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."

You know you're tapering when...

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“The last long hurdle,”

I said on October 19^th 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 22^nd.

“The last big one until the marathon,”

I screamed coming up a huge San Francisco hill to complete a sunny October (30^th) 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.  

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.

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.

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."

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.  

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.