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.