Monday, October 24, 2011

My way back home.

As miles 20 and 21 fell off of my training schedule and landed where they were supposed to, neatly in the completed pile, I've been struggling with the enormity of what's next, the context for what this journey has been, what these runs are becoming [habits] and what I've learned along the way and then I heard "My Way Back Home."  My thoughts turned from the significance of a perceived moment to all that set the moment in motion and all that would likely wind it down when I was ready:

"I admit that these answers that I seek
Are all to questions I’ve never known
But I pray to keep on looking for as long as I can roam
And when the world finally fulfills me
I will not forget my way back home."

In these words I see the last year in cascading glimpses put to music and, at times, narrated by Sarah Jessica Parker; Frame by frame of flashbacks broken only by miles 20 and 21, consecutively, falling down:

October 5, 2010: Sitting on my front stoop locked out and crying in the rain, having just heard "Stress Fracture;" 
On the stationary bike at the gym at 5:30AM on a cold November morning, still Pre-Marathon 2010, tearing up and pathetically ill equipped;
Stretching with the green rubber bands at Physical Therapy every morning at 6:30AM, agility a lost art;
Alone at the gym on a Saturday morning, watching the runners pass on Market Street below, pushing painfully away at the peddles on an elliptical machine;
Sidelined;
My first run back: five blocks in December so full of pain that the snow melted against it;
Crossing the finish line of my first 5K in February, nearly puking in an elementary school bathroom, finishing with burning lungs and the ultimate realization that, although I declared victory, there was a long road yet to travel;

The Broad Street Run 2011 without pain and full of hope for another personal best the following year; 

A PB at the ODDyssey half marathon over the Summer 2011;

Training Day #1;

Return visits to the Rothman Institute for an ankle that resisted the new training regimen;

Bouncing back from a terrible half marathon at Pennypack Park;  
Ticking 14, 15 and 16 mile runs off in the heat of August with focus on a cooler Fall;
Icing, wrapping, tiger-balming joints and elevating sore limbs;
Xtend Barre Pilates entering my life for the fun in the middle of the serious;
October 21, 2011 hitting like the Atlantic Ocean in January: 30 days; and

All of the aches, pains, tears, high fives, cramps, trips, scrapes and deep breaths along the way back home to the fearless woman with the unbreakable spirit that woke up one day and decided she was going to run a marathon.  And did.









Sunday, October 16, 2011

18

The numerical value of the Hebrew world for "life;"

In ancient Roman custom, it can symbolize a blood relative;

In Chinese tradition, the number 18 is normally 十八 (shí bā), but it can also be read as 幺八 (yāo bā), which sounds like 要发 (yào fā), meaning that one is going to prosper; 

The month and day of Elvis Presley's birthday [January 8, 1935];

The number of chapters into which James Joyce's epic novel Ulysses is divided; 

The number of miles I last ran in a meaningful way before my stress fracture diagnosis a year ago, October 5, 2010; and

The intangible barrier that I broke two weeks ago with an 18.1 mile run.

This was one of those days when you wake up and wonder if what you're doing is either incredibly stupid or incomparably brilliant because the sun isn't up, it's freezing, not even your loyal training terrier can be coaxed out of bed with a peanut butter and banana sammy and all of the windows in your tiny neighborhood are dark.    You stand there and debate anything to put off the actual first steps:  whether to wear shorts or 3/4 length pants on your run; how many gels will you actually need and do you think you'll like cherry lime; whether to take preemptive Motrin; should you cut off all water at 6AM; and anything else you can think of to take your mind off of "can I do this?"

And then, after deciding on the same Arizona State shorts and Tough Mudder headband that you wore the weekend before, taking a chance on the cherry lime gel and downing a few Motrin, you set out with 18 in your heart and faith falling on the path under your feet.  Suddenly you are 9 miles into the run, on the downside mentally, and all of the worries are stuck back at mile 4.

Manayunk is just waking up as you make the turn back toward the city, crisp skyline waiting to welcome you back with the 18.1 stamped on your forehead.  Your miles are standing strong at 9:00 minutes and your stride is only slightly painful.  As you cross the Falls, Strawberry Mansion and [Stone] bridges, there is a sense of coming home.  And for just a moment, you allow yourself the flash forward to the Marathon - the crowds and clapping; the signs and familiar faces; the idea that the people who love you the most are out there, somewhere, looking for you too.

As you take the last few steps toward 18.1, holding back the tears, you look up and whisper, "boom."






Tuesday, October 4, 2011

I can hear you clapping.

There was a time not too long ago when I could pick the tenor of my grandfather's clap out of a crowd of basketball parents or field hockey parents and even on the cross country course. It was methodical, never over-excited or anxious, and as steady and consistent as a sunrise; deep and loyal but subtle like his compliments, that clap never missed a game, match or meet. 

In the years since his passing, that sound has faded but still resides out there in the open space between my childhood and my today.  His clap is in the crowd of a race; behind me as I start a long run; pushing me on rainy mornings; and constantly reminding me that, even when thirty feels like thirty, I have not yet lost my edge.

On September 24, 2011, I struggled through every bit of 16 miles.  It was not a great run.  In fact, it was ugly, painful and ultimately not something I wanted to share with anyone.  Although I completed this training block, I can only liken its defeat to missing one of two shots from the line in the last seconds of your last game as an eighth grader at UTMS and going on to end your middle school "career" on a miss [not that things like that should still bother you at 30...]. 

As mile 15 of 16 announced itself, I was empty and consumed with angst about the next 7 weeks and the Marathon waiting for me at the end.  I let my thoughts run so far afoul in that instance, that I actually questioned not just whether I would get 16 that day but whether I would cross the finish line of the Philly Marathon without stopping/walking/puking/crying/fainting or any combination thereof.  Some would say that by mile 15.6 of 16, I was in the middle of an actual meltdown more focused on the big picture than the task at hand. 

And then there was the clapping at mile 15.75.  Just as the Art Museum came into view and the last hill was behind me, 20 geese flew overhead, wings clapping the entire time, and he was there.  Just as he was at the final turn of my last cross country meet, in the last 20 seconds of my final high school basketball game, as I ran the length of the field hockey field for the last time, he was there clapping and screaming at me to stop being such a girl and just run. 

So I ran.

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Sweating it out.

Whether it's a hangover or a cold, a long day or huge loss, 18 degrees in January or 81 in June, I have been ever so convinced that there is nothing a hard run, quick feet and good sweat can't fix.  The paths will change, the destinations will fail to matter and the pain, whatever the source, will fade just enough.

I've sweat out whiskey after finals, bring your own bottles of wine, coors lights on the beach and too many tailgates to guess; I've sweat out allergies, colds, fevers and the like, ran personal bests with less than a few hours of sleep and dirty tissues in my pockets all hopped up on Sudafed; I've sweat out deaths and lost opportunities, frustration and silence and everything that falls in that fold.

I've come to believe that every run begins with a purpose - whether its to sweat something out of you, hold onto something harder, check a box off a training grid, test your will or build it back up - and it's that moment, midway through, when you've forgotten the reason you started, feet falling heavily on the ground without a second thought to your beginning and end, when you begin to feel like a human again and thank whatever that you're healthy enough to run in the first place.

Or at least this is my little circle of sweat.

Rock & Roll, Philly!

Of all the components of a great half marathon - the crowds, signs, cowbells, water stations, markers, crisp way the fall air hits your lungs - who would think that above all of that, a group of high school cheerleaders would give me the chills over and over again.  But that's what happened during the Philadelphia Rock and Roll Half Marathon as I entered the stretches of the course where crowds don't form and tables are not set up, where there is only grass with geese and the occasional rabbit.  And then, out of the unaffected distance, the cheerleaders, in unison, screaming for the collective (capital "R") Runner, carried me to a 1:47 race with a reminder of how powerful the spirit can be.

They stuck out of the silence and the crowds because they were not for the one person panting around the next turn; they were there for the sport and the movement of the race.  There was no single runner that the various groups of cheerleaders were there to support.   Rather, it was the greater Runner in all of us receiving the support.  Their signs, pointed, loud and general; their cheers, for running and the Runner, lingering and sharp against the landscape; and their spirits high even in the twelfth mile.

Because you feel every step of Running's singularity in those last few miles of a long race, focusing on anything but the distance between you and the finish line is a blessing.  After 6 miles at an 8:07 pace, through Philadelphia's neighborhoods, fighting for position, bands blaring and crowds so tight at times I could reach out on either side and touch them, suddenly it all fell silently away.  There was space and silence and the only people visible were those wearing a bib just like yours.

At mile 8, while I was busy counting used gel packets and wondering when we would make the fabulous turn that would lead us down the path with people - the one where the party was - and the bands played and families were out walking with their double strollers and tiny terriers, I heard them: "Come on Runners, Let's Go!" screamed 45 teenagers, all at once, so loud  it gave me chills.  They kept it up as we approached, passed them and long after we were out of sight - unwavering support for the Runner.

As the pain crept in around mile 10, just after the bagpipes and before the next water station, another group of cheerleaders side by side along west river drive, hands clapping, pompoms shaking energized our tired legs and gave us the kick in the ass we needed to climb the last incline, take note of our 10 mile split, smile at the personal best it represented and propel ourselves toward the finish line with echoes of cheers in our ears for hours to come.

This was a fast and flat course, heavy with crowds on either end and something special in the middle:  the art of cheering for the Runner.