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.




 

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.

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

Grand Adventure

It all started with a conversation at happy hour. A couple of glasses of wine, a little dreaming and before I knew it, I was researching a Rim to Rim hike of the Grand Canyon.

Yep, you read that right, THE GRAND CANYON.

Given my foot issues, the very prospect of this was daunting. Four hiking days; decending and ascending over 7200 feet; a 30lb pack on my back with everything I need to live for those precious, life altering, unwashed days and no way out if anything went wrong. EEK! I was scared. Soon though, the fear began to fade and an odd excitement took its place.

This was my chance. If I could make it through this, I could declare my foot, healed. A broken tendon does not withstand this sort of abuse without being, dare I say, somewhat fixed.

We booked the trip and started "training". Weekend hikes, endurance rides and some running. We even tried to slim down a little. Nothing could have prepared us for what we encountered and I could not have hoped for a more glorious ending.

As August rolled around, I started feeling antsy. Only 30 days until "THE" day. The day we'll don our packs and head out. I could feel my stomach do a couple of loops at the prospect. We were smart. We hired the Cadillac of adventure companies, Just Roughin It. So the logistics, equipment and food were covered. Now it was not just a matter of physical fitness.

The better half and I put the pedal to the metal for all of August and really upped the ante on our fitness program. Interval training, long rides in the blazing sun and weight specific training had us feeling good. We also did some test hikes with full packs to get a feel for how we'd do from a weight and balance perspective. In addition, I used the techniques in the foot book like a religion. Stretching, icing, stretching, massaging. Anything to make sure the flexibility of my tendons remained intact.

August 30. Our flight leaves for Phoenix. We are in the air for four plus hours and cross a couple of time zones. By the time we get to our hotel, it's 11p our time. We are tired but oddly hungry so we head out for a little food followed by some much needed rest.

August 31. We meet our driver in the lobby of the hotel at 4:30a! We didn't sleep well the night before for obvious reasons. We take our duffle bags and head for the van. We are excited, tired and a little nervous. Or at least I am.

We arrive at the trail four hours later. We'll begin our hike in the heat of the day. All of us are nervous. The group consists of my friend Laura, my better half's brother, the better half and me. We pick up a singleton, a lovely woman from Vancouver, BC named Lenora. She hasn't seen 90 degrees for most of her life. We sit in silence at the prospect of hiking in what might be 115 degrees!

We pick up our guide, The Steve. An awesome guy with a wicked sense of humor and superhuman strength (he carried all of his gear and all of our meals).  We are ready.

The hike begins with a descent into the Canyon. We will have descended just about 4000 feet when we reach the first camp site. It is hot when we start. The trail is narrow and treacherous.

 

 

By the time we reach the camp site, my feet feel numb. I am very anxious. I am not sure that I can go on and am almost certain that my feet will not be able to take this abuse and last. I put on my flip flops and try to move slowly around the camp site. I flex my feet and stretch them gently. I long for ice. I know the river is 50 degrees but it's dark and I can't find the river now without a significant effort. I eat my delicious dinner, massage my feet and head for the tent. REST. RECOVERY. Tomorrow is another day.

 

The next hiking day is a bit of a blur but somewhere outside of Phantom Ranch I felt my feet connect to the Earth. I have the sensation that after this hike, my feet will be healed. I feel an internal peace. I smile. I have this inherent knowledge that this is the type of immersion therapy my feet need and that I needed on so many levels. I let go and let it happen. I feel content and pick up the pace.

 

At Phantom Ranch my wishes come true! I find a wonderful little sliver of the Colorado River where I can "ice" my tired feet, a glass of wine (OK two) and the chance to splash into river in my shorts for a quick whole body cool down. I love it. I am in the moment.

 

The next hiking day is a blur. We arrive at Indian Gardens and camp. I realize that the next day will be the last and I feel sad. We hike to Plateau Point and see the most breathtaking views I've ever seen. I am entranced.

 

As we crest the South Rim on the very last day, I check my feet. Covered in moleskins for blisters but they are still structurally whole. They have survived and so have I. I did it! I feel tears rush to my eyes. 100 yards to go. When I get there, I will have done something that only 1% of the people who have visited this great, massive canyon will have ever done. I feel a sense of pride like I've never felt before in my life. I feel myself coming back into that bad ass body that I knew so many years before. The one that got me through four half iron races and three 6:34 miles off the bike in my first triathlon. That body. Those feet. They are back. I am grateful. I am thankful. I am ready for the next adventure.

 

I stare out at the Canyon for a long time before I bid it farewell. I will likely be back but the first dance is always special. Learning each other, supporting each other and allowing for the experience of both. It was the most amazing experience of my life. A healing transcendence to the next, most amazing me that I can be.