There's something to be said about a friend who reacts to your broken pinky toe in a way that automatically reminds you (1) you made it through an entire year of training and a marathon unscathed; (2) using that logic, broken toes are nothing more than bruised little sausages and (3) that final chapter, like the manicure you need to tame your bloody cuticles, is way overdue.
Late or not, broken or bruised, still running and writing it down, it is only twenty days, two flights, Thanksgiving and ten runs later that I feel capable of capturing the marathon. Knowing that words will fall short, thoughts remain scattered and pain erased parts of the course completely, I am convinced that, as is the case with most Firsts, it is the brilliance and fear that make forgetting impossible and remembering an event all its own.
For me, anticipation turned to reality as I found myself straddling a fence at 5:30AM, half in the "good" porta-potty line and half out of it, praying this wasn't the moment I'd break my first bone. As leg number two came down safely beside leg number one and I joined the line of other shivering runners waiting for the blue doors to open, shit, quite literally, became real. Gone were the fantasies, whimsy and "what if's"; in their place: Race Day.
Walking through the crowds toward the Art Museum Steps, lit only with street lights bouncing off the reflective parts of other runners' gear, I was keenly aware of only one thing: the start line. Five hundred feet from where I stood on the top step, it sat, still and bright, untouched.
Insert "exhale" here.
It was on these steps that I ran injured, healed, got stronger, took boot camp classes, cried in the snow, danced in the summer, broke down, built myself back up and, on this morning, watched at least one hundred kids from Students Run Philly Style psych themselves up for their first marathon. A little behind them and slightly off to the side, I listened to those students responding to their coaches, reaffirming for the crowd that they were runners too. And in that moment their nerves became my nerves; my excitement, theirs and the significance of the challenge, palpable.
And so there I stood among thousands of runners, inspired and descending from the steps to the middle of the Gray Corral. As I turned to face the flag and mouthed the words "gave proof through the night, that our flag was still there," a game time calm blanketed the crowd.
Twenty minutes later, I was in the wave of runners shooting down Race Street, stripping off layers of clothing, dodging discarded mittens and hats and searching for that first real turn onto Columbus Boulevard where, in my mind, this pack would thin and my heart would ease itself out of my throat and back into my chest. These were intense and fast miles, through my own neighborhood, from a skittish first timer fueled by the sight of my brother's big grin at mile 2.5 and the "Run Jenny Run" crowd [parents, friends, husband and puppy all in matching Shirts: hard to miss and harder to paint with words] at mile 4.
As mile 4 fell behind me, I gave myself a lecture about going out too fast and too excited and settled into a tolerable [read: no more 7:45 minute miles, Brains of a Gnat] stride on Chestnut Street. Just as mile 7 approached, I saw my signs again, took a deep breath and tried not to get overwhelmed with the sight of all of that support directed just at me. No dice. I made eye contact with my mom, then my husband and finally my Di and my heart was back in my throat.
Miles 8 through 12, back in Fairmount Park and along West River Drive, were beautiful, quiet and calm. The crowds fell away, the pack finally thinned and that one hill as you approach the Please Touch Museum did not warrant the street cred I'd been so willing to give it. These four miles gave my mind the time it needed to convince by body that this was going to be a long race full of ups and downs - better to save the ups in our pockets, next to our lucky pebble, for later.
Coming to mile 13 and the end of the road for at least half of the runners beside me, the Art Museum at my left and huge crowds everywhere, the gravity of the next 13 miles finally sunk in. I was actually running a marathon.
Miles 13 through 17 on the Philly Marathon Course Map are, perhaps, my wheelhouse and my homecoming. These miles are where I started two years ago, where I worked my way back up last year and the beginning of almost every run I take - even today. I know every turn, tree, rock, statue and blade of grass here; I know where the good water fountains are and how far each bridge is from the one immediately before it. I have fallen in the snow in these miles, slipped on ice, waded through water and escaped the sun under trees here. The Marathon crowds didn't reach these miles, and, in a way, I suppose it's for the better. There are never crowds here. It is just the runner, her steps and the occasional duck or goose crossing the path early on a Sunday morning.
As the Falls Bridge rose up to meet me just after mile 17, I saw my RJR crowd on the way out to the turn around and again as I turned back toward Manayunk. Knowing this would be the last time I saw them until the finish line, I wanted to grab the very last hand [my Dad's], say this might have been a stupid idea, and not let go. I was terrified of the next 8 miles. And then, there she was: my voodoo warrior doll [read: incredibly athletic and saintly girlfriend who volunteer to run parts of the course with me] waiting to jump in and run the next miles with me.
And so, my little warrior doll had a conversation entirely with herself for the next 72 minutes while I took in the sights, crowds and chaos of Manayunk. And there was my brother's face again, at the turnaround that would take me to the finish line; as unexpectedly as the first time I saw it - right at mile 20.5 - as happy and bright as it had been hours before on Columbus Boulevard. And, at this moment, the wheels, as they say, came off the bus.
Past beer stands at Main Street's mile 21 and into unfamiliar territory at Mile 22 [read: the only part of the course I'd never run before was approximately 500 feet around Mile 22], I was not in pain. In fact, this is what I repeated to myself for about ten minutes, broken only by a brief choking episode; Gatorade mistaken for water will get you every time - trust me.
And there they were again: those four miles with the feeling of that first homecoming from College - safe, known and steady. The place I ran to escape and the place where everything fades but the consistency of the sun and the still water.
Mile 23 brought the milestone I'd been thinking about since mile 1. This was not yet a Marathon completed but it was now the farthest I'd ever run in my life. It was a moment among other runners likely having similar realizations, moving forward slowly and directly, barely in front of the "4 Hour Balloon," but in front of it nonetheless.
Steadiness at Mile 24 with 9:20 miles to go, the "4 Hour Balloon" began to talk - about nothing and everything - about the people waiting for us - about the people that got us to where we were - about those people who couldn't run but wanted nothing more [read: ME, November 2010] - about those that had to deal with so much more pain than what we were feeling at that moment and about what made us start this journey in the first place. Although I had to finish before her, I made sure this one balloon carrying lunatic of a runner stayed within earshot for those last 2.2 miles. When all I could say was the name of my warrior-carrying friend, over and over again, this "4 Hour Balloon" screamed for 18 minutes straight. She was five foot one and propelling runner after runner toward the finish line under their goal times.
And there it was.
As narrow of a corral as I'd ever seen in a race, lined by bodies twenty deep on either side, all screaming and shaking cowbells, waiting for their runner to cross. And there, just as I was about to make the final turn toward the Finish, slap the Mayor high five and grab some soup, were my signs - all of them. No heads or faces visible, but those neon signs that were my beacon through clouds and my north when I couldn't see, screaming "Run Jenny Run" were right there waiting.
As I crossed over [and yes I mean crossed the F over], I stopped moving as volunteers threw a medal around my neck, one of those foil blankets around my shoulders and shoved broth into my hands. In the crowd of runners and flurry of volunteers and medics, I was the totally anonymous female runner looking up at the finish line with teary eyes flashing back to her first run last December that started at 19th and Market and ended at 16th and Ben Franklin Parkway: Five Freaking Blocks.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Philly Marathon Eve
I woke over-carbed, sluggish and staring a "12 bottles of water before 7PM" goal in the eye. Everything from my arches to my shoulders felt tight with the sort of anticipation a kid gets the night before her first day of school with her clothes laid out, backpack organized and a turkey sandwich already waiting in the fridge. All of the work, completed; choices made; leaps taken; and this moment, a nod to "waiting."
While sleep had been easy to come by this week, the 9 hours a day had my internal whatever completely screwed up. Suddenly, the happy non-dreamer was replaced with a stranger with an ability to retain ridiculous pieces of dreams throughout the night. How disturbing to sleep plagued by ghostly images of lost dogs and teeth falling out; frogs on doorsteps and the smell of homemade ravioli filling my childhood home at the shore.
Up and moving, my typical Saturday morning walk with my loyal noodle (Cairne Terrier/Poodle mix) was less so and more filled with wandering and water and the eventual stop outside our favorite coffee shop. This became the scene of my final run at carbs and the first truly guilt-free everything bagel I've had since I was 16 years old, 5'9 and 112 pounds. As our walk continued through the Italian Market, past families just starting their days with double strollers out to greet the beautiful morning, we found ourselves caffeinated, more focused and three waters deep.
Chores at home began, as if any other Saturday was upon me, with malfunctioning washers, planting trees, cleaning, vacuuming and addressing those final Christmas Cards. With the marathon outfit finalized, the major decisions made: no water belt, shorts, four gels and water intake cut off at 7PM, it was time to take my utterly tweaked self to the spa.
Hot tea in hand and visions of the 4:30AM wake-up looming, I set out for my favorite Rittenhouse Spa down quiet, tree-lined Locus Street, through the Park full of couples strolling arm in arm, and out on to the other side. It was here, in this spa, filled with its beautiful scents, low lights and heated tables and towels, that I had a flashback so tangible that for a moment time was but a concept and space wholly irrelevant.
Set against the steady whale-like sounds coming from the speakers just overhead, my mind set itself on the dimly lit corner of the Rothman Institute where I went each morning in the dark, sat on a table and had my right knee wrapped in a giant heated towel while I sipped my coffee and watched the news. It was as if the little blonde Rothman girl snuck into the spa and was standing before me perplexed about where to put the heated pad.
Suddenly the spa faded and the only thing I felt was the solitude of physical therapy and the lows I reached starting over there. Tears in my eyes, I came out of this flash, mid-chemical peel, with a feeling of such overwhelming gratitude for my health that I knew I was ready to go home, eat pumpkin risotto and do something huge the following morning.
The walk home was cold without the bitter. Rather, it was the safely-wrapped-in-your-favorite-hoodie kind of cold full of deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth, and the resolution of a year.
While sleep had been easy to come by this week, the 9 hours a day had my internal whatever completely screwed up. Suddenly, the happy non-dreamer was replaced with a stranger with an ability to retain ridiculous pieces of dreams throughout the night. How disturbing to sleep plagued by ghostly images of lost dogs and teeth falling out; frogs on doorsteps and the smell of homemade ravioli filling my childhood home at the shore.
Up and moving, my typical Saturday morning walk with my loyal noodle (Cairne Terrier/Poodle mix) was less so and more filled with wandering and water and the eventual stop outside our favorite coffee shop. This became the scene of my final run at carbs and the first truly guilt-free everything bagel I've had since I was 16 years old, 5'9 and 112 pounds. As our walk continued through the Italian Market, past families just starting their days with double strollers out to greet the beautiful morning, we found ourselves caffeinated, more focused and three waters deep.
Chores at home began, as if any other Saturday was upon me, with malfunctioning washers, planting trees, cleaning, vacuuming and addressing those final Christmas Cards. With the marathon outfit finalized, the major decisions made: no water belt, shorts, four gels and water intake cut off at 7PM, it was time to take my utterly tweaked self to the spa.
Hot tea in hand and visions of the 4:30AM wake-up looming, I set out for my favorite Rittenhouse Spa down quiet, tree-lined Locus Street, through the Park full of couples strolling arm in arm, and out on to the other side. It was here, in this spa, filled with its beautiful scents, low lights and heated tables and towels, that I had a flashback so tangible that for a moment time was but a concept and space wholly irrelevant.
Set against the steady whale-like sounds coming from the speakers just overhead, my mind set itself on the dimly lit corner of the Rothman Institute where I went each morning in the dark, sat on a table and had my right knee wrapped in a giant heated towel while I sipped my coffee and watched the news. It was as if the little blonde Rothman girl snuck into the spa and was standing before me perplexed about where to put the heated pad.
Suddenly the spa faded and the only thing I felt was the solitude of physical therapy and the lows I reached starting over there. Tears in my eyes, I came out of this flash, mid-chemical peel, with a feeling of such overwhelming gratitude for my health that I knew I was ready to go home, eat pumpkin risotto and do something huge the following morning.
The walk home was cold without the bitter. Rather, it was the safely-wrapped-in-your-favorite-hoodie kind of cold full of deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth, and the resolution of a year.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Last. Long. Run.
12 Miles.
112 Minutes.
No aches.
No pain.
No problem.
This run didn't warrant water or gels; didn't stir up anxiety or pre-run carbing; in fact, it barely hit the radar until I was in the middle of mile 7 feeling strong thinking "this would be a little less than one third of what you will run a week from this morning."
This run was cold and layered, required mittens the entire time and a heavier hat than the one I'd chosen. It was also eerily quiet for November - more like the way the city is on January mornings - only other runners out moving up and down Spruce and Pine in the beautiful bike lanes as house after house wakes up.
This run was neither the beginning nor the big finish - just another of many in the middle, as unremarkable as they are necessary, checked off but ultimately unwritten. Like the stationary bike last October and the rowing machine last november; the bench press milestones and the amount of times "dips to exhaustion" showed up in a workout; the dumbbell flies and press on a ball and, of course, the push-ups, these unassuming runs silently filled the space between the races and the recovery.
112 Minutes.
No aches.
No pain.
No problem.
This run didn't warrant water or gels; didn't stir up anxiety or pre-run carbing; in fact, it barely hit the radar until I was in the middle of mile 7 feeling strong thinking "this would be a little less than one third of what you will run a week from this morning."
This run was cold and layered, required mittens the entire time and a heavier hat than the one I'd chosen. It was also eerily quiet for November - more like the way the city is on January mornings - only other runners out moving up and down Spruce and Pine in the beautiful bike lanes as house after house wakes up.
This run was neither the beginning nor the big finish - just another of many in the middle, as unremarkable as they are necessary, checked off but ultimately unwritten. Like the stationary bike last October and the rowing machine last november; the bench press milestones and the amount of times "dips to exhaustion" showed up in a workout; the dumbbell flies and press on a ball and, of course, the push-ups, these unassuming runs silently filled the space between the races and the recovery.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Bib 7181
Coincidence that the same day the Philadelphia Marathon sends out its Here-is-your-bib-number Love Letter to participants, an anonymous individual with a can of black spray paint writes "The Beginning is Near :)" on the wall under the first bridge of a running path I've been traveling steadily since March? I think not.
At 5 days out, with the Expo on the horizon and half of my "Marathon Outfit" laid out on my desk at home, I can't think of anything but the beginning. What will it feel like, standing there with 12,000 other people, corralled, as the sun comes up over the Art Museum with nerves flying and comfort only a distant, if persistent, memory. And so the thoughts swirl on from places of excitement and doubt and first-day-of-kindergarten-nerves:
Should I wear mittens?
Will it be cold?
When should I get up to eat?
Should I run with water?
Do I really need 4 gels?
Will my family be able to spot me?
Would music help or hurt?
I'm not ready.
I'm not ready.
I'm not ready.
The only calm comes from the few runs I will do in this last week. A couple fives and a three. It is during that time, staring at my watch, hearing my feet fall on the same paths, passing the one mile tree and three mile green house, the double bridges, boathouses, metal bridge, rowing cheer zones, falls bridges and so on that I calm down, if even for a moment. And I answer myself:
Mittens? Really?
You'll be running, no matter what, you'll be sweating.
The same time you've been getting up to eat before long runs for the last 6 months.
Yes.
Yes.
You have bright red hair. Yes.
When have you ever run with music?
You will crush this.
You will crush this.
You will crush this.
And with that, I will hold on to every stretch a little longer, breathe in a little deeper and focus on the actual road ahead and leave the "road taken/journey completed" enormity of the moment for the finish line.
At 5 days out, with the Expo on the horizon and half of my "Marathon Outfit" laid out on my desk at home, I can't think of anything but the beginning. What will it feel like, standing there with 12,000 other people, corralled, as the sun comes up over the Art Museum with nerves flying and comfort only a distant, if persistent, memory. And so the thoughts swirl on from places of excitement and doubt and first-day-of-kindergarten-nerves:
Should I wear mittens?
Will it be cold?
When should I get up to eat?
Should I run with water?
Do I really need 4 gels?
Will my family be able to spot me?
Would music help or hurt?
I'm not ready.
I'm not ready.
I'm not ready.
The only calm comes from the few runs I will do in this last week. A couple fives and a three. It is during that time, staring at my watch, hearing my feet fall on the same paths, passing the one mile tree and three mile green house, the double bridges, boathouses, metal bridge, rowing cheer zones, falls bridges and so on that I calm down, if even for a moment. And I answer myself:
Mittens? Really?
You'll be running, no matter what, you'll be sweating.
The same time you've been getting up to eat before long runs for the last 6 months.
Yes.
Yes.
You have bright red hair. Yes.
When have you ever run with music?
You will crush this.
You will crush this.
You will crush this.
And with that, I will hold on to every stretch a little longer, breathe in a little deeper and focus on the actual road ahead and leave the "road taken/journey completed" enormity of the moment for the finish line.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
A reminder to myself:
Dear RJR,
Please don't forget the day you woke up almost 23 months ago and decided you were going to run the Philadelphia Marathon. It was cold then too. In fact, your first run was a layered mess of sweatpants and your high school cross country gear. And it was painful too.
Despite October rain and November frost, you are still the crazy one that took a whim and made it real; that took a dream, nailed it to the wall and stared at it every day for almost two years; and the one that likely kept Tiger Balm in the black in 2010. You have run injured, broken, recovered and healthy. Now, you run.
And so, no matter the pain of that last 22 mile run, keep moving beyond it;
no matter the lack of sleep, turn all of the lights on, make some coffee and fight through it; and
no matter the ache, realize that it, like the beast of a run you just completed, will fade away steadily once you let go.
When it hurts, remember it only does so when you let it. Raise your thoughts up and over the hurdle, accepting that it's only a bump and not a block, and reach your arms out to the finish line.
You are a runner. You are stubborn. You don't know how to give up. Call it endurance or determination or even stupidity - but call it something because it's what is going to push you over that finish line in 11 days.
Love, me.
Please don't forget the day you woke up almost 23 months ago and decided you were going to run the Philadelphia Marathon. It was cold then too. In fact, your first run was a layered mess of sweatpants and your high school cross country gear. And it was painful too.
Despite October rain and November frost, you are still the crazy one that took a whim and made it real; that took a dream, nailed it to the wall and stared at it every day for almost two years; and the one that likely kept Tiger Balm in the black in 2010. You have run injured, broken, recovered and healthy. Now, you run.
And so, no matter the pain of that last 22 mile run, keep moving beyond it;
no matter the lack of sleep, turn all of the lights on, make some coffee and fight through it; and
no matter the ache, realize that it, like the beast of a run you just completed, will fade away steadily once you let go.
When it hurts, remember it only does so when you let it. Raise your thoughts up and over the hurdle, accepting that it's only a bump and not a block, and reach your arms out to the finish line.
You are a runner. You are stubborn. You don't know how to give up. Call it endurance or determination or even stupidity - but call it something because it's what is going to push you over that finish line in 11 days.
Love, me.
Monday, October 24, 2011
My way back home.
As miles 20 and 21 fell off of my training schedule and landed where they were supposed to, neatly in the completed pile, I've been struggling with the enormity of what's next, the context for what this journey has been, what these runs are becoming [habits] and what I've learned along the way and then I heard "My Way Back Home." My thoughts turned from the significance of a perceived moment to all that set the moment in motion and all that would likely wind it down when I was ready:
"I admit that these answers that I seek
Are all to questions I’ve never known
But I pray to keep on looking for as long as I can roam
And when the world finally fulfills me
I will not forget my way back home."
"I admit that these answers that I seek
Are all to questions I’ve never known
But I pray to keep on looking for as long as I can roam
And when the world finally fulfills me
I will not forget my way back home."
Sunday, October 16, 2011
18
The numerical value of the Hebrew world for "life;"
In ancient Roman custom, it can symbolize a blood relative;
In Chinese tradition, the number 18 is normally 十八 (shí bā), but it can also be read as 幺八 (yāo bā), which sounds like 要发 (yào fā), meaning that one is going to prosper;
The month and day of Elvis Presley's birthday [January 8, 1935];
The number of chapters into which James Joyce's epic novel Ulysses is divided;
The number of miles I last ran in a meaningful way before my stress fracture diagnosis a year ago, October 5, 2010; and
The intangible barrier that I broke two weeks ago with an 18.1 mile run.
This was one of those days when you wake up and wonder if what you're doing is either incredibly stupid or incomparably brilliant because the sun isn't up, it's freezing, not even your loyal training terrier can be coaxed out of bed with a peanut butter and banana sammy and all of the windows in your tiny neighborhood are dark. You stand there and debate anything to put off the actual first steps: whether to wear shorts or 3/4 length pants on your run; how many gels will you actually need and do you think you'll like cherry lime; whether to take preemptive Motrin; should you cut off all water at 6AM; and anything else you can think of to take your mind off of "can I do this?"
And then, after deciding on the same Arizona State shorts and Tough Mudder headband that you wore the weekend before, taking a chance on the cherry lime gel and downing a few Motrin, you set out with 18 in your heart and faith falling on the path under your feet. Suddenly you are 9 miles into the run, on the downside mentally, and all of the worries are stuck back at mile 4.
Manayunk is just waking up as you make the turn back toward the city, crisp skyline waiting to welcome you back with the 18.1 stamped on your forehead. Your miles are standing strong at 9:00 minutes and your stride is only slightly painful. As you cross the Falls, Strawberry Mansion and [Stone] bridges, there is a sense of coming home. And for just a moment, you allow yourself the flash forward to the Marathon - the crowds and clapping; the signs and familiar faces; the idea that the people who love you the most are out there, somewhere, looking for you too.
As you take the last few steps toward 18.1, holding back the tears, you look up and whisper, "boom."
The intangible barrier that I broke two weeks ago with an 18.1 mile run.
This was one of those days when you wake up and wonder if what you're doing is either incredibly stupid or incomparably brilliant because the sun isn't up, it's freezing, not even your loyal training terrier can be coaxed out of bed with a peanut butter and banana sammy and all of the windows in your tiny neighborhood are dark. You stand there and debate anything to put off the actual first steps: whether to wear shorts or 3/4 length pants on your run; how many gels will you actually need and do you think you'll like cherry lime; whether to take preemptive Motrin; should you cut off all water at 6AM; and anything else you can think of to take your mind off of "can I do this?"
And then, after deciding on the same Arizona State shorts and Tough Mudder headband that you wore the weekend before, taking a chance on the cherry lime gel and downing a few Motrin, you set out with 18 in your heart and faith falling on the path under your feet. Suddenly you are 9 miles into the run, on the downside mentally, and all of the worries are stuck back at mile 4.
Manayunk is just waking up as you make the turn back toward the city, crisp skyline waiting to welcome you back with the 18.1 stamped on your forehead. Your miles are standing strong at 9:00 minutes and your stride is only slightly painful. As you cross the Falls, Strawberry Mansion and [Stone] bridges, there is a sense of coming home. And for just a moment, you allow yourself the flash forward to the Marathon - the crowds and clapping; the signs and familiar faces; the idea that the people who love you the most are out there, somewhere, looking for you too.
As you take the last few steps toward 18.1, holding back the tears, you look up and whisper, "boom."
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
I can hear you clapping.
There was a time not too long ago when I could pick the tenor of my grandfather's clap out of a crowd of basketball parents or field hockey parents and even on the cross country course. It was methodical, never over-excited or anxious, and as steady and consistent as a sunrise; deep and loyal but subtle like his compliments, that clap never missed a game, match or meet.
In the years since his passing, that sound has faded but still resides out there in the open space between my childhood and my today. His clap is in the crowd of a race; behind me as I start a long run; pushing me on rainy mornings; and constantly reminding me that, even when thirty feels like thirty, I have not yet lost my edge.
On September 24, 2011, I struggled through every bit of 16 miles. It was not a great run. In fact, it was ugly, painful and ultimately not something I wanted to share with anyone. Although I completed this training block, I can only liken its defeat to missing one of two shots from the line in the last seconds of your last game as an eighth grader at UTMS and going on to end your middle school "career" on a miss [not that things like that should still bother you at 30...].
As mile 15 of 16 announced itself, I was empty and consumed with angst about the next 7 weeks and the Marathon waiting for me at the end. I let my thoughts run so far afoul in that instance, that I actually questioned not just whether I would get 16 that day but whether I would cross the finish line of the Philly Marathon without stopping/walking/puking/crying/fainting or any combination thereof. Some would say that by mile 15.6 of 16, I was in the middle of an actual meltdown more focused on the big picture than the task at hand.
And then there was the clapping at mile 15.75. Just as the Art Museum came into view and the last hill was behind me, 20 geese flew overhead, wings clapping the entire time, and he was there. Just as he was at the final turn of my last cross country meet, in the last 20 seconds of my final high school basketball game, as I ran the length of the field hockey field for the last time, he was there clapping and screaming at me to stop being such a girl and just run.
So I ran.
In the years since his passing, that sound has faded but still resides out there in the open space between my childhood and my today. His clap is in the crowd of a race; behind me as I start a long run; pushing me on rainy mornings; and constantly reminding me that, even when thirty feels like thirty, I have not yet lost my edge.
On September 24, 2011, I struggled through every bit of 16 miles. It was not a great run. In fact, it was ugly, painful and ultimately not something I wanted to share with anyone. Although I completed this training block, I can only liken its defeat to missing one of two shots from the line in the last seconds of your last game as an eighth grader at UTMS and going on to end your middle school "career" on a miss [not that things like that should still bother you at 30...].
As mile 15 of 16 announced itself, I was empty and consumed with angst about the next 7 weeks and the Marathon waiting for me at the end. I let my thoughts run so far afoul in that instance, that I actually questioned not just whether I would get 16 that day but whether I would cross the finish line of the Philly Marathon without stopping/walking/puking/crying/fainting or any combination thereof. Some would say that by mile 15.6 of 16, I was in the middle of an actual meltdown more focused on the big picture than the task at hand.
And then there was the clapping at mile 15.75. Just as the Art Museum came into view and the last hill was behind me, 20 geese flew overhead, wings clapping the entire time, and he was there. Just as he was at the final turn of my last cross country meet, in the last 20 seconds of my final high school basketball game, as I ran the length of the field hockey field for the last time, he was there clapping and screaming at me to stop being such a girl and just run.
So I ran.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Sweating it out.
Whether it's a hangover or a cold, a long day or huge loss, 18 degrees in January or 81 in June, I have been ever so convinced that there is nothing a hard run, quick feet and good sweat can't fix. The paths will change, the destinations will fail to matter and the pain, whatever the source, will fade just enough.
I've sweat out whiskey after finals, bring your own bottles of wine, coors lights on the beach and too many tailgates to guess; I've sweat out allergies, colds, fevers and the like, ran personal bests with less than a few hours of sleep and dirty tissues in my pockets all hopped up on Sudafed; I've sweat out deaths and lost opportunities, frustration and silence and everything that falls in that fold.
I've come to believe that every run begins with a purpose - whether its to sweat something out of you, hold onto something harder, check a box off a training grid, test your will or build it back up - and it's that moment, midway through, when you've forgotten the reason you started, feet falling heavily on the ground without a second thought to your beginning and end, when you begin to feel like a human again and thank whatever that you're healthy enough to run in the first place.
Or at least this is my little circle of sweat.
I've sweat out whiskey after finals, bring your own bottles of wine, coors lights on the beach and too many tailgates to guess; I've sweat out allergies, colds, fevers and the like, ran personal bests with less than a few hours of sleep and dirty tissues in my pockets all hopped up on Sudafed; I've sweat out deaths and lost opportunities, frustration and silence and everything that falls in that fold.
I've come to believe that every run begins with a purpose - whether its to sweat something out of you, hold onto something harder, check a box off a training grid, test your will or build it back up - and it's that moment, midway through, when you've forgotten the reason you started, feet falling heavily on the ground without a second thought to your beginning and end, when you begin to feel like a human again and thank whatever that you're healthy enough to run in the first place.
Or at least this is my little circle of sweat.
Rock & Roll, Philly!
Of all the components of a great half marathon - the crowds, signs, cowbells, water stations, markers, crisp way the fall air hits your lungs - who would think that above all of that, a group of high school cheerleaders would give me the chills over and over again. But that's what happened during the Philadelphia Rock and Roll Half Marathon as I entered the stretches of the course where crowds don't form and tables are not set up, where there is only grass with geese and the occasional rabbit. And then, out of the unaffected distance, the cheerleaders, in unison, screaming for the collective (capital "R") Runner, carried me to a 1:47 race with a reminder of how powerful the spirit can be.
They stuck out of the silence and the crowds because they were not for the one person panting around the next turn; they were there for the sport and the movement of the race. There was no single runner that the various groups of cheerleaders were there to support. Rather, it was the greater Runner in all of us receiving the support. Their signs, pointed, loud and general; their cheers, for running and the Runner, lingering and sharp against the landscape; and their spirits high even in the twelfth mile.
Because you feel every step of Running's singularity in those last few miles of a long race, focusing on anything but the distance between you and the finish line is a blessing. After 6 miles at an 8:07 pace, through Philadelphia's neighborhoods, fighting for position, bands blaring and crowds so tight at times I could reach out on either side and touch them, suddenly it all fell silently away. There was space and silence and the only people visible were those wearing a bib just like yours.
At mile 8, while I was busy counting used gel packets and wondering when we would make the fabulous turn that would lead us down the path with people - the one where the party was - and the bands played and families were out walking with their double strollers and tiny terriers, I heard them: "Come on Runners, Let's Go!" screamed 45 teenagers, all at once, so loud it gave me chills. They kept it up as we approached, passed them and long after we were out of sight - unwavering support for the Runner.
As the pain crept in around mile 10, just after the bagpipes and before the next water station, another group of cheerleaders side by side along west river drive, hands clapping, pompoms shaking energized our tired legs and gave us the kick in the ass we needed to climb the last incline, take note of our 10 mile split, smile at the personal best it represented and propel ourselves toward the finish line with echoes of cheers in our ears for hours to come.
This was a fast and flat course, heavy with crowds on either end and something special in the middle: the art of cheering for the Runner.
They stuck out of the silence and the crowds because they were not for the one person panting around the next turn; they were there for the sport and the movement of the race. There was no single runner that the various groups of cheerleaders were there to support. Rather, it was the greater Runner in all of us receiving the support. Their signs, pointed, loud and general; their cheers, for running and the Runner, lingering and sharp against the landscape; and their spirits high even in the twelfth mile.
Because you feel every step of Running's singularity in those last few miles of a long race, focusing on anything but the distance between you and the finish line is a blessing. After 6 miles at an 8:07 pace, through Philadelphia's neighborhoods, fighting for position, bands blaring and crowds so tight at times I could reach out on either side and touch them, suddenly it all fell silently away. There was space and silence and the only people visible were those wearing a bib just like yours.
At mile 8, while I was busy counting used gel packets and wondering when we would make the fabulous turn that would lead us down the path with people - the one where the party was - and the bands played and families were out walking with their double strollers and tiny terriers, I heard them: "Come on Runners, Let's Go!" screamed 45 teenagers, all at once, so loud it gave me chills. They kept it up as we approached, passed them and long after we were out of sight - unwavering support for the Runner.
As the pain crept in around mile 10, just after the bagpipes and before the next water station, another group of cheerleaders side by side along west river drive, hands clapping, pompoms shaking energized our tired legs and gave us the kick in the ass we needed to climb the last incline, take note of our 10 mile split, smile at the personal best it represented and propel ourselves toward the finish line with echoes of cheers in our ears for hours to come.
This was a fast and flat course, heavy with crowds on either end and something special in the middle: the art of cheering for the Runner.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Graduation Day.
I went to physical therapy 2-3 times a week for about 16 weeks. That's about 40 hours spent with the same group of people at the same time of day, for the majority of days in a work week. Patients recovered and left, new ones showed up - some with positive attitudes, others defeated. Through it all there was the constant of the doors opening sleepily at 6:30AM, the smell of strong Dunkin' Doughnuts coffee, low lights until everyone was awake, balancing on a makeshift wake board until a stop watch said "enough" and the bliss of the hottest, largest heating pad you've ever seen being wrapped around an aching group of tendons as you sit back on your private padded table and watch CNN. Clearly, there are worse places to be early on a Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday morning.
My last day at physical therapy, Graduation Day, was actually a little bittersweet because of all of these constants and the people behind them. Walking out of the Rothman Institute that day felt like being shoved, without warning, into the cold (and the dark - January PM runs...) with only the promise that the pain would ease. I had workouts, winter clothes and better habits; but I didn't have my people. The faces that never wavered and always reassured; the faces with the "just ten more seconds" and "you need to focus on your toes when you stretch"; the faces that would become the foundation for my recovery - in and out of physical therapy.
Nine months later, on a random 4 mile run just before dawn, I ran by one of those people who made the constants of my recovery possible: the heating pad girl. She was an ever pleasant reminder that heating pads could unwind even the worst ills, that hard workouts were the only way out of this mess and that other people had it a lot worse. Her positivity replaced my own in the early days and so the ability to finally smile back at her (and mean it) while sprinting up the hill by the one mile tree, pain free, was the biggest "thank you" of them all.
My last day at physical therapy, Graduation Day, was actually a little bittersweet because of all of these constants and the people behind them. Walking out of the Rothman Institute that day felt like being shoved, without warning, into the cold (and the dark - January PM runs...) with only the promise that the pain would ease. I had workouts, winter clothes and better habits; but I didn't have my people. The faces that never wavered and always reassured; the faces with the "just ten more seconds" and "you need to focus on your toes when you stretch"; the faces that would become the foundation for my recovery - in and out of physical therapy.
Nine months later, on a random 4 mile run just before dawn, I ran by one of those people who made the constants of my recovery possible: the heating pad girl. She was an ever pleasant reminder that heating pads could unwind even the worst ills, that hard workouts were the only way out of this mess and that other people had it a lot worse. Her positivity replaced my own in the early days and so the ability to finally smile back at her (and mean it) while sprinting up the hill by the one mile tree, pain free, was the biggest "thank you" of them all.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
The Secret [to running through pain].
While down the shore last week I read The Secret. Always a believer in the power of positive thinking, whether sick, healthy, hurt, healing or otherwise lost, I suppose I sought someone's explanation for what I hold myself to: We get back what we put out there. Expecting vague confirmation and context, I found a few more practical and surprising applications for the power of positive thought.
When I run, there is pain. Every step past about 8.5 miles comes with an ache on the inside of my left heel that often leads to a disconcerting numbness running up my Achilles. This was the case in the Spring of 2009 just as it is the case today. It is a constant in my workouts and where the ice goes immediately after. Nothing makes it worse and nothing makes it better - this ache of mine is steadfast and staying around. It does not respond to expensive inserts, new shoes, tiger balm, ice or Flector patches. It simply wraps itself around my tendon and holds on for dear life. And so, this ache has been a focus before, during and after runs since I started training.
On my first day back from the beach (last Sunday), I was scheduled to run 15 miles. This meant a Saturday full of carbs, water and preemptive left-ankle-icing. 8.5 beautiful miles into the run, on the downside of the Manayunk Toe Path, after jumping over and crawling under fallen trees, my ache wrapped around my ankle and drug me down. Immediately I found my thoughts shifting from "I'm so lucky to be running across the Falls Bridge on a crisp morning," to "How am I going to put up with this for more than 2/3 of the Marathon; I'll never make it; I should make another appointment with my doctor; Maybe this is more seriouse than I thought it was; What am I going to do!?"
That's where I stopped. At mile 10, just as I crossed back over the Falls Bridge, I stopped thinking and repeated, "No more" over and over again for at least a mile. Once the focus was officially shifted from my pain and I regained control of my thoughts, I began to repeat (out loud at times), "I. Am. Healthy." Somewhere around Mile 13.5, I checked back in to my strides and footfalls. As quickly as I realized they were pain free, I checked back out again and repeated "I can do this," until my Garmin beeped me back to the reality of Mile 15 having been completed.
I'm not saying the pain disappeared or that I healed myself with 50 minutes of positive thought. Rather, I got beyond the pain and put my focus where it belongs - forward.
Because I am the only one that creates my reality, I made the conscious decision to move beyond my Achilles and refocus myself on the positive. For me, this is what it takes to run (or live) through pain.
When I run, there is pain. Every step past about 8.5 miles comes with an ache on the inside of my left heel that often leads to a disconcerting numbness running up my Achilles. This was the case in the Spring of 2009 just as it is the case today. It is a constant in my workouts and where the ice goes immediately after. Nothing makes it worse and nothing makes it better - this ache of mine is steadfast and staying around. It does not respond to expensive inserts, new shoes, tiger balm, ice or Flector patches. It simply wraps itself around my tendon and holds on for dear life. And so, this ache has been a focus before, during and after runs since I started training.
On my first day back from the beach (last Sunday), I was scheduled to run 15 miles. This meant a Saturday full of carbs, water and preemptive left-ankle-icing. 8.5 beautiful miles into the run, on the downside of the Manayunk Toe Path, after jumping over and crawling under fallen trees, my ache wrapped around my ankle and drug me down. Immediately I found my thoughts shifting from "I'm so lucky to be running across the Falls Bridge on a crisp morning," to "How am I going to put up with this for more than 2/3 of the Marathon; I'll never make it; I should make another appointment with my doctor; Maybe this is more seriouse than I thought it was; What am I going to do!?"
That's where I stopped. At mile 10, just as I crossed back over the Falls Bridge, I stopped thinking and repeated, "No more" over and over again for at least a mile. Once the focus was officially shifted from my pain and I regained control of my thoughts, I began to repeat (out loud at times), "I. Am. Healthy." Somewhere around Mile 13.5, I checked back in to my strides and footfalls. As quickly as I realized they were pain free, I checked back out again and repeated "I can do this," until my Garmin beeped me back to the reality of Mile 15 having been completed.
I'm not saying the pain disappeared or that I healed myself with 50 minutes of positive thought. Rather, I got beyond the pain and put my focus where it belongs - forward.
Because I am the only one that creates my reality, I made the conscious decision to move beyond my Achilles and refocus myself on the positive. For me, this is what it takes to run (or live) through pain.
Monday, September 5, 2011
26 Miles in 3 days.
In Chef Gordon Ramsey's "The F Word" voice:
Friday: 6 Miles at 5:30AM. Touch Art Museum Steps to the Strawberry Mansion Bridge, breath and do it again.
Saturday: 13 Miles at 6:00AM. Charge toward Main Street in Manayunk from a similar starting place; stop to stretch on the Falls Bridge; continue on through the hills, pass coffee shops and Pottery Barn, turn when Garmin tells you to and return.
Sunday: 7 miles at 8:00AM. Shoes on, hangover ignored, move from one barrier island north to another barrier island. Cross bridges, embrace familiarity, return winded and accomplished.
Done.
Despite the simplicity of putting on socks and shoes, left in front of right and hitting these miles, after mile 6 and just before mile 7, I was tense. Not only did I not want to run 13 miles, I wasn't sure I could. I was letting the "training" outshine the "running" and suddenly the reason I'm out there was lost - just like that. With the Marathon looming, training intensifying and joints aching - all at once - It's easy to see how any runner could forget why she runs in the first place; and it's not to get from point A to point B - at least most of the time.
It took the not-so-subtle reminder, on the eve of an uncertain 13 miles, that 9 months ago, if a doctor told me he could fix me and I could run even five blocks, I would have been thrilled with the news that running was mine again. And so it goes, breathe in and breathe out, remind yourself that the next moment is not guaranteed, bear down and hold on. And just keep moving.
Friday: 6 Miles at 5:30AM. Touch Art Museum Steps to the Strawberry Mansion Bridge, breath and do it again.
Saturday: 13 Miles at 6:00AM. Charge toward Main Street in Manayunk from a similar starting place; stop to stretch on the Falls Bridge; continue on through the hills, pass coffee shops and Pottery Barn, turn when Garmin tells you to and return.
Sunday: 7 miles at 8:00AM. Shoes on, hangover ignored, move from one barrier island north to another barrier island. Cross bridges, embrace familiarity, return winded and accomplished.
Done.
Despite the simplicity of putting on socks and shoes, left in front of right and hitting these miles, after mile 6 and just before mile 7, I was tense. Not only did I not want to run 13 miles, I wasn't sure I could. I was letting the "training" outshine the "running" and suddenly the reason I'm out there was lost - just like that. With the Marathon looming, training intensifying and joints aching - all at once - It's easy to see how any runner could forget why she runs in the first place; and it's not to get from point A to point B - at least most of the time.
It took the not-so-subtle reminder, on the eve of an uncertain 13 miles, that 9 months ago, if a doctor told me he could fix me and I could run even five blocks, I would have been thrilled with the news that running was mine again. And so it goes, breathe in and breathe out, remind yourself that the next moment is not guaranteed, bear down and hold on. And just keep moving.
What it takes:
(1) to come home again and (2) run the lid off the mason jar.
I grew up about 75 minutes from Center City, Philadelphia in a shore town so small that, as a teen, I was certain the familiarity, alone, would steal my air like a mason jar from a firefly. And so, in 1999, I moved away from my center, ever so slightly, toward a world where sand wasn't on my doorstep and the humid ocean breeze didn't quiet a fitful sleep. Like Ocean City, Running is safety amid waves, my compass and the clothes pin that keeps me from flying away in the wind.
Yesterday, I set out 24 hours post-almost-half-marathon [13.01/1:59], for a seven mile run home. Down Whittier Avenue in Strathmere, with the ocean and the new sun at my back, toward the Deuville Inn and the Inlet, I ran without ache or apprehension. Crossing the Strathmere Bridge, dodging cars and not looking down through the grates, I [mistakenly] nudged a seagull awake with my right elbow, continued on through the toll and focused on the bikers already out for their morning ride to the 34th Street WaWa in Ocean City. The incline and decline of that bridge were subtle enough for me to focus forward through the pounding. I thought of the choppy Inlet - moments past - when it was just me as a spec in that water, always floating, never thinking beyond the open sky.
I ran past the marshes, smelling the steady low-tide, and over the Ocean City Bridge beyond the fishermen and other runners, straight home, around the corner on to 56th Street. And there they were: the smiles and the sleepy eyed walks to Blitz's for milk and eggs and the Sunday Atlantic City Press; the old locals that saw a familiar little girl in the red haired woman running down West Avenue; the bikes headed to the beach streets and the dogs parked outside of Mallon's, waiting for the smallest piece of a sticky bun to fall their way. But for the passing of 12 years, noticeable only through the chipping blue paint on corner benches, Ocean City is now just as it always was, and my eyes are finally opened to the appreciation of it.
At 40th street, I turned with a kiss to the clouds and a wave to my grandfather. Back down Central Avenue, past the little lawns with old men talking to their neighbors, coffee in hand, sprinklers beginning the task at hand, across both bridges' now not-so-subtle inclines with a perfect 7 miles in 58 minutes, "See you soon, then" has never felt so right.
I grew up about 75 minutes from Center City, Philadelphia in a shore town so small that, as a teen, I was certain the familiarity, alone, would steal my air like a mason jar from a firefly. And so, in 1999, I moved away from my center, ever so slightly, toward a world where sand wasn't on my doorstep and the humid ocean breeze didn't quiet a fitful sleep. Like Ocean City, Running is safety amid waves, my compass and the clothes pin that keeps me from flying away in the wind.
Yesterday, I set out 24 hours post-almost-half-marathon [13.01/1:59], for a seven mile run home. Down Whittier Avenue in Strathmere, with the ocean and the new sun at my back, toward the Deuville Inn and the Inlet, I ran without ache or apprehension. Crossing the Strathmere Bridge, dodging cars and not looking down through the grates, I [mistakenly] nudged a seagull awake with my right elbow, continued on through the toll and focused on the bikers already out for their morning ride to the 34th Street WaWa in Ocean City. The incline and decline of that bridge were subtle enough for me to focus forward through the pounding. I thought of the choppy Inlet - moments past - when it was just me as a spec in that water, always floating, never thinking beyond the open sky.
I ran past the marshes, smelling the steady low-tide, and over the Ocean City Bridge beyond the fishermen and other runners, straight home, around the corner on to 56th Street. And there they were: the smiles and the sleepy eyed walks to Blitz's for milk and eggs and the Sunday Atlantic City Press; the old locals that saw a familiar little girl in the red haired woman running down West Avenue; the bikes headed to the beach streets and the dogs parked outside of Mallon's, waiting for the smallest piece of a sticky bun to fall their way. But for the passing of 12 years, noticeable only through the chipping blue paint on corner benches, Ocean City is now just as it always was, and my eyes are finally opened to the appreciation of it.
At 40th street, I turned with a kiss to the clouds and a wave to my grandfather. Back down Central Avenue, past the little lawns with old men talking to their neighbors, coffee in hand, sprinklers beginning the task at hand, across both bridges' now not-so-subtle inclines with a perfect 7 miles in 58 minutes, "See you soon, then" has never felt so right.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
"Take care of yourself."
Last Thursday I pushed myself. Hard.
At 6:30AM I was on top of the Art Museum Steps taking a very low budget (read: want-to-be) Crossfit Class. We jumped, climbed, ran, skipped, high-kneed the hell out of the warm-up and hit a lot of different pushups. Aside from the obvious similarities to a high school track practice, lack of creativity and disregard for actual stretching, the setting was the perfect combination of fountain/sunrise/city hall and historic landmark; the weather crisp and light; the steps manageable and parking convenient. I will go back at least once more.
At 5:00PM I was aching (from the lack of stretching) and in the elevator down from my 19th floor center city office debating whether I had it in me to take my stiff joints up a few hills through UPenn. A deep breath with closed eyes and a small "you can do this" later, I was on my way through "Move-In Day" on the campus.
After a mile, it became clear that this two-a-day was a bad idea and I was focused only on putting one foot in front of the other, my iPod was turned up as high as it could possibly go and keyed into the fastest, most ridiculous songs available. I was a woman on a 2.5 mile, hilly, out and back mission and god help you if you crossed my path or tried to run me over as the case may be.
At approximately mile 1.9, I was trucking at a 9:15/mile pace, approaching the turnaround and oblivious to how many driveways and parking lots there actually are between Spruce Street and CHOP [Children's Hospital of Pennsylvania]. Needless to say, I was centered by Zac Brown's "Chicken Fried" and the CHOP sign just ahead when I almost got hit by a Black Honda Civic. And when I say "almost," I mean I respect the brakes in that car and the fender was a little warm against my knee. It was one of those moments when "what could have happened" doesn't so much enter your mind as it just invades your entire system and nocks you down. As I ran on from that spot toward my turn around, a quiet "Hey Jude" was the next track. A few steps later, mid-30's Doctor in scrubs and a long white coat accentuated by dark hair and eyes and a thick accent took his own earbuds out, looked right at me and said, "Take care of yourself."
Note: He didn't ask if I was alright or admonish me to stop being such a stupid runner and pay better attention; he didn't shake his head or tell me to take "better" care of myself; he made eye contact, got my attention with that simple gesture and spoke to me the way the universe tends to - directly and without pretense. For the next 2.5 miles back toward my beginning, all I thought was that doctor was more than just a guy waiting for a bus after work. He was there, at that moment to remind me of something. And so I will...take care of myself.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Glee!
According to Wikipedia, Glee is an American musical comedy-drama television series that airs on Fox. It touches on the high school glee club New Directions competing on the show choir competition circuit, while its members deal with relationships, sexuality and social issues. More importantly, the Glee soundtracks are the backdrop for my runs these days - from treadmill to UPenn and in between, the eight Glee soundtracks tap into a level of peppiness not usually attainable by an otherwise cranky 30 year old at 4:30AM.
However, like a cloudy martini under an umbrella on a hot Friday afternoon, this music does the trick and snaps my stride up to a higher tempo than normal. Maybe it's my closet obsession with a cappella groups [complete with a desire to be a member of one], my love of high school musicals or just the way the songs sound all sped up, broken down and unwritten from their origin. Whatever it is, I'll take it and ride on its back until it can't carry me any further.
Although my runs remain largely the same, treadmill days included, my mental trips (meditative and not so) are all new and full of a 16-year-old's energy and optimism. Just as I'm climbing the incline of the South Street Bridge with 30 year old aching hamstrings, a completely re-worked, peppy and ridiculous cover of "Poker Face" comes on my ipod, the pain subsides for a moment and I seize the hill. And the soundtracks go on: There are the typical broadway songs - mainly from Rent - and otherwise recognizably empowering; there are the Eddie Vedder ballads set to a disco ball's lights; and there are those songs, names long forgotten, that can take you back to such a precise moment a decade ago that it threatens to stop your stride.
The overall effect of this music has transformed my attitude, woken me out of a long mile with unconscious lyrics sung out loud and propelled me forward toward my own imaginary finish line. As training continues steadily and the days between me and my first marathon disappear, I find myself ever the more grateful for new experiences, methods, support and tips - Glee tops the list this week. So, thank you, random featured runner in the August Runner's World, for this suggestion and for getting me one week closer.
However, like a cloudy martini under an umbrella on a hot Friday afternoon, this music does the trick and snaps my stride up to a higher tempo than normal. Maybe it's my closet obsession with a cappella groups [complete with a desire to be a member of one], my love of high school musicals or just the way the songs sound all sped up, broken down and unwritten from their origin. Whatever it is, I'll take it and ride on its back until it can't carry me any further.
Although my runs remain largely the same, treadmill days included, my mental trips (meditative and not so) are all new and full of a 16-year-old's energy and optimism. Just as I'm climbing the incline of the South Street Bridge with 30 year old aching hamstrings, a completely re-worked, peppy and ridiculous cover of "Poker Face" comes on my ipod, the pain subsides for a moment and I seize the hill. And the soundtracks go on: There are the typical broadway songs - mainly from Rent - and otherwise recognizably empowering; there are the Eddie Vedder ballads set to a disco ball's lights; and there are those songs, names long forgotten, that can take you back to such a precise moment a decade ago that it threatens to stop your stride.
The overall effect of this music has transformed my attitude, woken me out of a long mile with unconscious lyrics sung out loud and propelled me forward toward my own imaginary finish line. As training continues steadily and the days between me and my first marathon disappear, I find myself ever the more grateful for new experiences, methods, support and tips - Glee tops the list this week. So, thank you, random featured runner in the August Runner's World, for this suggestion and for getting me one week closer.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Swimming 12 Miles [or just dramatizing a humid run].
Runner's World [August 2011] swears or affirms (as the case may be) that training through (not around) heat and humidity will pay off in the Fall Marathon season. Here's hoping that's true and the last 90+ days of maxed-out, moisture-wicking, soaking wet running clothes, dehydration, exhaustion, frustration and whatever other -tion words you want to use, will have been for the betterment of our bodies and our mental strength.
On my long runs, recently 12 miles through Center City, Fairmount, out East River to Manayunk and almost deep enough into Wissahickon to lose the city altogether, it's been difficult to muddle through the heaviness in my lungs and the weakness in my body. Yet, somehow, by the grace of the running gods and my cheering sections of wild geese parked alongside the river, the trusty old Garmin does not get clicked to an abrupt stop; rather, the run fights me mentally and I win. Time and time again, the higher the stakes (humidity + new, challenging run + time trials) the better my mind performs, the deeper and more methodic my breathing becomes and the steadier my attitude is.
On such a run, when it is 6AM, 89 degrees and thick air surrounds you, there is no room for nerves; no time for "I don't want to," no patience for doubt or pity or the dangerous valley between them; there is only time for reaction, method and positive energy propelling you forward. It is you and a giant beast of a day running at each other until one falls down and the other goes on. While I have yet to put RW August's proclamation to task in cooler weather, I will say this: training in humidity, heat and horrible made me strong enough to be the one to knock down the day and not look back.
And so, for this crazy summer, I am all the better for your hot days, thick air and surprisingly strong will. Until we meet again.
On my long runs, recently 12 miles through Center City, Fairmount, out East River to Manayunk and almost deep enough into Wissahickon to lose the city altogether, it's been difficult to muddle through the heaviness in my lungs and the weakness in my body. Yet, somehow, by the grace of the running gods and my cheering sections of wild geese parked alongside the river, the trusty old Garmin does not get clicked to an abrupt stop; rather, the run fights me mentally and I win. Time and time again, the higher the stakes (humidity + new, challenging run + time trials) the better my mind performs, the deeper and more methodic my breathing becomes and the steadier my attitude is.
On such a run, when it is 6AM, 89 degrees and thick air surrounds you, there is no room for nerves; no time for "I don't want to," no patience for doubt or pity or the dangerous valley between them; there is only time for reaction, method and positive energy propelling you forward. It is you and a giant beast of a day running at each other until one falls down and the other goes on. While I have yet to put RW August's proclamation to task in cooler weather, I will say this: training in humidity, heat and horrible made me strong enough to be the one to knock down the day and not look back.
And so, for this crazy summer, I am all the better for your hot days, thick air and surprisingly strong will. Until we meet again.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
These Streets
I moved to Philadelphia in the Summer of 2003, BA in hand, salt water still starching my red hair and scared to death of getting lost despite the city's grid. Quick to appreciate cabs and the art of being driven, my car moved only down 95 to my law school and back; my body moved at a gym approximately 100 steps from my apartment; and my anxiety hit levels of tension beyond my wildest dreams. I moved to the suburbs in the Summer of 2004.
Now, back in Philadelphia since 2006, I am not afraid. Of getting lost, at least. Running has given be the remarkable opportunity to learn and to know - I mean truly know in the approximate amount of miles from the Art Museum to the intersection of 20th and Market sort of way - more than a few exceptional areas of this city.
Such a transformation from the wide-eyed, overwhelmed girl I was is hit home by Paolo Nutini in "These Streets." He reminds me that we can get used to most things, if we embrace the change.
"These streets have too many names for me
I'm used to Glenfield road and spending my time down in Orchy
I'll get used to this eventually
I know, I know."
For instance, on one of my recent 6 mile morning runs down East River Drive, I realized I knew how many boathouses there were, where certain fell among them and what I would likely see on the porches [laundry hung out to dry at the Vesper club, etc.] that wrap them. I know where Lemon Hill takes you (and where it doesn't: back down to east river drive quickly). If called upon, I could even tell you how to get from UPenn to the Please Touch Museum (the new location) and back downtown via West River Drive. My world, simply, is more open now because my footsteps fall over this city without hesitation. I have almost twenty months of miles logged through these parks, over the hills and under the bridges, down East River and up West River, through campuses, alive and ghostly, and back to where I started.
And once again, this freedom is why we run this city - one mile or twelve - rain or shine - dusk or dawn.
Now, back in Philadelphia since 2006, I am not afraid. Of getting lost, at least. Running has given be the remarkable opportunity to learn and to know - I mean truly know in the approximate amount of miles from the Art Museum to the intersection of 20th and Market sort of way - more than a few exceptional areas of this city.
Such a transformation from the wide-eyed, overwhelmed girl I was is hit home by Paolo Nutini in "These Streets." He reminds me that we can get used to most things, if we embrace the change.
"These streets have too many names for me
I'm used to Glenfield road and spending my time down in Orchy
I'll get used to this eventually
I know, I know."
For instance, on one of my recent 6 mile morning runs down East River Drive, I realized I knew how many boathouses there were, where certain fell among them and what I would likely see on the porches [laundry hung out to dry at the Vesper club, etc.] that wrap them. I know where Lemon Hill takes you (and where it doesn't: back down to east river drive quickly). If called upon, I could even tell you how to get from UPenn to the Please Touch Museum (the new location) and back downtown via West River Drive. My world, simply, is more open now because my footsteps fall over this city without hesitation. I have almost twenty months of miles logged through these parks, over the hills and under the bridges, down East River and up West River, through campuses, alive and ghostly, and back to where I started.
And once again, this freedom is why we run this city - one mile or twelve - rain or shine - dusk or dawn.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Treadmills.
There was a time in my life during which every day ended with 60 minutes on the treadmill at a slow pace watching Sonny and Carly dance around epic tragedy on General Hospital. No matter the time of year, the crowd (welcome, Shoobies), the practice I'd had after school or the dinner waiting at home, there was always those 60 minutes that were just mine.
Since then (high school), I moved away from the treadmill's perfection - in stride, time, pace, incline and calories - toward (1) walking/nothing (college) and (2) trails (law school). And while I'm still an outdoor girl - whether snow or 100 degrees and humid - runs like today's, on a treadmill, for 81 minutes, running 9 miles while staring blankly at the same building in the distance that overlooks my favorite park, was a reminder that there is something to be said for steadiness and meditation.
Runners often speak of the transcendent properties of a great run - whether a marathon or a 5k. The 9 miles that I ran today, while they did not take me anywhere, they didn't take me from anywhere either. They kept me right where I was: in a gym, focused on the archaic beauty of a building in Philadelphia's skyline, with controlled breathing and a free mind. I was very much in a moment and in that moment there was clarity without anxiety and feeling without thought.
Coming off of a difficult week, running felt good again - the way it did when I was 17 with 10 minutes left in my workout, waiting for my dad to pick me up from a gym his buddy owned to take me home to a dinner my mom made. And so, while the thought of a treadmill workout may seem like a dark cloud on most days, I remind myself that there is a simple safety in crossing the finish line there.
And I thought the comeback was the hard part...
Marathon Training Week Two:
5 mornings that began at 4:30AM;
guilt over a lost hills workout;
hydration to the point of broken sleep;
3 times in the gym lifting and stretching;
a welcome home party for two-a-day workouts;
26 miles, 17 outside and 9, just recently, all at once, on a treadmill;
an aching hamstring (deep and subtle, not when running);
1 Extend Barre Pilates class; and
no wine to take the edge off of a bad day.
That said, on Rest Day Eve (Friday), after a run perfect from sunrise to to the uphills, I felt beaten. Not beaten in the sports massage way either - this was more of a baseball bat to the quads, hamstrings and core kind of beaten. Looking at "Week 2" and realizing there are twelve more to go was a game changer. And so, for as hard as I've worked to get back, I've come to realize that now the real grit of the journey takes hold. I'm hanging on to the side of a mountain, making the decision to keep going. Up. Over. And through.
5 mornings that began at 4:30AM;
guilt over a lost hills workout;
hydration to the point of broken sleep;
3 times in the gym lifting and stretching;
a welcome home party for two-a-day workouts;
26 miles, 17 outside and 9, just recently, all at once, on a treadmill;
an aching hamstring (deep and subtle, not when running);
1 Extend Barre Pilates class; and
no wine to take the edge off of a bad day.
That said, on Rest Day Eve (Friday), after a run perfect from sunrise to to the uphills, I felt beaten. Not beaten in the sports massage way either - this was more of a baseball bat to the quads, hamstrings and core kind of beaten. Looking at "Week 2" and realizing there are twelve more to go was a game changer. And so, for as hard as I've worked to get back, I've come to realize that now the real grit of the journey takes hold. I'm hanging on to the side of a mountain, making the decision to keep going. Up. Over. And through.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
9 Perfect Miles
I am a closet lover of rounded numbers and even things. This does not mean I am forced to wake up at 4:22AM because it's perfectly even or listen to the radio or TV on an even volume - what it does mean, however, is that 9 miles in 81 minutes, flat, makes me happy for several reasons - above and beyond how great the actual run felt.
This morning fit Nine, 9 minute miles into an almost effortless stride. Few runs ever feel so right. That said, I'm a big believer in embracing them when they do. When you're perfectly hydrated, fueled by a banana and rising above the ridiculous humidity left behind by a nighttime storm, it seems that nothing can get in your way except you (and a few over-the-top rude bikers - by the way, guys, the path is there for all of us, I don't wear an ipod so I can hear you coming, I don't appreciate your horns or whistles, as the case may be, nor do I deserve your screams of "left" and "watch out." And to the one female biker that actually skimmed my left side today, some day you'll pull that nonsense with the wrong runner and I hope I'm there to see it).
As always, miles 1-4 were slower than miles 5-9. I've found lately that, no matter the run (or day) I'm having, my body is slow to warm up and fall in love with an early morning run. But once it does get loose, I've really been able to throw down steady and strong times without the aches and pains of last summer. Peas & Carrots, while still in my freezer, remain a constant reminder of what could happen but are ultimately untouched. On today's run, this turning point came on just after I crossed the Falls Bridge from East River Drive down to West River Drive. Aided by the She Rox Triathlon participants, cheers and music, I picked it up, lengthened my stride and drove my pace down by about 20 seconds per mile.
The crowds, as they always do, sent me to daydreaming about what the Marathon will feel like in November; how it will feel to have such support from thousands of strangers and a handful of very important people following me through Philly with signs (not that I've thought about it). Through the tents and water stations, however, West River Drive became what I love it for - silent. Past the Three Mile Green House and the Waterworks, around the Art Museum Steps and toward the completion of my 9 perfect miles, I was consistent with my breathing and ready for more. And therein lies the most important difference between August 2010 (immediately pre-injury) and August 2011 (almost one year out): last year I would have gone until it didn't feel good anymore; this year, I stopped on top of my run, still owning it, still in control.
Apparently, I've learned a few things and that is my 9 mile miracle.
This morning fit Nine, 9 minute miles into an almost effortless stride. Few runs ever feel so right. That said, I'm a big believer in embracing them when they do. When you're perfectly hydrated, fueled by a banana and rising above the ridiculous humidity left behind by a nighttime storm, it seems that nothing can get in your way except you (and a few over-the-top rude bikers - by the way, guys, the path is there for all of us, I don't wear an ipod so I can hear you coming, I don't appreciate your horns or whistles, as the case may be, nor do I deserve your screams of "left" and "watch out." And to the one female biker that actually skimmed my left side today, some day you'll pull that nonsense with the wrong runner and I hope I'm there to see it).
As always, miles 1-4 were slower than miles 5-9. I've found lately that, no matter the run (or day) I'm having, my body is slow to warm up and fall in love with an early morning run. But once it does get loose, I've really been able to throw down steady and strong times without the aches and pains of last summer. Peas & Carrots, while still in my freezer, remain a constant reminder of what could happen but are ultimately untouched. On today's run, this turning point came on just after I crossed the Falls Bridge from East River Drive down to West River Drive. Aided by the She Rox Triathlon participants, cheers and music, I picked it up, lengthened my stride and drove my pace down by about 20 seconds per mile.
The crowds, as they always do, sent me to daydreaming about what the Marathon will feel like in November; how it will feel to have such support from thousands of strangers and a handful of very important people following me through Philly with signs (not that I've thought about it). Through the tents and water stations, however, West River Drive became what I love it for - silent. Past the Three Mile Green House and the Waterworks, around the Art Museum Steps and toward the completion of my 9 perfect miles, I was consistent with my breathing and ready for more. And therein lies the most important difference between August 2010 (immediately pre-injury) and August 2011 (almost one year out): last year I would have gone until it didn't feel good anymore; this year, I stopped on top of my run, still owning it, still in control.
Apparently, I've learned a few things and that is my 9 mile miracle.
"...let it rain down and wash everything away."
Whenever I run in the rain, which given the summer of six heat waves, admittedly I haven't done much of, the aptly named Creed song pops into my head and suddenly I'm chanting, "I feel it's going to rain like this for days - so let it rain down and wash everything away - I hope that tomorrow the sun will shine - with every tomorrow comes another life - I feel like it's going to rain like this for days," to myself as I head down the path.
Weird? Probably.
However, it captures my optimism about rain - especially what it feels like to start and end a long run in the rain. There is something about knowing that you're walking out of a perfectly dry house into a storm when it's barely light out to run for at least an hour, sucking it up and doing it. Instantly not dry, chilly and still waking up, it takes a bit of mental knowhow to move beyond the elements, accept them and run with them and even more focus on the journey.
Running 6 miles earlier this week in the remnants of a storm reminded me of humid, rainbow filled mornings and an uncertain struggle as I began my training 12 months ago - afraid to miss a step. The difference now is remarkable. I am not driven by fear of missing a workout or a tempo run or an appropriate time on my garmin, I am just driven. Driven to breathe deep on the stormy days, keep my arms where they are supposed to be, lengthen my stride at the end, finish hard, start steady, embrace puddles and smile at other wet runners with the same ideas. They may not be pretty, but these runs are what bring us back, humble us low and redefine our strength.
So the rain came, went and promised to return- washed a lot of the dust away and got me ready to start what I hope will be a seamless 14 week buildup to 26.2 miles in November.
Weird? Probably.
However, it captures my optimism about rain - especially what it feels like to start and end a long run in the rain. There is something about knowing that you're walking out of a perfectly dry house into a storm when it's barely light out to run for at least an hour, sucking it up and doing it. Instantly not dry, chilly and still waking up, it takes a bit of mental knowhow to move beyond the elements, accept them and run with them and even more focus on the journey.
Running 6 miles earlier this week in the remnants of a storm reminded me of humid, rainbow filled mornings and an uncertain struggle as I began my training 12 months ago - afraid to miss a step. The difference now is remarkable. I am not driven by fear of missing a workout or a tempo run or an appropriate time on my garmin, I am just driven. Driven to breathe deep on the stormy days, keep my arms where they are supposed to be, lengthen my stride at the end, finish hard, start steady, embrace puddles and smile at other wet runners with the same ideas. They may not be pretty, but these runs are what bring us back, humble us low and redefine our strength.
So the rain came, went and promised to return- washed a lot of the dust away and got me ready to start what I hope will be a seamless 14 week buildup to 26.2 miles in November.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Tiny Dancer.
"Xtend Barre Pilates: An efficient way to create a strong and healthy body at any age - developed from a dance/pilates background - you'll enjoy the workout of a dancer and the benefits of Pilates all in one," says the Urbanfront Pilates website [www.urbanfrontpilates.com].
A 60% off Groupon, an internal dare and a constant search for fun ways to cross train led me to an airy Pilates Studio on the corner of 17th and Sansom with a wall of windows overlooking an intersection of Philadelphia's best - hotels, restaurants, people and pets - on a Tuesday night.
The beautiful imp of an instructor floated across the floor with such comfort the studio itself seemed to embrace her; an easy smile putting the room at an even calm against the rush hour below; and, of course, the stance of a dancer. From her rhythmic demands for tempo and pulse to her happily non-pretentious pronunciation of "plié" and "arabesque," this place instantly came alive and brilliantly so. Even in its perfection, it was subtle.
This is not a class for the feint of heart nor is it like anything you've ever done before unless you were a ballerina in a former life. I was not. More specifically, I was the only child of a small town sports legend. And so I didn't do gymnastics, I shot a basketball. I didn't wear tutus and prance off to dance class, I went to the batting cages. I don't dance. Yet somehow, I found myself, grip socks and all, in what looks very much like a ballet studio, barre and all, on a random Tuesday night.
The workout is fast and immediately intense. A one pound weight in each hand is more than enough to have you meditating beyond the burn just 20 minutes in. The warmup is rapid fire movements and constant adjustment from the window, to the middle, a bit above or behind - all toward the common goal of not whacking another student with your weights. As acclimation sets in, however, you realize that you are, in fact, moving and responding to commands from the front of the class. You are using the barre and approaching it correctly. There is stretching and lifting and bending and your limbs suddenly do what you ask of them at the exact moment you ask it. There is, dare I say it, a bit of grace.
And at the end, when you are on your toes, arms stretched out and above your head, eyes closed, balanced and breathing deep, you will feel accomplished and self-contained and you will be shaking.
A 60% off Groupon, an internal dare and a constant search for fun ways to cross train led me to an airy Pilates Studio on the corner of 17th and Sansom with a wall of windows overlooking an intersection of Philadelphia's best - hotels, restaurants, people and pets - on a Tuesday night.
The beautiful imp of an instructor floated across the floor with such comfort the studio itself seemed to embrace her; an easy smile putting the room at an even calm against the rush hour below; and, of course, the stance of a dancer. From her rhythmic demands for tempo and pulse to her happily non-pretentious pronunciation of "plié" and "arabesque," this place instantly came alive and brilliantly so. Even in its perfection, it was subtle.
This is not a class for the feint of heart nor is it like anything you've ever done before unless you were a ballerina in a former life. I was not. More specifically, I was the only child of a small town sports legend. And so I didn't do gymnastics, I shot a basketball. I didn't wear tutus and prance off to dance class, I went to the batting cages. I don't dance. Yet somehow, I found myself, grip socks and all, in what looks very much like a ballet studio, barre and all, on a random Tuesday night.
The workout is fast and immediately intense. A one pound weight in each hand is more than enough to have you meditating beyond the burn just 20 minutes in. The warmup is rapid fire movements and constant adjustment from the window, to the middle, a bit above or behind - all toward the common goal of not whacking another student with your weights. As acclimation sets in, however, you realize that you are, in fact, moving and responding to commands from the front of the class. You are using the barre and approaching it correctly. There is stretching and lifting and bending and your limbs suddenly do what you ask of them at the exact moment you ask it. There is, dare I say it, a bit of grace.
And at the end, when you are on your toes, arms stretched out and above your head, eyes closed, balanced and breathing deep, you will feel accomplished and self-contained and you will be shaking.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
The Road Taken.
Robert Frost wrote of two roads diverging and the choice of "the other, as just as fair, and having perhaps the better claim, because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that passing there had worn them really about the same, and both that morning equally lay in leaves no step had trodden..."
Each time I run on the Schuylkill River Trail, and these runs are many and the same, I come to a fork in the road. This fork may fall at mile 12 or, like yesterday, mile 3.
If I go right, the path continues away from the river, behind trees and along the same well-marked/mapped course that appears clearly on the grid - whatever your grid may be; If I go left, the river is a constant to my west with its Geese waking and occasional homeless fighting for final moments of peace. To the left there are steps down, uneven cobblestones, steps up, an edge of water and action. To the right are runners, silence and the kind of shade that holds you in its stillness. The left has had waist-high snow from January to March for the last two Winters, a slip-n-slide of matted leaves every Fall, becomes a wading pool of April Showers and scorched earth in the Summer while the shade to the right is unwavering. Yet still I go left.
Left is, perhaps, this runner's tribute to loyalty and a reminder that I don't always need to stay on the marked course when it presents itself.
Left is my choice to stay by the water because I feel land-locked in this City and, sometimes, on just the right run at the perfect time of morning, the river smells enough like the ocean to free up my feet a bit, lift my knees and return my youth - if only for a moment.
Left, I suppose, is the road taken and it has made all the difference - no matter the distance.
Each time I run on the Schuylkill River Trail, and these runs are many and the same, I come to a fork in the road. This fork may fall at mile 12 or, like yesterday, mile 3.
If I go right, the path continues away from the river, behind trees and along the same well-marked/mapped course that appears clearly on the grid - whatever your grid may be; If I go left, the river is a constant to my west with its Geese waking and occasional homeless fighting for final moments of peace. To the left there are steps down, uneven cobblestones, steps up, an edge of water and action. To the right are runners, silence and the kind of shade that holds you in its stillness. The left has had waist-high snow from January to March for the last two Winters, a slip-n-slide of matted leaves every Fall, becomes a wading pool of April Showers and scorched earth in the Summer while the shade to the right is unwavering. Yet still I go left.
Left is, perhaps, this runner's tribute to loyalty and a reminder that I don't always need to stay on the marked course when it presents itself.
Left is my choice to stay by the water because I feel land-locked in this City and, sometimes, on just the right run at the perfect time of morning, the river smells enough like the ocean to free up my feet a bit, lift my knees and return my youth - if only for a moment.
Left, I suppose, is the road taken and it has made all the difference - no matter the distance.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Marathon Training Eve (July 31, 2011 to the rest of you).
Eight months ago the blocks on my training schedule read "Run .5 Miles, PM." Meaning I was leaving work, walking two aching blocks, going to the gym, changing into layers of winter running gear, leaving the gym, running five blocks and returning back. In December, August 1, 2011 seemed painfully out of reach. Every step hurt, every breath burned my lungs and every block was a reminder of how far I'd fallen. But 5 blocks became 10 and 10 blocks became 2 miles a few weeks later and so it goes.
If I haven't been training for a Marathon the last 8 months, then what have I been doing? Clawing my way back; getting stronger; learning better habits; using better habits and mentally kicking my own ass. I also managed to set a few PR's along the way; bench the bar 115 times (in sets, not straight) in one workout; break up with my garmin; get back together with my garmin; learn how to run effectively with water; attempted Paleo, fail; and found my way back to appreciating the journey (thank you best friend formerly of Phoenix).
"And now here I stand, head [not] in hand, turn my face [from] the wall" - ready to complete what I started 19 months ago with brand new mile markers, new faces and a new and improved support network.
Today I ran to Manayunk for the first time in eleven months: 12 miles, 153 minutes, a few hills, 3 water fountains, a near collision with a biker who will receive back in karma what he almost got back from me today and a ferocity that I defy any injury to ever dull. I am back. Better than ever. And coming after the Philadelphia Marathon in November 2011.
If I haven't been training for a Marathon the last 8 months, then what have I been doing? Clawing my way back; getting stronger; learning better habits; using better habits and mentally kicking my own ass. I also managed to set a few PR's along the way; bench the bar 115 times (in sets, not straight) in one workout; break up with my garmin; get back together with my garmin; learn how to run effectively with water; attempted Paleo, fail; and found my way back to appreciating the journey (thank you best friend formerly of Phoenix).
"And now here I stand, head [not] in hand, turn my face [from] the wall" - ready to complete what I started 19 months ago with brand new mile markers, new faces and a new and improved support network.
Today I ran to Manayunk for the first time in eleven months: 12 miles, 153 minutes, a few hills, 3 water fountains, a near collision with a biker who will receive back in karma what he almost got back from me today and a ferocity that I defy any injury to ever dull. I am back. Better than ever. And coming after the Philadelphia Marathon in November 2011.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
The 6 Mile Barrier
...has been broken!
With Philadelphia going through its 5th heat wave of the summer, I have to admit that running has been a disastrous chore lately. It seemed no matter how much water I drank, how much wine I didn't drink, how early I woke up during a work week or the amount of shade I sought, the runs were miserable bordering upon straight up painful.
However, while the runners thinned, we were still out there the last 19 days, breathing heavy, soaked and sprinkler hungry (if you run early enough, you'll catch a few of these in Rittenhouse Square and on the lead-up to the art museum loop).
I'm pretty sure I came in contact with a bit of dehydration and it's partner exhaustion. When 6 miles has you couch-bound for an entire afternoon, you have to admit you may not have been prepared for the heat.
Over the last few weeks, I've questioned everything: Whether I'm actually in shape; how much I've slipped; Where my motivation went; Whether I actually enjoy running in the summer; How I'll make it through Marathon training in August; Whether I'm strong enough mentally to actually do this in November?
And then yesterday happened. Nine 9 minute miles - just like that, out of nowhere. And my questions were all answered: Yes, at 30 I could kick the 16-year-old-me's ass; I haven't slipped - in fact, mentally, I'm tough; The humidity hid my motivation - but it found its way out of the dark; I don't enjoy running and I don't dislike it either - it's who I am and as much a part of me as my heart or my feet; I'll make it through August because I have no other choice; November is my game day.
With Philadelphia going through its 5th heat wave of the summer, I have to admit that running has been a disastrous chore lately. It seemed no matter how much water I drank, how much wine I didn't drink, how early I woke up during a work week or the amount of shade I sought, the runs were miserable bordering upon straight up painful.
However, while the runners thinned, we were still out there the last 19 days, breathing heavy, soaked and sprinkler hungry (if you run early enough, you'll catch a few of these in Rittenhouse Square and on the lead-up to the art museum loop).
I'm pretty sure I came in contact with a bit of dehydration and it's partner exhaustion. When 6 miles has you couch-bound for an entire afternoon, you have to admit you may not have been prepared for the heat.
Over the last few weeks, I've questioned everything: Whether I'm actually in shape; how much I've slipped; Where my motivation went; Whether I actually enjoy running in the summer; How I'll make it through Marathon training in August; Whether I'm strong enough mentally to actually do this in November?
And then yesterday happened. Nine 9 minute miles - just like that, out of nowhere. And my questions were all answered: Yes, at 30 I could kick the 16-year-old-me's ass; I haven't slipped - in fact, mentally, I'm tough; The humidity hid my motivation - but it found its way out of the dark; I don't enjoy running and I don't dislike it either - it's who I am and as much a part of me as my heart or my feet; I'll make it through August because I have no other choice; November is my game day.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Clear eyes, full hearts - can't lose.
Disclaimer: I loved the movie - the Series ended Friday night - and, if never before, the sentiment fits.
Running is mainly a solitary sport - this is why I love it but also why I inevitably seek out the support of other runners and crowds by racing.
Yesterday I trained in Wissahickon Park with Students Run Philly Style.
www.studentsrunphilly.org
This organization mentors Philly youth through marathon training and promotes a big dream with reachable milestones along the way. It is an organization rooted in courage, effort and respect - for each other and the journey. In that, it embraces the use of hard work to get somewhere tangible with less focus on the destination and a necessary emphasis on the method.
We started with warm-ups in Saylor Park along Wissahickon Creek. My group of runners was introduced to the 100 kids staring back at us and welcomed with cheers and clapping. This center-of-attention-avoiding-at-all-costs-for-30-years runner chose that moment to find her voice, suck it up and lead warm-ups. Jumping jacks, star jumps, lunges, front and side swings and a few burpies later, the entire group was given a decision to make: Will you run a half or full marathon in the Fall.
Having come close enough to touch a marathon but never run it, the enormity of this decision was a privilege to witness. The kids chose, fell back into their teams with their coaches and headed to the trail head on Forbidden Drive where our course began. We followed.
As a group just starting out on our run, we mirrored the force of the river beneath us and ran together, following and pushing, without aggression and as in sync as 100 pairs of feet can ever be. Soon the crowd spread out and the space drew out in such a way that we were not disconnected from one another; rather, we were pulled forward by it. The loop proved itself beautiful at the turn when you knew the faces to come would be bright, full of support and just enough to meet the next set of eyes.
It is important (for me) to remember that these are kids. A place I am far from. But they possess such respect for this sport and own the understanding that running belongs to no one and everyone just the same, that I trust it is easy to forget that they are short on years.
It was 8 miles with 100 teenagers that showed me if you really do have clear eyes and full hearts, no matter what your reality is, you can't lose. The world won't let you.
We started with warm-ups in Saylor Park along Wissahickon Creek. My group of runners was introduced to the 100 kids staring back at us and welcomed with cheers and clapping. This center-of-attention-avoiding-at-all-costs-for-30-years runner chose that moment to find her voice, suck it up and lead warm-ups. Jumping jacks, star jumps, lunges, front and side swings and a few burpies later, the entire group was given a decision to make: Will you run a half or full marathon in the Fall.
Having come close enough to touch a marathon but never run it, the enormity of this decision was a privilege to witness. The kids chose, fell back into their teams with their coaches and headed to the trail head on Forbidden Drive where our course began. We followed.
As a group just starting out on our run, we mirrored the force of the river beneath us and ran together, following and pushing, without aggression and as in sync as 100 pairs of feet can ever be. Soon the crowd spread out and the space drew out in such a way that we were not disconnected from one another; rather, we were pulled forward by it. The loop proved itself beautiful at the turn when you knew the faces to come would be bright, full of support and just enough to meet the next set of eyes.
It is important (for me) to remember that these are kids. A place I am far from. But they possess such respect for this sport and own the understanding that running belongs to no one and everyone just the same, that I trust it is easy to forget that they are short on years.
It was 8 miles with 100 teenagers that showed me if you really do have clear eyes and full hearts, no matter what your reality is, you can't lose. The world won't let you.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Pillars.
Along with the rest of Fit Philly, I cross train at the Art Museum Steps. They (the steps) are majestic, captured by movies and a tourist's destination. But They (the steps) are steep, narrow, plateau at all the right intervals and a damn good workout.
There is a place just beyond where a hooded Rocky ran, arms up against the sky, about 50 yards and a fountain away, where another set of steps takes you up and through 6 pillars. If you turn to face the city again, from in between pillars 3 and 4, drop and do pushups with your head focused forward - the city is cut in half and you are on top of the world.
I have stood on these steps at 6PM on a cold January night, watching the stars pop, wondering how I would muster the strength to finish my 3 mile run and I've worked out on these steps in the July mid-morning heat - to the point of exhaustion. No matter the month; no matter the time of day or what kind of shape I happen to be in, this place, with its steady strength, removed from the city center, shadowed, quiet and safe, is an escape. Plain and simple.
Go here, work to the top, turn and realize how far you've come, breath it in for a long moment and don't rush back. Trust me.
There is a place just beyond where a hooded Rocky ran, arms up against the sky, about 50 yards and a fountain away, where another set of steps takes you up and through 6 pillars. If you turn to face the city again, from in between pillars 3 and 4, drop and do pushups with your head focused forward - the city is cut in half and you are on top of the world.
I have stood on these steps at 6PM on a cold January night, watching the stars pop, wondering how I would muster the strength to finish my 3 mile run and I've worked out on these steps in the July mid-morning heat - to the point of exhaustion. No matter the month; no matter the time of day or what kind of shape I happen to be in, this place, with its steady strength, removed from the city center, shadowed, quiet and safe, is an escape. Plain and simple.
Go here, work to the top, turn and realize how far you've come, breath it in for a long moment and don't rush back. Trust me.
Monday, July 11, 2011
You can take the girl away from the shore...
But you can't take the shore away from the girl.
I grew up in a place where, if it rained hard enough for more than a day, the ocean met the bay and school was flooded out. I grew up surrounded by waves, salt air (and water taffy) and, even having been gone for a decade, the smell of a morning by the ocean still welcomes me home in a way that apple pie or turkey or mom's ravioli's must for other people.
The sound of feet falling on an old boardwalk, salt air and heavy breathing drowned out only by lapping water against a boat and gulls overhead. This was my last run and it was not against the backdrop of the shore that was my childhood stage. It was beautiful, lit by the subtlety of an early sun and full of the warmth of home. And it was in Philadelphia.
Down by the Delaware River, on Columbus Boulevard, if you start at Washington Avenue and head toward the new Race Street Pier (where men fish, old women knit, families picnic and children blow bubbles at the base of the Ben Franklin Bridge, by the way) you will be rewarded with beautiful wooden beams that fall under your feet like the Ocean City Boardwalk, waves, gulls and boats (parked and moving) and endless views of a clean and shiny Camden (from far away, I suppose anything is).
The terrain is flat until you get to the Ben Franklin Bridge but as I've always said, that uphill is well worth the view from the top and the sigh of relief on the downhill.
Camden falls beneath your feet again with baseball fields (thank you, Rutgers) and another hidden and untouched boardwalk. There will be a fat fisherman in an empty parking lot hot after catfish. He operates out of a maroon aged cadillac - older than you (the car and the fisherman) and questionable in the "does this thing actually move" sort of way.
This is a tough run rewarded by the "reach out and touch me" proximity to the USS NJ. At this old ship, I smile and turn around - goodbye for now old friend - and you are halfway done. Although this is flat, it's rough, hot and a smack in the face when you realize you're at the base of the bridge and have yet to climb up it. But again, there is the triumphant view from the top and the sigh of a decline; the river welcomes you back on the Philadelphia side and the water glistens all the while.
This run feels like a hug from home in all of the right ways for those of us who love the shore and are heartened by the subtle give of the boardwalk beneath our feet.
I grew up in a place where, if it rained hard enough for more than a day, the ocean met the bay and school was flooded out. I grew up surrounded by waves, salt air (and water taffy) and, even having been gone for a decade, the smell of a morning by the ocean still welcomes me home in a way that apple pie or turkey or mom's ravioli's must for other people.
The sound of feet falling on an old boardwalk, salt air and heavy breathing drowned out only by lapping water against a boat and gulls overhead. This was my last run and it was not against the backdrop of the shore that was my childhood stage. It was beautiful, lit by the subtlety of an early sun and full of the warmth of home. And it was in Philadelphia.
Down by the Delaware River, on Columbus Boulevard, if you start at Washington Avenue and head toward the new Race Street Pier (where men fish, old women knit, families picnic and children blow bubbles at the base of the Ben Franklin Bridge, by the way) you will be rewarded with beautiful wooden beams that fall under your feet like the Ocean City Boardwalk, waves, gulls and boats (parked and moving) and endless views of a clean and shiny Camden (from far away, I suppose anything is).
The terrain is flat until you get to the Ben Franklin Bridge but as I've always said, that uphill is well worth the view from the top and the sigh of relief on the downhill.
Camden falls beneath your feet again with baseball fields (thank you, Rutgers) and another hidden and untouched boardwalk. There will be a fat fisherman in an empty parking lot hot after catfish. He operates out of a maroon aged cadillac - older than you (the car and the fisherman) and questionable in the "does this thing actually move" sort of way.
This is a tough run rewarded by the "reach out and touch me" proximity to the USS NJ. At this old ship, I smile and turn around - goodbye for now old friend - and you are halfway done. Although this is flat, it's rough, hot and a smack in the face when you realize you're at the base of the bridge and have yet to climb up it. But again, there is the triumphant view from the top and the sigh of a decline; the river welcomes you back on the Philadelphia side and the water glistens all the while.
This run feels like a hug from home in all of the right ways for those of us who love the shore and are heartened by the subtle give of the boardwalk beneath our feet.
60 Minutes in Heaven
As my marathon season sits waiting, just on the other side of August 1, I've transitioned, ever so slowly, into a 60 minute warmup (read: "shortest") run for the week. This is my subtle smile of a greeting to Monday morning; it is my homecoming after a long weekend and the center I'll revolve around when my feet no longer find the ground - amidst the chaos of the day, patience tried and courage torn, this run, with its pressure free of miles and steady breathing, will bring me back down and remind me peace still exists, courage rebuilds and patience is sometimes fuzzy at its edges.
The humidity, lately, only adds to the transient nature of this run. It is mental and beautifully so. You almost have to get above the weather and the hills on tired Mondays when your legs are heavy, lungs aching and wrists automatically sweaty. In this meditation, entire minutes disappear and you only notice what's immediately in front of you - whether an empty street lined by worn buildings and empty parking lots or a path curving with a river - whether sand or green or covered up by trees - this run is common to all of us. It is what sets runners apart of those who run. It is our reason and our homecoming; the 60 minutes when the world disappears and I am anyone, running anywhere to nowhere in particular with everything in front of her.
This is how I'll run until I can't anymore - in between the hills and tempo runs and time trials and watches with satellites; in between the marathons and sprints with signs and crowds; in between the tears and injuries with frustration and rebuilding - this is how I will run, until I can't anymore.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Crush this.
I don't know that I've had a truly great in-your-face sort of run where you own it and leave nothing unforgiven in a few weeks - maybe even as far back as the Oddyssey Half Marathon. I blamed everything from hydration to boredom to the weather and still nothing changed; not my attitude, my strength or my enjoyment factor. In fact, in the middle of yet another run I wasn't prepared (enough) for, on Saturday, I actually said out loud to myself, "This hasn't felt good in too long." Not even the sun reflecting off the water on the third mile of my first run of the long weekend could snap me out of this funk.
It actually took a two rounds of fireworks, a few beers by the water at night and sleeping past 6AM for a run like today's to be possible. It was one of those "I'm going to crush this" moments when you actually make it through and physically crush something on the other side (for me, I literally stomped a bottle of vitamin water). Mentally, I had to do Saturday's run over. And so I did it the way it was meant to be done. Hard, fast, in high humidity, across a bridge and back, out of breath, with nothing left.
My cheeks were so fiery at mile 4 that I could feel their heat more than anything else and found myself wondering if I looked like one of those clowns with the super-white face and red-circle-cheeks. Up and down the Ben Franklin Bridge was more crowded than usual and completely worth the ascent to see both Camden and Philadelphia clearly celebrating July 4th - flags-a-flying.
With every stride I was pain free and strong, controlled breathing and a smile (finally) back on my face. Sometimes it's nice to know that when your mind needs a vacation from pushing one foot in front of the other, your body is there to get out and attack a run just for the fun of it.
It actually took a two rounds of fireworks, a few beers by the water at night and sleeping past 6AM for a run like today's to be possible. It was one of those "I'm going to crush this" moments when you actually make it through and physically crush something on the other side (for me, I literally stomped a bottle of vitamin water). Mentally, I had to do Saturday's run over. And so I did it the way it was meant to be done. Hard, fast, in high humidity, across a bridge and back, out of breath, with nothing left.
My cheeks were so fiery at mile 4 that I could feel their heat more than anything else and found myself wondering if I looked like one of those clowns with the super-white face and red-circle-cheeks. Up and down the Ben Franklin Bridge was more crowded than usual and completely worth the ascent to see both Camden and Philadelphia clearly celebrating July 4th - flags-a-flying.
With every stride I was pain free and strong, controlled breathing and a smile (finally) back on my face. Sometimes it's nice to know that when your mind needs a vacation from pushing one foot in front of the other, your body is there to get out and attack a run just for the fun of it.
The early morning crowd.
There is a 60 minute/ 6.5 mile run I do to loosen up during the week. It includes a few parks, the river, an ever-growing family of geese complete with one gray little guy that still doesn't have his black and white feathers, the occasional Tropicana train and an entirely new cast of people filling this early morning hour. It is beautiful, consistent and a bit like coming home should be.
Perhaps not surprisingly, Rittenhouse Square is a great place to run or walk in circles in the morning and so the older couples watch me as I set out to do just that a few times before I stretch on a fantastic stoop half a block toward the river. They look at me like the kid I am compared to them. Some with books in hand, others chatting and, more often then not, the men struggling to keep up with their power-walking-women.
Next to my stretching stoop is a church where the same man, mid-thirties, blonde hair and about 6'2 with leathery tan skin and what I would imagine are worker's hands, sleeps off whatever happened to him the day before. Up at the corner, I watch a nurse with her two sleepy kids get on the bus just as my achilles decides to unwind ever so slightly. She's throwing down her coffee like her life depends on it and they are begging to give the bus driver the tokens - every morning.
Down on the path, heading back toward Locust Street to get the full loop in, I am immediately greeted by a boot camp just beginning, instructor already hyper-involved in creating the perfect pre-workout stretch, and a group of biker's leaned up against the fence waiting for their last guy who appears to be consistently 17 minutes late for the 5:30AM ride.
Setting out, the family of geese wait in a clearing just before the one mile tree and across from the clearing where the Art Museum rises up to meet the sky for the first time. Not fully awake yet, they are stretching out, flapping their wings and river-bound, babies in toe.
Just past the Art Museum and the Waterworks is another yoga class beginning with peaceful faces carrying pastel mats toward a spot on the water where they will undoubtedly ease lightly into the day without the evidence of footsteps. This ease of yoga is set against the rowers just around the corner, coffee in hand, half in bathing suits, running toward their houses, ripping boats out of the garages and throwing themselves into the water - complete chaos until the moment they are all in tandem cutting the water without leaving a mark.
A turn just past the last boat house puts you back the same direction with new faces to look for. The older woman with the long gray ponytail and aging hound following her in their slow jog should be first - just past the waterworks as the yoga class is reaching for the sky. They seem to share the same easy pace, all reaching.
Just over the last hill at the clearing the geese left for the water, I start to look for the man with a cane, always in khaki pants, brown shoes and a light colored, collared, short sleeved shirt. He is pensive in his walk along the water, looking for something in the flowers; waiting for something in the trees. Down the hill from the old man and the cane is a heard of new faces every day - runners just starting out on their 6AM run - bright faces and gear, all fresh and ready to crush the run. They provide the energy for the last mile of my run up the Market Street steps and back to where I began.
Not a bad way to ease into the day.
Perhaps not surprisingly, Rittenhouse Square is a great place to run or walk in circles in the morning and so the older couples watch me as I set out to do just that a few times before I stretch on a fantastic stoop half a block toward the river. They look at me like the kid I am compared to them. Some with books in hand, others chatting and, more often then not, the men struggling to keep up with their power-walking-women.
Next to my stretching stoop is a church where the same man, mid-thirties, blonde hair and about 6'2 with leathery tan skin and what I would imagine are worker's hands, sleeps off whatever happened to him the day before. Up at the corner, I watch a nurse with her two sleepy kids get on the bus just as my achilles decides to unwind ever so slightly. She's throwing down her coffee like her life depends on it and they are begging to give the bus driver the tokens - every morning.
Down on the path, heading back toward Locust Street to get the full loop in, I am immediately greeted by a boot camp just beginning, instructor already hyper-involved in creating the perfect pre-workout stretch, and a group of biker's leaned up against the fence waiting for their last guy who appears to be consistently 17 minutes late for the 5:30AM ride.
Setting out, the family of geese wait in a clearing just before the one mile tree and across from the clearing where the Art Museum rises up to meet the sky for the first time. Not fully awake yet, they are stretching out, flapping their wings and river-bound, babies in toe.
Just past the Art Museum and the Waterworks is another yoga class beginning with peaceful faces carrying pastel mats toward a spot on the water where they will undoubtedly ease lightly into the day without the evidence of footsteps. This ease of yoga is set against the rowers just around the corner, coffee in hand, half in bathing suits, running toward their houses, ripping boats out of the garages and throwing themselves into the water - complete chaos until the moment they are all in tandem cutting the water without leaving a mark.
A turn just past the last boat house puts you back the same direction with new faces to look for. The older woman with the long gray ponytail and aging hound following her in their slow jog should be first - just past the waterworks as the yoga class is reaching for the sky. They seem to share the same easy pace, all reaching.
Just over the last hill at the clearing the geese left for the water, I start to look for the man with a cane, always in khaki pants, brown shoes and a light colored, collared, short sleeved shirt. He is pensive in his walk along the water, looking for something in the flowers; waiting for something in the trees. Down the hill from the old man and the cane is a heard of new faces every day - runners just starting out on their 6AM run - bright faces and gear, all fresh and ready to crush the run. They provide the energy for the last mile of my run up the Market Street steps and back to where I began.
Not a bad way to ease into the day.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Bucket List
On June 26, 2011, I spent 1 hour and about 13 minutes of a half marathon running behind another female runner wearing her bucket list on the back of her black tank top. This drove me crazy and inspired me. It drove me crazy because only numbers 1 and 2 were completely visible and I was left to fill in the blanks for 3 and. It inspired me to think about my own bucket list. I'm 30, I guess I need one.
Black tank top was driven by her desire to (1) live on a sailboat, (2) attend the Olympics and MAYBE (3) complete an ironman and (4) learn to make _________. I was so irritated by my inability to fill in the blank on #4 that I charged up next to black tank top, ready to ask her what it said and have a meaningful conversation about life, lists and how we'd accomplish everything we wanted to. However, her iPod was up, she didn't look over and I chickened out and just kept running. Huge regret.
After a week of thinking about my own Bucket List, I can say, without question or hesitation, that the following items are on it:
1. Run the Philadelphia Marathon in 2011;
2. Qualify for the Boston Marathon;
3. Live abroad for an extended period of time;
4. Be published;
5. Run a sub-20-minute 5k;
6. Drive across the country;
7. Buy my grandparents' shore property back (just sold after they passed away) and replant his tomato garden;
8. Argue before a higher Court of Appeals;
9. Learn to play the piano - again; and
10. Teach a class in something to someone, somewhere.
This list surely isn't exclusive but it is representative of where I am right now. Shockingly, it is not training/running exhaustive. The more thought I put into this, the more I realized that while training takes up a substantial part of my day - whether thinking about it, doing it or worrying about it as races get closer - it does not define me. It is part of me. And that's a pretty important balance to strike.
Black tank top was driven by her desire to (1) live on a sailboat, (2) attend the Olympics and MAYBE (3) complete an ironman and (4) learn to make _________. I was so irritated by my inability to fill in the blank on #4 that I charged up next to black tank top, ready to ask her what it said and have a meaningful conversation about life, lists and how we'd accomplish everything we wanted to. However, her iPod was up, she didn't look over and I chickened out and just kept running. Huge regret.
After a week of thinking about my own Bucket List, I can say, without question or hesitation, that the following items are on it:
1. Run the Philadelphia Marathon in 2011;
2. Qualify for the Boston Marathon;
3. Live abroad for an extended period of time;
4. Be published;
5. Run a sub-20-minute 5k;
6. Drive across the country;
7. Buy my grandparents' shore property back (just sold after they passed away) and replant his tomato garden;
8. Argue before a higher Court of Appeals;
9. Learn to play the piano - again; and
10. Teach a class in something to someone, somewhere.
This list surely isn't exclusive but it is representative of where I am right now. Shockingly, it is not training/running exhaustive. The more thought I put into this, the more I realized that while training takes up a substantial part of my day - whether thinking about it, doing it or worrying about it as races get closer - it does not define me. It is part of me. And that's a pretty important balance to strike.
1/2 Sauer, 1/2 Kraut Half Marathon 2011: 1:56
I tapered, carbed (this is a verb in my own vocabulary) and hydrated like my life depended on it - all in preparation for this June 26th German Half Marathon and still I could not shake the butterflies or the feeling that I really hadn't read the fine print. I went into this blind - without even a glance at the course and a first-timer to the race site (Pennypack Park).
It wasn't a crowded start; in fact, almost immediately it was wide open and quiet, shaded with cool breezes coming up off of the creek running along the path. The marathoners hung back, the half-er's ran ahead and I was somewhere in the middle. The course fell out in front of me like a new hike marked by those obnoxious colored markers that turns you around and pushes you up to the point of near-anger (but still you keep going).
There were steep inclines, amazing declines, rarely 100 yards of flat at a time and more trail than I'd bargained for when I clicked the "Register" button after reading about this race on Runnersworld.com
This was a challenge that the butterflies were warning me about. Every incline on the trail took all of my focus just to reach the top - like a client just reminded me - in vietnam you had to focus on making it through the day...if you did that, then you thought about "tomorrow." This race quickly became my 'nam. Nothing got attention - not a turn, up, down or trail - until it was literally under my feet. Running a race this way isn't exactly ideal - because strategy gets thrown out the window - but it does serve a purpose. A mental purpose. When you're slower, beat up and wondering "if" you'll finish in one piece, as opposed to "when," it becomes all mind over anything else.
And when you finally cross the finish line with familiar faces waiting for you, shouting your name, you will get chills, just as I did, because it's over, you made it and you'll live to fight another day. Oh and there are sausages and beer waiting for you - that's a plus too.
It wasn't a crowded start; in fact, almost immediately it was wide open and quiet, shaded with cool breezes coming up off of the creek running along the path. The marathoners hung back, the half-er's ran ahead and I was somewhere in the middle. The course fell out in front of me like a new hike marked by those obnoxious colored markers that turns you around and pushes you up to the point of near-anger (but still you keep going).
There were steep inclines, amazing declines, rarely 100 yards of flat at a time and more trail than I'd bargained for when I clicked the "Register" button after reading about this race on Runnersworld.com
This was a challenge that the butterflies were warning me about. Every incline on the trail took all of my focus just to reach the top - like a client just reminded me - in vietnam you had to focus on making it through the day...if you did that, then you thought about "tomorrow." This race quickly became my 'nam. Nothing got attention - not a turn, up, down or trail - until it was literally under my feet. Running a race this way isn't exactly ideal - because strategy gets thrown out the window - but it does serve a purpose. A mental purpose. When you're slower, beat up and wondering "if" you'll finish in one piece, as opposed to "when," it becomes all mind over anything else.
And when you finally cross the finish line with familiar faces waiting for you, shouting your name, you will get chills, just as I did, because it's over, you made it and you'll live to fight another day. Oh and there are sausages and beer waiting for you - that's a plus too.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Tapering II
There is a half-marathon at the end of this week. That means rest, hydration and carbs. None of which, admittedly, I'm naturally prone to indulge in. I'm a twitchy, constantly in motion, coffee-drinking, low-to-no-carb girl by nature. It's easy, it's what I've always been and it's gotten me this far.
But, I must admit, I've enjoyed this week. I ran, but not intensely, I challenged myself with lifting and cross training and focused on eating small portions of carbs every day. My focus was placed on stretching and strengthening as opposed to crushing my morning runs. The heat helped to slow me down and I found myself suddenly grateful for the tapering excuse.
It still feels unnatural and I'm convinced the increase in carbs (and maybe the heat) resulted in a lower energy level but, again, I'm reminded that this week will pay off tomorrow when my run isn't painful because my body is rested, hydrated and properly fueled.
I may not be a fan of tapering but I certainly respect it.
But, I must admit, I've enjoyed this week. I ran, but not intensely, I challenged myself with lifting and cross training and focused on eating small portions of carbs every day. My focus was placed on stretching and strengthening as opposed to crushing my morning runs. The heat helped to slow me down and I found myself suddenly grateful for the tapering excuse.
It still feels unnatural and I'm convinced the increase in carbs (and maybe the heat) resulted in a lower energy level but, again, I'm reminded that this week will pay off tomorrow when my run isn't painful because my body is rested, hydrated and properly fueled.
I may not be a fan of tapering but I certainly respect it.
A waterfront run in Philadelphia? Yes, please.
On Father's Day, 2011, I discovered a few things, on an early morning run, about the simultaneous absence and beauty of the Philadelphia Waterfront.
Passing Front Street, Columbus Boulevard bound, you dead-end at a closed sandwich shack and wonder "who goes here for lunch?" because it's so far out of the way, surrounded by empty buildings and no parking lot. There is a river just on the other side of this small shack, larger warehouses in the background, I'm sure of it at this point.
Municipal Pier (or what used to be a working pier) is on the horizon - rough with echoes on a Sunday morning, not even the lost seagulls stop here. Running beneath this building's shadows is both humbling and slightly creepy and still I'm sure the view on the other side is perfection. I can almost hear the docks welcoming the water.
Just before you cross Callowhill to find the Moshulu, there is an empty space where only trash and weeds gather. A little desperate, footsteps absently pick up here but the view of the river is uninterrupted in its crispness.
From the Moshulu to just before the SugarHouse Casino, the path is clear and manicured, the river at your fingertips, boardwalk laid out at your feet with fishing piers and docks, oh my. Just after the new fishing pier at Race Street - simple in its boards and trees - is where exhaustion and its old buddy dehydration tapped me on the shoulder. Stupidly, I didn't turn around to say, "hello." Instead I trucked on through Northern Liberties, passing the Piazza, and let dehydration kick me in the shin. Still nothing. 3 miles later, as I rounded the corner to my house, I stopped moving and didn't start again until the following morning at about 6AM.
This was one of those beautiful runs where my body was screaming and my mind was pretending it spoke a different language. I should have stopped. This run was a day ruiner to the tune of being hit by a large truck. However, the stupid in me looks at this experience and says "mentally, you're tough enough to do this Marathon thing."
Passing Front Street, Columbus Boulevard bound, you dead-end at a closed sandwich shack and wonder "who goes here for lunch?" because it's so far out of the way, surrounded by empty buildings and no parking lot. There is a river just on the other side of this small shack, larger warehouses in the background, I'm sure of it at this point.
Municipal Pier (or what used to be a working pier) is on the horizon - rough with echoes on a Sunday morning, not even the lost seagulls stop here. Running beneath this building's shadows is both humbling and slightly creepy and still I'm sure the view on the other side is perfection. I can almost hear the docks welcoming the water.
Just before you cross Callowhill to find the Moshulu, there is an empty space where only trash and weeds gather. A little desperate, footsteps absently pick up here but the view of the river is uninterrupted in its crispness.
From the Moshulu to just before the SugarHouse Casino, the path is clear and manicured, the river at your fingertips, boardwalk laid out at your feet with fishing piers and docks, oh my. Just after the new fishing pier at Race Street - simple in its boards and trees - is where exhaustion and its old buddy dehydration tapped me on the shoulder. Stupidly, I didn't turn around to say, "hello." Instead I trucked on through Northern Liberties, passing the Piazza, and let dehydration kick me in the shin. Still nothing. 3 miles later, as I rounded the corner to my house, I stopped moving and didn't start again until the following morning at about 6AM.
This was one of those beautiful runs where my body was screaming and my mind was pretending it spoke a different language. I should have stopped. This run was a day ruiner to the tune of being hit by a large truck. However, the stupid in me looks at this experience and says "mentally, you're tough enough to do this Marathon thing."
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Media 5 Miler, 2011
Not since the Tyler Arboretum Trail Run (10K, Annual, April) has a course so beat me, broke me and built me.
The heat, the hills and the Friday night happy hour crowds force focus that's often fleeting at 7PM after a long work week. The inclines are steep and quick and lined with house parties complete with kids, signs, water balloons, high-fives and, well, happy hour. At times, this was empowering and at others simply a life saver (If I could somehow find the house that had the hoses out front pointed at runners like a beautiful rainstorm, I'd send you a fruit basket, wonderful people). Although, I must admit, there was a woman, in a sundress, immediately after a water station and at the base of the hill that would come close to breaking me, that was swirling a glass of wine; a glass of wine that I came within inches of grabbing from her and pounding on the spot. Aside from that small daydream, however, the focus stuck.
On this run - in this race - I was struck by the community of runners and that which surrounded them. This was a force running through neighborhood after neighborhood in a giant embrace by its surroundings. The generosity of the cheering around me was only mirrored by the kindness of the runners next to me. Just after mile 1, my shirt came off and, along with it, the neon orange tough mudder headband I wear in every race for luck as much as a reminder of one of the hardest and best days of my life. I made the decision not to turn around for it and immediately had a pang of regret. Thirty seconds later, an older male runner came up along side of me and handed me the headband. Such a simple moment among runners will not soon be forgotten. And so that headband is back where it belongs with yet another story linked to its brilliance.
After 2 loops, 38 minutes, 18 seconds and 3 bottles of water, I can finally say I started to appreciate you, Dear 5 Miler, and I can assure you I'll be back next year and every year after that I'm fortunate enough to have the legs to make it up those hills - if only to see each and every smile of accomplishment that crosses your finish line and lights up.
The heat, the hills and the Friday night happy hour crowds force focus that's often fleeting at 7PM after a long work week. The inclines are steep and quick and lined with house parties complete with kids, signs, water balloons, high-fives and, well, happy hour. At times, this was empowering and at others simply a life saver (If I could somehow find the house that had the hoses out front pointed at runners like a beautiful rainstorm, I'd send you a fruit basket, wonderful people). Although, I must admit, there was a woman, in a sundress, immediately after a water station and at the base of the hill that would come close to breaking me, that was swirling a glass of wine; a glass of wine that I came within inches of grabbing from her and pounding on the spot. Aside from that small daydream, however, the focus stuck.
On this run - in this race - I was struck by the community of runners and that which surrounded them. This was a force running through neighborhood after neighborhood in a giant embrace by its surroundings. The generosity of the cheering around me was only mirrored by the kindness of the runners next to me. Just after mile 1, my shirt came off and, along with it, the neon orange tough mudder headband I wear in every race for luck as much as a reminder of one of the hardest and best days of my life. I made the decision not to turn around for it and immediately had a pang of regret. Thirty seconds later, an older male runner came up along side of me and handed me the headband. Such a simple moment among runners will not soon be forgotten. And so that headband is back where it belongs with yet another story linked to its brilliance.
After 2 loops, 38 minutes, 18 seconds and 3 bottles of water, I can finally say I started to appreciate you, Dear 5 Miler, and I can assure you I'll be back next year and every year after that I'm fortunate enough to have the legs to make it up those hills - if only to see each and every smile of accomplishment that crosses your finish line and lights up.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
What I'm running from.
Last Summer my mom looked at me after I'd made dinner for the family and collapsed on the floor with frozen peas and carrots lining my legs, an18 mile morning run finally taking its toll, and asked me, "What are you running from?" Note she did not ask "Why do you run?" or "What motivates you to run?" She just got right through all of that beat-around-the-bush-fluffery and smacked me in the face with "What are you running from?"
I responded how any 29 year old only daughter would - "What the hell is that supposed to mean." And so it went from there.
About a year later, while I realize it helps to focus on where I'm running to, I've developed a list of things I actually am running from. For my mom:
1. My blackberry and every ding, buzz, ring and clang I've sent up to differentiate my work email from my home email and my texts from calendar invitations and deadline reminders;
2. forced communication with anyone - out on a path there is no talking, there is only breathing and stepping;
3. my need to make lists of everything from what's for dinner on any given night that week to what brief is due on what day for what client and when a draft needs to be circulated to all interested parties for comments, red/black/green lining and so on - there is no paper and thankfully not a pen in sight on the path;
4. my hairdryer, makeup, perfume and any derivation thereof: nothing matters but putting my left foot in front of my right quickly enough to work up a sweat;
5. the vacuum and household chores that I would spend endless free time doing if not for a run calling my name and pulling me outside - I grew up in one of those houses that could have been on the cover of Southern Living (and probably will be some day) and subconsciously (growing ever more consciously) I find myself fixated on attaining my mom's own perfection; and finally, (and most obviously)
6. myself. I think everyone needs a place they can go to turn off the mind and just follow the spirit. Running in just that for me. No matter the path or the pain, it takes me away on a mini-vacation and brings me back well-rested, less wound up and ultimately, smiling.
So it is after days, like today, that begin with a green monster, 11 miles through beautiful and beautifully desperate parts of the city and a great stretch by a fountain, that remind me who I am without all of the "other stuff" life piles on top.
I guess I am running from something after all, mom.
I responded how any 29 year old only daughter would - "What the hell is that supposed to mean." And so it went from there.
About a year later, while I realize it helps to focus on where I'm running to, I've developed a list of things I actually am running from. For my mom:
1. My blackberry and every ding, buzz, ring and clang I've sent up to differentiate my work email from my home email and my texts from calendar invitations and deadline reminders;
2. forced communication with anyone - out on a path there is no talking, there is only breathing and stepping;
3. my need to make lists of everything from what's for dinner on any given night that week to what brief is due on what day for what client and when a draft needs to be circulated to all interested parties for comments, red/black/green lining and so on - there is no paper and thankfully not a pen in sight on the path;
4. my hairdryer, makeup, perfume and any derivation thereof: nothing matters but putting my left foot in front of my right quickly enough to work up a sweat;
5. the vacuum and household chores that I would spend endless free time doing if not for a run calling my name and pulling me outside - I grew up in one of those houses that could have been on the cover of Southern Living (and probably will be some day) and subconsciously (growing ever more consciously) I find myself fixated on attaining my mom's own perfection; and finally, (and most obviously)
6. myself. I think everyone needs a place they can go to turn off the mind and just follow the spirit. Running in just that for me. No matter the path or the pain, it takes me away on a mini-vacation and brings me back well-rested, less wound up and ultimately, smiling.
So it is after days, like today, that begin with a green monster, 11 miles through beautiful and beautifully desperate parts of the city and a great stretch by a fountain, that remind me who I am without all of the "other stuff" life piles on top.
I guess I am running from something after all, mom.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Because I can.
I've watched "Dear 16 year old me" 4 times now. It's the story that, quite literally, scarred me in 2004 and toughened up an otherwise fragile red head in 2007.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_4jgUcxMezM&hd=1
On June 17, 2004 I was diagnosed with Melanoma. For the first time. I was 24, standing in my new home, boxes open and stacked, rooms half painted and unfurnished, boyfriend at work, parents at the shore, puppy asleep. The phone rang. I answered, out of breathe and half covered in yellow paint (pale yellow, not lemon), a doctor's voice distracts me from the cutting at the crown molding and forces my eyes out the window and up at the trees across the street. Melanoma. Surgery. Immediately. Treatment. Blood work. Bone scan. Recurrence likely. I hung up on her mid-sentence. She called back. I didn't answer. My cell phone hit the wall solidly.
At that moment, I remember feeling marked and alone. I had done this to myself. Every sunburn - every tanning bad - every time I didn't wear SPF - every time I didn't heed my father's warnings. Like putting a cigarette to my lips, I'd gone out and gotten myself cancer. Months later, still recovering, I forgave myself for the cause and decided I wouldn't be a victim. Not of cancer, not of wrongdoing, not of fault and of life. And this is why I move forward. This is why I run. Because I can. Because 7 years from that moment and 3.5 years from my last diagnosis, I am here and not wasting a moment.
It's not much more than grace and luck that I'm the one who caught it and is still standing; and so I run. For me and for the unlucky ones. This is what drives me to run at 5AM - because I can. This is what wakes me up and puts my shoes on when 9 miles looms ahead on a muggy June morning. This is what suits me up on the cold days and calms me down in a race. Because I can. I can feel anxiety and I can feel fear because I'm the lucky one. If I could tell the 16 year old me anything it would be more than just "get out of the tanning bed," and "get ready for your first heartbreak on March 15, 1997." I would tell her to pay attention to the tough times because they make the good times all the sweeter; I would tell her to open up more and never waste a moment; I would tell her that it only hurts for a little while and time takes care of the rest; I would tell her that Clinique makes a great sunless tanner and life really does go on even if you resist. I would tell her to hold hands whenever possible, make eye contact and connect with people - these things mean a lot to you when you get sick. I would tell her she's surrounded herself with loyal, beautiful people and she'll be ok. I would tell her to never stop running.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_4jgUcxMezM&hd=1
On June 17, 2004 I was diagnosed with Melanoma. For the first time. I was 24, standing in my new home, boxes open and stacked, rooms half painted and unfurnished, boyfriend at work, parents at the shore, puppy asleep. The phone rang. I answered, out of breathe and half covered in yellow paint (pale yellow, not lemon), a doctor's voice distracts me from the cutting at the crown molding and forces my eyes out the window and up at the trees across the street. Melanoma. Surgery. Immediately. Treatment. Blood work. Bone scan. Recurrence likely. I hung up on her mid-sentence. She called back. I didn't answer. My cell phone hit the wall solidly.
At that moment, I remember feeling marked and alone. I had done this to myself. Every sunburn - every tanning bad - every time I didn't wear SPF - every time I didn't heed my father's warnings. Like putting a cigarette to my lips, I'd gone out and gotten myself cancer. Months later, still recovering, I forgave myself for the cause and decided I wouldn't be a victim. Not of cancer, not of wrongdoing, not of fault and of life. And this is why I move forward. This is why I run. Because I can. Because 7 years from that moment and 3.5 years from my last diagnosis, I am here and not wasting a moment.
It's not much more than grace and luck that I'm the one who caught it and is still standing; and so I run. For me and for the unlucky ones. This is what drives me to run at 5AM - because I can. This is what wakes me up and puts my shoes on when 9 miles looms ahead on a muggy June morning. This is what suits me up on the cold days and calms me down in a race. Because I can. I can feel anxiety and I can feel fear because I'm the lucky one. If I could tell the 16 year old me anything it would be more than just "get out of the tanning bed," and "get ready for your first heartbreak on March 15, 1997." I would tell her to pay attention to the tough times because they make the good times all the sweeter; I would tell her to open up more and never waste a moment; I would tell her that it only hurts for a little while and time takes care of the rest; I would tell her that Clinique makes a great sunless tanner and life really does go on even if you resist. I would tell her to hold hands whenever possible, make eye contact and connect with people - these things mean a lot to you when you get sick. I would tell her she's surrounded herself with loyal, beautiful people and she'll be ok. I would tell her to never stop running.
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