mudder headband I wear in every race for luck as much as a reminder of one of the hardest and best days of my life. I made the decision not to turn around for it and immediately had a pang of regret. Thirty seconds later, an older male runner came up along side of me and handed me the headband. Such a simple moment among runners will not soon be forgotten. And so that headband is back where it belongs with yet another story linked to its brilliance.
After 2 loops, 38 minutes, 18 seconds and 3 bottles of water, I can finally say I started to appreciate you, Dear 5 Miler, and I can assure you I'll be back next year and every year after that I'm fortunate enough to have the legs to make it up those hills - if only to see each and every smile of accomplishment that crosses your finish line and lights up.
The heat, the hills and the Friday night happy hour crowds force focus that's often fleeting at 7PM after a long work week. The inclines are steep and quick and lined with house parties complete with kids, signs, water balloons, high-fives and, well, happy hour. At times, this was empowering and at others simply a life saver (If I could somehow find the house that had the hoses out front pointed at runners like a beautiful rainstorm, I'd send you a fruit basket, wonderful people). Although, I must admit, there was a woman, in a sundress, immediately after a water station and at the base of the hill that would come close to breaking me, that was swirling a glass of wine; a glass of wine that I came within inches of grabbing from her and pounding on the spot. Aside from that small daydream, however, the focus stuck.
On this run - in this race - I was struck by the community of runners and that which surrounded them. This was a force running through neighborhood after neighborhood in a giant embrace by its surroundings. The generosity of the cheering around me was only mirrored by the kindness of the runners next to me. Just after mile 1, my shirt came off and, along with it, the neon orange tough mudder headband I wear in every race for luck as much as a reminder of one of the hardest and best days of my life. I made the decision not to turn around for it and immediately had a pang of regret. Thirty seconds later, an older male runner came up along side of me and handed me the headband. Such a simple moment among runners will not soon be forgotten. And so that headband is back where it belongs with yet another story linked to its brilliance.
After 2 loops, 38 minutes, 18 seconds and 3 bottles of water, I can finally say I started to appreciate you, Dear 5 Miler, and I can assure you I'll be back next year and every year after that I'm fortunate enough to have the legs to make it up those hills - if only to see each and every smile of accomplishment that crosses your finish line and lights up.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
What I'm running from.
Last Summer my mom looked at me after I'd made dinner for the family and collapsed on the floor with frozen peas and carrots lining my legs, an18 mile morning run finally taking its toll, and asked me, "What are you running from?" Note she did not ask "Why do you run?" or "What motivates you to run?" She just got right through all of that beat-around-the-bush-fluffery and smacked me in the face with "What are you running from?"
I responded how any 29 year old only daughter would - "What the hell is that supposed to mean." And so it went from there.
About a year later, while I realize it helps to focus on where I'm running to, I've developed a list of things I actually am running from. For my mom:
1. My blackberry and every ding, buzz, ring and clang I've sent up to differentiate my work email from my home email and my texts from calendar invitations and deadline reminders;
2. forced communication with anyone - out on a path there is no talking, there is only breathing and stepping;
3. my need to make lists of everything from what's for dinner on any given night that week to what brief is due on what day for what client and when a draft needs to be circulated to all interested parties for comments, red/black/green lining and so on - there is no paper and thankfully not a pen in sight on the path;
4. my hairdryer, makeup, perfume and any derivation thereof: nothing matters but putting my left foot in front of my right quickly enough to work up a sweat;
5. the vacuum and household chores that I would spend endless free time doing if not for a run calling my name and pulling me outside - I grew up in one of those houses that could have been on the cover of Southern Living (and probably will be some day) and subconsciously (growing ever more consciously) I find myself fixated on attaining my mom's own perfection; and finally, (and most obviously)
6. myself. I think everyone needs a place they can go to turn off the mind and just follow the spirit. Running in just that for me. No matter the path or the pain, it takes me away on a mini-vacation and brings me back well-rested, less wound up and ultimately, smiling.
So it is after days, like today, that begin with a green monster, 11 miles through beautiful and beautifully desperate parts of the city and a great stretch by a fountain, that remind me who I am without all of the "other stuff" life piles on top.
I guess I am running from something after all, mom.
I responded how any 29 year old only daughter would - "What the hell is that supposed to mean." And so it went from there.
About a year later, while I realize it helps to focus on where I'm running to, I've developed a list of things I actually am running from. For my mom:
1. My blackberry and every ding, buzz, ring and clang I've sent up to differentiate my work email from my home email and my texts from calendar invitations and deadline reminders;
2. forced communication with anyone - out on a path there is no talking, there is only breathing and stepping;
3. my need to make lists of everything from what's for dinner on any given night that week to what brief is due on what day for what client and when a draft needs to be circulated to all interested parties for comments, red/black/green lining and so on - there is no paper and thankfully not a pen in sight on the path;
4. my hairdryer, makeup, perfume and any derivation thereof: nothing matters but putting my left foot in front of my right quickly enough to work up a sweat;
5. the vacuum and household chores that I would spend endless free time doing if not for a run calling my name and pulling me outside - I grew up in one of those houses that could have been on the cover of Southern Living (and probably will be some day) and subconsciously (growing ever more consciously) I find myself fixated on attaining my mom's own perfection; and finally, (and most obviously)
6. myself. I think everyone needs a place they can go to turn off the mind and just follow the spirit. Running in just that for me. No matter the path or the pain, it takes me away on a mini-vacation and brings me back well-rested, less wound up and ultimately, smiling.
So it is after days, like today, that begin with a green monster, 11 miles through beautiful and beautifully desperate parts of the city and a great stretch by a fountain, that remind me who I am without all of the "other stuff" life piles on top.
I guess I am running from something after all, mom.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Because I can.
I've watched "Dear 16 year old me" 4 times now. It's the story that, quite literally, scarred me in 2004 and toughened up an otherwise fragile red head in 2007.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_4jgUcxMezM&hd=1
On June 17, 2004 I was diagnosed with Melanoma. For the first time. I was 24, standing in my new home, boxes open and stacked, rooms half painted and unfurnished, boyfriend at work, parents at the shore, puppy asleep. The phone rang. I answered, out of breathe and half covered in yellow paint (pale yellow, not lemon), a doctor's voice distracts me from the cutting at the crown molding and forces my eyes out the window and up at the trees across the street. Melanoma. Surgery. Immediately. Treatment. Blood work. Bone scan. Recurrence likely. I hung up on her mid-sentence. She called back. I didn't answer. My cell phone hit the wall solidly.
At that moment, I remember feeling marked and alone. I had done this to myself. Every sunburn - every tanning bad - every time I didn't wear SPF - every time I didn't heed my father's warnings. Like putting a cigarette to my lips, I'd gone out and gotten myself cancer. Months later, still recovering, I forgave myself for the cause and decided I wouldn't be a victim. Not of cancer, not of wrongdoing, not of fault and of life. And this is why I move forward. This is why I run. Because I can. Because 7 years from that moment and 3.5 years from my last diagnosis, I am here and not wasting a moment.
It's not much more than grace and luck that I'm the one who caught it and is still standing; and so I run. For me and for the unlucky ones. This is what drives me to run at 5AM - because I can. This is what wakes me up and puts my shoes on when 9 miles looms ahead on a muggy June morning. This is what suits me up on the cold days and calms me down in a race. Because I can. I can feel anxiety and I can feel fear because I'm the lucky one. If I could tell the 16 year old me anything it would be more than just "get out of the tanning bed," and "get ready for your first heartbreak on March 15, 1997." I would tell her to pay attention to the tough times because they make the good times all the sweeter; I would tell her to open up more and never waste a moment; I would tell her that it only hurts for a little while and time takes care of the rest; I would tell her that Clinique makes a great sunless tanner and life really does go on even if you resist. I would tell her to hold hands whenever possible, make eye contact and connect with people - these things mean a lot to you when you get sick. I would tell her she's surrounded herself with loyal, beautiful people and she'll be ok. I would tell her to never stop running.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_4jgUcxMezM&hd=1
On June 17, 2004 I was diagnosed with Melanoma. For the first time. I was 24, standing in my new home, boxes open and stacked, rooms half painted and unfurnished, boyfriend at work, parents at the shore, puppy asleep. The phone rang. I answered, out of breathe and half covered in yellow paint (pale yellow, not lemon), a doctor's voice distracts me from the cutting at the crown molding and forces my eyes out the window and up at the trees across the street. Melanoma. Surgery. Immediately. Treatment. Blood work. Bone scan. Recurrence likely. I hung up on her mid-sentence. She called back. I didn't answer. My cell phone hit the wall solidly.
At that moment, I remember feeling marked and alone. I had done this to myself. Every sunburn - every tanning bad - every time I didn't wear SPF - every time I didn't heed my father's warnings. Like putting a cigarette to my lips, I'd gone out and gotten myself cancer. Months later, still recovering, I forgave myself for the cause and decided I wouldn't be a victim. Not of cancer, not of wrongdoing, not of fault and of life. And this is why I move forward. This is why I run. Because I can. Because 7 years from that moment and 3.5 years from my last diagnosis, I am here and not wasting a moment.
It's not much more than grace and luck that I'm the one who caught it and is still standing; and so I run. For me and for the unlucky ones. This is what drives me to run at 5AM - because I can. This is what wakes me up and puts my shoes on when 9 miles looms ahead on a muggy June morning. This is what suits me up on the cold days and calms me down in a race. Because I can. I can feel anxiety and I can feel fear because I'm the lucky one. If I could tell the 16 year old me anything it would be more than just "get out of the tanning bed," and "get ready for your first heartbreak on March 15, 1997." I would tell her to pay attention to the tough times because they make the good times all the sweeter; I would tell her to open up more and never waste a moment; I would tell her that it only hurts for a little while and time takes care of the rest; I would tell her that Clinique makes a great sunless tanner and life really does go on even if you resist. I would tell her to hold hands whenever possible, make eye contact and connect with people - these things mean a lot to you when you get sick. I would tell her she's surrounded herself with loyal, beautiful people and she'll be ok. I would tell her to never stop running.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
ODDyssey Half Marathon 2011
On the heels of the Broad Street Run, this late-May hilly half is a flawless transition into the Summer/Fall Marathon season. This was my second time running this early morning half marathon that is light in its costumes and face paint and serious in the athletes it draws and the course it lays out beneath their feet.
This event struck me - from the Tough Mudders, orange identification headbands blazing, I met in the Porta Potty line to the water stations manned by the "Students Run Philly Style" kids and all of the bands and bullhorns in between- as a truly grass roots Philadelphia runner's event. The streets were lined with volunteers at every turn and never was there a silence left unfilled by cheers and water balloons crashing down. As I ran, at the back of the pack because of my miscalculation of the porta potty lines, I focused on breaking through, alone and without an iPod.
This was my test and my gift to myself. Never before had I come from behind in such an obvious way. Never before had I run this far alone, without an iPod or distraction from myself. Never before had I run toward a finish line where no one stood waiting.
As the internal whining (read: bitching/moaning/screaming) calmed itself at Miles 8-9, I turned against the tide and doubled back against fellow runners until something caught my eye: the girl I never beat in a single Fun Run down the shore - my love and my nemesis; my first friend and the only person I still harbored such complete jealousy for; the girl that never lost (to me) until this race - I had her by 31 minutes.
I wish I could say I'm ashamed of the way I smiled when I realized at Mile 13 that she was no where in sight and I had a Personal Best on the Horizon - but I'm not. Twelve years later, I proved to myself - as ridiculous as it may sound - that I am a fierce athlete. She had to lose for me to win. And one hour and forty five minutes after I began, I crossed the finish line with a new personal best and a new found ability to be alone with myself for 13.1 miles.
This race was the culmination of a beautifully tragic competition I had with myself. As I walked through the fairgrounds that lead up to the Please Touch Museum, I told myself, "This ends here" and I finally meant it.
So thank you, Oddyssey Half Marathon, for your beautiful course, hospitality, and unwavering support during a race I won't soon forget.
This event struck me - from the Tough Mudders, orange identification headbands blazing, I met in the Porta Potty line to the water stations manned by the "Students Run Philly Style" kids and all of the bands and bullhorns in between- as a truly grass roots Philadelphia runner's event. The streets were lined with volunteers at every turn and never was there a silence left unfilled by cheers and water balloons crashing down. As I ran, at the back of the pack because of my miscalculation of the porta potty lines, I focused on breaking through, alone and without an iPod.
This was my test and my gift to myself. Never before had I come from behind in such an obvious way. Never before had I run this far alone, without an iPod or distraction from myself. Never before had I run toward a finish line where no one stood waiting.
As the internal whining (read: bitching/moaning/screaming) calmed itself at Miles 8-9, I turned against the tide and doubled back against fellow runners until something caught my eye: the girl I never beat in a single Fun Run down the shore - my love and my nemesis; my first friend and the only person I still harbored such complete jealousy for; the girl that never lost (to me) until this race - I had her by 31 minutes.
I wish I could say I'm ashamed of the way I smiled when I realized at Mile 13 that she was no where in sight and I had a Personal Best on the Horizon - but I'm not. Twelve years later, I proved to myself - as ridiculous as it may sound - that I am a fierce athlete. She had to lose for me to win. And one hour and forty five minutes after I began, I crossed the finish line with a new personal best and a new found ability to be alone with myself for 13.1 miles.
This race was the culmination of a beautifully tragic competition I had with myself. As I walked through the fairgrounds that lead up to the Please Touch Museum, I told myself, "This ends here" and I finally meant it.
So thank you, Oddyssey Half Marathon, for your beautiful course, hospitality, and unwavering support during a race I won't soon forget.
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