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)