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.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
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.
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