2014: Be Happy. Be Bright. Be You.

"There is no passion to be found in settling for a life

that is less than the one you are capable of living"

- Nelson Mandela -

Wikipedia says, "a New Years Resolution is a secular tradition, most common in the West but found around the world, in which a person makes a promise to do an act of self-improvement starting on New Years Day." However, I've always operated under the assumption that short term goals lead to long term dreams and, accordingly, treated resolutions more like a twelve month bucket list.  Without this list, kept in the first few pages of my Franklin Covey Planner, I'd certainly feel slightly less accountable if not completely untethered.  

In reviewing my 2013 Bucket List, I'd say, "she believed she could, so she did."  

Looking forward to 2014, I want to focus on this idea: "Do not be afraid to fail.  Be afraid not to try."

And so it begins with these highlights from my handwritten list:

1. Run 2000+ miles.
2. Stop picking my thumbs.
3. Be present.
4. Meatless Mondays and Thursdays.
5. One new marathon.
6. An Ultra.
7. November Project: Wednesdays, 6:30 AM, Art Museum Steps.
8. No more Splenda.  

Think happy thoughts and put a smile on your face so that positive opportunities can find you.

Here, there and everywhere: 2014.

This is Where I Belong.

Start where you are.

Use what you have.

Do what you can.

- Arthur Ashe -

At 33, I can finally say and mean, "there is always, always, always something to be thankful for."  If you look hard enough, you will likely find, as I have, that good is admirably purposeful; that bad isn't always; and sometimes gray is stunning in its simplicity.  And, it is a firm balance of all three that creates who we become.  

I found this balance often in 2013:

1. In Boston, on April 15, 2013, when runners helped other runners up; and heroes ran toward the bombing and not away from it.  Knowing you will always find people who are helping is a powerful, human kind of faith that I'm only finding in adulthood.
2. During a conversation I overheard at the ODDyssey Half Marathon, a race punctuated by costumes and lawn games held in Philadelphia every June, between two men in their 30's, one wearing tight jean shorts and no shirt and the other wearing a batman costume made for a child.
   Jean Shorts: "I'm on pace for a PR so I'm going to keep on going, OK?"
   Batman: "Go get it man, I can't stay with you that long - I'm stopping at the Slip-N-Slide."
3. In the middle of a Students Run huddle on a frigid, sleet-filled, March afternoon or stretching out after the hottest August practice on record:  the moment when you realize that, no matter what, these kids show up for you and you for them.
4. Setting a PR (45:43) at Cooper River Park at the SJAC No Frills, Just Thrills 10K and knowing you only came in as "second female" to a 16 year old girl.
5. In reading"Omnivore's Dilemma" and Scott Jurek's "Eat & Run" and in the result: taking control of what I put into my body and where it comes from.
6. When your seven year old puppy keeps you out for two hours on a Fall Sunday morning bouncing from park to park, rolling around, sprinting after leaves, chasing sticks and acting like the kid you still hope he is inside.  
7. During the National Anthem, at Sunrise, before the Marine Corps. Marathon in October, standing in stunned silence as the American Flag descends to earth on the backs of parachutists; resolving to crush the race ahead; and bringing home a new PR (3:46:16).
8. On long runs with the women you were always meant to find your stride beside. 
9. Those moments of such intense pain when you're stopped, bent and praying you will be able to find a cab at 6:00AM in University City.
10. Lying on the snow-covered, uneven payment, in the dark at 5:45AM, on Kelly Drive, having just fallen, for the second year in a row, days before the Philly Marathon.
11. Suffering a loss so staggering that all you are left with is patience and toughness and the idea that, someday, all of the pain will be useful to you.
12. Finishing the 2013 Philly Marathon in 4:27:56, step for step with someone who inspires you with her determination, fearlessness and gumption; someone who knows weakness and distraction and rises above them both; someone who pushed you to have faith and to push her to a new marathon PR at the age of 16.
13. With ankle up, iced and resting, "every now and then the things I lean on lose their meaning and I find myself careening into places where I should not let me go," and circling back to strength and patience; to be objective enough to find the lesson in everything.
14. At the intersection of Wolf and S. Lambert Streets in South Philly on December 7, 2013 at 7:00AM, just as the sun was touching the day, where hundreds of Ultra Marathoners gathered for the inaugural Rocky 50K Fat Ass Race, and I was silently praying that I was strong enough and resolute enough to begin and finish this crazy idea.  
15. In the strength you find to run up 72 steps, with "Eye of a Tiger" blaring, after just running 31 miles…and the view from the top.
16. On the long, thankless runs where no one is there to cheer or give you water; deep in the woods or on unbearable stretches of pavement; early in the morning or long after the sun has gone down: the ability to see that any chance you get to run is a gift.  
17. Flashing back to the old man in the wheelchair at mile 23 of the Philadelphia Marathon and the sign he held high enough to stand out among all of the others: "Look at me and Run harder!"
18. Reveling in the fact you're not green anymore; this sport is not new; and your body is not untried.    
19. For the pre-marathon hugs just as Students Run Philly Style students made their way to the start line this year! 
20. Wondering how many more marathons you have left.
21. Chasing 2000 miles in 2013, falling 38 miles short and choosing to be grateful for the miles that happened rather than lament those that didn't.  

This is where I take out my frustrations, my fears, my sadness, my insecurities.

This is where I find my hope, my faith, my dreams, my happiness.

This is where I belong.

This is my soul searching.

Good things take Miles: Twenty Seven (May 25, 2013)

"She's mad but she's magic;

There's no lie in her fire."

Making the decision to run 27 miles was easy; saying it out loud is what made me crazy. I'd never trained at that level, never gone beyond 26.2 in a race, never enjoyed such distance and time on a run.  And so, on a chilly Saturday in May, I set out, camera in hand, to record the moments and the smiles dotting my last 3.5 years running in Philadelphia.  

Twenty Seven miles represented by Twenty Seven pictures, four hours and six minutes of memories: the smiles that happened in a flash captured for a lifetime.  This run was ridiculously grueling and unexpectedly forgiving; simple, straight and all mine; not confined to time or pace; basic like the beginning and strong like the finish line, designed with the whimsy of a little girl lost in something she loves: 

The beginning:  My loyal Charlie - up with me at 4:30AM for wheat bagels and blackberry jam with half a cup of coffee and the final glass of water - helping me get my water bottles ready, charging the camera, stretching and working out the nerves.  He is truly the best trainer I've ever had.

Mile 1:  The view down the parkway from the Art Museum Steps that I'm lucky enough to have at the beginning of almost every run I take in Philly.  It was clear of people and cars so early on a Memorial Day Weekend (6:05AM).  

Mile 2:  The Geese finally had their babies!  This was a huge family on its way to breakfast.  For me, they represent the consistency I love about running the Loop in Philly. The same Geese are in the same spots along the path.  I knew before I saw this family, that I was about to run into them because of the time of day and location.  

Mile 3: The Power Plant.  Running back behind Naval Square off of 26th and Catharine, you find really huge, industrial, scary looking buildings.  The quiet encountered here, in contrast to the overpowering buildings, is truly awesome.  No people, no traffic, no litter, no real signs of life and no distractions.  Sometimes I think I could stay here forever.

Mile 4:  Crossing the South Street Bridge and heading into UPenn territory.  This is, without a doubt, one of my favorite places to run in all of Philadelphia.  UPenn is a city unto itself.  It is sheltered and traversed mainly by students and people wearing scrubs.  It is manicured, well lit, clean, and slightly unbelievable in its serenity so close to Center City.  I feel anonymous here.  I feel like I belong here.  Crossing under this overpass is, quite simply, like coming home at the end of a long day and closing the door behind me; instant silence and comfort.  

Mile 5:  It's on this hill at Spruce Street, heading toward the bigger, badder numbered streets, that my spirit is repeatedly built and broken.  This picture does not do the incline or uneven pavement justice.  Trust that these are the hills that comprised the hill workouts that prepared me for a ridiculous marathon in Lancaster.  This is the place that makes me stronger.

Mile 6: The intersection of 48th and Spruce has been my turnaround point since I discovered the UPenn hills.  I think it's beautiful because it represents a few miles of downhills (see above) and also because of its emptiness.  An empty school overlooking empty stands along the side of an empty, manicured field.  It is quiet and screaming "Do better!" all at the same time.

Mile 7: A huge thanks to CHOP for creating this little park. It's a natural stopping point and always empty.  Too many hospital rooms look down on it for me to feel comfortable staying very long.  But every time I'm here, I look up at one or two of those windows and am reminded I'm healthy and I'm lucky.  Off I go.  

Mile 8: This is but a little snippet of the beauty lining the streets back by all of the hospitals.  Miles go by with me wondering what kind of flower this is and what kind of flower that is.  Thinking to myself, my mom would know this, when will I?

Mile 9: Philly is still a world away as Mile 9 falls down with me circling grass fields on a walking path at the base of Franklin Field.

Mile 10:  Running across, under and over various sets of train tracks - this is a set that borders the park at Mile 9 - Every time I see these old supports side by side with new bridges built from materials I can't pronounce, I am amazed at the respect for the past - so evident here - and beautiful.

Mile 11:  Locust Walk.  This is what made me fall in love with running back in University City all of those years ago.  It was December, there were white twinkle lights and the kind of glowing Christmas Balls you see in Rittenhouse Square hung everywhere.  It was dark at 5PM and all of the students were hustling and all bundled up.  It felt uniquely collegiate and special.  Every time I head down this little walkway, I'm reminded of that December and can almost smell the snow in the air.  This is one of those places burned into all of my senses and never far from my thoughts.  

Mile 12: I'm not sure what this to the general public, students, professors, or anyone else walking through campus in the last few decades, but, to me, it is my focal point from the time I arrive.  I head toward it when I'm tired and tell myself, "Just get to the red thing," and "Oh there it is!" I cross under it and feel instantly like I've broken finish line tape and am looking for my medal.  It's ugly, huge and red but I love it and I think it loves me back.

Mile 13: The parking lot at Penn is all cleared out for the summer!  Sigh...

Mile 14: Huge. Scary. Intersection.  With the city looking compact enough to fit inside a snow globe, all I ever want to do is fly through this intersection on the Penn side of the South Street Bridge and return home.  This happens once every 5-6 times I attempt to do so. 

Mile 15: Oh hello, Art Museum, I'm back!  This little hill is the last one of this 27 miler and the last of almost all of my runs.  It feels like I've hit the downside of something huge - whether its 6 miles or 30 - there is nothing like the flat miles to come!

Mile 16: The one mile marker of so many runs...the home stretch of the Philly Marathon and countless half marathons...the beginning and the end; the completion of a circle that only I own. Other than that, I have no idea what this statue is supposed to be...

Mile 17: Crossing under the Girard Bridge at Mile 17 was the moment I realized this run was going to be tough and take guts to complete.  My arms started getting tired of reaching for the camera here.  This is my favorite of all of the views on the Loop.  Crossing over (or under, really) out of the dark and into the light where the rowers cut the water and the sky is blue and the trees are green and all is right with the world for that first moment.

Mile 18:  Approaching the "big stone bridge."  I'm really not sure what this is or if it's an actual, working bridge.  There are grandstands just beyond this point where a lot of the rowing parents sit during the regattas and a glorious water fountain that's saved my ass more times than I'd care to admit resides there too.  It's one of four mile markers I use on almost every run no matter how far I'm going.  And the sight of it, from far away, gives me the "you've almost made it" butterflies.

Mile 19: Meeting up with my Students Run Family at miles 15 through 21 of this journey really made the difference.  One of my favorite kids responded this way when I asked how she was feeling on her 6 mile run.  

Mile 20:  The Strawberry Mansion Bridge.  The keeper of prayers and secrets; picnics and curse words; deep stretches and really icy patches in January; and the 3 mile marker coming and going.

Mile 21:  (Note:  At this point, the running is hard, my legs are heavy and I'm very aware there are 6 more miles to go and so I find my mind wandering...)  This is Rachel and the Mile 19 Student.  It's 9:30AM on a Saturday morning.  Rachel got up early, got dressed, left her husband and daughter, traveled from NJ on Memorial Day Weekend, and fought to park.  All so she could be here, in this moment, having this conversation with this kid.  Students Run Philly Style is fueled by this kind of accountability and dedication:  No less.  No different. 

Mile 22: More ducks and geese at the very beginning of Boat House Row.  I used to look at this view from 76 and think it so majestic; like it was something I would never truly get near - an icon so far removed from my life down the shore that I'd only see it going to and from the King of Prussia Mall or on posters - and so I love this behind the scenes look at something so typically pristine and polished.    

Mile 23:  Speaking of...No photo album would be complete without this picture.  It is, after all, uniquely and solely Philadelphia.  While it may not be something I look for anymore, it's not because it's ceased to be a beacon.  But rather, because I know it will always be there.

Mile 24:  The Three Mile Green House.  This little neon green shack means more to me than most places do.  It is the three mile marker of my very first 6 mile run and all those that followed.  It was my first turn around point, the first time I ventured off of Kelly Drive, where I cried when I was dealing with a stress fracture, where I learned what pain was, the focus of a lot of my half marathons ("just get to the freaking green house") and a little reminder of how far I've come.  There is also a flower bed full of random herbs here.  The rosemary never disappoints.

Mile 25:  This picture has it all:  the skyline, the art museum, the waterworks, lawns, trees, flowers, water, a small waterfall, a walking path and even, if you look closely, geese.  But that's not why I took it.  It is a reminder to never, ever, no matter the circumstances, ever end such a run on West River Drive.  This was my first glimpse of civilization.  The miles that came before brought tears to my eyes with their monotony and made me question whether I'd actually finish without stopping.  There was simply nothing whatsoever to focus on.  Nothing to draw me near.  Nothing to think about reaching out and touching.  And then this beautiful city appeared and I decided to run toward it.  And that made all the difference.

Mile 26.3:  This is what I look like after running farther than I've ever run before (26.3 miles).  If you can't tell, I'm wearing neon and am on top of the world.  Just behind me is the Cira Center and in front of me is the Edgewater.  I'm almost back to the very simple beginning with aching ankles and a super goofy smile.  

Mile 27: At 19th and Market, in the middle of the street on a Saturday morning on Memorial Day Weekend, staring at stillness with eyes landing on City Hall knowing I just gave up on the good and got the great.  

And so, on a very chilly May morning, after four hours, 50+ pictures, one Students Run practice, a sprinkle of rain, a lot of stretching, a few baby geese, some ducks, a black squirrel, jogging strollers, puppies, familiar faces, and not enough water, I realized that the thing to do is enjoy the ride while you're on it.  Pain and all.  Because there are no guarantees that you'll get to go around again.  

This entry, then, becomes a gift to myself.  

A way to remember an epic ride. 

  

Broad Street Run 2013: Number Four.

Let the beauty we love be what we do. *Rumi

In the backyard, in a circle we read them.  The goals for the next day, written in marker and plucked one by one from a pink bowl, out of the mouths of young teammates on the verge of something huge.  

"To run the entire race without stopping."

"To get 40 high fives!"

"To beat 90 minutes."

"No walking at all!"

"To beat Mrs. Tilli!"  

"To do better than I did last year." 

And my own thought for the next day, "To run with a smile on my face."

With all of our hands falling in the middle and voices raised up together one last time, we set out confidently in the direction of the Broad Street Run with our red socks and butterflies.

And then, just like that, I was back in a familiar routine - waking up with a house full of my sleepy friends, plain bagels and blackberry jam, and listening to Father Esmilla give the Runner's Mass at Our Lady of Hope.

Standing in the yellow corral, watching our students' faces and bright blue shirts float in a sea of strangers, I watched as this team rallied, smiled, cheered, climbed, jumped and, finally, settled into the task with all eyes on the Start Line.  Huddled together, out of cold and nerves, it occurred to me that this wasn't Hoosiers' big speech time. We were way past that.  It was eyes-down-small-prayer-deep-breath time.  It was watch sync-ing, satellite-finding, sock adjusting time.  It was lock down, goal setting, fire-me-from-a-cannon time. It was time to get rid of the fleece lined sweatshirt with the holes at the elbows that had been my go-to, trustworthy, wonderfully warm companion for more than a decade.  It was time to move up, get low and weave my way through thousands of people for miles upon miles.  And so, when the yellow corral finally crossed the start line, 25 minutes after the race began, and an entirely new experience unfolded my fourth Broad Street Run out before me like an old map, I took off after someone else's goal: 80 Minutes.  

And for the next 10 miles, I watched two kids watch the crowd.  I watched them watch me.  I watched them  decide to skip crowded water stations.  I watched them thank volunteers.  I watched them light up when they saw their parents and laugh at the ridiculous signs lining Broad Street.  I watched them abandon their iPods and embrace the chaos around them.  I watched them grow tired and find another wind.  I watched them smile when they passed people.  I watched them be courteous and respectful of the event and their fellow runners.  I watched them fall in line between strangers.  I watched them understand that, for this moment, they were in control.  I watched them cheer on the other blue shirts - sometimes subtly, sometimes a pat on the back, and sometimes a scream - and I watched them raise up other kids.  I watched them react to spectators cheering for Students Run and I saw pride in their faces then.  And then, at mile 9.7, they watched me, waiting to fly, and off we went strong to the finish.  I watched them as they passed hundreds of people.  I watched them dodge walkers and weave in and out of imaginary lanes, eyes straight ahead.  I saw their focus and that's when I watched them cross the line and meet their goal.  80 minutes on the nose. 

Who are we? Students!

What do we do?  Run!

How do we do it?  Philly Style!

My third marathon: "The trouble is, you think you have time."

 

"Always believe that something wonderful is about to happen."

4:00AM hit and my feet were on the floor before my mind realized my head was no longer resting on a pillow and so this pattern would continue, power before reason, through the finish line of my third marathon. Gone were the doubts caused by tapering, ridiculous eating and hydration.  Gone was the second guessing fueled mainly by Scott Jurek's Eat & Run preaching Vegan this and plant-based that.  Instead, I had before me the realization that I was about to do something huge - my way  - for the first time since the journey began.  My training schedule; my meal plan; my timing; my sleeping; my routine; my mind; and, most importantly, my decisions.

And so I started moving and repeating:

As I got dressed: "I can do this."

As I made breakfast: "I can do this."

As I walked my pup: "I can do this."

As I layered up: "I can do this."

and kept it going, in the background, for 26.2 miles.  "Well I wanted something different," I thought to myself as I coasted past a road-side group of cows and the 80th grain silo in the last few miles. The hills were rolling and, even at dawn, the landscape was both foreign and familiar.  An uninterrupted sea of green rose and fell around me as I closed my eyes and thought, "Oh crap."  It hit me as we parked the car that not only did I have to slow down my rapid heart, I had to wrap my head around the silence.  Here, there was a lot of open space and cows but no people, no chatter, no bullhorns, no sneakers scratching at the pavement or other race sounds runners rely on.

I suppose the voices were hushed by the early April chill and the port-o-potty lines were too (wonderfully) short to produce any legitimate bonding time.  All around me quiet fell like dew - covering everything and making the race, itself, appear shiny and new - completely untested.  It dawned on me, as the sun came up over the strange scene, and with it rose the smell of manure, that this was the first race I'd run outside of Philly in the last 3 years.  And in the immortal words of Gossip Girl, I thought, "sometimes you need to step outside, get some air, and remind yourself of who you are and where you want to be."  This marathon was my first step.  So I skipped...right into the heated tent placed mercifully next to the start line and found that there are truly so few pleasures in life, equally meaningful as they are practical, as this hot tent full of runners.  Standing there felt like a hug from an old friend and stepping outside loose and empowered felt like the Rocky theme song was playing, on repeat, only for me.

Standing in the corral (there was one; it held all of us), I repeated what I knew, "I am strong enough.  I am fast enough. I am ready for this."  And then I looked toward the sky, caught a glimpse of an Octogenarian, in her nightgown, taking pictures of the crowd below with her iPhone, and laughed as my feet crossed the Start Line. 

The Amish say that "good deeds have echos," and when a stranger plucks your gloves from a pile of manure you are inclined to believe them.  It was mile 14 or 15 and the gloves had been a good idea for the first 10 miles.  During mile 11, they turned sticky and came off.  The first fell from my belt and was kicked into a field.  Yards later, the second was tossed into the same field without so much as "goodbye."  At mile 19, much to my surprise, the gloves reappeared, rolled up together like freshly laundered socks, in the hands of a tall stranger who'd been holding onto them and looking for me for more than an hour.  Naturally, I cried.  This good deed stayed with me for the next 7 miles in thought, strength, heart and wonder.  Goodness so tangible is awe inspiring and, I found, exactly the fuel you need for crushing a marathon.

I can count on one hand the times in my life when I truly questioned whether I would survive something.  The hill, or as the locals called it, "Mount Joy," that appeared before me at Mile 21 of this marathon was one of those times.  Gradually, I noticed the fine line between black pavement and blue sky fading and wondered whether it would hurt when my face hit the gravel as my mind began to drift toward, "I can just slow down for a second," when I saw him:  a loan photographer staring me down - rather, snap, snap, snapping away at me with his camera - and so I smiled.  That smile propelled my mind into the next level of the race and on I soared feeling beautiful in my darkest moment.

Around mile 24, I found myself running beside an idyllic brook with an odd red moss lining the sides.  Just as the brook turned away from the marathon course, I noticed a lone spectator about 50 years up the road.  As I approached, I was able to make out the visor, the polo shirt and the pen behind the ear that, to me, has always meant, "Coach."  20 yards from him, I could hear the screaming, directed at the only runner on the road (me), "...great stride; you are doing this; you are under four hours at this pace; leave it all out there; do not turn around and look at me; go, go, GO!"  As I passed this stranger, taking what he said into my core, I started sobbing so hard breathing became wheezing and wheezing became a struggle.  There was no one to see it.  This is strength:  realizing that, despite pain and overwhelming emotion, you cannot cry - because you are on a deserted road, there are cows everywhere, and you cannot stop.

This finish and this PR is more than a broken record.  It is more than validation of the way I'm running in 2013.  It is the picture I see, when I close my eyes and think of this day, of the hundreds of little, colorful, running ants moving up hill after hill, miles in front of me, interrupting the perfectly still landscape, and the clapping of little hands at the end  of big driveways.  It is the colorful clothes lines stretching for football fields and the Amish bicycles without pedals.  It is the perfect chocolate milkshake at the end and the hot coffee on the ride home. It is running free and far.  And it is amazing.

















 

Not Quite the Penn Relays; but Close.

Franklin Field is the University of Pennsylvania's stadium for, well, everything, including graduations, lacrosse, touch football, cricket and the upcoming Penn Relays.  It was built for $100,000 and dedicated, in 1895, for the first running of the relays that have become a cornerstone in any young track athlete's life.  It was formerly the home of the Philadelphia Eagles, housed Penn's first baseball field and provided the backdrop for FDR's acceptance of the 1936 Democratic Party's nomination for a second term as president. It is rarely, if ever, open to the public and never, ever, open when I sprint past it at 5:00AM on Winter mornings.  Until the day it was.

It was early-March and I was on the last long (18 miles) run of my impromptu marathon training.  It was dark, cold and, quite frankly, miserable.  I'd already been around the Art Museum, through Graduate Hospital, around an ever-growing Toll Bros. development and a power plant that's a little beautiful and a little scary in its size and simplicity.  I'd gone up Spruce to 48th, come back down to CHOP's hidden city, stopped to stretch back there in the scrubs-clad world the hospital creates, and set back out again up Locust to 48th and back down toward Franklin Field's beacon at the bottom of the Penn hills.  And, just like that, coming around a blind curve and barely awake at Mile 15, I realized the gates were open.

Not only were the gates open but there was no one around because it was, after all, barely dawn and 35 degrees.  Initially, I ran past the gates and only stared inside, afraid to break any rules.  That lasted about 45 seconds because I realized I would never be back in this moment again and so I decided to live it.

Crossing through those huge iron gates and onto hallowed track lanes, I ran a lap with the sun coming up, completely alone with my footfalls and my breath.  On that quarter mile, I was an 8th grader trying hurdles for the first time; a 1st grader losing to her best friend at a fun run; a Sophomore puking before the 4 x 400 relay; and a Senior walking off for the last time without looking back.  The crunch of my feet on the last turn brought me back to the majesty of my surroundings and with a kiss to the sky, I passed back through those gates to complete my run and tuck the memory down into my gym bag for the next time.

Team.

Some people create with words or with music or with a brush and paints.  

I like to make something beautiful when I run...

-Steve Prefontaine-

I have not been a part of a team since 1999.  But I am now. One month into the season and I'm certain of only one thing: something put me here; I did not choose it.  I was drawn by something greater than mentorship; greater than my own sense of belonging; greater than a charitable environment and the appeal of a truly athletic organization; truly, I was drawn to the idea of how beautiful a team can be if it's done right.  And as far as I could tell, no one was doing it better in this city than Students Run Philly Style.  It is in this way, perhaps the most profound way, that this organization has re-prioritized  me and set my feet back firmly on the ground moving in a completely new direction.

And so I sit and plan practices.  I make homemade Lara Bars and send the recipes home to parents.  I review a nine month training program and swallow my own fear.  I listen to concerns and show appreciation and praise where it is due.  I lend support.  I show up Mondays and Wednesdays at 3:15 in a schoolyard and Saturday mornings down by Boathouse Row.  I stretch in a circle, counting to ten on the left and then again on the right. I recite RICE to anyone with an injury. I make announcements and listen to others.  We discuss a route and then shout it out together: "Left Queen, Left Front, Left Spruce, Left  Sixth!"  My voice no longer stands alone.  And as we conclude each run, hands in the middle, one on top of the other, all in - "Go Meredith," my mind finds the reaction of the first person I told about my acceptance as a Leader this season and I smile, agreeing, "...these are the experiences that form and shape the person you will become."

There is something beautiful right there, in the conclusion of those early practices - in those early miles, created by a team spirit embracing an individual sport.  The beauty is in one of the fastest boys on the team doubling back to run in with the slowest that day; the grace is in the changing strides of the younger kids; the confidence is in straightening backs, relaxed shoulders and lightly falling feet; the courage is getting out of the car when you don't know for a fact you can finish a run; the effort is going farther than the practice before; and the respect is for the team as a single, functioning unit.

It is because running re-purposed my life, that I found this place.  And it is because I found this place, that I am able to see that beautiful is not always conventional. And so I'll run on knowing that sometimes just showing up and caring creates the something beautiful that I would like to leave behind.

Shine on, you crazy diamond.

"Being consistent," my mom would say is the most important part of every relationship, beginning anything, ending something, working through a problem, overcoming an obstacle, loving, hurting, moving forward and remembering.  32 years of not quite understanding and then, as my plain bagel pops up in the toaster at 4:32AM on a Friday morning, 88 minutes before my 20 mile run will promptly start at 6:00AM, it hits me.  

There, in the dark hours before a huge run, is consistency.  It is in my breakfast and my pup sitting by my side.  It is is the half glass of water I drink or the double-checked backpack.  It is in my nervous, beeping Garmin and the way I lock grey eyes with myself in the mirror before I head out the door.  But, perhaps most importantly, it is in my attitude.  From the time my bare feet hit the cold, wood floors, I repeat, "I can do this."  There is no room for doubt or nerves.  Conquering this run becomes a foregone conclusion in my mind as soon as my alarm wakes me up.  There can be no other way.  And it is in this mindset when I rely on the consistency of my habits and my heart to propel me out into the darkness, beyond my own limits, and toward the goal.  

This 20 miles began slowly as I eased myself out of the heat and into the chill waiting for me.  It was hilly and comforting; consistent in its challenge and beautiful in its sunrise.  This run connected me, once again, to the grass and the green and waved silence, like a flag, stories above and majestic.  It became the flock of geese, flying in a perfect and overwhelming "V,"  overhead, and the smile and thumbs up of the complete stranger across the street, seeing the same thing, making eye contact, and it became our shared joy.  This run of mine became my community; and my community became me, ever so, consistently.  

 At mile 15, I was on fire, floating on the knowing smiles of the serious runners I passed - you know, the tall, skinny, grey haired men and women with worn, intelligent eyes and 1982 Boston Marathon windbreakers.  I dug deep, realized there was a lot left, and cranked it up to a speed I rarely touch in shorter runs.  Here it was, my last charge, and I thought of a Pre quote I'd read weeks before:  "A lot of people run a race to see who is fastest.  I run to see who has the most guts."  I was surely not the fastest girl on the Path that morning, but I left it all on the pavement and walked away knowing "I can do this."  Whatever "this" is - I can do it, without doubt or fear, with the consistency my mom instilled in me and if you get in my way, be sure I will walk over you.  

"Don't let someone dim your light simply because it's shining in their eyes."

Success isn't Permanent & Failure isn't Fatal: my 5k PR

I hate 5k's.  I hate them because when they're ending, I'm just beginning to get into a groove.  I'm rarely fast, out of the gate or otherwise, and truly have a fear of face-planting in the middle of an overly-aggressive pack sprinting across the start line, pointy elbows out to click "start" on our Garmins and maneuvering for placement.  In that regard, I find long-distance start lines to be extremely laid back and gradual. A long distance start is a flow where a 5k start is a great streak across the sky.  I've found myself much more comfortable in the process of getting across the start line when I don't have to think about the finish line for at least 5-10 miles.  And so it seems completely logical that I would sign up to do a 5k in the middle of February, along the water, with the wind slapping my face.

I put off thinking about the race for weeks.  I did not look at the race time, course or registration information.  I did not obsess over my race day attire.  I drank a bottle of champagne the night before.  I slept in the morning of.  I ate whatever I wanted.  I didn't hydrate well and took too much Advil.  I almost forgot to charge my watch and spent at least 30 minutes looking for gloves to wear.  I debated not going.

And then, with 3 hours until I was supposed to be in the car and my headache dissipating, I ate an appropriate pre-race meal and started nonchalantly flipping through my old running journals to find my previous PR for a 5k (22:38 - 2012 Philadelphia Bar Association Run). I was dressed in my good luck race clothes before I even realized it.  I was pacing, hydrating and lacing up.  I was breathing, stretching and re-focusing myself.  I had a goal.

At the race, the porta-potty lines were short, the wind not so bad, and the scenery familiar. My warm-up was long, straight out and back, and powerful.  I felt strong and capable as I moved among friends and strangers. Toward the start line, I walked in and out of lean running machines, smiling, and feeling like I'd come home just in time for the first race of the 2013 season.  

The race, itself, was a blur of wind and familiar faces, burning lungs, aching hamstrings and waves crashing in a river.  Hunched over, just past the Finish Line, trying not to fall prey to my churning stomach and aching lungs, I looked at my watch: unofficially 22:10 became official moments later. Celebrating with chicken broth and stretching out the soreness, I had another milestone to mark and save for another special occasion with the beautiful reminder that whether it's falling short or setting a PR, it's never all that you are.

Just take the hand that's offered

And hold on tight

This isn't everything you are

There's joy not far from here, right

I know there is

This isn't everything you are

(Snow Patrol)

Lake Harmony 2013

As I was sliding down an icy hill toward flat ground and the beginning of my 2nd run around Lake Harmony on Superbowl weekend, I sensed something behind me moving slowly and heavily over the ice.

It was an otherwise deserted road lined only with trees and peppered with long, winding driveways with trashcanned property lines and blue plastic mailboxed entrances.  Because no one could hear me scream, my only real choice was to turn down Adele, pause my Garmin watch and face my predator.

Sure enough, a large, red pick-up truck with a snowplow on the front of it and an imposing driver behind the wheel was creeping down the same icy hill, unwilling to pass me.  I braced myself for an unpleasant encounter only .25 miles into what should have been a crisp and silent run along a frozen lake dotted with little boys playing hockey and families gliding along the smooth, solid surface to breakfast.

As Mr. Red Truck approached and rolled down his window, I had one earbud completely untucked  from my hat and was ready to defend myself against whatever barrage of insults this jerk hurled at me for slowing him down on his way to go plow something.  Instead, I was met with a smile and a flannel covered arm waving with a very simple "I salted that hill for you extra good so it won't be so bad on the way back up," before he rolled the window back up and turned South on Lake Drive.  And, with that, I turned Adele back up, beaming at the generosity of a complete stranger, and followed his tracks down to the lake with steady flurries falling and a quiet horizon of snow and pine trees sitting, just out of my reach, untouchable against the  rising sun.

In the miles that came later, I welcomed myself to running in a small town; to running by the same faces; to running without the fear of getting lost; to running cold and into the wind; to running around blind corners; to staring at a lake so untouched you wonder if you're really seeing it; to encountering good people on their way to do good things; to running miles upon miles on top of packed snow; to drying my socks over a radiator; to running, free, in the Poconos.

Pictures courtesy of the brilliant Julia Keim

#3

Early on a Monday morning, half-way through my 2nd cup of coffee, I am distracted from my conference call agenda by an Outlook Calendar Reminder:

"Think about this marathon: www.gardenspotvillagemarathon.org"

and, with that little jolt, my mind kicked in to catch up with my heart.  There I was counting weeks on my fingers and seconds later scratching out a mileage chart:

15th: 12 miles

22nd: 15 miles

1st: 15 miles

8th: 18 miles

15th: 20 miles

22nd: 15 miles

29th: 12 miles

5th-6th: MARATHON

Conference call ends mid-charting and I'm already in the middle of an email to my serious runner friend (SRF) that goes something like this:

Me: You in?

SRF: Already training for it.

Me: Oh my god I had no idea you'd officially decided! 

SRF: ....YES, LET'S DO IT

Hours later, I was left with my Garden Spot Village Marathon Registration Confirmation and that tingly sensation athletes get when a new goal is set firmly down before them.  Although made rapidly, trust me when I say this decision was not made lightly.  Rather, it was made with the confidence of a repeat offender and the steady faith of the blind.  And so, with 50 days left and approximately 25 training runs left, it is, once again, go time.  Only this time:

"As long as we have the road, the ramblings, and each other to look forward to, it's all going to be alright.  Bring it on life - we're laced up and ready."



What I say:

1. If I am lucky enough to catch a sunrise: Thank you.
2. To angry me: Let it be.
3. When I wake up: (to my puppy) Good Morning, Angel boy, how were your dreams?  (And as he lays there next to me, tail wagging, I cannot be anything but grateful for the day.)
4. On an intense uphill: (On repeat.) Just keep going.
5. After a PR: Own it.
6. Taking water from a race volunteer: (In my head) Pop! Get rid of it!
7. When I've colossally F'd up: This isn't everything you are.
8. Fatigued: Left, right, left, right. 
9. At the base of hill: Hut! 
10. On my mat: Om Namah Shivaya
11. If I'm sick or injured: You are here, now, for a reason.
12. Before I go to sleep: The same 16 word prayer I've said since childhood. 
13. Sprinting to the finish: Boom!
14. When anxiety tries to shut me down: Just breathe.  You got this. Just breathe into this.
15. At the start line: These are your people.  
16. To my self-conscious side You are enough. 
17. During pre-race breakfast: More. Carbs. Please. 
18. If I fall short: Rally.
19. Through pain: (Channeling positivity) I feel strong. I am fine. I am healthy. 
20. To dehydration in July: There is a water fountain in ___ miles.  Suck it the F up.
21. Just starting out on a long run: You have done this before; (and so) you will do it again; and again; and again.

Throwin' Rocks

"We was throwin' rocks in the river, counting ties on the track; thinking life could not be better and living in a shack; Feeling love for one another, deep down in our bones; standing by the water, throwing rocks and skipping stones."

...and on a January morning, it was dark and finally cold enough for my ninja mask to be pulled on tightly and tucked way down into my littlest hoodie, leaving only my eyes to brave the wind and the run set out before me.  So cold, in fact, that a river froze as I ran next to it, trapping geese in little clusters of feathers, and embracing its new found stillness like a door closing on catastrophe.  This run would be a little over 4 miles out, straight into the biting wind, and 4 miles back, flying on invisible, albeit gusty, wings. And I felt brave. It was a run planned out and driven by the exhilaration of perceived defiance of nature and completely empowering.  My focus was broken, only momentarily, when I noticed the river next to me had completely stopped moving.

There I stood under a street light at 6:25AM with the world waking up behind me as commuters made their way down Kelly Drive buzzing with expectations of the first cold day.  In front of me was frozen silence.  Nothing moved but the flurries through the street light and it dawned on me that it had been a very long time since I'd thrown a rock at anything.  With visions of failed attempts at rock skipping on the waves of the Jersey Shore flashing in my mind, my heart rate increased as I rapidly scanned the ground for something to smash some ice with. And so began my hunched over and dimly lit search for the perfect rock.

As the rock hit the top of its arch, I lost sight of it completely and then only caught back up with its dull thud of a landing.  No dice on the smashing front but an uncontainable grin lit me up and carried me back another 4 miles to my beginning.  It seems that just stopping to take a breath and do something truly ridiculous is all that's needed to reset.  The brilliant orange and purple sunrise that led me into the finish line of this 8 mile wake-up, was but the icing on this once in a lifetime moment...

"Standing by the water, throwing rocks and skipping stones..."

 

Dear Owner of the 1990's Green Honda Parked on 48th & Spruce,

...So that was me, dressed like a Navy Seal, standing under a street light on the corner of 48th and Spruce, drawing a heart in the fresh snow that painted your hood.  I realize it was a big heart and sort of crooked and  that it was a bit presumptuous of me to draw something so personal on a stranger's car.  But, in my defense, it was 6:30AM on a Friday morning and it had been snowing for about an hour.  I know this because my 12 mile run began just as the flurries decided to fall.  The city was silent underneath the weight of this beautiful half inch of white peacefulness and I felt compelled to show you that there is still beauty in this world by drawing elementary shapes on your vehicle.  And so, the heart incident happened.

By way of background, this run began on the coldest day of the year with snow flying in sideways and directly into my eyes.  At the Mile 1 Beep, I thought of hot coffee, a hot shower, a hair dryer and warm clothes, and, most of all, turning around.  At the Miles 3 and 4 Beeps, I was decidedly warmer and my face was basically numb from the wind and, you guessed it, snow.  It wasn't until mile 5 that I found myself admiring all of the untouched snow amid the UPenn doctors and nurses, wearing their heavy coats and clogs (or are they crocks now?), making their way down the slippery sidewalks to their hospitals sitting at the base of the medical hill.  I thought about drawing something somewhere the entire way up through campus and then, on my way back down, at about mile 7 of a 12 mile run, I saw your car sitting there.

Admittedly, my mitten was tracing the crooked heart before I could really think the thing through.  Clearly, it wasn't centered or even on both sides.  I am no artist.  Just a runner that gets so high on running sometimes, it's hard to hold it all in.  And, even at 32, there is something about running in the snow that brings the kid back to the surface for moments like this one, when you're just trying to get a very basic message of joy and hope across to a complete stranger and anyone who happened to pass it along their snowy walk to work.

My hope was simple:  I wanted you to know that someone was up before you, playing her heart out in the snow, and loving beyond familiarity.

The snow stopped around mile 8 and the sun rose up so slowly and gracefully, I had the chance to notice each ray as it greeted the day.  The sky was, at once, pink and purple and warm.  This was the kind of morning when I am grateful to be alive and humbled to be a participant.   And so, Honda Owner, I truly hope that you smiled when you saw your car that morning.

Love, Me

Surrounded.

"Surround yourself with the dreamers and doers, the believers and thinkers, but most of all, surround yourself with those who see greatness within you, even when you don't see it yourself."

I ran 10 miles so early in the morning, my face needed a ninja mask and my mind was cleared before my body warmed up. It was the kind of cold that leaves you to think of anything but your numb hands.  The kind of frost that makes everything crunchy right down to individual blades of grass.  Gone are the geese and rabbits; the squirrels are still nestled up in their tree houses; and the path is clear as all of the leaves have long fallen away.  There is no sound but your inhale and exhale.  There is no distraction.

After mile 1 woke me up, I spent the remaining 9 running around the Art Museum and UPenn, behind a giant power plant and through beautiful new developments down by the water.  It was, as it usually is, a beautiful sunrise hitting the sides of Philly's skyline as I came back across the 30th Street Bridge, when I thought of my best friend hunkering down and getting ready to climb Kilimonjaro.  At that moment, this event was approximately 22 hours off.  As I ran the last of the cold miles back to a hot shower, I thought of what it took to get her to Africa this Christmas.  With each step, I found myself in awe of the sheer bravery with which she lives life.  There is no second guessing, no questioning, no what-ifs, no wavering and certainly no quitting.  I am lucky to be her student.  I am lucky to love her.

That day, I found myself so grateful for those 90 very cold minutes and 10 very cold miles.  It gave me peace to reflect on the people that I've surrounded myself with and their stories.  There are those that have lost everything and build themselves back up day by day; they are heroes for overcoming epic pain; they are fierce competitors and wily opponents; they support me blindly; they care when I fall and check in on me when I'm sick; they take care of my body, mind and spirit when I forget to; they are the ones that dream with me when I say "I think I want to run an Ultra;" they buy me sunscreen every summer and congratulate me every February 14th on another year lived well; they lead by example and not with words; they try cases with juries; they save lives; they run marathons after they've had strokes; they walk next to me when I can't remember how; they remind me that when we were kids, I was super uncoordinated; they show me sand and send me shells; they have babies; they show up, listen and love me no matter what; they teach me how to cook; they hurt when I hurt and laugh when I laugh; they share honestly and openly; they hold so many of my firsts; they remember; they recover and coach because they can't play; they write beautifully and often; and they inspire me to do more today, and be more tomorrow, than I thought I ever could.

And now that my brave little best friend has been on this mountain for approximately 36 hours and all of the toasts to her safety have been had, I want the world to know that "it is never too late to live the life you'd always imagined."  Go ahead.  Get on with it.

Don't forget to breathe.

I woke up Thursday morning and inhaled so deeply it was as if time stopped but for my lungs expanding.  It was both brilliant and meditative in its simplicity.  In that moment I felt healthy, apt and ready to embrace what followed.  It is humbling and important, I think, to realize how lucky one is simply to be awake and alive.  And so, on one of the first January mornings of 2013, an hour before my 6:30AM yoga class, I thanked god  for giving me this day and exhaled, as deeply as I inhaled, my way out from under the covers and into a cold, dark morning with endless possibilities.

As a runner that's new to her thirties and new to the slower recoveries this decade has been rounding up, I've found yoga both restorative and necessary.  It has become the trusted, best friend that's always ready to pick me up after running has undoubtedly chewed me up and spit me out over hills and bridges, steps and frozen ground, along foggy water and through old neighborhoods.

I look forward to the moment the door closes and locks out the noise and lights of the world.  When my left ankle aches, I know I will take extra ankle turns and spend some time there.  When my hips are tight, I know  I will ease my way into the practice and take care with my joints.  And when my lower back is screaming from the prior day's 10 mile hill workout, I know I will twist ever so slightly further into the dark, hot room and focus my mind on feeling strong.  I will feel the subtle beat of the iPod and I will become steady and sure of myself.  I will heal.  I will wake.  I will keep moving.

Over the last year, I've found that yoga is not a compliment to my running.  Rather, it resides at the core of my stride.  It strengthens and loosens what needs work and fixes what has been broken.  When something gets intense, there is your breath.  When there is a challenge of balance or focus, there is your breath.  When you are folding deeper into your practice, there is your breath.  And much like this central point of my yoga practice, my running has, too, become peripheral to breathing.

When my legs are heavy, I suck in as much cold air as I can and squeeze it out of my lungs in a hush.  I am propelled forward.  When my arms are sore or my head foggy, I lean into myself, tuck my tailbone and feel my core engage all of me.  And I am moving, once again, in one strong flow.  When my lower back tweaks at the end of a hill, I reach forward, unplug my shoulder blades and plug them back onto my back once again.  Feeling new and powerful, I crush the descent.

Through it all, I do not forget to breathe. I take this with me, in my pocket, and make an effort to remind myself, whether I'm standing in line or running to catch a bus or running errands at lunchtime, that no matter what, no matter where, "Your whole life is here; there is no eleventh hour reprieve; so don't forget to breathe (Alexi Murdoch, Breathe)."

There's something about a bridge

I marked January 1, 2013 with what is familiar.  It is a bridge run I've done for three years whether I'm seeking hills in a flat city, an escape a little bit above water-level, a view of Philly or distance from it.  This run is exactly a 7 mile loop from my front door and is as consistent as they come.  The inclines are slight and gradual.  The declines exhilarating and reliable.  The route lined by Front and Race Streets is packed with women doing the walk of shame, dogs out for jogs, war memorials, beautiful tall ships, trash, last night's empty bottles, a striking view of Camden, and enough alone time to focus on anything or nothing.  It is one of those runs I keep safe for when I need it.  Like on the first of the year or the first day of school or the first day of a new job, new challenge, new opportunity or just when I've reached a fork in the road and I need to be reminded of the path I traveled to get there.

2013, for me, will be more about the great "journey" everyone talks about.  I've resolved only to be present in my life, my running, my relationships, my training and my practice.  I expect that I will covet deep breaths and grateful moments and that relationships and interactions will take on a new meaning.  I expect this to be difficult but worth it.  And I expect to have to remind myself of why this is important.

When I get worked up or stressed into a tizzy, I will remind myself that being present and embracing a moment is important not only because it will slow me down, but because there are truly no guarantees.  Not of tomorrow.  Not of next week.  And certainly not of forever.  I simply refuse to realize that too late.  I refuse to be the woman with such an epiphany at age 45.  I'd much rather be the one that figured it out at 32 and lived.

This is what I said to myself as I reached the top of the Ben Franklin on Tuesday, about 3 miles into my 7 mile loop.  It was cold, windy and my face hurt. I loved every second of it.