Thursday, December 27, 2012

My (long) way back home.

I read The Secret two summers ago.  You'd think I would have remembered that fixation is powerful stuff - good or evil, amazing or horrible - and, would have turned my Philly Marathon Eve thoughts from "please, God, don't let me hurt myself today...;" to something more positive like, "I am healthy and ready to run 26.2 miles."  Oddly enough, my brain never got there and so, at 8AM on Saturday morning, I hit uneven pavement 15 feet from my house and snapped my left ankle so hard it bruised by the time I got both hands onto my stoop.  With my face buried in my Cairne Terrier's (Charlie) white fur, I sobbed and let something out I didn't realize I'd been holding in all of those months.

And there I sat, Peas & Carrots wrapped around my ankle, oatmeal in hand, wondering if everything I'd been working for was just ruined and feeling utterly numb no matter the answer to the question.  I simply came to find, as I sat there, that there was no "little fighter" left inside me.  I was emotionally and physically exhausted and not at all convinced I was ready to run 26.2 miles the following day.

Throughout the day, my runner friends sent their well wishes and luck - each reminding me to breathe and "enjoy" every moment.  But one of them actually said it: "Run Happy."  And as I sat on a stool stirring my risotto, like the 5 year old I'd suddenly become, I realized it had been a very long time since running made me the slightest bit happy.  Between the visits with nutritionists, speed workouts, 800's, hill workouts, 4AM wake-ups, dehydration, heart burn, 5 - 20+ mile runs in July and August, and the pure ache in my joints, there was no time for happiness.  So I cried again.

Hours later I would fall asleep for about 6 hours, wake up at 3AM, hobble downstairs with Charlie for coffee, oatmeal and half a plain bagel, and say to him, "OK buddy, this is it.  Our last long run."  The house would be dark, quiet and cold.  The task at hand, even more so as I realized I was truly not ready.  

And with that cheery thought, I entered the Black Corral with the timidity of a shadow.  I stood quietly with tall, skinny, serious looking strangers grouped together by prior achievement and present aspiration staring at the 3:35 Pacer Balloons wondering whether I belonged and deciding I didn't.

At 6:50AM, 10 minutes before the official start of the marathon and 12 minutes before my corral would eventually cross the start line, I decided I had to pee. Again.  With that, I was pushing through the crowd to find myself in a small park with a lot of other nervous runners peeing behind small trees and playground equipment.  Rushing back, feeling lost and confused, I reached my corral just as the Rocky song pushed us over the start line and into the marathon without so much as a "Good Morning."

Luckily, adrenalin took over and I felt no pain in those first 8 miles in 64 minutes.  I felt nothing.  No excitement. No joy.  No fear. Nothing.  Pain and nausea ultimately set in and the next 16 miles were a blur of my screaming family, strangers, signs, music, distress, self-doubt, and the ultimate realization that I was in the middle of something I could not smile my way out of.

At mile 18, I cried as I passed my dad and told myself there was no stopping beyond that point.  No more choice. No more wavering.  I'd won a few battles but not yet the war.  What kept me going in those last 8.2 miles was not the crowd or the other runners; it wasn't the music or the thought of seeing my family at the finish line; it wasn't even the party waiting back home.  It was the ridiculous amount of calories and carbs I'd consumed; how unhealthy I felt in that moment; and how far I'd fallen out of love with running.  It was in this very basic struggle that I found my answer.

I am not - nor will I ever be - a Boston Qualifier.  It is not for lack of trying or training and it is not because I've abandoned my raw hope for greater things.  It is simply because I don't want to be one.  Somewhere between not quitting at mile 13 and not quitting at mile 18, I started to notice all of the things I'd been missing when I started running faster in 2012:
  1. The way wet running shoes squeak in a chorus of biting notes;
  2. What numb hands feel like;
  3. Expectant looks on the face of a crowd;
  4. Hunger;
  5. The subtle incline just past Boathouse Row;
  6. The average age of a volunteer: 16;
  7. "Worst Parade Ever" signs;
  8. The way runners thanked volunteers along the way;
  9. A flock of geese, 30 strong, lounging by the water;
  10. The overall embrace of NYC Marathoners;
  11. Leaves crunching underfoot;
  12. The smell of a fireplace somewhere off in Strawberry Mansion;
  13. The sting of the cold air; and
  14. The satisfaction of a deep, cool inhale.
As my focus returned to the way running truly felt - mentally, emotionally and physically - the pain melted away and miles 24 and 25 fell down before me as I listened to the cadence of each footfall and to every "You got this, Jennifer" that came out of a complete stranger's mouth as I approached the finish line.

And then...the Girard Avenue Bridge took me by surprise.  Out of nowhere, it rose up and gave me the strength to keep going hard until the end.  This structure has been the symbol of every end to every hard workout I've had in the last 3 years.  Passing under it during my second Philadelphia Marathon was a revelation both physically and mentally.  Left behind would be the tunnel vision, training schedule, pain, angst and competition.  Ahead would be home.  A place where running settles me down and reminds me that "if you get lost, you can always be found."

More than a month after this experience and rounding out an 1800+ mile year, I can say I'm ready to start fresh and focus back on the journey, wherever it may take me.  But my bones will remind me that "as we roll down this unfamiliar road; and although this wave is stringing us along; just know you're not alone; 'Cause I'm going to make this place your home."



Tuesday, November 13, 2012

You know you're tapering when...

-->
“The last long hurdle,”

I said on October 19th after a 22 mile trek through Philadelphia in rain so intense I felt lost in it. 

“The last hard run,”

I marveled as the sun came up over UPenn after a slow 12 miler on October 22nd.

“The last big one until the marathon,”

I screamed coming up a huge San Francisco hill to complete a sunny October (30th) 10 miler with Alcatraz at my back.

“The last challenge,”

I thought as I crossed the finish line of the 8.4 mile “Loop” Race last Saturday in 66 minutes and exhaled.

“The last long run,”

I said as I rounded out a 4 mile loop this Monday. 

As I sit at my desk, deep into week 2 of my taper, 5 days out from the Marathon, eating animal crackers and wearing fuzzy slippers, I can’t help but wonder whether I’ve got 26.2 in me.  Am I the same woman that gutted out 22 miles in the rain?  Have I lost my edge?  Ever present is a thumb picking, toe tapping, heel clicking nervous energy without an outlet.  I am jumpy.  I am irritable. I am constantly looking at the carbohydrate I’m about to put in my mouth and thinking “too much, too little, the right kind?” I am jumpy and restless and perhaps too eager to plan post-marathon races.  I stare listlessly at my running journal, longing for stronger performances and discretionary miles. 

I keep thinking, “it’s not me, it’s the taper.” 

And with that, I feel strength in my core and inherent trust in the method.  I feel steady in my yoga practice and loose in my hamstrings.   I am alert first thing in the morning and soundly asleep at night.  I am sharp and explosive, both in my tapered workouts and in my daily life, and I am grateful.  There is no pain or tension in my muscles.  There is nothing of concern in my tendons.  My lower back is stretched and ready.  My toes love my new shoes.  I am healthy.  Even in the uncharted, terrifying waves of the Taper, I feel powerful and blessed.

From pain to progress, everything suddenly seems equal when dropped at the feet of the Marathon.  22 miles becomes relative; and 4 miles just as relevant.  With the faith that warms me on January mornings, cools me in July, eases my pain and pushes me farther, I will own this rest and I will use it on Sunday.  

Sunday, October 21, 2012

The Yasso 800.

At 5:00 AM on Monday morning, I was the runner stretching in the shadows of one of the stone walls bracketing the Art Museum.  It was the cloudy kind of dark morning when the stars aren't visible, the moon is missing and even the streetlights seem too tired to light the way.  And there I was: warmed up, layered, wondering if I could safely stash my vitamin water in the rocks, and ready to throw down my last round of serious speed work.

The idea: run 8 x 800 in a cycle of sprinting and recovery jogging with no rest.  The pain:  burning lungs and aching hamstrings.  The prior 800's workouts: still freshly painful in my mind.  The solution: treat it like the last game of your career and go all in.

And so, on this morning, gone were the nerves and ghosts of workouts past and in their place, these words, "This is your body to beat the crap out of." This was a reminder that lamenting this workout would get me nowhere before, during or afterward.  It is what I would say to myself when I truly couldn't catch my breath, when my hamstrings were on fire and when I was "only" halfway and the world seemed cruel and tortured.

Inhale deeply.

Exhale out the negativity.

Inhale.  I have two legs.  I am healthy.  This morning is a blessing.  Be grateful.

Exhale.   Go hard.

#1 in 3:23: I am strong and ready for the next 7.

#2 in 3:26: I could do this all morning.  I am lucky and struck by my body's ability to pay strength training forward.  I feel no pain.

#3 in 3:29:  It is cold and my hands and legs sting but the air is brilliant and energizing.  I cannot wait for the sun to come up.

#4 in 3:35: Thank god there are more people on the path now.  I need the flow.

#5 in 3:35: I'm on the downside and no sign of my hamstrings yet - check in win column.

#6 in 3:40: Unacceptable to even think, "wheels coming off bus."  Think of the damn school bus wheels going 'round and 'round until you are done.

#7 in 3:29: You can go harder.

#8 in 3:26:  Dear Bart Yasso:  I owned this workout.  Tell me I'm ready.

Inhale. Your lungs are calming down.

Exhale.  Get control back.

Inhale.  I have two legs. I am healthy, This morning is a blessing.

Exhale.  Be grateful.




Sunday, October 14, 2012

The Girls of Fall.

"Maybe some women aren't meant to be tamed.  Maybe they just need to run free 
'til they find someone just as wild to run with them."  

Thank you, Carrie Bradshaw, for the ever present narration of my 30's.  When the workouts are only intense   and up hill and I find myself within striking distance of the Philly Marathon, I can't help but cling to the support of the women in my life - those that are far more experienced than I; and those that aren't; those that are grounded in a way that is so earthly, I marvel at it like a season changing; and those that fly, without hesitating, into the clear blue sky.  It is a motivational comment on Facebook, a "Good Luck" text at 5:00AM, a hug at the beginning of a workday, pushing my shoulders down, deeply into Savasana, reminding me to breathe, showing me that everything, even a mountain in Africa, is within reach, giving me the tools to be in this moment, the patience on the other end of the phone when I'm too tired to talk, the momentum of the dedicated toward discipline, the never subtle reminder to hydrate and the network of female runners and athletes I fall back on when the running gets tough and the tough can't help but to keep running.  

I am lucky, heading into the running season, to have such strength surrounding me.  It is in each woman, somewhere.  It is in the early risers and the night time sprinters; in the two-a-days and in the gym under the fluorescent lights pushing on.  It is in a dark, hot room, extended into triangle pose.  It is in the way we ice down and roll out; the way we heal and where we recover.  It is in our routines and our strides, our identities and our anonymity, our success and our breaking point.    It is in the late nights spent sitting around a kitchen island drinking wine and venting about the boys and in the cold 10 mile run you have to gut out the next morning.  It is in the balance.

And so, to the untamed women I run with and to those that inspire me to do better, fearlessly, thank you.  For the hugs, high fives, comments, texts, emails, calls, meals, snacks, walks, distractions and reminders, focus and freedom, poems, good luck charms, warriors, pictures, recipes, training schedules, wine, quotes, socks, dreaming bigger than I ever dared, support, and for each and every time you told me I could do it.

Here's to the struggle and the recovery and all that will light the in between on fire.


Monday, October 8, 2012

Blackbird


It's Monday.  I overslept.  I left my favorite water bottle at home. I failed to charge my Garmin watch.  I was not prepared for 48 degrees on the Loop this morning. Unruly, smarther-than-your-average-trap mice are still torturing me at home. I forgot poop bags on my dog's walk this  morning.  And I ran free.  Free of the guilt of being late for work because I was 2 hours late for my morning run.  Free of the self deprecating, "How could I forget this or not charge that?" Free of preparedness and free of planning.  Free of the mess at home. Free of deadlines and email. Free to wake slowly and appreciate entirely.  

Two months ago, I would have (and, in fact, did) beat myself up for sleeping late, trudged into the shower and  my black suit and into the office on time, coffee in hand but black and blue all the same.  Ultimately missing the run and the point.  Today, although the thought crossed my mind, I chose better.  I chose to start my day with 6 miles and 52 minutes of meditation and a beautiful sunrise run full of color and cold breaths with new faces and a small army of rowers dotting the landscape.

In that moment when both feet hit the cold wood floor and the decision was before me, I chose to believe this day was a gift - no matter the beginning, no matter the end - a chance to be awake all the same. This presence is not something that comes naturally to me.  So often I catch myself rushing my mind through a run, leaving my body to push through with no known benefit.  But when I focus on the moment, the "getting there" falls away and the destination remains obtainable but otherwise hazy and undefined and I am left only with placing one foot in front of the other and breathing. And in that, I have only the "why" I run.

To heal, like the blackbird, and fly, above the rush to complete another day, into the dark, black night. 

"Take these broken wings and learn to fly, all your life,
 you were only waiting for this moment to arise."

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Fall seven times, stand up eight.


Last written: May 5, 2012.  6 Months ago today and 18 hours before the 75 minute sprint I took down Broad Street.  Last thought: every second of every day since.

I failed to write about my third Broad Street Run and, perhaps, my greatest race since the Ocean City days because I was barely present for it.  My body moved and my mind checked out.  I remember only a tall, thin, gray haired man of about 60 years running in a light grey t-shirt and black shorts with those white socks that come up to mid-calf and a wiry red band on his left wrist.  I remember this man because I chose him at mile 1.  He was the guy I would not let beat me.  He was the focus, the heart and the pain of 10 miles.  He is probably the reason I ran faster and harder than in years past and ultimately the thief of my presence in this race.  Rather, he was one target, of many, on the road to Boston.

I failed to write every day since then because I lost each of them to the narrow focus of eyes drawn only on a goal and the solitude of the end game.  6 Months of Advanced Training Schedules, Hal Higdon's science, Runner's World recipes, Running Times' strength workouts, 4:00AM wake-ups, two-a-day workouts, blisters, blood, sweat, tears, countless medical appointments, x-rays, shoes, Tums and foam rolling made me think I was too busy to write.  Too driven to absorb. Too motivated to slow down.  And too worked up to realize the battle I was losing with Time.

And so, when my IT band shut me down mid-22 mile run, 4 weeks pre-Lehigh Valley Marathon, and forced me into rest and a stationary bike, tiger balm, massages, peas & carrots and foam rolling, I broke free of the regimen and woke up.  In the most humbling way, I woke up.  And the beginning of it was this simple: 

One random Thursday morning I am hot and on my mat approaching Savasana and angry at myself for forgetting to PDF a pleading and send it to a client for his review.  I am mentally beating the crap out of myself for such lame stupidity, lamenting the pain in my knee, wondering when I'll run again, worrying if I'll run again, sick over the lost opportunity to qualify for Boston 2013, disappointed in my body, desperate to feel anything but weak and then Alexi Murdoch's voice breaks me: 

Now I see clearly, It's you I'm looking for
All of my days
Soon I'll smile, I know I'll feel this loneliness no more
All of my days
For I look around me and it seems He found me
And it's coming into sight
As the days keep turning into night
As the days keep turning into night
And even breathing feels all right
Yes, even breathing feels all right
Now even breathing feels all right
It's even breathing
Feels all right


(- All of my Days)
...and just like that, I am just on my mat, in the dark, breathing.  

The last 6 months have risen and fallen with great precision.  The unimaginable and the curious; the pain and the loss; the renewal and the faith; the injury and the recovery of body and mind are all here with those subtleties that I can remember and an intention to be present for all that follows.  There was:
  1. The old man trailing rosary beads in his left hand as he makes his way up the hill from Arch Street toward the first bridge each morning at 5:30AM with such an air of loss about him that I'm certain he's praying to go home;
  2. The baby geese huddled in a ball behind the Valley Green Inn trying to filter the world through their feathers;
  3. The first time I saw a black squirrel in Wissahickon Park;
  4. What it felt like to thrown down 5 miles in 35 minutes at the Gener8tion Run in the ghost town deep inside the Navy Yard;
  5. Fresh mowed grass sticking to my sweaty shins in June;
  6. The way the floor boards of a yoga studio vibrate when 45 people flow together, wrapped in each other's energy and bound by the solidarity of a single beat;
  7. Tired puppies running faithfully by their parents at the most ridiculous hours of the morning;
  8. Loss and inspiration;
  9. The courage to step back onto my high school track and the brutal echoes of coaching that greeted me there;
  10. Lying in the grass with my best friend, listening to the waves pound down the sand and losing 10 years;
  11. 7 x 800 on a Tuesday morning so hot the windows were sweating when I woke up, done;
  12. Tiger balm massages followed by intense stretching and ice every night for 4 weeks;
  13. The first sports massage to ever make my eyes tear;
  14. Donating 15 pairs of running shoes;
  15. Oves' apple cider doughnuts;
  16. What it feels like to pour my post-long run chocolate milk into the wine glass I received from the ODDyssey Half Marathon this year as a "thank you" for running with them for their first three years;
  17. Every cramp I didn't stop for;
  18. An appreciation for a "nice" port-o-potty;
  19. Watching the Schuylkill River Trail swell with new, eager faces in the Spring and Summer;
  20. Those quiet mornings when the middle of the Falls Bridge is the most exquisite and uninterrupted view you've ever seen - no matter of what or of how far or wide you've traveled - it just takes your breath;
  21. The runs you take when the miles don't beep and no pace is blown;
  22. Learning that balance begins with presence and activity (and a flexed foot);
  23. Chafing for the first time and realizing Chapstick is a super quick fix for a desperate runner at mile 16 of 20; 
  24. The moment I saw the dome on the Montgomery County Courthouse appear over a hill and I realized just how far I'd run from Philly on a path no wider than a sidewalk and no more paved than a gravel driveway;
  25. Donating my hair to a Ginger with a hurdle bearing down on her;
  26. Push-ups at the top of the Art Museum Steps;
  27. When I broke 1:42 in the ODDyssey Half Marathon, 2012;
  28. Realizing coffee (caffeine) is a stimulant and it's food that fuels us on our long and our short runs;
  29. The embrace and the support at the end of a hard race, no matter how far and no matter where, ever present and ever more;
  30. Age;
  31. Asking myself why I run; and
  32. Answering.
Boston is still out there.  But this time, 43 days shy of the Philly Marathon, I am in no rush to get there.  

Saturday, May 5, 2012

Audacity Beckons: Broad Street Run Eve (2012)

On any given race day, it is likely I will show up with gritty butterflies and emotionally raw, bouncing up and down on my toes, ever so slightly, with nervous energy.  At that moment, when the line forms and I stand among first timers and the elite, completely anonymous, it occurs to me that no one knows my name or my personal best, my goal or my history, my injuries or my triumphs, and least of all, my story.  It is then that I think I'm strong and capable.  It is this gathering of brilliant athletes and brave rookies that captivates me and  reminds me that when nothing is expected, anything is possible.  


As Broad Street Run #3 floats just 24 hours out of reach, I'm torn between the goal (77 minutes) with my Garmin at the ready and Micah True's "Run Free" philosophy.  Because the Broad Street Run has long been my recovery run – mentally, physically and emotionally - whatever the corresponding injury may be, it is the very symbol of running free for me.  I've returned to it post-cancer, post-stress fracture and post-crisis.  It is the force my running life gravitates around, from the beginning of a circle to the end, and all over again.  Because the Broad Street Run was my first race, a moment of power and stability in a storm, and the single greatest comeback I've been a part of, I want to crush it. Hard.  And therein lies my fork in the road.  To run fearless or to run fast.


With the start line in sight, freedom in focus and something to prove to myself, I'll remember every January 5AM run, every snowy day out on the path, the two-a-day workouts that followed, and everything in between as I fly down Broad Street looking for familiar faces and signs. I will eat a peanut butter and banana sandwich with my puppy at 5AM. I will kneel at Mass and pray.  I will not join my corral until it moves and dissipates. I will wear my Garmin.  I will not partake in water stations.  I will run through fire hydrants.  I will stride over cups and down medians to avoid crowds. I will lean forward and keep my arms down.  I will push through ankle pain.  I will push through any pain.  I will run a true race for myself and no one else.  And I will not look at my watch at the finish line.  I will look straight ahead, open up my hips and lengthen my stride, smile up as I cross over with #3 behind me, make eye contact with the person handing me water and push the wall down.




 In life, as in running, you don't have to be fast, but you'd better be fearless.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Eye contact, small smile and "good morning."

As the warmer weather folds itself around our training programs and the layers come off, our paths inevitably crowd.  There we find walkers, in packs and alone, old and young, pushing strollers or pulling retrievers, riders announced by bells, whistles, or "on your left" blazing by in a neon blur, new runners struggling with uphills that have long faded for you and flocks of geese crossing at any given moment. I've chosen to run toward and with this crowd rather than from it because almost 7 years ago someone reminded me that life (and running) is not all about time (or getting through the crowd) but about our experiences along the way. 


I wasn't a runner then.  At best, I was a law student fiercely riding the "muscle memory" theory of athleticism. I was a confident enough twenty five to ignore the fact I hadn't run or thought of running in over a year and sign up for a hot 5k in Wilmington, Delaware in May, 2005.  Because, after all, it was only three miles and back in 1998 I was a cross country machine.  No worries.

Fast forward to the day of the race.  Hungover, with hungover friends, driving to a waterfront to run for a cause I can't now recall - debating whether to run - pulling it together - and ultimately setting out for what remains one of the most painful races I've ever participated in.  But, from pain comes strength and, if we're lucky, lasting lessons.  That day, I was lucky enough to run with a friend who showed me in the simplest way that running, like many other things in life, provides opportunities to connect and be kind at every turn.  Despite his late night, early morning and possible hangover, he said "good morning" or "hi" or waved or nodded or smiled at every person we passed along the way.  Every walker, rider, runner, child, woman, man and dog along the Wilmington waterfront that morning learned that this was a man who enjoyed the journey as much as the destination.

Each time I lace up my shoes, no matter the path or how many people I pass along the way, I carry this lesson in my pocket and say "hello" as I move among the crowd.  It surprises some, others beat me to it and ultimately I've found that those connections on a longer run can make or break me. 

So as the crowds form (and they will) and people inevitably get in the way of a straight line on a long, hot run (and they will), I think it's important to remember community and kindness and take that opportunity to make eye contact, smile and say "good morning."

Saturday, March 31, 2012

Push the walls. Away.

From the floor of a small ballet studio overlooking Sansom Street, two stories up, she floats effortlessly across mirror-side and says this so quietly and with such conviction, I am struck by both its punch and its pick-up, "Push your walls away."

And so I do:

In a barre pilates class, extended through my potential "X" toward the four corners of that space;

Rising from a deep chair pose, reaching beyond the beams in the old room in the back, with dim light, blocked by a narrow alley and overlapping borders;

From stride one of 15 miles so early on a Saturday that I am alone with the struggle - of grass against frost, geese against wind, emptiness against suffocation and me against the unknown miles; and

From my last mile, finally in time with my breath:

Inhale, you can do this.

Exhale, push the walls away.

Inhale, lengthen my stride with loose hips.

Exhale, move my weight into the momentum.

Inhale, believe in the finish line.

Exhale, channel crossing it.

It is within these rhythmic breaths that I am warm on the coldest winter runs, that I see purpose in movement and find insight to the space between me and my practice. As a Runner, I've learned that I identify the unknown as the walls that hold me down into the known, crushing growth and slowing potential.  My constant breath pushes this thought from my head and this concept from my radar.  It is a workout within any given workout to push my thoughts out beyond the limits I perceive and the pain that often comes with poor conditions.

I push away "cannot," and "what if," fears and the "no fucking way," doubts and "I'm too old," emptiness and anger, anxiety and pain, and disappointment and fatigue.  With every step forward into a run, I hold up the space between my walls, breathe deep, and tighten my grip on gratitude ever so slightly.  It is this way and only this way that I find personal bests still at the end of long races, waiting with open arms, and whispering all the while, "boom."

Monday, March 5, 2012

"Strong is the New Skinny."

With the wind gusting through you and stopping only at the black sky, the early morning 15 miler you chose for that first Friday in March can seem decidedly more harsh than anticipated and ragged like a hem line slowly falling.  Edges unraveled by the time, weather and life, you put your feet on the cold floor and believe you can.

It is the kind of run you respect;
The run that you flip all of the lights on for;
The moment for which you choose your mittens wisely;
The kind of run that warrants "Cupcake Thursday;"
The run that humbles your ligaments and invigorates your inner butterfly; and
That which separates Runners from everyone else.

The longest run of 2012 and since the Philadelphia Marathon, my first March run stormed in as a lion would, fearless and proud, ready to attack.  It left no room for doubt or anxiety.  It barely left time for breakfast.  This was as an electric of a run as I've had this year; ballsy and, at times, painful, this course was hilly, fast in between and a complete bitch throughout.  Quite simply, it made me find my strength. 

I had to dig down for the first time since Philly-Marathon-Mile-22.  And so I did. And over the hills I flew.  Stronger, harder, faster than before, the miles melted down and, despite the wind, the sweat poured off my face as if July was present, soaking my Under Armour.  I believed I was strong enough and therefore I was.  I believed that the miles would fade steadily and they did.  I saw my quads struggling uphill and felt my hamstrings lengthening in the decline.  My body was strong underneath me and I realized it.  Gone was my perception of a skinny, lanky girl and in its place was the epitome of compact strength.   All in one place, ready for action and unafraid of falling.

This is the run that reminded me to be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies. 
(~ Mother Teresa)

Saturday, February 18, 2012

Broad Street Run 2012

It is only after the last (13 mile) leg of my 30-miles-in-3-days-in-order-to-cram-35-miles-into-the-longest-work-week-of-my-young-life that I am, at my core, ready to embrace the first race of my running season (May through November).  As last week popped with four runs and three strength workouts it rounded out with hot yoga, a heating pad and the familiar tingle of the 2012 Broad Street Run Registration.  This was my first real race two years ago; the first real physical challenge I'd faced since Melanoma; and likely is the race that set my confidence and drive on fire.

When you take a leap you will, inevitably, fall.  But you never forget what it felt like to soar into something unknown and empowering.  This is what the Broad Street Run is for me.

My first leap;
Rainbows under open fire hydrants;
10 assembly line Peanut Butter and Banana (PB&B) sandwiches;
A personal best (81minutes);
The way the ships quiet the crowd approaching the Navy Yard;
Water Balloons;
Students Run Philly Style Blue T-Shirts peppering the crowd;
Our Lady of Hope's stillness;
Fresh cut grass;
Safe landings after jumped fences;
The Gray Corral;
The beacon that City Hall becomes;
Father Esmilla's message of love and steadiness;
GU packets, like confetti, floating just above our feet;
The sound of the plastic water cups crunching into our strides;
Fairmount Park tailgates;
Red cheeked photographs;
Milestones through the initial mayhem of the first miles;
Digging in the last of the miles;
Chills that always come from cowbells (because they remind you of high school and because that seems so far away now);
Watching the Lehigh Drop;
The adrenalin pushing you through Temple, leaving you in South Philly and returning again as the Navy Yard welcomes you home;
The split breath of that last sprint; and
The teary-eyed look back at the finish line where you left it all.

It is not just a race, but a movement.  Not just a run, but a straight, flat, fast shot down to the quick of a City; The Broad Street Run is my beginning and the high after my low.  Tired after another long week in the off-season,  this race is ever still my reminder that it is not how we soar that defines us, but how well we rise after falling.  


Saturday, February 11, 2012

You choose.

I've been (almost obsessively) listening to the Adele Live at Royal Albert Hall Album since December 25, 2011.  It was a random last-minute Christmas gift, purchased on the way from the office to the gym, in an actual store that specializes in selling actual CDs and DVDs.  My dad loved the gift and I've memorized every single word I later saved to my iPod.  

There is now a point on every (treadmill) workout when her cover of "To Make you Feel my Love" hits my ear buds and the desperation in those lyrics combines with the hour of the day (usually before 6AM) and it becomes a love song not about love at all; rather, the scrapes and the craziness, bruises and blows (to the body, soul and ego) and the gut wrenching realization that something has you where it wants you and you would do anything at any time to make it so, stands up and reminds you that this is in fact the case:

I'd go hungry
I'd go black and blue

I'd go crawling
Down the avenue
Know there's nothing
That I wouldn't do
To make you feel my love

And when those long notes push me into 7 minute miles to complete my workout just shy of 6:30AM, looking down a long day and another workout at 6:00PM, I know with more certainty than anything else, that I made the right choice - for the day, the week, the month and the year, for always - and it will continue to make the difference, in running, life, love and my ever after to Boston in 2013.    

It is in this moment that the small choices need to make the difference.  It's at 5:00AM when just turning on the right combination of lights matters.  It's at 4:30AM when the blender blending your green monster the first time you add the last of the ingredients matters.  It's on a January morning just before snow that finding your favorite glitten on your first try in the dark matters.  It's the feeling of new socks and the way your hat dries quickly on the heater at the gym that make these mornings effortless.  And so, here is to every small choice that got me to where I am today and made me realize I am a Runner.



Friday, February 3, 2012

"Life is one big road with lots of signs. So when you riding through the ruts, don't complicate your mind." - Bob Marley

Jamaica: 2012

One would think 85 degrees and tropically sunny connotes beautiful, uninterrupted beach running.  Unfortunately, this One would be wrong.  First, the beach, while perfectly arched against the blue water, is less in distance than 1.5 football fields strung together.  Second, there is no running (or walking) beyond this perfect little half moon.  And finally, it would make the job of the beach cocktail waiter that much harder if he had to try to catch me in order to deliver my 2PM Dirty Banana. 

So with the beach ruled out, three days of rest and no where to turn to but an open air workout room the size of my kitchen at home, I set out to run five miles on a treadmill that is easily a decade older than I am with its giant "faster" and "slower" arrows, complete inability to retain a workout summary and refusal to "pause." 

Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the machine not only turned on but also purported to keep track of pace and distance - the only necessities as far as I was concerned. And this is where I remained, uninterrupted, for the next 44 minutes, facing out at a wall of palm trees, no music, with only the sound of waves and the little coqui frogs to lull me into a calm, steady pace. 

This first run and those that followed in that private little corner away from the rest of the resort (and what felt like the world, my anxiety, troubles in general and any thought other than "left, right") was a wonderfully focused experience and meditative beyond its own four corners.  The path, once again, felt uncomplicated as I left that quiet niche and opened my eyes to the road with all of its signs. 

Speed is Work.

The next time you think you're bored on a treadmill, try sprinting on it for 3 minutes at race pace and then hopping off the flying belt and dropping to the ground for push-ups so rapid you can almost hear the urban-camo-wearing-rittenhouse-boot-camp-instructor-making-$35/class screaming in your ear.  Stop pushing up approximately 30 seconds after you begin.  Crumble to the ground.  Repeat the entire fiasco at least 7 more times.  Ideally, make this the second workout of your day so that when you peel yourself off the ground after that last, personal-record-setting set of push-ups, you are certain that only a hot shower and dinner stand in the way of what will certainly be motionless sleep. 

Do not mess with an iPod before, during or after this workout.  There is no time to coordinate a playlist or locate Lady Gaga amongst all of the other "L's" in "Artists."  This workout is fluid and exists largely without a full pause.  That is to say that even when you are staggering past the other members of your gym in the direction of the only working water fountain or when you are unraveled in a child's pose at the base of your treadmill with your left cheek placed pleasantly on the gym carpet (where you do realize this is a horrifying place to rest your exposed skin but are nonetheless powerless to move), your muscles are twitching and you should be stretching them just before you get back on the treadmill and begin another three minute sprint.

Watching the time tick down and stop after your final set is as triumphant as crossing a finish line - ever in sight, ever tangible -  ragged and gasping for the air your last push on the make believe course stole, you come to a stop and inhale.  Exhale. Fold in two.  Pick up your head, neck and shoulders from your knees.  Slowly.  And back off the treadmill until your feet, on solid ground, are able to glide you away from the first of many  speed workouts and into thirty more push-ups as sweat drips off your nose in perfect little drops onto the same place on the carpet where your cheek rested and you think of Gene Hackman reminding you that "[these] practices are not designed for your enjoyment."

Monday, January 23, 2012

January 23, 2012: #3


January 23, 1991: Seinfeld debuts on NBC-TV;
January 23, 1997: Madeline Albright, America’s first female Secretary of State, was sworn in on this day;
January 23, 2004: "Captain Kangaroo," died at age 76;
January 23, 2010: I decided I was going to run again;
January 23, 2011: I decided I was going to be a Runner; and
January 23, 2012: I decided I will qualify for Boston this year. 

January 23, 2010 and January 23, 2011 were cold and dusted with the first snow of the month; January 23, 2012 was no different as I stared out at it in the early morning hours of my first workout of the day: five miles on the treadmill, tempo.  In the locker room and on the way to the gym in the rain, I dreaded the moment when my sweatpants came off and I climbed onto this running machine.  I wanted my bed, coffee and slippers; a hot shower that didn’t necessitate flip flops; an actual walk with my dog; warmer clothes; and a gradual wakeup well beyond 4:30AM.  I looked in the mirror at the circles under my eyes, briefly reflected on the possibility that I’d (once again) forgotten underwear and realized that I was, sadly, out of shampoo, all before finally making eye contact with myself. 

There I was, for whatever reason, staring at myself in the gym mirror at 5:30AM on a rainy Monday morning with no one else around – wondering out loud, “do I have what it takes to commit to this?”  No one answered.  But, I did manage to untangle my earbuds sans tantrum, jump on a treadmill and jump right into 9 and 8 minute miles without looking back (too much) and this seems to be half the battle with my morning workouts. 

Steadiness came on like the blanket I’d ripped off an hour prior and carried me through to the end of this tiny but powerful run #1.  Peppered by U2 and Zac Brown, the miles all felt the same: controlled and tenacious.  In mile 5, fixated on my ponytail swinging back and forth at the exact moment my feet fell, I heard Zac Brown scream out “You keep your heart above your head and your eyes wide open - So this world can't find a way to leave you cold,” and thought “exactly.”  With those five miles behind me and a crazy nighttime workout ahead of me [8 x 3 Minutes at Race Pace/30 Seconds Max Pushups], the outlook on January 23, 2012, like the weather, is identical to years past:  ready for the next day and the next hurdle.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Preface: A preliminary statement [of hope's intent].

"Don't sit there and plan for a new life, man - enjoy right now.  This moment.  That's what we got.  No guarantees, right?  This is it.  Enjoy it," she heard one security guard say to another as she stood with her back to them, all bundled up and looking out at the cold January night popping live on Market Street.

Arms shaking from her second workout of the day and in the middle of contemplating dinner, chores, laundry and packing for the next two workouts to come, this conversation snapped her out of the overwhelming monotony of doubt that winter sometimes brings.  Its tone brought her rapid fire thoughts to an abrupt stop and its sincerity threw chills up and down her spine as the room stopped moving for an instant and those words sunk in to her bones.  With that, the following day's long run didn't seem so daunting and energy not quite so fleeting.  The world, once again, seemed full of hope's good graces and possibility.  As if a message from another world was delivered for her ears only:

"The time was now.  Look the next 10 months of training in the face; realize it will be brutal in every sense and every muscle; and move beyond it."

And well received:

"Sleep will be lost.  Food will be fuel.  Hydration will be an art.  And you will adapt," she thought to herself walking out the revolving door.

Hope remains a thing in which expectations are centered.  Expect to see her in Boston, 2013.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Prologue

On November 20, 2011, I ran the Philadelphia Marathon in 3 hours, 58 minutes and 32 seconds, crossed the finish line in a fury, grabbed chicken broth, and a metallic blanket with “time of your life” written on it, turned to face the finish line and silently thought, “I can do better” and “Fuck, that was hard” at the same time.
    
On December 25, 2011, while on the way home from the last of the Christmas parties, full of Aunt Claire’s sausage-and-onion stuffing and Uncle Frank’s Irish Coffee, I decided that wasn't good enough. In fact, it was about 23 minutes and 32 seconds from good enough according to Boston 2013.  And so, counted among my resolutions to buy a curling iron (done); to jump more and fear less; to run over 1,500 miles in 2012; and to pay one good thing forward a week, you will find “Qualify for Boston 2013” highlighted in yellow in the middle of the page with the following lyrics scribble-wrapping it up:


"And I think I'll go to Boston,
I think that I'm just tired
I think I need a new town, to leave this all behind...
I think I need a sunrise, I'm tired of the sunset,
I hear it's nice in the Summer, some snow would be nice."


And so it was decided.  At 8:46PM on Christmas night, I resolved to train harder, push farther and use the time I had to achieve the time of my life.  After a calorie induced sleep, I woke on December 26, 2011 as if it was New Years Day and clean slates abounded.  I bundled up, ran 7 miles hard over the Ben Franklin Bridge to prove to myself that I had some fight left and did what any runner looking to transition from hobbyist to athlete would do:  I emailed my high school track coach with “I need to (1) shave off 23 minutes from my time to qualify for Boston and (2) know that this is possible,” to which he replied “I’m all in.”  

What I find comforting about that answer is that it’s based solely on his knowledge of who I am; rather, who I was when I walked off of his track in 1999.  From the man that trained me, cross trained me, taught me to lift and not to lift, applauded me and made me cry, shouted across a track, followed me on a bike and pushed me without worrying if I’d have a teenage-girl-meltdown, this matter-of-fact confidence was exactly what I needed.


30 miles per week, pilates, lifting twice a week and yoga is me in my off season. 

Motivational emails aside, this guy, this dream and the next 11 months are surely going to be no joke.  With that, Chapter Two will leave Chapter One’s injuries behind, square its hips and charge North, to Boston.