"Don't sit there and plan for a new life, man - enjoy right now. This moment. That's what we got. No guarantees, right? This is it. Enjoy it," she heard one security guard say to another as she stood with her back to them, all bundled up and looking out at the cold January night popping live on Market Street.
Arms shaking from her second workout of the day and in the middle of contemplating dinner, chores, laundry and packing for the next two workouts to come, this conversation snapped her out of the overwhelming monotony of doubt that winter sometimes brings. Its tone brought her rapid fire thoughts to an abrupt stop and its sincerity threw chills up and down her spine as the room stopped moving for an instant and those words sunk in to her bones. With that, the following day's long run didn't seem so daunting and energy not quite so fleeting. The world, once again, seemed full of hope's good graces and possibility. As if a message from another world was delivered for her ears only:
"The time was now. Look the next 10 months of training in the face; realize it will be brutal in every sense and every muscle; and move beyond it."
And well received:
"Sleep will be lost. Food will be fuel. Hydration will be an art. And you will adapt," she thought to herself walking out the revolving door.
Hope remains a thing in which expectations are centered. Expect to see her in Boston, 2013.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Prologue
On November 20, 2011, I ran the Philadelphia Marathon in 3 hours, 58 minutes and 32 seconds, crossed the finish line in a fury, grabbed chicken broth, and a metallic blanket with “time of your life” written on it, turned to face the finish line and silently thought, “I can do better” and “Fuck, that was hard” at the same time.
On December 25, 2011, while on the way home from the last of the Christmas parties, full of Aunt Claire’s sausage-and-onion stuffing and Uncle Frank’s Irish Coffee, I decided that wasn't good enough. In fact, it was about 23 minutes and 32 seconds from good enough according to Boston 2013. And so, counted among my resolutions to buy a curling iron (done); to jump more and fear less; to run over 1,500 miles in 2012; and to pay one good thing forward a week, you will find “Qualify for Boston 2013” highlighted in yellow in the middle of the page with the following lyrics scribble-wrapping it up:
"And I think I'll go to Boston,
I think that I'm just tired
I think I need a new town, to leave this all behind...
I think I need a sunrise, I'm tired of the sunset,
I hear it's nice in the Summer, some snow would be nice."
And so it was decided. At 8:46PM on Christmas night, I resolved to train harder, push farther and use the time I had to achieve the time of my life. After a calorie induced sleep, I woke on December 26, 2011 as if it was New Years Day and clean slates abounded. I bundled up, ran 7 miles hard over the Ben Franklin Bridge to prove to myself that I had some fight left and did what any runner looking to transition from hobbyist to athlete would do: I emailed my high school track coach with “I need to (1) shave off 23 minutes from my time to qualify for Boston and (2) know that this is possible,” to which he replied “I’m all in.”
What I find comforting about that answer is that it’s based solely on his knowledge of who I am; rather, who I was when I walked off of his track in 1999. From the man that trained me, cross trained me, taught me to lift and not to lift, applauded me and made me cry, shouted across a track, followed me on a bike and pushed me without worrying if I’d have a teenage-girl-meltdown, this matter-of-fact confidence was exactly what I needed.
30 miles per week, pilates, lifting twice a week and yoga is me in my off season.
Motivational emails aside, this guy, this dream and the next 11 months are surely going to be no joke. With that, Chapter Two will leave Chapter One’s injuries behind, square its hips and charge North, to Boston.
On December 25, 2011, while on the way home from the last of the Christmas parties, full of Aunt Claire’s sausage-and-onion stuffing and Uncle Frank’s Irish Coffee, I decided that wasn't good enough. In fact, it was about 23 minutes and 32 seconds from good enough according to Boston 2013. And so, counted among my resolutions to buy a curling iron (done); to jump more and fear less; to run over 1,500 miles in 2012; and to pay one good thing forward a week, you will find “Qualify for Boston 2013” highlighted in yellow in the middle of the page with the following lyrics scribble-wrapping it up:
"And I think I'll go to Boston,
I think that I'm just tired
I think I need a new town, to leave this all behind...
I think I need a sunrise, I'm tired of the sunset,
I hear it's nice in the Summer, some snow would be nice."
And so it was decided. At 8:46PM on Christmas night, I resolved to train harder, push farther and use the time I had to achieve the time of my life. After a calorie induced sleep, I woke on December 26, 2011 as if it was New Years Day and clean slates abounded. I bundled up, ran 7 miles hard over the Ben Franklin Bridge to prove to myself that I had some fight left and did what any runner looking to transition from hobbyist to athlete would do: I emailed my high school track coach with “I need to (1) shave off 23 minutes from my time to qualify for Boston and (2) know that this is possible,” to which he replied “I’m all in.”
What I find comforting about that answer is that it’s based solely on his knowledge of who I am; rather, who I was when I walked off of his track in 1999. From the man that trained me, cross trained me, taught me to lift and not to lift, applauded me and made me cry, shouted across a track, followed me on a bike and pushed me without worrying if I’d have a teenage-girl-meltdown, this matter-of-fact confidence was exactly what I needed.
30 miles per week, pilates, lifting twice a week and yoga is me in my off season.
Motivational emails aside, this guy, this dream and the next 11 months are surely going to be no joke. With that, Chapter Two will leave Chapter One’s injuries behind, square its hips and charge North, to Boston.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
"At least it didn't happen two weeks ago."
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.
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, 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.
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