Miles to go before I sleep.

When 45 minutes at 5AM is unbearable because the sun isn't quite up, streets are blocked and smelling of the night before and your Garmin wont find the damn satellites fast enough; when 4 miles turns into 6 at race pace up the steady incline on Spruce Street with your stride, steady and pulse calm; and especially when 8.2 miles takes you across the Ben Franklin Bridge at 8AM with 70 degrees and sunny straight ahead of you, clouds parting, I think of Coach Dale's finest moment:

"There is a tradition in tournament play - to not talk about the next step until you've climbed the one in front of you.  I'm sure going to the state finals is beyond your wildest dreams, so let's just keep it right there."

It is during a "good" run, that it's easy to love this sport.  On such a run, confidence is tangible as is your unbroken spirit and momentum.  It is a "bad" run, though, that solidifies a runner's wherewithal.  Those runs when cramps creep in, poor hydration pulls you down and lack of rest reminds you that 20 was ten years ago, are those that take an athlete and make her a runner.  Those runs that end in only a repetition of footsteps and "left, right, left, right" repeated out loud may beat me up but no longer break me down.

When I left physical therapy for my new training schedule, I was running 5 blocks, stretching longer than it took to run that half mile, dealing with an amount of pain I was certain would never let up and wondering whether I would ever truly return to this sport.  All the while, the Broad Street Run was 5 months away and there were several steps yet to climb.

Looking back, this road was more about my mental toughness than my knee.  As it always is with an injury, the comeback is uncertain and the guarantees, slight.  What I know for sure is, with 6 days until my first 10 mile run back, I'm tougher than I was last May and I have no regrets about the way I got here.

Race Pace.

Two weeks, to the hour, before the Broad Street run, I hit last year's race pace approaching Locust Street on the river-side of the path.  It was a hard finish, over only my ankle's hesitation, and completely worth it to see "1:31" flashing high on my Garmin after ten miles.  At this time last year, a ten minute mile was my true companion (thank you, Mark Cohn) and finishing the Broad Street Run in one piece, the only goal. 

Now, almost a year later, my ankle wrapped up with peas and carrots, an ace bandage holding it all together with a sleepy terrier resting on top (he really takes the "C" in "RICE" seriously), I am certain that I've done everything in my power to heal, get strong and toughen up and, because of that, I know I am ready for this race. 

This is not a comeback, because I never left; and it is not a proving ground, because the only thing I've ever needed to prove was, to myself, back in November when there was nothing but me, a stationary bike and an emptiness I can't describe:  amidst that, I stuck.   The Broad Street Run has become more about that moment, on the start line, just as the corral gun goes off, when you suck in the early morning air, look around and let the adrenalin take you pacman'ing through 2,500 people, than it is about anything else. 

It is the 6:00AM cab ride to Central High School, fumbling with your pins and bib while crushed up against teammates.  It is the warm-up lap, with 20,000 other runners, that is so slow you can't tell whether you're moving or others are simply moving around you.  It is the 7:00AM runner's mass with 35 people spread over hundreds of pews, praying for graceful strides, a warm day and no injuries.  The Broad Street Run is more than 10 miles in one direction, it is the race in 2010 that showed me what I am capable of.  At that time, it was the greatest challenge I'd faced head-on, the most dedicated I'd been to any one goal since my law degree and the exact 90 minutes that I fell back in love with running. 

On May 1st, I will go back there - stronger and tougher, surrounded and in constant motion, ever forward.

Here's to the best 10 miles in Philadelphia! 

Running through it.

Two hot showers, a lot of R[peas&carrots]CE, 20 minutes on the StairMaster followed by 20 minutes on the elliptical and an absurd amount of stretching, my left ankle is still feeling every step of the painless 8 miles I put down yesterday. 

Oddly enough, exactly where my Dr. pressed his thumb not more than 2 weeks ago, on the inner curve of my left ankle just below the joint, causing me to flash that pain-free smile, is where there now exists a hurtful little achy bump.  Which reminds me; time to make that 6-week appointment I was so sure I wouldn't need but thanked him kindly for anyway.

This kind of irony exists in injury.  Good thing I'm not injured.  Whether it is my gloriously cushioned running shoes or my Super(happy)Feet inserts, runs are still pain free.  For the aftermath, the Tylenol and anti-inflammatory patches, peas&carrots and fuzzy slippers will just have to do.  It may be just a product of my attitude, but that's fine.  Attitude is a part of a person's will and running is fueled by the strongest of those. 

With the Broad Street run 15 short days away and two more long runs to push through, this ache may or may not subside, but I can't dwell on that uncertainty.  I have 6 months of workouts and a training schedule that started with "Run 5 blocks and see how it feels" taped to my wall.  Resting is not an option with gameday so close.

New Shoes.

Dear New Asics Gels:

As I sit here, on the floor in my quiet living room, legs outstretched, my right knee aches ever-so-slightly and I'm left to wonder if it's because of you.

I know I left you in the box for 5 days, sitting on my office floor, brilliantly berry and silver, waiting to be called up to the trenches.  I would apologize but the familiar ache in my knee tells me there was at least a little truth to the whispers in my head about you.

I wish I could trust that even the slightest change in my running regimen, gear, attitude, diet or gate wouldn't completely throw me spinning back to physical therapy, mri's and waiting rooms.  I know that the world, this sport and my body are not built by such extremes like I know you are the exact same shoe I wore 6 days ago, but with more support and a little sass.  I will trust you soon.

After 5 miles today and 45 minutes together, in the pre-summer heat, I think we fought well through our first date jitters, made small talk, laughed a bit and developed a nitch.  You may have been a little stiff in the beginning and my steps may have pounded more than usual, but in the end, I think the stride was hitting solidly and your support was well appreciated.

I'm looking forward to another 3 months of romance, trust and high fives!

There is Strength in Pain: The Tough Mudder.

When I made the decision to participate in the April Tough Mudder (www.toughmudder.com), I clung to that, sometimes frightening, magic that makes an athlete believe in the impossible and to my father's warnings when sports weren't always fun:  If you quit this now, nothing stops you from quitting what follows.  And I am no quitter.  So, having no other options on Sunday, April 10, 2011 at 11:00AM, I kissed a mountain with the rest of "Team Cupcake."

Four hours, twelve miles and a few tears later, this is what I learned:

1. Eye black, off of a football field, can be quirky or sexy depending on the face and the slant of the line;

2. When race rules require your bib number to be written on your forehead and another body part of your choosing, in permanent marker, for identification, the task at hand is a little less "race" and a little more "life decision;"

3. Jogging up an uncovered bunny hill to the Tough Mudder Start Line was a spot-on indicator of things to come;

4. Chocolate is the only flavor power gel that's worth buying - believe it.  This is not fatigue (or the mountain) talking.  Chocolate: squeeze it into your mouth at the mid-point of your next long run, envision a sundae and keep moving; 

5. Hot peppers at mile 5 of a 12 mile race (life decision): Ballsy move to eat this pepper, mid-stride.  This runner declined.  Another cupcake did not, under the "every obstacle" theory, and pounded the pepper.  No regrets in either instance;

6. I am actually afraid of heights (recurring theme);

7. When you're jogging up a partially snow-covered black diamond, clawing at your teammates (and strangers), focused only on the next foothold and not causing a domino effect back down, it is completely appropriate to high-five the stranger who put both of his hands firmly on your backside and shoved you up the last 5 feet of the incline;

8. I would rather struggle up an incline that sucks the wind out of me than fly down the same decline without the ability to stop (control issues, much?);

9. When you take a leap off of a twelve-fifteen foot wall (or 4 of them), you better know who's waiting on the other side for the just-in-case, slap a smile on your face, greet the fear and then step on your teammate's leg, shoulder or somewhere in-between and get yourself over that wall;

10. Always make sure the last thing you look at before attempting #9 is true and steadfast enough to be the one thing you focus on while dangling by your broken finger nails from the top of that wall;

11. Long, tight running pants, preferably with a zipper pocket, are necessary for any mud run, no matter the temperature, for one simple reason:  Where there is mud, there will be rocks.  Rocks cut knees.  Bloody knees are not cute 2 days post run and out of context;

12. When you have shirts that say "Moist Cupcake" and "Real Men Eat Cupcakes," it's probably better to stay together - again with the context;

13. While close spaces have been my achilles since [what my family refers to as] the "locker incident" of 1990, I felt an odd comfort by the amount of people meditating as they stood in line for the "Boa Constrictor" obstacle.  [Side Note: After a 90 second wait, a brief prayer and a deep, soothing breath that would have made any yogi proud, the narrow, dark tunnel with a rocky bottom seemed almost manageable until I saw the water filling it up halfway.];

14.  I love being a part of a team so much that, at 30 years old, these are the lengths I'm willing to go to for just a moment where I can look up, see familiar shirts and orient myself enough to keep moving with them;

15.  While jumping off a 15-20 foot high plank into an icy lake may have scarred me for life, it surely will be one of those moments I call upon, twenty years from now, to remind me that trusting yourself enough to leap in the face of fear is a battle won and that I am pretty badass. [Side Note:  To the force that won't let me hold on to the side of the railing, at this race and in life, I trust you will always be there to remind me to trust myself.]

16.  Lakes are cold in April and when you jump into them from an (as yet) undetermined height, you sink fast, come up panicking and can't breath in easily because of the water temperature [read: this is what it feels like to drown.];

17. I take back every single time I thought (or said out loud) how ridiculous those metallic, tinfoil-esque blankets they give out at winter races are.  Because, they're pretty amazing when combined with the heat of bodies wrapped around portable heaters in a "warming tent;"

18.  I didn't immediately realize I was crying as I crawled out of the lake and, even now, I'm not sure I fully grasp the enormity of that moment;

19.  After snapping my left ankle on a rocky trail in the middle of the woods, recovering, snapping it worse in the middle of the "muddy mile," panicking about a serious injury, skipping 3 obstacles and hobbling up and down and up and down and up and down, through fire, and up and down and back up, all with a steadied path and rocks kicked out from where I was walking, I was humbled by kindness and truly did not regret my decision to be there, in that moment; and

20. Crossing a finish line four hours after anything begins is a triumph - adding people like the ones that carried me across made it a moment I will never forget.

And so, with my fuzzy orange mudder headband, Dos Equis in hand, I walked barefoot with my team, across a parking lot, through a hotel lobby and bee-lined a hot shower and mountain-view hot tub.  Five hours after I went off the grid, the blood was gone, the jets were at my back and I was shoving guilt-free pretzels and coconut M&M's into my mouth.  I was beaten, scratched, sore and wondering when I would be rid of the muddy hugh to my otherwise red hair, but I was back on top of my game; healed up, injury free and ready for action.  Team.

My last run with you, loyal shoes.

At mile 4.5 of my last (7 mile) run in my baby blue Asics Gels, I ran back across the South Street Bridge, with Penn behind me and the skyline just ahead lit up by a red sky.  At that time of day, nothing else existed but that red sky and my steady footsteps.  There were no cars, no other runners and not an anxious thought to be had.  It was, quite frankly, a peaceful moment in a city that slept in that morning. 

My Asics and I crossed the bridge and headed back toward the river path, racing a train that may or may not have existed, but was nonetheless capable of blocking access at Locust Street.  And so we sprinted on. 

Access gained, I took my loyal pre and post injury shoes to the very tip of the path and back around to the boat houses. The rowers were skipping their high knees and stretching out before a cool  morning in the water began; the statues of unidentifiable figures were lit up by that ever-present red glow; and geese flew low over the flat river. 

This run was as close to one of those brilliant summer mornings as we'd come in at least 8 months - strong, true and without the pretense of injury.  It was the kind of sendoff any loyal pair of shoes deserved and a power move in the right direction for this (sometimes) wary runner.

9 Minutes.

This is the Thursday in a week that won't die.  A week full of Monday attitudes and tight spaces; allergies and a pile of tissues;  a sore ankle and a visit to the Rothman Institute; 8:30PM bedtimes, wine and dayquil; deadlines, missed, made and otherwise; weak workouts that left me gasping and an all-time struggle of a cross-training trip to the Art Museum Steps; new running shoes; Tough Mudder preparation; and a poor attitude. 

This morning I set out to run for 45 minutes, stretch all the bad stuff out, drink an excessive amount of coffee and charge at the day.  My new attitude didn't seem possible until the last 9 minutes of my run.  About .75 of a mile from the gym, my stride finally felt natural, the figurative blast of wind was now at my back, the only thing I heard was rowing intervals with my own breathing, and just as quickly Thursday became like any other and 9 minutes melted away the days that came before.