UGH!
This past Wednesday I went for a nice run around the neighborhood. Nothing crazy, just your average everyday sweep along the sidewalks of beautiful Riva Trace. The sun was shining, the trees were beautiful and I was thinking affectionately about the 81 year old woman who just died after her last marathon. I was sad that she died but felt happy that the last thing she got to do was something she really loved for the better part of what I think was 50 years.
SCRRRRAAATCH! My memories were violently interrupted like a record needle scratching vinyl. As I turned the corner and passed the entrance to the retirement home, I stepped onto some leaves strewn along the sidewalk. My foot immediately went down into a hole in the sidewalk I could not see beneath the leaves and turned inward. My left foot, firmly planted on the concrete was able to take the weight and I was able to remain upright instead of face planting into the sidewalk or falling with the weight of my entire body onto my ankle.
That said, remaining upright still wasn't pretty. I looked around. There was a little, older lady approaching with her cane. I think I both shocked and appalled her with the litany of expletives that left my mouth. I doubt there are more creative ways to use the "F" word than I came up with. Immediately, panic set in. How hurt was I? Could I make it home? I was a mile from home and it was getting chilly out. I had on lighter clothes because I hadn't counted on walking. CRAP.
I started running again after walking for a couple of minutes. To my surprise, no pain and no swelling. Good sign, I thought. I gave it a couple more minutes to see. Still no pain, no swelling, no burning. Great. I can at least make it home. Gingerly navigating the sidewalk, I made it home.
First order of business: Ice. I dug out the gel ice strip and put it on my foot. Next, I took an aspirin. Ok, the rest remains to be seen.
The next day, the top of my foot was sore but not swollen and though it was sensitive to put weight on it, I could walk and move my toes around. PHEW!
However, here I sit today, SUNDAY still unable to run. UGH. My foot is improving but still sore. I guess the moral of this story is cut down all the trees so there are no leaves. KIDDING. I need to watch my footing. The very last thing I need is yet another injury!
On the plus side, my ankles, feet and core were strong enough to endure a particularly bad twist with no lasting damage. That is definitely PROGRESS!
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Triathlon Roadmaps
It's a Tuesday night and I am sitting here in a hotel room in Boston, MA, half listening to Man vs Food, eating a salad and longing for my running gear. Boston is such an awesome place to run. Little more than three blocks away from my hotel is a wonderful trail that runs along the river. Lots of runners, walkers and cyclists weave their way around each other on the tiny paved path in a dance of the fitness determined. Tonight, I wish I could count myself among them.
SIGH.
I am here for the bi-annual Sales Meeting that my company has every year. Today I had to present my product and product updates for all the sales folks. It was nerve-wracking but fine. I don't like public speaking but it's a necessary evil in my job. Typically, all of the presenting participants are invited to dinner to mingle and press the flesh of the revenue generators they hardly ever get to see. Let's face it, they have better things to do than hang out with a bunch of product folks. Because of this, I decided not to pack running clothes or shoes because I figured (as has been the case in the past) that I'd go straight from the meeting to dinner. But this time, that was not the case. I ended up dateless for dinner with nothing but time on my hands.
UGH! I could have gotten a nice, long RUN in.
Oh well, I guess there are just some things you can't account for. Not being "required" at dinner is one of them. I have to admit, I'm a little disappointed. I like our sales folks. They are fun, positive and vibrant. They keep the faith and add cheer to a company that sometimes has trouble seeing the opportunities for the risks. I love them for that. They believe!
So my thoughts turn from technical product roadmaps to the triathlon off season, my lackadaisical training regime as of late (sorry Coach Liz) and what the next season will hold. I have pondered another 70.3 race and when it's all said and done, I don't wanna. AND, I feel GUILTY about that. I did not have what I would call at GREAT race this year. I trained, stressed and really put the time in only to have it not work out on race day. STILL, I feel some sort of odd obligation. So as I sit here sort of pouting and pondering next year's race calendar, I realize that putting together next year's roster of races is not unlike certain aspects of product management.
As a product manager, you consider your buyer and/or user (me), what characteristics, abilities and limitations she has and build a product that meets her needs or addresses her pain points. As the "user" I've had some good training experiences and some not so good ones this season. I have sensitive feet that need constant monitoring due to past injury and a longing to get more than two rest weekends of my summer back from relentless triathlon training. I love to train and combine my vacations with training and/or exercise (there is a difference). If I had a wish list for swimming, I'd swim in the sea every. SINGLE. day. Rivers freak me out and there are always those damn jellies! I am very busy with the day job and really need to race in events that "sharpen the spear" instead of build toward something big.
When I consider myself as the "user" of my race season, the complexion changes. I become less emotional and more logical about what's best for my body, mind, spirit and life.
I ponder the requirements list for a good race calendar:
If I were to try to design a schedule for the me tri user based on these requirements I would choose Olympic distance tris and/or duathlons. And you know what else? I would NOT feel guilty. I would feel like I'd MET the requirements and answered the pain points.
So as I sit here and type instead of run, maybe the best way to think about the new season and assuage my guilt is to see it through the lens of a product manager. Internalize what the requirements are instead of what I feel on emotional level is "not enough". I can then choose races and set goals around the time for those races that make me feel proud for having made the effort.
The product approach, who would have thought?
SIGH.
I am here for the bi-annual Sales Meeting that my company has every year. Today I had to present my product and product updates for all the sales folks. It was nerve-wracking but fine. I don't like public speaking but it's a necessary evil in my job. Typically, all of the presenting participants are invited to dinner to mingle and press the flesh of the revenue generators they hardly ever get to see. Let's face it, they have better things to do than hang out with a bunch of product folks. Because of this, I decided not to pack running clothes or shoes because I figured (as has been the case in the past) that I'd go straight from the meeting to dinner. But this time, that was not the case. I ended up dateless for dinner with nothing but time on my hands.
UGH! I could have gotten a nice, long RUN in.
Oh well, I guess there are just some things you can't account for. Not being "required" at dinner is one of them. I have to admit, I'm a little disappointed. I like our sales folks. They are fun, positive and vibrant. They keep the faith and add cheer to a company that sometimes has trouble seeing the opportunities for the risks. I love them for that. They believe!
So my thoughts turn from technical product roadmaps to the triathlon off season, my lackadaisical training regime as of late (sorry Coach Liz) and what the next season will hold. I have pondered another 70.3 race and when it's all said and done, I don't wanna. AND, I feel GUILTY about that. I did not have what I would call at GREAT race this year. I trained, stressed and really put the time in only to have it not work out on race day. STILL, I feel some sort of odd obligation. So as I sit here sort of pouting and pondering next year's race calendar, I realize that putting together next year's roster of races is not unlike certain aspects of product management.
As a product manager, you consider your buyer and/or user (me), what characteristics, abilities and limitations she has and build a product that meets her needs or addresses her pain points. As the "user" I've had some good training experiences and some not so good ones this season. I have sensitive feet that need constant monitoring due to past injury and a longing to get more than two rest weekends of my summer back from relentless triathlon training. I love to train and combine my vacations with training and/or exercise (there is a difference). If I had a wish list for swimming, I'd swim in the sea every. SINGLE. day. Rivers freak me out and there are always those damn jellies! I am very busy with the day job and really need to race in events that "sharpen the spear" instead of build toward something big.
When I consider myself as the "user" of my race season, the complexion changes. I become less emotional and more logical about what's best for my body, mind, spirit and life.
I ponder the requirements list for a good race calendar:
- Not so short that's it's boring (sprint) but not so long that I am panic stricken if I miss a long brick (70.3 or over)
- Breaks the monotony
- Fewer jellyfish stings
- Allows for more pure run races
- Keeps my weekend training down to less than three hours
If I were to try to design a schedule for the me tri user based on these requirements I would choose Olympic distance tris and/or duathlons. And you know what else? I would NOT feel guilty. I would feel like I'd MET the requirements and answered the pain points.
So as I sit here and type instead of run, maybe the best way to think about the new season and assuage my guilt is to see it through the lens of a product manager. Internalize what the requirements are instead of what I feel on emotional level is "not enough". I can then choose races and set goals around the time for those races that make me feel proud for having made the effort.
The product approach, who would have thought?
Monday, September 23, 2013
Running Through
Yesterday was long run day. Typically on long run day, I anticipate mileage north of 10 that is slow and not particularly aggressive. I call it my "stroll". It's a good zone 2 workout without a lot of speed. A half and half builder of mental toughness and good running "base".
Yesterday was different.
On Thursday, I logged into Training Peaks to see that the coach had posted this as my long run workout for Sunday: 14 miles/1:50. Followed by, "You have a good base coming off your Half Ironman." She had some other stuff in there too about pacing and for which mile but I looked right past all of that to what really mattered: 1:50.
RIGHT. Need I mention that during said 70.3 I dehydrated and had to WALK a good portion of the run? HMMM. Need I also mention that it's been a couple of weeks since I have done a long run (hello TAPER). To say the least, I was a bit ..... incredulous.
But then, I asked, "What if?". What if I just hauled my ass out there and ran that long run like a race? Could I get close to 1:50? The weather was supposed to be perfect - 70 degrees and cloudy. My kind of day. SO why NOT?
I drove to the Baltimore-Annapolis Trail. The only place I could think of that had already done the hard work of counting the miles (with mile markers). I knew the terrain (always a comfort) and there were enough hills to partially replicate what I would encounter on race day. I did a quick inventory. Hammergel, check. Water, check (there is water along the trail so dehydration would not be an issue). Sunscreen, check. Mental attitude in the positive, double check.
I took off with the fancy Timex watch in tow. I wanted to get an idea of pace so I decided that equipment was in order for this long run. I decided to warm up for three miles and then build. After the build I would RACE the rest of the run. Despite ignoring most of her instructions, I knew my coach would get it. I needed to understand where I might blow up, how and under what sort of circumstances. I needed to see if I could come close to 1:50 without blowing up. But that's the rub. I had to be willing to blow up.
At the end of three miles, I felt great. Time to build. I looked at the fancy Timex. I was pleasantly surprised at my time. I was ahead of where I thought I would be. I was encouraged. Next up, the build. I kept reducing my time by 10 seconds per mile, then 15. I neared mile 6 and picked up the pace again. It was slightly uphill but I kept the increased pace. I covered the next mile, ate some Hammergel and turned around. Time to RACE. I set my sights on sub-nines. At this point in my healing adventure, this is a good time for me for a 14 mile run. When I looked at the fancy watch at mile 8, I couldn't believe it! I was doing FAR better than just sub-nines. I was crushing it. I picked up the pace again. Systemically, I felt fine. My glutes, however, were beginning to give way.
Mile 10. Always the hardest mile. It's in that middle place where you really have to focus. I was tired, my form was slipping and I was losing mental focus. STEADY PRESSURE on the HILLS, I kept repeating to myself (sometimes out loud) to bring my focus back to where I was. Here, running. NOW. FORM. KEEP the FORM.
By mile 11, it was all uphill. Steady pressure. As I ran, the sensation to stop and walk washed over me. I declared NO out loud. I began to run past the sensation. As I ran past it, I ran past what felt like a film of the former me - a diaphanous membrane with the texture of a bubble. The old me. The injured me. The me who has been holding me back. The fearful me. I ran through her. Through the bubble, the fatigue and doubt. I simply just ran through. I felt her trying to claw me back. As if she were saying "Wait, you don't know where this will go. You could fail or get hurt. You could...." I kept running. I slipped through the membrane and mile 13.
ONE MILE TO GO. I was still running. As fast as I could go. Leg turnover, excellent. Speed, good. Glutes and hamstrings, OUCH.
As the "finish line" approached, I looked down at the display of the fancy Timex: 2:06. NOT bad. NOT bad at all. Sub nines for training means sub nines for the race. Tired, sore, achy and happy, I stretched and listened to the birds singing around me.
I glanced back up the trail, through the trees to the wooden bridge where legs burning and at their limit, I defied myself and ran through. I smiled. I didn't blow up. I made it. And I will again. Metric Marathon, here I come.
Yesterday was different.
On Thursday, I logged into Training Peaks to see that the coach had posted this as my long run workout for Sunday: 14 miles/1:50. Followed by, "You have a good base coming off your Half Ironman." She had some other stuff in there too about pacing and for which mile but I looked right past all of that to what really mattered: 1:50.
RIGHT. Need I mention that during said 70.3 I dehydrated and had to WALK a good portion of the run? HMMM. Need I also mention that it's been a couple of weeks since I have done a long run (hello TAPER). To say the least, I was a bit ..... incredulous.
But then, I asked, "What if?". What if I just hauled my ass out there and ran that long run like a race? Could I get close to 1:50? The weather was supposed to be perfect - 70 degrees and cloudy. My kind of day. SO why NOT?
I drove to the Baltimore-Annapolis Trail. The only place I could think of that had already done the hard work of counting the miles (with mile markers). I knew the terrain (always a comfort) and there were enough hills to partially replicate what I would encounter on race day. I did a quick inventory. Hammergel, check. Water, check (there is water along the trail so dehydration would not be an issue). Sunscreen, check. Mental attitude in the positive, double check.
I took off with the fancy Timex watch in tow. I wanted to get an idea of pace so I decided that equipment was in order for this long run. I decided to warm up for three miles and then build. After the build I would RACE the rest of the run. Despite ignoring most of her instructions, I knew my coach would get it. I needed to understand where I might blow up, how and under what sort of circumstances. I needed to see if I could come close to 1:50 without blowing up. But that's the rub. I had to be willing to blow up.
At the end of three miles, I felt great. Time to build. I looked at the fancy Timex. I was pleasantly surprised at my time. I was ahead of where I thought I would be. I was encouraged. Next up, the build. I kept reducing my time by 10 seconds per mile, then 15. I neared mile 6 and picked up the pace again. It was slightly uphill but I kept the increased pace. I covered the next mile, ate some Hammergel and turned around. Time to RACE. I set my sights on sub-nines. At this point in my healing adventure, this is a good time for me for a 14 mile run. When I looked at the fancy watch at mile 8, I couldn't believe it! I was doing FAR better than just sub-nines. I was crushing it. I picked up the pace again. Systemically, I felt fine. My glutes, however, were beginning to give way.
Mile 10. Always the hardest mile. It's in that middle place where you really have to focus. I was tired, my form was slipping and I was losing mental focus. STEADY PRESSURE on the HILLS, I kept repeating to myself (sometimes out loud) to bring my focus back to where I was. Here, running. NOW. FORM. KEEP the FORM.
By mile 11, it was all uphill. Steady pressure. As I ran, the sensation to stop and walk washed over me. I declared NO out loud. I began to run past the sensation. As I ran past it, I ran past what felt like a film of the former me - a diaphanous membrane with the texture of a bubble. The old me. The injured me. The me who has been holding me back. The fearful me. I ran through her. Through the bubble, the fatigue and doubt. I simply just ran through. I felt her trying to claw me back. As if she were saying "Wait, you don't know where this will go. You could fail or get hurt. You could...." I kept running. I slipped through the membrane and mile 13.
ONE MILE TO GO. I was still running. As fast as I could go. Leg turnover, excellent. Speed, good. Glutes and hamstrings, OUCH.
As the "finish line" approached, I looked down at the display of the fancy Timex: 2:06. NOT bad. NOT bad at all. Sub nines for training means sub nines for the race. Tired, sore, achy and happy, I stretched and listened to the birds singing around me.
I glanced back up the trail, through the trees to the wooden bridge where legs burning and at their limit, I defied myself and ran through. I smiled. I didn't blow up. I made it. And I will again. Metric Marathon, here I come.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Somewhere left of stellar
This past Saturday, I participated in my first 70.3 race since 2009.
Having promised a good friend that I'd do it with her (it was her first and my 4th), I mustered up the guts to start a Master's swim class in January (YES, I love getting in the pool when it's 23 degrees outside) and hired an excellent tri couch in April. I trained hard. When it was all said and done, I did more than 96 hours of biking, 69 hours of running and 55 hours of swimming. The race should have gone off without a hitch. Physically, I was ready.
As my coach often says in her blog, being physically fit is not all that matters. I agree. Your mental game is just as important, if not more so than your physical fitness. For me, I've always been able to power through, to really suffer when others give up, to put 10-15 seconds worth of time into someone because I know that mentally it will hurt them far more than it will physically hurt me (to quote Coach Liz). I can suffer. I am willing to suffer. But suffering was not the issue with this race. The challenges were far more subtle and frankly, exactly what I needed to finally face the work I need to do if I intend to get better at this triathlon racing business.
The swim started off in a river with a pretty substantial current. Having really brought my swim up this year, I felt confident and strong. Even when the current sent me hurtling toward the channel marker pilings (where I cut my foot on barnacles), I still managed to right myself and swim on. I came into transition in well under an hour and for me, in that crazy river environment, this was a success!
The bike revealed what I've known for some time and literally tried to ignore or hide or just not address. I am an aerobar wimp. I suck at using them. I am not a confident bike handler and I spook very easily at the prospect of falling, so the aerobars really freak me out. Nevertheless, because of this fear, I suffer and not in the "I know I'm doing well and it's worth suffering way." The course traveled over 55 mph roads with no shoulder. At one point, I heard a diesel engine and a low honk of a truck horn. I looked over to see the hubs of a giant tractor trailer passing by my head. REALLY?!?! Who the hell thought this was a good course? Needless to say, between my near non-existent aerobar skills (I have trouble eating and drinking while in aero) and the constant stream of 55 mph traffic, I never could get a rhythm going on the bike. As I churned past blind turns as fast as I could to escape danger, something occurred to me. Despite all of my physical prowess, nerves and a lack of proper hydration were starting to take me down. I tried hard to hydrate but by the time the bike segment was almost over, I knew my run was toast.
There is nothing like going into a run, knowing you are behind the eight ball. I knew on the second mile that I was in for it. I tried to push through. I began hydrating like crazy. Alternating Osmo with water. The Osmo worked nearly instantly and I did feel a little better but it was already too late. By mile 7 of 13.1 I was walking. Sad, angry, disappointed and downtrodden, I continued. I knew I wouldn't quit but I also knew that all of that work, all of those hours, all of that sacrifice was going to be unraveled by a bad run.
I picked up the pace and started running again. My stomach churned. I couldn't get my blood sugar stabilized. I walked and ran until I finally finished. Far off the time I'd planned and much worse for the wear mentally.
The good news about this race is that unlike many situations in life, triathlon puts right in your face precisely what your weaknesses are. You are forced to face them in all of their ugliness and decide, "Will I take this on and get better? Or will I just keep playing this game with myself and trying to avoid what needs to be addressed?"
After the Patriot race, I know the answer. I need a plan. I am good at planning. And I am DAMN GOOD at sticking to a plan. What I am less good at is owning up to the fact that I am afraid. I am afraid of falling, of being out of control, of not being able to balance and swerving into a lane with a car that will kill me. I am not confident on the bike. I am afraid of my lack of confidence and my ability to react in an emergency situation where good bike handling skills will be required to avoid injury or death. Because of these fears, I have become something that I fear more than anything else in this world: mediocre. I am a mediocre athlete. I don't do well with mediocrity.
So more than anything that could possibly motivate me, my disdain for mediocrity will drive me to push past my comfort zone. I admit defeat. I admit fear. I will allow myself to be open and as the amazing Diana Nyad says: FIND A WAY! If you don't like it, FIND A WAY. I hate it. I hate being mediocre. I hate being afraid and mostly, I hate letting myself down.
I will find a way! I won't scale the mountain only to drown in a puddle. I will create a plan and race with the confidence that no matter what, I addressed all my fears and brought everything I had to the race. EVERYTHING.
EVERYTHING.
Having promised a good friend that I'd do it with her (it was her first and my 4th), I mustered up the guts to start a Master's swim class in January (YES, I love getting in the pool when it's 23 degrees outside) and hired an excellent tri couch in April. I trained hard. When it was all said and done, I did more than 96 hours of biking, 69 hours of running and 55 hours of swimming. The race should have gone off without a hitch. Physically, I was ready.
As my coach often says in her blog, being physically fit is not all that matters. I agree. Your mental game is just as important, if not more so than your physical fitness. For me, I've always been able to power through, to really suffer when others give up, to put 10-15 seconds worth of time into someone because I know that mentally it will hurt them far more than it will physically hurt me (to quote Coach Liz). I can suffer. I am willing to suffer. But suffering was not the issue with this race. The challenges were far more subtle and frankly, exactly what I needed to finally face the work I need to do if I intend to get better at this triathlon racing business.
The swim started off in a river with a pretty substantial current. Having really brought my swim up this year, I felt confident and strong. Even when the current sent me hurtling toward the channel marker pilings (where I cut my foot on barnacles), I still managed to right myself and swim on. I came into transition in well under an hour and for me, in that crazy river environment, this was a success!
The bike revealed what I've known for some time and literally tried to ignore or hide or just not address. I am an aerobar wimp. I suck at using them. I am not a confident bike handler and I spook very easily at the prospect of falling, so the aerobars really freak me out. Nevertheless, because of this fear, I suffer and not in the "I know I'm doing well and it's worth suffering way." The course traveled over 55 mph roads with no shoulder. At one point, I heard a diesel engine and a low honk of a truck horn. I looked over to see the hubs of a giant tractor trailer passing by my head. REALLY?!?! Who the hell thought this was a good course? Needless to say, between my near non-existent aerobar skills (I have trouble eating and drinking while in aero) and the constant stream of 55 mph traffic, I never could get a rhythm going on the bike. As I churned past blind turns as fast as I could to escape danger, something occurred to me. Despite all of my physical prowess, nerves and a lack of proper hydration were starting to take me down. I tried hard to hydrate but by the time the bike segment was almost over, I knew my run was toast.
There is nothing like going into a run, knowing you are behind the eight ball. I knew on the second mile that I was in for it. I tried to push through. I began hydrating like crazy. Alternating Osmo with water. The Osmo worked nearly instantly and I did feel a little better but it was already too late. By mile 7 of 13.1 I was walking. Sad, angry, disappointed and downtrodden, I continued. I knew I wouldn't quit but I also knew that all of that work, all of those hours, all of that sacrifice was going to be unraveled by a bad run.
I picked up the pace and started running again. My stomach churned. I couldn't get my blood sugar stabilized. I walked and ran until I finally finished. Far off the time I'd planned and much worse for the wear mentally.
The good news about this race is that unlike many situations in life, triathlon puts right in your face precisely what your weaknesses are. You are forced to face them in all of their ugliness and decide, "Will I take this on and get better? Or will I just keep playing this game with myself and trying to avoid what needs to be addressed?"
After the Patriot race, I know the answer. I need a plan. I am good at planning. And I am DAMN GOOD at sticking to a plan. What I am less good at is owning up to the fact that I am afraid. I am afraid of falling, of being out of control, of not being able to balance and swerving into a lane with a car that will kill me. I am not confident on the bike. I am afraid of my lack of confidence and my ability to react in an emergency situation where good bike handling skills will be required to avoid injury or death. Because of these fears, I have become something that I fear more than anything else in this world: mediocre. I am a mediocre athlete. I don't do well with mediocrity.
So more than anything that could possibly motivate me, my disdain for mediocrity will drive me to push past my comfort zone. I admit defeat. I admit fear. I will allow myself to be open and as the amazing Diana Nyad says: FIND A WAY! If you don't like it, FIND A WAY. I hate it. I hate being mediocre. I hate being afraid and mostly, I hate letting myself down.
I will find a way! I won't scale the mountain only to drown in a puddle. I will create a plan and race with the confidence that no matter what, I addressed all my fears and brought everything I had to the race. EVERYTHING.
EVERYTHING.
Monday, April 22, 2013
The Finish Line
Running has always been a sacred space for me. From the time I ran around the block for the first time, I was hooked. I remember the first time I ran 8 miles. It was on Christmas Day and the trail was empty. Just me, what wild life was left and a forest of hibernating trees. I could see my breath and feel my heart beat as my legs moved me effortlessly forward. I felt joy rise up and fill my heart as I ran the last hundred yards to the car. I'd never run farther in my life before that day. There would be longer distances and many more days but for some reason, that eight mile run really stands out. I felt like I was one with the Universe.
Running is my moving meditation. My opportunity to leave the mind behind and really focus on being in the moment.
Running is the great equalizer. It does not care how much money you have, how influential you are or whether you are grouchy or kind. It treats everyone the same - you get from running what you give. That fairness, that equalization, is also why running is the great connector. It galvanizes communities, families, friends and causes. It inspires others to come out and cheer and selflessly celebrate the accomplishment of another. Running draws people together in warmth and celebration. It is a exercise in hope and goodness. Or it was.
Watching the terror at the Boston Marathon was one of the most difficult things I've witnessed. I watched as the carnage of runners, friends, family and spectators of all kinds lay strewn near the finish line. Tears stung my eyes as I heard that a little 8 year old boy was killed. WHY?!? I kept asking. Who would want to blow up a marathon?!? And worst of all, why blow up the FINISH LINE?!
The Finish Line. The most sacred place in any race. I thought about how many times I've crossed a finish line. At least 30 times and each and every one of them was a celebration. Sometimes I saw someone I loved patiently and eagerly awaiting my arrival. Almost always there were volunteers and other spectators cheering me on to the finish. Many times, athletes who'd finished earlier in the day had returned to keep cheering for those of us who were mere mortals. The finish line is a place of celebration, hope, encouragement and love. It is also a place of remembrance.
Those last 100 or so yards before you cross the finish line, when the crowds are cheering and the end is quickly approaching is surreal. Every sacrifice no matter how small passes through your mind. Every painful training run; early morning or late night workout; every frustrated tear or small victory; every missed happy hour and all those times someone called you "crazy" or "obsessed". All of those memories remind you how you came to be 100 yards from a sign that reads, "FINISH". I can't tell you how many times I've had tears in my eyes crossing that line. The Finish Line is the one place where joy and turmoil are not at cross purposes. Where the sweetness of perseverance and determination is rewarded with those last precious strides.
By blowing up the finish line at the Boston Marathon, those terrorists raped all runners of the bliss we feel crossing over that sacred spot. Many of us will run again and will cross many more finish lines, but we will never be as innocent again. We will have a twinge of fear for those who wait for us and so selflessly cheer us on and wonder if they will be safe. We will be looking around to see if it's safe to cross - like we would if we were crossing a dangerous street. Yes, we will pick ourselves up like runners always do but we will never be the same.
The Finish Line will still be my place of hope, truth and satisfaction. I will never let those bastards have that. But I will never again be the same. I will never be able go back to those days of fearless innocence - blissfully gliding across the line without a care in the world.
Running is my moving meditation. My opportunity to leave the mind behind and really focus on being in the moment.
Running is the great equalizer. It does not care how much money you have, how influential you are or whether you are grouchy or kind. It treats everyone the same - you get from running what you give. That fairness, that equalization, is also why running is the great connector. It galvanizes communities, families, friends and causes. It inspires others to come out and cheer and selflessly celebrate the accomplishment of another. Running draws people together in warmth and celebration. It is a exercise in hope and goodness. Or it was.
Watching the terror at the Boston Marathon was one of the most difficult things I've witnessed. I watched as the carnage of runners, friends, family and spectators of all kinds lay strewn near the finish line. Tears stung my eyes as I heard that a little 8 year old boy was killed. WHY?!? I kept asking. Who would want to blow up a marathon?!? And worst of all, why blow up the FINISH LINE?!
The Finish Line. The most sacred place in any race. I thought about how many times I've crossed a finish line. At least 30 times and each and every one of them was a celebration. Sometimes I saw someone I loved patiently and eagerly awaiting my arrival. Almost always there were volunteers and other spectators cheering me on to the finish. Many times, athletes who'd finished earlier in the day had returned to keep cheering for those of us who were mere mortals. The finish line is a place of celebration, hope, encouragement and love. It is also a place of remembrance.
Those last 100 or so yards before you cross the finish line, when the crowds are cheering and the end is quickly approaching is surreal. Every sacrifice no matter how small passes through your mind. Every painful training run; early morning or late night workout; every frustrated tear or small victory; every missed happy hour and all those times someone called you "crazy" or "obsessed". All of those memories remind you how you came to be 100 yards from a sign that reads, "FINISH". I can't tell you how many times I've had tears in my eyes crossing that line. The Finish Line is the one place where joy and turmoil are not at cross purposes. Where the sweetness of perseverance and determination is rewarded with those last precious strides.
By blowing up the finish line at the Boston Marathon, those terrorists raped all runners of the bliss we feel crossing over that sacred spot. Many of us will run again and will cross many more finish lines, but we will never be as innocent again. We will have a twinge of fear for those who wait for us and so selflessly cheer us on and wonder if they will be safe. We will be looking around to see if it's safe to cross - like we would if we were crossing a dangerous street. Yes, we will pick ourselves up like runners always do but we will never be the same.
The Finish Line will still be my place of hope, truth and satisfaction. I will never let those bastards have that. But I will never again be the same. I will never be able go back to those days of fearless innocence - blissfully gliding across the line without a care in the world.
Monday, April 1, 2013
40 Days
Easter marks for me (and many other folks, I'm sure) new beginnings. Spring, blooming flowers and trees and of course, Christ's rising.
This weekend, I watched a History Channel show about Jesus' Crucifixion and his subsequent rise from the dead. The story is told that he appeared for 40 days to various individuals and then ascended. 40 days is a long time. During that time and those appearances, what Jesus actually said to those he appeared to can be summed up in one line: "Jesus said a lot of stuff."
Great. My thought is this: If a man who inspired so many with his teachings is murdered ; rises from the dead three days later and then spends the next 40 days appearing to his followers, don't you think that no matter WHAT he said you'd write it down?!? If he said, "I'm going to the bathroom", I'd have recorded it. Seriously! It's not every day that something like that happens.
I gave this some thought as we went about our weekend. We stopped to put together furniture and install a light fixture for Ken's mom. Then we helped a friend hang a door. I thought to myself, this is in the spirit of what Jesus was getting at, be a good Samaritan. Lend your talent, skills and time to others to lighten their load and make their lives better. Take care of each other. Leave joy in your path. Jesus was all about honoring the Divine in others. What you see in your world and in others is a reflection of who you are and what you've created. You are not removed from that process or a victim of it.
Which begs the question. Why would a man with so much insight into the human spirit and subsequently the celestial heavens bother to come back to say so seemingly little? The short answer, at least as I see it, is that he didn't.
I suspect, Jesus had a lot to say. He probably talked about how at the end of the day, we are all one spirit. We are all Divine. Famous for saying,"God is within you", Jesus probably got to experience what that meant first hand. He probably told the disciples that everyone is in effect his/her own version of God. Being made in the image is a metaphor, how could we not be a part of that life force? We are all 1% away from being physically identical. Why would we be so different metaphysically? The biggest thing that I bet Jesus said was that if we honor the Divinity in each other and the Divinity in ourselves, we don't need regulators like war, religion and law. We would not do anything to harm the Divine if we could see it for what it really was. A spark of God in all of us.
I suspect that though Jesus may have relayed these truths in great detail, they weren't what worked well with the human motives of the time. There was a need for the larger populous to feel inferior to God so that the religious hierarchy and the manipulation of that hierarchy would work. In essence, the disciples did not spread the simpler, purer message that we ARE the spark of God and that as such we are our own Creators. In fact, I am sure they would have met much the same fate as Jesus had they tried.
Jesus probably also explained in greater detail Karma or the laws of cause and effect. It's not personal. There is a Universal balance to be maintained. You reap, without judgement, what you have put into effect. Conscious of the power we all possess - the Power of the Creator, Jesus refused to manipulate or coerce. At the close of his 40 days, I suspect he reminded everyone that we are all Divine and it's embracing that Divinity that creates peace in our souls and a better world around us. We are responsible for being our own Creators. And frankly, we don't need an intermediary to bridge the Divine conversation. The Kingdom of God is within us always. It never leaves us because it IS us. We can access it any where, any time.
I think Jesus did say many, many things during his 40 days. Much of it so simple and powerful that it frightened the people responsible for spreading that particular part of the gospel. So in the end, we got the CliffNotes. Could explain why we aren't exactly making an "A" on the ensuing test.
This weekend, I watched a History Channel show about Jesus' Crucifixion and his subsequent rise from the dead. The story is told that he appeared for 40 days to various individuals and then ascended. 40 days is a long time. During that time and those appearances, what Jesus actually said to those he appeared to can be summed up in one line: "Jesus said a lot of stuff."
Great. My thought is this: If a man who inspired so many with his teachings is murdered ; rises from the dead three days later and then spends the next 40 days appearing to his followers, don't you think that no matter WHAT he said you'd write it down?!? If he said, "I'm going to the bathroom", I'd have recorded it. Seriously! It's not every day that something like that happens.
I gave this some thought as we went about our weekend. We stopped to put together furniture and install a light fixture for Ken's mom. Then we helped a friend hang a door. I thought to myself, this is in the spirit of what Jesus was getting at, be a good Samaritan. Lend your talent, skills and time to others to lighten their load and make their lives better. Take care of each other. Leave joy in your path. Jesus was all about honoring the Divine in others. What you see in your world and in others is a reflection of who you are and what you've created. You are not removed from that process or a victim of it.
Which begs the question. Why would a man with so much insight into the human spirit and subsequently the celestial heavens bother to come back to say so seemingly little? The short answer, at least as I see it, is that he didn't.
I suspect, Jesus had a lot to say. He probably talked about how at the end of the day, we are all one spirit. We are all Divine. Famous for saying,"God is within you", Jesus probably got to experience what that meant first hand. He probably told the disciples that everyone is in effect his/her own version of God. Being made in the image is a metaphor, how could we not be a part of that life force? We are all 1% away from being physically identical. Why would we be so different metaphysically? The biggest thing that I bet Jesus said was that if we honor the Divinity in each other and the Divinity in ourselves, we don't need regulators like war, religion and law. We would not do anything to harm the Divine if we could see it for what it really was. A spark of God in all of us.
I suspect that though Jesus may have relayed these truths in great detail, they weren't what worked well with the human motives of the time. There was a need for the larger populous to feel inferior to God so that the religious hierarchy and the manipulation of that hierarchy would work. In essence, the disciples did not spread the simpler, purer message that we ARE the spark of God and that as such we are our own Creators. In fact, I am sure they would have met much the same fate as Jesus had they tried.
Jesus probably also explained in greater detail Karma or the laws of cause and effect. It's not personal. There is a Universal balance to be maintained. You reap, without judgement, what you have put into effect. Conscious of the power we all possess - the Power of the Creator, Jesus refused to manipulate or coerce. At the close of his 40 days, I suspect he reminded everyone that we are all Divine and it's embracing that Divinity that creates peace in our souls and a better world around us. We are responsible for being our own Creators. And frankly, we don't need an intermediary to bridge the Divine conversation. The Kingdom of God is within us always. It never leaves us because it IS us. We can access it any where, any time.
I think Jesus did say many, many things during his 40 days. Much of it so simple and powerful that it frightened the people responsible for spreading that particular part of the gospel. So in the end, we got the CliffNotes. Could explain why we aren't exactly making an "A" on the ensuing test.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Grateful for the burn
Friday ended up being long run day by weather default. According to the forecast (which is NEVER right, by the way. How DO those people keep their jobs?!?!) it was the only day of the weekend that didn't promise an outright or near down pour.
I am forever changing up my long run routes to ward off the ennui of turning my legs over a billion times for a couple of hours each weekend. This week, I decided I'd do a destination run. Circle a new neighborhood and then end at happy hour! Two missions accomplished and delicious fish tacos waiting at the end.
The day was sunny and nice. 55 and low winds. I set out. I chose a route that seemed hilly but not too terrible. BOY was I wrong! The first hill I coasted down made me worry. I knew that when I turned around to go back, that hill would be a killer AND it was close to the finish which meant I'd be spent. I put that thought out of my mind and kept my focus on the road - a sort of busy one with (thankfully) wide shoulders.
I cruised down the hilly road lined with country offices that seemed to go on forever. I finally took the left I'd calculated with the map tool and looked straight up, almost literally, at a monster climb. SIGH. I thought for sure that I'd get a break this close to the water. I continued on, picked up the main road and realized my water bottle was almost empty. I was very far from "home". I spotted a Chinese food place in the shopping center and decided to beg for water. Language barrier notwithstanding, the owner took pity on me and filled my bottle from a rickety tap. I prayed the water was potable.
I set off again. My left toe had a blister and my legs burned. My glutes were so spent that I was shuffling along and systemically I was starting to feel the impact of the effort. I ate my last Hammergel and tried to put that last hill out of my mind. Then, before I knew it, looming in the distance there it was - a seemingly endless ribbon of pain. I tucked my head down, checked my form and kicked it up. Mid-way up the hill I could hear my labored breath above the din of 80s rock. I could feel the burning in my glutes and aching quads. I started to give in to the pain by letting the anguish seep into my mind. Then, I caught myself. I WANT THIS. I have been obsessed with getting back to my long run routine since my last bout of tendonitis. I thought about Das Boot and how that first 17 minute run was my old walking pace and how I felt like I'd never get back to normal. I decided then and there to be grateful for the burning and aching. To be grateful that I could push myself hard enough to feel this sort of pain. I smiled. The wind was picking up but I didn't care. I felt grateful. Grateful to be alive. Grateful to be running and grateful that both my feet seemed happy to oblige.
I crested the hill and saw Parole come in to view. AH YES, happy hour was mere minutes away. I checked my watch. Right on time, I would arrive by 5p.
I cruised up to the restaurant and stretched. Ken was just getting there and greeted me with a fresh change of clothes. I sat at the bar eating fish tacos, drinking sangria and basking in the glow of a long run, well done. I CAN. I DID and I AM GRATEFUL.
I am forever changing up my long run routes to ward off the ennui of turning my legs over a billion times for a couple of hours each weekend. This week, I decided I'd do a destination run. Circle a new neighborhood and then end at happy hour! Two missions accomplished and delicious fish tacos waiting at the end.
The day was sunny and nice. 55 and low winds. I set out. I chose a route that seemed hilly but not too terrible. BOY was I wrong! The first hill I coasted down made me worry. I knew that when I turned around to go back, that hill would be a killer AND it was close to the finish which meant I'd be spent. I put that thought out of my mind and kept my focus on the road - a sort of busy one with (thankfully) wide shoulders.
I cruised down the hilly road lined with country offices that seemed to go on forever. I finally took the left I'd calculated with the map tool and looked straight up, almost literally, at a monster climb. SIGH. I thought for sure that I'd get a break this close to the water. I continued on, picked up the main road and realized my water bottle was almost empty. I was very far from "home". I spotted a Chinese food place in the shopping center and decided to beg for water. Language barrier notwithstanding, the owner took pity on me and filled my bottle from a rickety tap. I prayed the water was potable.
I set off again. My left toe had a blister and my legs burned. My glutes were so spent that I was shuffling along and systemically I was starting to feel the impact of the effort. I ate my last Hammergel and tried to put that last hill out of my mind. Then, before I knew it, looming in the distance there it was - a seemingly endless ribbon of pain. I tucked my head down, checked my form and kicked it up. Mid-way up the hill I could hear my labored breath above the din of 80s rock. I could feel the burning in my glutes and aching quads. I started to give in to the pain by letting the anguish seep into my mind. Then, I caught myself. I WANT THIS. I have been obsessed with getting back to my long run routine since my last bout of tendonitis. I thought about Das Boot and how that first 17 minute run was my old walking pace and how I felt like I'd never get back to normal. I decided then and there to be grateful for the burning and aching. To be grateful that I could push myself hard enough to feel this sort of pain. I smiled. The wind was picking up but I didn't care. I felt grateful. Grateful to be alive. Grateful to be running and grateful that both my feet seemed happy to oblige.
I crested the hill and saw Parole come in to view. AH YES, happy hour was mere minutes away. I checked my watch. Right on time, I would arrive by 5p.
I cruised up to the restaurant and stretched. Ken was just getting there and greeted me with a fresh change of clothes. I sat at the bar eating fish tacos, drinking sangria and basking in the glow of a long run, well done. I CAN. I DID and I AM GRATEFUL.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
26,000 years in the making
In late September of 2012 I received what I'd been hoping for and working toward for the better part of a year - an offer on my house! For almost a year, Ken (the better half) and I had been living in a virtual prison also known as the "show house".
For those who may not be familiar with putting your house on the market, it requires tolerating an almost constant stream of interruptions to your regularly scheduled program when the automated scheduling system gives you 30 minutes notice of a "showing". It also means that you are on constant patrol and must maintain a Buddist-like dedication to keeping your show house spotless (see 30 minutes notice for potential buyers to come by, take what is probably a 15 minute tour and make catty comments about your choice of shower curtain colors). I dreamed about the offer, how it would come in and I would show up to sign on the dotted line and live happily ever after. SCREEECH. Stop the music. No such luck! I have never done anything harder than sell a house and move twelve years worth of collected STUFF.
For forty-five days after everyone agreed, I worked like a woman possessed hiring contractors to fix the "wish list" of shit the new buyers insisted they could not live without. OK, the skylight was legit and maybe the loose stair railing but, still. Finally, on October 26th (two days before Hurricane Sandy, thank you Mother Nature). I closed on the house, arranged the movers and watched as the moving truck slowly pulled away.
Before I left for the last time, I walked around that empty house and remembered all of the times I'd had there. Like moving in during the summer of 2000 and throwing a paint party with my best friends. After a couple of bottles of wine, Kim spilled orange paint on the carpet and we all laughed. She was mortified. Coming home from the UK and finishing up the decorating. I would walk around the house and just marvel sometimes that I lived there. Coming home and soaking in the jetted tub after a particularly hard marathon, pissed off that I missed my goal time (I should have been grateful). Showering after my first 70.3 race with tears in my eyes at what I had accomplished. Healing from tendonitis and lamenting the loss of my fitness. The first time Ken stayed over and all the great times we had grilling on the deck, laughing with our friends and dreaming about our future.
As I locked the door for the last time, I smiled. It was the end of an era and the beginning of something exciting and new. Just in time for 2013, a new 26,000 year cycle. Perfect timing.
With the stress of home ownership, repairs and showings behind me, I rededicated myself to getting fit. My friend Bobbi, who remembered that I'd said if my foot held up to the Grand Canyon, I would train and participate in a 70.3 race with her, sent me a link to her race of choice. So true to my word, I signed up. A local race for a great cause - fallen warriors (a cause I am a sucker for).
I created a training plan, got new shoes, Spenco covered orthotics and went to work. I set my sights on a "warm up" race in Pensacola, FL in January. A 13.1 mile race that seemed as laid back as the residents. I also signed up for a master's swim class with a swim instructor the tri club raved about. I bought a set of fins, hand paddles that look like something Hannibal Lector would wear and a new swimsuit to replace the one in the back of my drawer that looked like I fished it out of a gutter.
Then I went outside for a run. Then another. Then an indoor trainer ride and then a swim. And so it has gone. The foot is holding. I am cautiously optimistic. Here's hoping for a strong come back for this mechanically deficient, middle of the packer. Could it be that in closing an era and a slightly more significant celestial cycle that I might also have closed the book on posterior tibial tendonitis? I certainly hope so. Only time will tell.
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