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.