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.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Last. Long. Run.
12 Miles.
112 Minutes.
No aches.
No pain.
No problem.
This run didn't warrant water or gels; didn't stir up anxiety or pre-run carbing; in fact, it barely hit the radar until I was in the middle of mile 7 feeling strong thinking "this would be a little less than one third of what you will run a week from this morning."
This run was cold and layered, required mittens the entire time and a heavier hat than the one I'd chosen. It was also eerily quiet for November - more like the way the city is on January mornings - only other runners out moving up and down Spruce and Pine in the beautiful bike lanes as house after house wakes up.
This run was neither the beginning nor the big finish - just another of many in the middle, as unremarkable as they are necessary, checked off but ultimately unwritten. Like the stationary bike last October and the rowing machine last november; the bench press milestones and the amount of times "dips to exhaustion" showed up in a workout; the dumbbell flies and press on a ball and, of course, the push-ups, these unassuming runs silently filled the space between the races and the recovery.
112 Minutes.
No aches.
No pain.
No problem.
This run didn't warrant water or gels; didn't stir up anxiety or pre-run carbing; in fact, it barely hit the radar until I was in the middle of mile 7 feeling strong thinking "this would be a little less than one third of what you will run a week from this morning."
This run was cold and layered, required mittens the entire time and a heavier hat than the one I'd chosen. It was also eerily quiet for November - more like the way the city is on January mornings - only other runners out moving up and down Spruce and Pine in the beautiful bike lanes as house after house wakes up.
This run was neither the beginning nor the big finish - just another of many in the middle, as unremarkable as they are necessary, checked off but ultimately unwritten. Like the stationary bike last October and the rowing machine last november; the bench press milestones and the amount of times "dips to exhaustion" showed up in a workout; the dumbbell flies and press on a ball and, of course, the push-ups, these unassuming runs silently filled the space between the races and the recovery.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Bib 7181
Coincidence that the same day the Philadelphia Marathon sends out its Here-is-your-bib-number Love Letter to participants, an anonymous individual with a can of black spray paint writes "The Beginning is Near :)" on the wall under the first bridge of a running path I've been traveling steadily since March? I think not.
At 5 days out, with the Expo on the horizon and half of my "Marathon Outfit" laid out on my desk at home, I can't think of anything but the beginning. What will it feel like, standing there with 12,000 other people, corralled, as the sun comes up over the Art Museum with nerves flying and comfort only a distant, if persistent, memory. And so the thoughts swirl on from places of excitement and doubt and first-day-of-kindergarten-nerves:
Should I wear mittens?
Will it be cold?
When should I get up to eat?
Should I run with water?
Do I really need 4 gels?
Will my family be able to spot me?
Would music help or hurt?
I'm not ready.
I'm not ready.
I'm not ready.
The only calm comes from the few runs I will do in this last week. A couple fives and a three. It is during that time, staring at my watch, hearing my feet fall on the same paths, passing the one mile tree and three mile green house, the double bridges, boathouses, metal bridge, rowing cheer zones, falls bridges and so on that I calm down, if even for a moment. And I answer myself:
Mittens? Really?
You'll be running, no matter what, you'll be sweating.
The same time you've been getting up to eat before long runs for the last 6 months.
Yes.
Yes.
You have bright red hair. Yes.
When have you ever run with music?
You will crush this.
You will crush this.
You will crush this.
And with that, I will hold on to every stretch a little longer, breathe in a little deeper and focus on the actual road ahead and leave the "road taken/journey completed" enormity of the moment for the finish line.
At 5 days out, with the Expo on the horizon and half of my "Marathon Outfit" laid out on my desk at home, I can't think of anything but the beginning. What will it feel like, standing there with 12,000 other people, corralled, as the sun comes up over the Art Museum with nerves flying and comfort only a distant, if persistent, memory. And so the thoughts swirl on from places of excitement and doubt and first-day-of-kindergarten-nerves:
Should I wear mittens?
Will it be cold?
When should I get up to eat?
Should I run with water?
Do I really need 4 gels?
Will my family be able to spot me?
Would music help or hurt?
I'm not ready.
I'm not ready.
I'm not ready.
The only calm comes from the few runs I will do in this last week. A couple fives and a three. It is during that time, staring at my watch, hearing my feet fall on the same paths, passing the one mile tree and three mile green house, the double bridges, boathouses, metal bridge, rowing cheer zones, falls bridges and so on that I calm down, if even for a moment. And I answer myself:
Mittens? Really?
You'll be running, no matter what, you'll be sweating.
The same time you've been getting up to eat before long runs for the last 6 months.
Yes.
Yes.
You have bright red hair. Yes.
When have you ever run with music?
You will crush this.
You will crush this.
You will crush this.
And with that, I will hold on to every stretch a little longer, breathe in a little deeper and focus on the actual road ahead and leave the "road taken/journey completed" enormity of the moment for the finish line.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
A reminder to myself:
Dear RJR,
Please don't forget the day you woke up almost 23 months ago and decided you were going to run the Philadelphia Marathon. It was cold then too. In fact, your first run was a layered mess of sweatpants and your high school cross country gear. And it was painful too.
Despite October rain and November frost, you are still the crazy one that took a whim and made it real; that took a dream, nailed it to the wall and stared at it every day for almost two years; and the one that likely kept Tiger Balm in the black in 2010. You have run injured, broken, recovered and healthy. Now, you run.
And so, no matter the pain of that last 22 mile run, keep moving beyond it;
no matter the lack of sleep, turn all of the lights on, make some coffee and fight through it; and
no matter the ache, realize that it, like the beast of a run you just completed, will fade away steadily once you let go.
When it hurts, remember it only does so when you let it. Raise your thoughts up and over the hurdle, accepting that it's only a bump and not a block, and reach your arms out to the finish line.
You are a runner. You are stubborn. You don't know how to give up. Call it endurance or determination or even stupidity - but call it something because it's what is going to push you over that finish line in 11 days.
Love, me.
Please don't forget the day you woke up almost 23 months ago and decided you were going to run the Philadelphia Marathon. It was cold then too. In fact, your first run was a layered mess of sweatpants and your high school cross country gear. And it was painful too.
Despite October rain and November frost, you are still the crazy one that took a whim and made it real; that took a dream, nailed it to the wall and stared at it every day for almost two years; and the one that likely kept Tiger Balm in the black in 2010. You have run injured, broken, recovered and healthy. Now, you run.
And so, no matter the pain of that last 22 mile run, keep moving beyond it;
no matter the lack of sleep, turn all of the lights on, make some coffee and fight through it; and
no matter the ache, realize that it, like the beast of a run you just completed, will fade away steadily once you let go.
When it hurts, remember it only does so when you let it. Raise your thoughts up and over the hurdle, accepting that it's only a bump and not a block, and reach your arms out to the finish line.
You are a runner. You are stubborn. You don't know how to give up. Call it endurance or determination or even stupidity - but call it something because it's what is going to push you over that finish line in 11 days.
Love, me.
Monday, October 24, 2011
My way back home.
As miles 20 and 21 fell off of my training schedule and landed where they were supposed to, neatly in the completed pile, I've been struggling with the enormity of what's next, the context for what this journey has been, what these runs are becoming [habits] and what I've learned along the way and then I heard "My Way Back Home." My thoughts turned from the significance of a perceived moment to all that set the moment in motion and all that would likely wind it down when I was ready:
"I admit that these answers that I seek
Are all to questions I’ve never known
But I pray to keep on looking for as long as I can roam
And when the world finally fulfills me
I will not forget my way back home."
"I admit that these answers that I seek
Are all to questions I’ve never known
But I pray to keep on looking for as long as I can roam
And when the world finally fulfills me
I will not forget my way back home."
Sunday, October 16, 2011
18
The numerical value of the Hebrew world for "life;"
In ancient Roman custom, it can symbolize a blood relative;
In Chinese tradition, the number 18 is normally 十八 (shí bā), but it can also be read as 幺八 (yāo bā), which sounds like 要发 (yào fā), meaning that one is going to prosper;
The month and day of Elvis Presley's birthday [January 8, 1935];
The number of chapters into which James Joyce's epic novel Ulysses is divided;
The number of miles I last ran in a meaningful way before my stress fracture diagnosis a year ago, October 5, 2010; and
The intangible barrier that I broke two weeks ago with an 18.1 mile run.
This was one of those days when you wake up and wonder if what you're doing is either incredibly stupid or incomparably brilliant because the sun isn't up, it's freezing, not even your loyal training terrier can be coaxed out of bed with a peanut butter and banana sammy and all of the windows in your tiny neighborhood are dark. You stand there and debate anything to put off the actual first steps: whether to wear shorts or 3/4 length pants on your run; how many gels will you actually need and do you think you'll like cherry lime; whether to take preemptive Motrin; should you cut off all water at 6AM; and anything else you can think of to take your mind off of "can I do this?"
And then, after deciding on the same Arizona State shorts and Tough Mudder headband that you wore the weekend before, taking a chance on the cherry lime gel and downing a few Motrin, you set out with 18 in your heart and faith falling on the path under your feet. Suddenly you are 9 miles into the run, on the downside mentally, and all of the worries are stuck back at mile 4.
Manayunk is just waking up as you make the turn back toward the city, crisp skyline waiting to welcome you back with the 18.1 stamped on your forehead. Your miles are standing strong at 9:00 minutes and your stride is only slightly painful. As you cross the Falls, Strawberry Mansion and [Stone] bridges, there is a sense of coming home. And for just a moment, you allow yourself the flash forward to the Marathon - the crowds and clapping; the signs and familiar faces; the idea that the people who love you the most are out there, somewhere, looking for you too.
As you take the last few steps toward 18.1, holding back the tears, you look up and whisper, "boom."
The intangible barrier that I broke two weeks ago with an 18.1 mile run.
This was one of those days when you wake up and wonder if what you're doing is either incredibly stupid or incomparably brilliant because the sun isn't up, it's freezing, not even your loyal training terrier can be coaxed out of bed with a peanut butter and banana sammy and all of the windows in your tiny neighborhood are dark. You stand there and debate anything to put off the actual first steps: whether to wear shorts or 3/4 length pants on your run; how many gels will you actually need and do you think you'll like cherry lime; whether to take preemptive Motrin; should you cut off all water at 6AM; and anything else you can think of to take your mind off of "can I do this?"
And then, after deciding on the same Arizona State shorts and Tough Mudder headband that you wore the weekend before, taking a chance on the cherry lime gel and downing a few Motrin, you set out with 18 in your heart and faith falling on the path under your feet. Suddenly you are 9 miles into the run, on the downside mentally, and all of the worries are stuck back at mile 4.
Manayunk is just waking up as you make the turn back toward the city, crisp skyline waiting to welcome you back with the 18.1 stamped on your forehead. Your miles are standing strong at 9:00 minutes and your stride is only slightly painful. As you cross the Falls, Strawberry Mansion and [Stone] bridges, there is a sense of coming home. And for just a moment, you allow yourself the flash forward to the Marathon - the crowds and clapping; the signs and familiar faces; the idea that the people who love you the most are out there, somewhere, looking for you too.
As you take the last few steps toward 18.1, holding back the tears, you look up and whisper, "boom."
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
I can hear you clapping.
There was a time not too long ago when I could pick the tenor of my grandfather's clap out of a crowd of basketball parents or field hockey parents and even on the cross country course. It was methodical, never over-excited or anxious, and as steady and consistent as a sunrise; deep and loyal but subtle like his compliments, that clap never missed a game, match or meet.
In the years since his passing, that sound has faded but still resides out there in the open space between my childhood and my today. His clap is in the crowd of a race; behind me as I start a long run; pushing me on rainy mornings; and constantly reminding me that, even when thirty feels like thirty, I have not yet lost my edge.
On September 24, 2011, I struggled through every bit of 16 miles. It was not a great run. In fact, it was ugly, painful and ultimately not something I wanted to share with anyone. Although I completed this training block, I can only liken its defeat to missing one of two shots from the line in the last seconds of your last game as an eighth grader at UTMS and going on to end your middle school "career" on a miss [not that things like that should still bother you at 30...].
As mile 15 of 16 announced itself, I was empty and consumed with angst about the next 7 weeks and the Marathon waiting for me at the end. I let my thoughts run so far afoul in that instance, that I actually questioned not just whether I would get 16 that day but whether I would cross the finish line of the Philly Marathon without stopping/walking/puking/crying/fainting or any combination thereof. Some would say that by mile 15.6 of 16, I was in the middle of an actual meltdown more focused on the big picture than the task at hand.
And then there was the clapping at mile 15.75. Just as the Art Museum came into view and the last hill was behind me, 20 geese flew overhead, wings clapping the entire time, and he was there. Just as he was at the final turn of my last cross country meet, in the last 20 seconds of my final high school basketball game, as I ran the length of the field hockey field for the last time, he was there clapping and screaming at me to stop being such a girl and just run.
So I ran.
In the years since his passing, that sound has faded but still resides out there in the open space between my childhood and my today. His clap is in the crowd of a race; behind me as I start a long run; pushing me on rainy mornings; and constantly reminding me that, even when thirty feels like thirty, I have not yet lost my edge.
On September 24, 2011, I struggled through every bit of 16 miles. It was not a great run. In fact, it was ugly, painful and ultimately not something I wanted to share with anyone. Although I completed this training block, I can only liken its defeat to missing one of two shots from the line in the last seconds of your last game as an eighth grader at UTMS and going on to end your middle school "career" on a miss [not that things like that should still bother you at 30...].
As mile 15 of 16 announced itself, I was empty and consumed with angst about the next 7 weeks and the Marathon waiting for me at the end. I let my thoughts run so far afoul in that instance, that I actually questioned not just whether I would get 16 that day but whether I would cross the finish line of the Philly Marathon without stopping/walking/puking/crying/fainting or any combination thereof. Some would say that by mile 15.6 of 16, I was in the middle of an actual meltdown more focused on the big picture than the task at hand.
And then there was the clapping at mile 15.75. Just as the Art Museum came into view and the last hill was behind me, 20 geese flew overhead, wings clapping the entire time, and he was there. Just as he was at the final turn of my last cross country meet, in the last 20 seconds of my final high school basketball game, as I ran the length of the field hockey field for the last time, he was there clapping and screaming at me to stop being such a girl and just run.
So I ran.
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