Shine on, you crazy diamond.

"Being consistent," my mom would say is the most important part of every relationship, beginning anything, ending something, working through a problem, overcoming an obstacle, loving, hurting, moving forward and remembering.  32 years of not quite understanding and then, as my plain bagel pops up in the toaster at 4:32AM on a Friday morning, 88 minutes before my 20 mile run will promptly start at 6:00AM, it hits me.  

There, in the dark hours before a huge run, is consistency.  It is in my breakfast and my pup sitting by my side.  It is is the half glass of water I drink or the double-checked backpack.  It is in my nervous, beeping Garmin and the way I lock grey eyes with myself in the mirror before I head out the door.  But, perhaps most importantly, it is in my attitude.  From the time my bare feet hit the cold, wood floors, I repeat, "I can do this."  There is no room for doubt or nerves.  Conquering this run becomes a foregone conclusion in my mind as soon as my alarm wakes me up.  There can be no other way.  And it is in this mindset when I rely on the consistency of my habits and my heart to propel me out into the darkness, beyond my own limits, and toward the goal.  

This 20 miles began slowly as I eased myself out of the heat and into the chill waiting for me.  It was hilly and comforting; consistent in its challenge and beautiful in its sunrise.  This run connected me, once again, to the grass and the green and waved silence, like a flag, stories above and majestic.  It became the flock of geese, flying in a perfect and overwhelming "V,"  overhead, and the smile and thumbs up of the complete stranger across the street, seeing the same thing, making eye contact, and it became our shared joy.  This run of mine became my community; and my community became me, ever so, consistently.  

 At mile 15, I was on fire, floating on the knowing smiles of the serious runners I passed - you know, the tall, skinny, grey haired men and women with worn, intelligent eyes and 1982 Boston Marathon windbreakers.  I dug deep, realized there was a lot left, and cranked it up to a speed I rarely touch in shorter runs.  Here it was, my last charge, and I thought of a Pre quote I'd read weeks before:  "A lot of people run a race to see who is fastest.  I run to see who has the most guts."  I was surely not the fastest girl on the Path that morning, but I left it all on the pavement and walked away knowing "I can do this."  Whatever "this" is - I can do it, without doubt or fear, with the consistency my mom instilled in me and if you get in my way, be sure I will walk over you.  

"Don't let someone dim your light simply because it's shining in their eyes."

Success isn't Permanent & Failure isn't Fatal: my 5k PR

I hate 5k's.  I hate them because when they're ending, I'm just beginning to get into a groove.  I'm rarely fast, out of the gate or otherwise, and truly have a fear of face-planting in the middle of an overly-aggressive pack sprinting across the start line, pointy elbows out to click "start" on our Garmins and maneuvering for placement.  In that regard, I find long-distance start lines to be extremely laid back and gradual. A long distance start is a flow where a 5k start is a great streak across the sky.  I've found myself much more comfortable in the process of getting across the start line when I don't have to think about the finish line for at least 5-10 miles.  And so it seems completely logical that I would sign up to do a 5k in the middle of February, along the water, with the wind slapping my face.

I put off thinking about the race for weeks.  I did not look at the race time, course or registration information.  I did not obsess over my race day attire.  I drank a bottle of champagne the night before.  I slept in the morning of.  I ate whatever I wanted.  I didn't hydrate well and took too much Advil.  I almost forgot to charge my watch and spent at least 30 minutes looking for gloves to wear.  I debated not going.

And then, with 3 hours until I was supposed to be in the car and my headache dissipating, I ate an appropriate pre-race meal and started nonchalantly flipping through my old running journals to find my previous PR for a 5k (22:38 - 2012 Philadelphia Bar Association Run). I was dressed in my good luck race clothes before I even realized it.  I was pacing, hydrating and lacing up.  I was breathing, stretching and re-focusing myself.  I had a goal.

At the race, the porta-potty lines were short, the wind not so bad, and the scenery familiar. My warm-up was long, straight out and back, and powerful.  I felt strong and capable as I moved among friends and strangers. Toward the start line, I walked in and out of lean running machines, smiling, and feeling like I'd come home just in time for the first race of the 2013 season.  

The race, itself, was a blur of wind and familiar faces, burning lungs, aching hamstrings and waves crashing in a river.  Hunched over, just past the Finish Line, trying not to fall prey to my churning stomach and aching lungs, I looked at my watch: unofficially 22:10 became official moments later. Celebrating with chicken broth and stretching out the soreness, I had another milestone to mark and save for another special occasion with the beautiful reminder that whether it's falling short or setting a PR, it's never all that you are.

Just take the hand that's offered

And hold on tight

This isn't everything you are

There's joy not far from here, right

I know there is

This isn't everything you are

(Snow Patrol)

Lake Harmony 2013

As I was sliding down an icy hill toward flat ground and the beginning of my 2nd run around Lake Harmony on Superbowl weekend, I sensed something behind me moving slowly and heavily over the ice.

It was an otherwise deserted road lined only with trees and peppered with long, winding driveways with trashcanned property lines and blue plastic mailboxed entrances.  Because no one could hear me scream, my only real choice was to turn down Adele, pause my Garmin watch and face my predator.

Sure enough, a large, red pick-up truck with a snowplow on the front of it and an imposing driver behind the wheel was creeping down the same icy hill, unwilling to pass me.  I braced myself for an unpleasant encounter only .25 miles into what should have been a crisp and silent run along a frozen lake dotted with little boys playing hockey and families gliding along the smooth, solid surface to breakfast.

As Mr. Red Truck approached and rolled down his window, I had one earbud completely untucked  from my hat and was ready to defend myself against whatever barrage of insults this jerk hurled at me for slowing him down on his way to go plow something.  Instead, I was met with a smile and a flannel covered arm waving with a very simple "I salted that hill for you extra good so it won't be so bad on the way back up," before he rolled the window back up and turned South on Lake Drive.  And, with that, I turned Adele back up, beaming at the generosity of a complete stranger, and followed his tracks down to the lake with steady flurries falling and a quiet horizon of snow and pine trees sitting, just out of my reach, untouchable against the  rising sun.

In the miles that came later, I welcomed myself to running in a small town; to running by the same faces; to running without the fear of getting lost; to running cold and into the wind; to running around blind corners; to staring at a lake so untouched you wonder if you're really seeing it; to encountering good people on their way to do good things; to running miles upon miles on top of packed snow; to drying my socks over a radiator; to running, free, in the Poconos.

Pictures courtesy of the brilliant Julia Keim

#3

Early on a Monday morning, half-way through my 2nd cup of coffee, I am distracted from my conference call agenda by an Outlook Calendar Reminder:

"Think about this marathon: www.gardenspotvillagemarathon.org"

and, with that little jolt, my mind kicked in to catch up with my heart.  There I was counting weeks on my fingers and seconds later scratching out a mileage chart:

15th: 12 miles

22nd: 15 miles

1st: 15 miles

8th: 18 miles

15th: 20 miles

22nd: 15 miles

29th: 12 miles

5th-6th: MARATHON

Conference call ends mid-charting and I'm already in the middle of an email to my serious runner friend (SRF) that goes something like this:

Me: You in?

SRF: Already training for it.

Me: Oh my god I had no idea you'd officially decided! 

SRF: ....YES, LET'S DO IT

Hours later, I was left with my Garden Spot Village Marathon Registration Confirmation and that tingly sensation athletes get when a new goal is set firmly down before them.  Although made rapidly, trust me when I say this decision was not made lightly.  Rather, it was made with the confidence of a repeat offender and the steady faith of the blind.  And so, with 50 days left and approximately 25 training runs left, it is, once again, go time.  Only this time:

"As long as we have the road, the ramblings, and each other to look forward to, it's all going to be alright.  Bring it on life - we're laced up and ready."



What I say:

1. If I am lucky enough to catch a sunrise: Thank you.
2. To angry me: Let it be.
3. When I wake up: (to my puppy) Good Morning, Angel boy, how were your dreams?  (And as he lays there next to me, tail wagging, I cannot be anything but grateful for the day.)
4. On an intense uphill: (On repeat.) Just keep going.
5. After a PR: Own it.
6. Taking water from a race volunteer: (In my head) Pop! Get rid of it!
7. When I've colossally F'd up: This isn't everything you are.
8. Fatigued: Left, right, left, right. 
9. At the base of hill: Hut! 
10. On my mat: Om Namah Shivaya
11. If I'm sick or injured: You are here, now, for a reason.
12. Before I go to sleep: The same 16 word prayer I've said since childhood. 
13. Sprinting to the finish: Boom!
14. When anxiety tries to shut me down: Just breathe.  You got this. Just breathe into this.
15. At the start line: These are your people.  
16. To my self-conscious side You are enough. 
17. During pre-race breakfast: More. Carbs. Please. 
18. If I fall short: Rally.
19. Through pain: (Channeling positivity) I feel strong. I am fine. I am healthy. 
20. To dehydration in July: There is a water fountain in ___ miles.  Suck it the F up.
21. Just starting out on a long run: You have done this before; (and so) you will do it again; and again; and again.

Throwin' Rocks

"We was throwin' rocks in the river, counting ties on the track; thinking life could not be better and living in a shack; Feeling love for one another, deep down in our bones; standing by the water, throwing rocks and skipping stones."

...and on a January morning, it was dark and finally cold enough for my ninja mask to be pulled on tightly and tucked way down into my littlest hoodie, leaving only my eyes to brave the wind and the run set out before me.  So cold, in fact, that a river froze as I ran next to it, trapping geese in little clusters of feathers, and embracing its new found stillness like a door closing on catastrophe.  This run would be a little over 4 miles out, straight into the biting wind, and 4 miles back, flying on invisible, albeit gusty, wings. And I felt brave. It was a run planned out and driven by the exhilaration of perceived defiance of nature and completely empowering.  My focus was broken, only momentarily, when I noticed the river next to me had completely stopped moving.

There I stood under a street light at 6:25AM with the world waking up behind me as commuters made their way down Kelly Drive buzzing with expectations of the first cold day.  In front of me was frozen silence.  Nothing moved but the flurries through the street light and it dawned on me that it had been a very long time since I'd thrown a rock at anything.  With visions of failed attempts at rock skipping on the waves of the Jersey Shore flashing in my mind, my heart rate increased as I rapidly scanned the ground for something to smash some ice with. And so began my hunched over and dimly lit search for the perfect rock.

As the rock hit the top of its arch, I lost sight of it completely and then only caught back up with its dull thud of a landing.  No dice on the smashing front but an uncontainable grin lit me up and carried me back another 4 miles to my beginning.  It seems that just stopping to take a breath and do something truly ridiculous is all that's needed to reset.  The brilliant orange and purple sunrise that led me into the finish line of this 8 mile wake-up, was but the icing on this once in a lifetime moment...

"Standing by the water, throwing rocks and skipping stones..."

 

Dear Owner of the 1990's Green Honda Parked on 48th & Spruce,

...So that was me, dressed like a Navy Seal, standing under a street light on the corner of 48th and Spruce, drawing a heart in the fresh snow that painted your hood.  I realize it was a big heart and sort of crooked and  that it was a bit presumptuous of me to draw something so personal on a stranger's car.  But, in my defense, it was 6:30AM on a Friday morning and it had been snowing for about an hour.  I know this because my 12 mile run began just as the flurries decided to fall.  The city was silent underneath the weight of this beautiful half inch of white peacefulness and I felt compelled to show you that there is still beauty in this world by drawing elementary shapes on your vehicle.  And so, the heart incident happened.

By way of background, this run began on the coldest day of the year with snow flying in sideways and directly into my eyes.  At the Mile 1 Beep, I thought of hot coffee, a hot shower, a hair dryer and warm clothes, and, most of all, turning around.  At the Miles 3 and 4 Beeps, I was decidedly warmer and my face was basically numb from the wind and, you guessed it, snow.  It wasn't until mile 5 that I found myself admiring all of the untouched snow amid the UPenn doctors and nurses, wearing their heavy coats and clogs (or are they crocks now?), making their way down the slippery sidewalks to their hospitals sitting at the base of the medical hill.  I thought about drawing something somewhere the entire way up through campus and then, on my way back down, at about mile 7 of a 12 mile run, I saw your car sitting there.

Admittedly, my mitten was tracing the crooked heart before I could really think the thing through.  Clearly, it wasn't centered or even on both sides.  I am no artist.  Just a runner that gets so high on running sometimes, it's hard to hold it all in.  And, even at 32, there is something about running in the snow that brings the kid back to the surface for moments like this one, when you're just trying to get a very basic message of joy and hope across to a complete stranger and anyone who happened to pass it along their snowy walk to work.

My hope was simple:  I wanted you to know that someone was up before you, playing her heart out in the snow, and loving beyond familiarity.

The snow stopped around mile 8 and the sun rose up so slowly and gracefully, I had the chance to notice each ray as it greeted the day.  The sky was, at once, pink and purple and warm.  This was the kind of morning when I am grateful to be alive and humbled to be a participant.   And so, Honda Owner, I truly hope that you smiled when you saw your car that morning.

Love, Me