Dear Philly Runners:
I ran the loop last weekend. It had been about 8 months and 2 weeks since I'd been across the Falls Bridge and able to look back toward the Art Museum and Boat House Row and wonder where they'd disappeared to - where this new river came from; the one that has rocks and little rapids; the one that you can see down into and think beside; and the one that doesn't look like it runs around a City but runs with a City - like us.
As I set out, I couldn't remember where the water fountains fell or how many bridges were between Strawberry Mansion and the Falls Bridge (2), I regretted not bringing any GU along for the longest run I'd had since August and I was just flat out nervous. I kept thinking about (and dreading) the "dead zone" between Valley Green and the bleachers for the Regattas where there is nothing to distract you but the sound of your own footsteps and your only friends are the geese flapping their wings in the water. And then I got there only to realize I was about to run through the Dad Vail Regatta and about 5,000 people moving from tent to tent, beer in hand, flatscreen tv-bound. Thank whoever for small miracles.
On the other side of the chaos (West River Drive), the crowds and the party were only brilliant echoes of what it was like to move among them, but still thrilling and more than enough to push me the rest of the way back to Market Street with another 11 miles down.
Having spent so much time away from the loop, this was a run I will not soon forget. More than just a statement from someone looking to conquer her old stomping ground and from one Philly Runner to another, the loop is where I fell in love with running, where I had a fit when I lost it and where I stood, tears in my eyes, as I watched my friends run the Philadelphia Marathon without me.
This run was a long time coming and just as important to me as the first time.
Let's not forget how lucky we are, Philly Runners!
Sunday, May 22, 2011
"don't ever stop running"
In the weeks between the Broad Street Run and the ODDyssey Half Marathon I got creative with training in that I flew without a net (or a training regimen) and learned that sometimes running is just running. I took some time to recover, hit a few 5K's, swear I won't do another 5K for quite some time, throw out the regular routes for those I'd always said "I bet that's cool" about and generally added relaxation back into running. Oh and I learned a few things too:
1. It is exactly 11 miles from my house, down front street to the Ben Franklin Bridge, across to Camden and down the waterfront boardwalk to the USS NJ (and back). This is a fantastically quiet run down a beaten boardwalk to a ship so touchable I found myself actually reaching out to feel its steely side;
2. If you start at Rittenhouse Square and run straight down Walnut Street past all of the closed designers and emptied out bars toward Front Street and the River at just the right time of pre-dawn, you will likely catch an easy sunrise you weren't expecting to see popping up over the Camden skyline and may end up repeating the "Red sky at night, sailor's delight" rhyme to yourself;
3. Just because I've been running pain-free for a while now, doesn't mean I can randomly up my weights on a lifting program and walk around the gym like I'm a badass. It hurts. And, up until yesterday afternoon, I wasn't so sure I hadn't re-injured something; and
4. I'm better off without an iPod when I run - less scattered, less "oooh I need a better song," and less sideways. More forward.
I think I needed this small break from training and a turn back toward running to remind me why I'm out there - to remind me it's about more than just my dad's voice saying "don't ever stop running."
1. It is exactly 11 miles from my house, down front street to the Ben Franklin Bridge, across to Camden and down the waterfront boardwalk to the USS NJ (and back). This is a fantastically quiet run down a beaten boardwalk to a ship so touchable I found myself actually reaching out to feel its steely side;
2. If you start at Rittenhouse Square and run straight down Walnut Street past all of the closed designers and emptied out bars toward Front Street and the River at just the right time of pre-dawn, you will likely catch an easy sunrise you weren't expecting to see popping up over the Camden skyline and may end up repeating the "Red sky at night, sailor's delight" rhyme to yourself;
3. Just because I've been running pain-free for a while now, doesn't mean I can randomly up my weights on a lifting program and walk around the gym like I'm a badass. It hurts. And, up until yesterday afternoon, I wasn't so sure I hadn't re-injured something; and
4. I'm better off without an iPod when I run - less scattered, less "oooh I need a better song," and less sideways. More forward.
I think I needed this small break from training and a turn back toward running to remind me why I'm out there - to remind me it's about more than just my dad's voice saying "don't ever stop running."
Friday, May 13, 2011
The 5K: 22:33
Last Saturday I woke up and for an instant it was 1997, I was in high school and terrified of the track meet that would take place at 3PM that day about 100 yards from the beach. 14 years ago, running was both my passion and my biggest fear; it raised me up and broke me down; it bent me over a trashcan before my events and leaned me forward across a finish line minutes later. Simply, it was then, as it is today, my north and my monster in the closet.
Last Saturday I made myself a light breakfast, pulled on my shoes, geared up my watch, adjusted my headband and got into a car with my husband and one of our best friends, 5k-bound. 15 minutes into the drive, they were chatting and I was focused on not puking. 30 minutes later I took a solitary run around the grounds before the 5k - a beautiful morning could not take the edge off the butterfly wings in my stomach. This is why I hate 5k's: this is too much like a race. So much so that I could smell the rubber of my high school track when I closed my eyes; I could hear my coach's voice screaming for another 800; I could feel the girl in front of me pull away and I could see the dropped baton.
Last Saturday, after a pep talk in a park bathroom, I sized up the crowd and took a spot at the front of the pack figuring if I was going to do this thing, I may as well go balls out about it. 22:33 minutes later I crossed the finish line with a new personal best, continued hatred for this race and lucky #6 written on my race bib.
Last Saturday, Mile one was too fast at a solid 6:15 pace. The next half mile was slower but steady and not so painful. Mile 1.75-2.25 was rough. I slowed to a 7:20(ish) pace and found myself gasping but I would not let myself slow enough correct my breathing. Finally at 2.75miles, I came up a hill, slowly, saw the finish line and the tiny crowd waiting there, whispered "boom" to myself and turned on the gas. Chills and chest tightening adrenalin threw me across the finish and onto the ground just beyond it. I left everything on that trail and my legs carried me through when my mind went off the reservation. Up hills, down crooked paths, past my husband in the end and across the finish line behind 5 other runners - my legs pushed me when my mind wasn't so sure. And that made all the difference
Last Saturday I made myself a light breakfast, pulled on my shoes, geared up my watch, adjusted my headband and got into a car with my husband and one of our best friends, 5k-bound. 15 minutes into the drive, they were chatting and I was focused on not puking. 30 minutes later I took a solitary run around the grounds before the 5k - a beautiful morning could not take the edge off the butterfly wings in my stomach. This is why I hate 5k's: this is too much like a race. So much so that I could smell the rubber of my high school track when I closed my eyes; I could hear my coach's voice screaming for another 800; I could feel the girl in front of me pull away and I could see the dropped baton.
Last Saturday, after a pep talk in a park bathroom, I sized up the crowd and took a spot at the front of the pack figuring if I was going to do this thing, I may as well go balls out about it. 22:33 minutes later I crossed the finish line with a new personal best, continued hatred for this race and lucky #6 written on my race bib.
Last Saturday, Mile one was too fast at a solid 6:15 pace. The next half mile was slower but steady and not so painful. Mile 1.75-2.25 was rough. I slowed to a 7:20(ish) pace and found myself gasping but I would not let myself slow enough correct my breathing. Finally at 2.75miles, I came up a hill, slowly, saw the finish line and the tiny crowd waiting there, whispered "boom" to myself and turned on the gas. Chills and chest tightening adrenalin threw me across the finish and onto the ground just beyond it. I left everything on that trail and my legs carried me through when my mind went off the reservation. Up hills, down crooked paths, past my husband in the end and across the finish line behind 5 other runners - my legs pushed me when my mind wasn't so sure. And that made all the difference
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Freedom.
The week after the Broad Street Run: Flying without a net (workout regimen). There was an "I just kicked major ass" attitude in the air, no workout blocks to check off my calendar and a wide open schedule to fill with whatever distances I wanted. This is my freedom.
On Tuesday, I eased back into running with 45 minutes, slowly down Walnut. It wasn't as painful as I'd imagined; the stretching on Market Street was slow and deliberate afterward and the sun came up just the same way it always did, suddenly and overwhelming in its announcement. Later in the week came 6 miles through Penn at a decent pace, full of hurt. This was a mental run. My body was healed but unwilling to move and my mind needed to be smacked around a bit. 54 minutes later I'd made it through to the path by the river and back to the office - 6 miles, every step mental. Saturday was a 5k in Ridley Creek State Park that I raced - yes raced, not just ran, raced. In between, there was a Wrestler's Nightmare and 100 reps on the bench and a lot more stretching.
Finally, there was today. 10 miles through Old City, over the Ben Franklin Bridge and down the Camden Waterfront to the USS New Jersey. It was new, spontaneous and off the grid. I was just going in the direction I wanted to go. The air was that of the shore and so were the seagulls. The path by the River was a few beams short of a boardwalk and the benches reminded me of high school tempo runs timed out by similar landmarks. Over there I was anonymous - just another runner looking for her path. I know that I will keep this particular run hidden away for just this kind of a day - slow, steady and all mine.
On Tuesday, I eased back into running with 45 minutes, slowly down Walnut. It wasn't as painful as I'd imagined; the stretching on Market Street was slow and deliberate afterward and the sun came up just the same way it always did, suddenly and overwhelming in its announcement. Later in the week came 6 miles through Penn at a decent pace, full of hurt. This was a mental run. My body was healed but unwilling to move and my mind needed to be smacked around a bit. 54 minutes later I'd made it through to the path by the river and back to the office - 6 miles, every step mental. Saturday was a 5k in Ridley Creek State Park that I raced - yes raced, not just ran, raced. In between, there was a Wrestler's Nightmare and 100 reps on the bench and a lot more stretching.
Finally, there was today. 10 miles through Old City, over the Ben Franklin Bridge and down the Camden Waterfront to the USS New Jersey. It was new, spontaneous and off the grid. I was just going in the direction I wanted to go. The air was that of the shore and so were the seagulls. The path by the River was a few beams short of a boardwalk and the benches reminded me of high school tempo runs timed out by similar landmarks. Over there I was anonymous - just another runner looking for her path. I know that I will keep this particular run hidden away for just this kind of a day - slow, steady and all mine.
Broad Street Run, May 1, 2011: 81 Minutes and the eternal lightness of being.
30 years from now when running is steadier and slightly more difficult and I'm left to remind myself of truly great moments, I will close my eyes and remember what it felt like to have 3 minutes alone, just after the Runner's Mass (at Our Lady of Hope Church, just shy of the Broad Street Run start line) ended, seated in the third pew back on the left, hidden in the shadows of the eves above, eyes closed, focused inward. The stillness of that moment fell around me like a hug home from war that I needed more than I knew. I sat straight with my back against the old wood and my feet balanced on the kneeler, eyes forward and closed, praying so fiercely for clarity, health and peace that there were tears on my cheeks before I knew enough to wipe them away.
In the thick of uncertainty, I suddenly found myself grounded by the string of imperfect choices that brought me to that place at that time in the middle of an unfamiliar section of the city amidst 30,000 other people prepared to run in the same direction.
It is only in approaching the starting line when I fully realized the enormity of this moment. More than just 10 miles; more than another race; and truly more than a comeback - this would be my reminder that no matter the task ahead, it will never be greater than the strength within. And so, 6 minutes and 37 seconds after the elite runners set off down broad street to break a few records, I set out after them to break a few of my own.
Notoriously a hater of 5K's, the first three miles of any distance run usually make me regret pinning on the bib in the first place. This year's Broad Street Run was no different. It was a battle where I maintained miles south of 8 minutes and felt even the slightest elevation, deep in my hamstrings, through the Lehigh Drop Off (you have to run this race to understand what it feels like to finally hit Broad and Lehigh and watch the thousands of runners in front of you drop off the face of the earth).
Those first 3 miles are crowded, on Broad and the sidewalks that line it, and in that stampede you are confronted with respect among runners. No one wants an injury and no one wants to cause an injury, so we step gingerly around those in front of us, check over our left shoulders as we merge and linger a second longer to apologize for the inevitable pointy elbow to elbow contact. Yes, those first 3 miles are full of distraction from the crowds, your breathing and the outfits of fellow runners and before you know it, you've finished your first 5k and are sliding successfully into a distance run. Mile 3.1 held my new personal best for a 5k: 23 minutes flat. Seeing that news flash across my Garmin flipped on the switch (out of the dark and into the light, so to speak) and pushed me like a strong wind at my back. At this point, I had 3 members of our original 8 running at my left, right and just ahead - all focused and pulling each other forward.
A few of my teammates ran ahead, then, and another fell behind - leaving me with a final "You should be way ahead of me by now" push and a few miles to feel safe in the tide; to relish in the 81 minutes of untouchable.
Miles 4 and 5 contained such adrenalin from Lehigh approaching City Hall, the crowds were loud and specific, the way you need them mid-race, the water stations were smooth and the signs read like a story. There were cheers from inside the wave of runners that spiked chills up my back because it's moments when the guy next to you is struggling and screaming "Come on Runners!!!!" when you know you're past the race and into the movement.
Rounding City Hall is like a party that you sprint through, carried on adrenalin and all of the new faces hanging over railings and waiting for high fives and screaming out your bib number. These people are clearly seasoned race attendees because they get that individualizing even the smallest cheer pumps so much excitement into a runner that the runner may actually puke/cry/or scream at that moment. And then, just as suddenly as you began, you are on the downside of the Ten Mile Run, the crowds thin out a little bit and, once again, it is just you, your aching achilles, the pavement and two milestones left: Seeing your sign at Catharine and friends at Oregon.
Approaching Catharine, I saw my father first - staring out into the crowd, searching for me, camera ready. Just beyond him, my mom and husband, sign in hand, ready to pounce. Yet no one saw me and I had no energy to scream to them. 4 high fives later, Catharine was in the distance by a few blocks and I was still smiling the same way I would when I saw my grandfather arrive minutes before one of my basketball games was about to start in high school. It is a feeling of certainty in my ability to accomplish the task at hand and a sense of the Jerry-Maguire-You-Complete-Me phenomenon.
Oregon brought more cheers, a huge crowd, high fives and a near skinned knee as I got so excited to see everyone that I almost took myself and another runner down. Focus escaped me momentarily. But only momentarily.
And then there were only 2 miles left. 16 minutes and the thought, "you can do anything for 16 minutes" repeated over and over again. 8 minutes later, the Naval Yard was in sight. 4 minutes after that the crowd was so intense I have chills writing about it nearly a week later. 2 minutes and the arches sprung out of nowhere and I was in the .25 mile sprint of my life, through crowds, walkers, slow runners, pukers, jogging strollers, ankle pain, numbness, fatigue and sheer jitters, to the finish line. I crossed 81 minutes after I began, walked a few feet, stopped, turned around and watched others finishers cross that line - smiling at whatever goal had just been met. And I cried again. Knowing I would be back in a year to do it all over again and reconnect to these runners and this community within a community.
Standing there, against the tide of finishers, I thought of the (German) concept of "once is nothing." I think now, having completed the Broad Street Run twice and knowing I (and thousands of others) will return to it year after year, I have a greater understanding that "once is nothing" is truly encapsulated in a runner's expression of this idea of "lightness" in that "what happens but once, might as well not have happened at all. If we have only one life to live, we might as well not have lived at all.” We return to the Broad Street Run because it is so much more than a race. Like the 3 minutes in the third pew back on the left, it is a light in the dark.
In the thick of uncertainty, I suddenly found myself grounded by the string of imperfect choices that brought me to that place at that time in the middle of an unfamiliar section of the city amidst 30,000 other people prepared to run in the same direction.
It is only in approaching the starting line when I fully realized the enormity of this moment. More than just 10 miles; more than another race; and truly more than a comeback - this would be my reminder that no matter the task ahead, it will never be greater than the strength within. And so, 6 minutes and 37 seconds after the elite runners set off down broad street to break a few records, I set out after them to break a few of my own.
Notoriously a hater of 5K's, the first three miles of any distance run usually make me regret pinning on the bib in the first place. This year's Broad Street Run was no different. It was a battle where I maintained miles south of 8 minutes and felt even the slightest elevation, deep in my hamstrings, through the Lehigh Drop Off (you have to run this race to understand what it feels like to finally hit Broad and Lehigh and watch the thousands of runners in front of you drop off the face of the earth).
Those first 3 miles are crowded, on Broad and the sidewalks that line it, and in that stampede you are confronted with respect among runners. No one wants an injury and no one wants to cause an injury, so we step gingerly around those in front of us, check over our left shoulders as we merge and linger a second longer to apologize for the inevitable pointy elbow to elbow contact. Yes, those first 3 miles are full of distraction from the crowds, your breathing and the outfits of fellow runners and before you know it, you've finished your first 5k and are sliding successfully into a distance run. Mile 3.1 held my new personal best for a 5k: 23 minutes flat. Seeing that news flash across my Garmin flipped on the switch (out of the dark and into the light, so to speak) and pushed me like a strong wind at my back. At this point, I had 3 members of our original 8 running at my left, right and just ahead - all focused and pulling each other forward.
A few of my teammates ran ahead, then, and another fell behind - leaving me with a final "You should be way ahead of me by now" push and a few miles to feel safe in the tide; to relish in the 81 minutes of untouchable.
Miles 4 and 5 contained such adrenalin from Lehigh approaching City Hall, the crowds were loud and specific, the way you need them mid-race, the water stations were smooth and the signs read like a story. There were cheers from inside the wave of runners that spiked chills up my back because it's moments when the guy next to you is struggling and screaming "Come on Runners!!!!" when you know you're past the race and into the movement.
Rounding City Hall is like a party that you sprint through, carried on adrenalin and all of the new faces hanging over railings and waiting for high fives and screaming out your bib number. These people are clearly seasoned race attendees because they get that individualizing even the smallest cheer pumps so much excitement into a runner that the runner may actually puke/cry/or scream at that moment. And then, just as suddenly as you began, you are on the downside of the Ten Mile Run, the crowds thin out a little bit and, once again, it is just you, your aching achilles, the pavement and two milestones left: Seeing your sign at Catharine and friends at Oregon.
Approaching Catharine, I saw my father first - staring out into the crowd, searching for me, camera ready. Just beyond him, my mom and husband, sign in hand, ready to pounce. Yet no one saw me and I had no energy to scream to them. 4 high fives later, Catharine was in the distance by a few blocks and I was still smiling the same way I would when I saw my grandfather arrive minutes before one of my basketball games was about to start in high school. It is a feeling of certainty in my ability to accomplish the task at hand and a sense of the Jerry-Maguire-You-Complete-Me phenomenon.
Oregon brought more cheers, a huge crowd, high fives and a near skinned knee as I got so excited to see everyone that I almost took myself and another runner down. Focus escaped me momentarily. But only momentarily.
And then there were only 2 miles left. 16 minutes and the thought, "you can do anything for 16 minutes" repeated over and over again. 8 minutes later, the Naval Yard was in sight. 4 minutes after that the crowd was so intense I have chills writing about it nearly a week later. 2 minutes and the arches sprung out of nowhere and I was in the .25 mile sprint of my life, through crowds, walkers, slow runners, pukers, jogging strollers, ankle pain, numbness, fatigue and sheer jitters, to the finish line. I crossed 81 minutes after I began, walked a few feet, stopped, turned around and watched others finishers cross that line - smiling at whatever goal had just been met. And I cried again. Knowing I would be back in a year to do it all over again and reconnect to these runners and this community within a community.
Standing there, against the tide of finishers, I thought of the (German) concept of "once is nothing." I think now, having completed the Broad Street Run twice and knowing I (and thousands of others) will return to it year after year, I have a greater understanding that "once is nothing" is truly encapsulated in a runner's expression of this idea of "lightness" in that "what happens but once, might as well not have happened at all. If we have only one life to live, we might as well not have lived at all.” We return to the Broad Street Run because it is so much more than a race. Like the 3 minutes in the third pew back on the left, it is a light in the dark.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Broad Street Run Eve, April 30, 2011.
Saturday April 30, 2011:
7:08AM: I woke up late and anxious, grabbed the cairnoodle and headed for the closest coffee shop (caffein headache already setting in) for a large medium roast and go-go vitamin water;
8:00AM: Walk achieved, I headed to the office to focus on my disaster of a week, quietly ignoring the less-than-24-hours milestone about to pass and drinking water all the way;
8:45AM: Locked out of the office, milestone #1 achieved, still not a carb in my body;
9:00-11:00AM: 2 hours not spent looking at a computer screen in a quiet office as I'd originally planned. Rather, it was 60 minutes of peace and reflection at the feet the stoic lemon hill. This time was still and steady - in my breathing, stretching and contemplation, there was clarity and a refocusing on the task at hand;
11:00-11:30AM: Rounding out the trip back home, cleaning up and out and doing the laundry I was sure would be otherwise left untouched after 10 miles on Monday;
11:30AM: 6 year old niece arrives hyped up on PB&J and the thrill of a day in the city with a now very anxious aunt;
12-3:00PM: Bought niece a bikini I wish I could find in my size (you're welcome, dad), lunch and the Broad Street Festival complete with a ferris wheel line extending down the 1300 block of Walnut. Around 1:30, sitting in a restaurant on 16th Street, I (for lack of a better word) freaked, got up from the table and walked toward the satisfying finality of a bathroom door clicking shut. Too bad this was a horrifyingly small chain restaurant with one bathroom and yet another line full of older women that can't manage to pee in less than 5 minutes. Out the front door of the restaurant I went out into the noise and anonymity of 16th Street to find Philadelphia Runner's windows screaming this: "DESTROY YESTERDAY." Yes, thank you, I think I will.
3:00-4:30PM: Drive niece home in 2005 nondescript SUV, windows down, country music up.
4:30-5:15PM: Cross bridge from NJ, make long overdue phone call, scream (not at) with someone that knows better than you do that, at the end of the day, you're not crazy, the circumstances are. During screams, decide on beer store, parallel park with phone wedged between shoulder and chin (sorry dad) and grab cases of rolling rock/coors light for post-Broad Street BBQ.
5:15-5:45PM: Brave the South Street Superfresh at dinnertime for salt-free pretzels and real potato chips, peanut butter, bananas and wheat bread. Realize the irony. Drive to BBQ location, drop off purchases and breathe as I walk back to the car, alone and inconspicuous in my lulu.
5:45PM: Shower;
6:00PM: Teach friend how to parallel park and skip back to the house with her and her bags - things are finally real;
6:50PM: Walk to Italian Market, attempt dinner at Restaurant #1, pout at the 40 minute wait, locate reliable backup and head toward Restaurant #2;
7:15PM: Enter random corner market to kill time, explore the shelves offering everything from hair extensions to "Cake Derators" (presumably a cheaper version of a "cake decorator") and settle on dark chocolate raisinettes to tide me over until Dinner;
7:30-9PM: Dinner and toasting with the team (minus one). Look around the table and think, "I'll make it."
9:15PM: Make 5 peanut butter and banana sammies for the team and breathe deep - it's almost game day.
10:00PM: Lay out clothes for the next morning, set out gel packets, tokens and cash, fill water bottles and set coffee, wash face, lay down, stare at ceiling, close eyes - repeat, "This started with 5 blocks."
7:08AM: I woke up late and anxious, grabbed the cairnoodle and headed for the closest coffee shop (caffein headache already setting in) for a large medium roast and go-go vitamin water;
8:00AM: Walk achieved, I headed to the office to focus on my disaster of a week, quietly ignoring the less-than-24-hours milestone about to pass and drinking water all the way;
8:45AM: Locked out of the office, milestone #1 achieved, still not a carb in my body;
9:00-11:00AM: 2 hours not spent looking at a computer screen in a quiet office as I'd originally planned. Rather, it was 60 minutes of peace and reflection at the feet the stoic lemon hill. This time was still and steady - in my breathing, stretching and contemplation, there was clarity and a refocusing on the task at hand;
11:00-11:30AM: Rounding out the trip back home, cleaning up and out and doing the laundry I was sure would be otherwise left untouched after 10 miles on Monday;
11:30AM: 6 year old niece arrives hyped up on PB&J and the thrill of a day in the city with a now very anxious aunt;
12-3:00PM: Bought niece a bikini I wish I could find in my size (you're welcome, dad), lunch and the Broad Street Festival complete with a ferris wheel line extending down the 1300 block of Walnut. Around 1:30, sitting in a restaurant on 16th Street, I (for lack of a better word) freaked, got up from the table and walked toward the satisfying finality of a bathroom door clicking shut. Too bad this was a horrifyingly small chain restaurant with one bathroom and yet another line full of older women that can't manage to pee in less than 5 minutes. Out the front door of the restaurant I went out into the noise and anonymity of 16th Street to find Philadelphia Runner's windows screaming this: "DESTROY YESTERDAY." Yes, thank you, I think I will.
3:00-4:30PM: Drive niece home in 2005 nondescript SUV, windows down, country music up.
4:30-5:15PM: Cross bridge from NJ, make long overdue phone call, scream (not at) with someone that knows better than you do that, at the end of the day, you're not crazy, the circumstances are. During screams, decide on beer store, parallel park with phone wedged between shoulder and chin (sorry dad) and grab cases of rolling rock/coors light for post-Broad Street BBQ.
5:15-5:45PM: Brave the South Street Superfresh at dinnertime for salt-free pretzels and real potato chips, peanut butter, bananas and wheat bread. Realize the irony. Drive to BBQ location, drop off purchases and breathe as I walk back to the car, alone and inconspicuous in my lulu.
5:45PM: Shower;
6:00PM: Teach friend how to parallel park and skip back to the house with her and her bags - things are finally real;
6:50PM: Walk to Italian Market, attempt dinner at Restaurant #1, pout at the 40 minute wait, locate reliable backup and head toward Restaurant #2;
7:15PM: Enter random corner market to kill time, explore the shelves offering everything from hair extensions to "Cake Derators" (presumably a cheaper version of a "cake decorator") and settle on dark chocolate raisinettes to tide me over until Dinner;
7:30-9PM: Dinner and toasting with the team (minus one). Look around the table and think, "I'll make it."
9:15PM: Make 5 peanut butter and banana sammies for the team and breathe deep - it's almost game day.
10:00PM: Lay out clothes for the next morning, set out gel packets, tokens and cash, fill water bottles and set coffee, wash face, lay down, stare at ceiling, close eyes - repeat, "This started with 5 blocks."
Sunday, May 1, 2011
My love (and hate) of tapering.
One week before the Broad Street Run: Tapering back from a training schedule I'd originally pegged as soft. After 8 miles on Sunday, there was 45 minutes on Monday morning, 45 minutes Wednesday night and cross training on Friday morning, with lifting on Tuesday, leaving Thursday and Saturday completely devoted to rest, stretching and pasta.
Add stress and carbs to the tapering and I didn't feel great about anything; Rested, but not sharp. And such is my relationship with winding down workouts before a race. I know, in the end, it will be good for me; it will pick me up at mile 8 and remind me I'm rested and ready; it will give me the ability to stretch beyond cramps and will likely allow me to exceed whatever Personal Best lies ahead. But, I've come to learn that it will not be fun getting there. The week before a race will be full of frustration at short runs, stress that doesn't disappear with 45 minutes in the morning; carb-related guilt and focus on Game Day.
People run away from things, toward others and indefinitely in one place. I run to touch peace, if even for a few minutes. It's the consistency and ease with which running has refined my ability to shed the crazy in life, that I miss during tapering weeks. To be cut off from what heals you (in any way, anywhere) for even a short while, is a tragedy I don't cope well with.
With that said, I will taper down, begrudgingly, and thank myself for it at mile 8.
Add stress and carbs to the tapering and I didn't feel great about anything; Rested, but not sharp. And such is my relationship with winding down workouts before a race. I know, in the end, it will be good for me; it will pick me up at mile 8 and remind me I'm rested and ready; it will give me the ability to stretch beyond cramps and will likely allow me to exceed whatever Personal Best lies ahead. But, I've come to learn that it will not be fun getting there. The week before a race will be full of frustration at short runs, stress that doesn't disappear with 45 minutes in the morning; carb-related guilt and focus on Game Day.
People run away from things, toward others and indefinitely in one place. I run to touch peace, if even for a few minutes. It's the consistency and ease with which running has refined my ability to shed the crazy in life, that I miss during tapering weeks. To be cut off from what heals you (in any way, anywhere) for even a short while, is a tragedy I don't cope well with.
With that said, I will taper down, begrudgingly, and thank myself for it at mile 8.
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