“If you divert over to the other block, you will be able to finish the marathon and get your medals. No one will know the difference.” That was the message delivered to us somewhere after Mile 19 this past Saturday at the Fargo Marathon. My running partner, Duana, and I shared a knowing look with each other, but we needed a moment to sort out the options that had just been made available to us before making our decision official. We could accept the diversion, cut something along the lines of 1.5 miles from the race, but maintain course support (water stops, mileage signs, volunteers directing us at corners and turns, and traffic support from local police at intersections). Or, we could take the paper map in the volunteer’s hand, move to the sidewalk and guide ourselves to the finish without any support or signage in an unfamiliar city as they were starting to erase the course in front of us. We would get in the requisite 26.2 miles, but there wasn’t a guarantee that there would be a finish line when we got to the end. There wasn’t really any decision to make. We took the diversion. We heard one last “no one will even know” as we turned right instead of going forward and Duana found her voice and said what we were both thinking, “but we will know.”
However, I was surprised to find that I was not nearly as upset as I thought I might have been at this situation. We had gotten off our pacing, (or more accurately, I had gotten us off our pacing) many miles back. It wasn’t really any surprise when the volunteer jumped out of her jeep to tell us we were starting to ‘time out.’ I had been fearing for some distance that we would be swept off the course and delivered to the end via this same jeep, so the option to continue on under our own volition was the far lesser evil of the possible bad outcomes we were facing. I did have a few moments when I thought Duana would be disappointed and mad/sad that I had lost our collective mojo and she told me she was worried that I would be emotionally bereft that we were cut short, but once we settled that neither of us was going to have a break down or try to break-up our friendship over what we were in agreement was the right decision, we commenced marching forward. Maybe it helped that both of us have successfully completed 26.2 miles in the past, or maybe we were just too tired to think of anything other than the rest of the race in front of us.
So, what happened? There was no big drama, no weather issues (in fact, it was perfect cool and overcast running conditions), no race-related injury; not even a huge marathon-style bonk – just a gradual loss of momentum that finally took over the pace we needed to sustain to finish within the allotted time limit. There are a thousand tiny little things that go into the success or failure of any endurance race, but I can point to two main challenges that grew over the miles and literally and figuratively slowed us down.
From the moment we started the race, we were in last place. I am used to being at the back of the pack and those other slowbees are ‘my people,’ but none of them showed up to this race. There was a woman in a white shirt who was within eyesight for most of the race until she dropped out and another gal walking on crutches who was just ahead of her until she dropped or was pulled, but otherwise it was very lonely back there at the end. I was not mentally prepared to be in a class by ourselves, all by ourselves. There were two volunteers (a mother and daughter) who took turns tailing us on bicycles and/or in the aforementioned jeep, and occasionally a motorcycle police officer (we learned later the husband/father to the volunteers), but we were often on the course all by ourselves. At one point our bike escort peeled off for a quick bio break and directed us to follow the bike path into the woods and she would catch up. There was no one around us, we couldn’t even see girl-with-crutches or white-shirt-girl and started to wonder if we were lost. Finally, we spotted an empty runner’s gel on the ground and were relieved to see a clue that we were still on the race course. All along the way, bands that were playing for the front of the race were packing up or gone. We saw empty lawn chairs where locals had been greeting racers. At this point, we were still easily maintaining our pace, but being alone in what is normally energetic and full of people can definitely mess with your head. At least it messed with mine and I started asking myself why there was no one else in this race in our pace group. You need all the energy you can muster to focus on what you are doing, so that mental distraction was the opposite of helpful.
The other challenge was nutrition. It is not unusual to feel a little nauseous during a race and that is usually my clue that I actually need more fuel or electrolytes. I was getting nauseous and occasionally a little lightheaded, but I would eat a little something or take a hit off my electrolytes and feel better. However, at the end of the race it was clear I was not keeping up with my body’s demands as I ate less in this longest of runs than I had in our shorter ‘longest training run’ a few weeks prior. To combat the nausea, we switched around our run/walk intervals and that helped for awhile, but somewhere around Mile 16, both my body and my spirit weren’t in the run anymore and we dropped to all walking. At least that resolved the nausea, but as I watched our splits get slower and slower I knew we were running into danger of exceeding the course limit. I wanted to ask our ever-present bicycle escort whether we would get swept, but I was afraid of the answer, so I just kept going with the specter of not being able to finish joining us for the journey. If I am being honest, there was also a part of me that would not have been disappointed to just go ahead and give up, and quit the race.
Somehow, we didn’t. We pushed on at a dangerously slow pace and kept putting one foot in front of the other. When offered the diversion, we took it and kept going. I even managed to make a joke when we magically arrived at the next mile marker without having to go past the previous one that “that last mile really flew by.” Duana snorted and we continued on. At this point, she was about 20 paces ahead of me, but routinely stopping to let me catch up or at least making sure I was still tagging along. After Mile 23, it was clear that both of us were starting to feel the pain of all those accumulated miles in our hips and feet. At Mile 25, Duana’s right hip was starting to get the better of her and she picked up a small limp. She looked at me and said she had 3 words for me, “Thank ‘effing God” and I knew she was talking about the wisdom of taking the diversion. We plodded past the last band on the course singing out “you have 3/4 of a mile to go” on a repeat loop. We made our way into the Fargodome under sheer force of will. Our tailgate party/family cheered us on the last few steps where the announcer butchered our names and Brian and my friend Lee ran out to greet us. Once past the finish line, we tromped on down to the end of the stadium to collect our medals.
How far did we go? Upon consulting our separate GPS devices and eyeballing the course map, we know it was somewhere north of 24 miles – 24.something, there was some consensus around 24.7 miles although we don’t really know for sure. Less than 26.2, in any case. Did we deserve to get medals for our not-quite-a-marathon? I suppose that is debatable, but when I look at my medal it is a reminder to me of everything I pushed through to find my way to the finish line. Just like in life, the journey is rarely (ever?) as expected. And I am not pretending that we did the full race, so I’ll take the medal and the accompanying disclaimer that goes with it.
Other than that, how was the play, Mrs Lincoln? It was not all doom and gloom by any stretch. I became fond of our traveling family of escorts – especially when the daughter told me that she and her mom rode with the final finishers every year. It takes a special kind of kindness to choose year over year to be with those who are guaranteed to be struggling (and probably in less than stellar moods). Back around Mile 11 when things were still going well, we encountered a water stop with a DJ playing and we danced and jogged our way through, singing along to “We Built This City.” At one point where a band had closed up shop, a man ran along beside us playing music from his iPhone to make sure we had some tunes. We got high fives and well wishes from the small handful of folks who hung out along their sidelines to make sure they were there until the bitter end passed. One of my best friends, Lee, flew out to North Dakota to be there for us. Showing up for people is one of the greatest gifts you can give them. Brian even tracked down a Tibetan gift shop so he could bring Nepalese prayer flags to Fargo, which he hung on the porch of our Airbnb house. Plus there is no greater (or louder, seriously) cheerleader on the course than my husband. We saw Lee and Brian numerous times throughout the race and we always heard his whoops and hollers long before we got to them. We raised more than a few bucks to fight blood cancer and honor Duana’s Pop-Pop. Not to mention the texts, emails, and Facebook posts of support and encouragement we received as well. We are both truly lucky to have such amazing friends and fans in our lives.
Plus, we had each other. I can’t begin to imagine what this day would have looked like without Duana at my side. At one point when I was having a minor pity party, I told her she would have finished the full 26.2 if I weren’t there slowing us down. Without missing a beat, she replied that she wasn’t there to run a full marathon by herself. She was there so we could do this event together and whatever happened it would be a collective effort. That by itself made the event special, even if it wasn’t quite the end we had envisioned. Also, the main reason I set out to do this crazy thing was to prove to myself that I could rebound from my broken foot. That those dark times did not define my future outlook. Maybe I didn’t get the 26.2 mile prize, but I managed months of training and 24.whatever miles on my feet on Saturday. That feels like success in my book.
I have been trying to run the San Diego Rock N Roll Half Marathon for three years. And I have wanted to run it for even longer. My first attempt in 2013 was stalled before it started when friends got married the same weekend as the race. (It was a fantastic gypsy/camping wedding out in the woods and I was extremely glad not to miss it…) Last year I started training, raised the required donations and then had to drop out a month before the race due to injury. I figured the third time’s the charm and started training for San Diego again this past January. My training was conservative and I stayed healthy, but the specter of re-injury hung over the season. Unlike other races where I had finish times in mind (even if I said I didn’t), a huge success for me this time would be to make it to the start line in the first place. As I told many of my training teammates, I had “unfinished business” in San Diego and some part of me needed to conquer that race once and for all.
Race morning we met in the lobby of the hotel at the un-godly hour of 4:30am for our shuttle ride to the start of the race. We arrived somewhere close to 5am and the race started at 6:50am. For whatever reason, if shuttling is involved, there is an unwritten rule that you must arrive ridiculously early. I had slept 0 hours the night before, so I’m not sure why it mattered when I got on the shuttle. In any case, I had plenty of time to (repeatedly) use the porta-potties, eat my traditional hard boiled egg and English muffin with peanut butter, and attempt to shake off the nerves. Finally, we made our way to the starting corrals and shuffled towards the start line. A small wave of emotion came over me as I crossed the start line and I realized that I was really, actually, doing this thing.
Fortunately, the marine layer over San Diego kept the temperature from being too hot. That being said, the weather was very humid for my Pacific Northwest sensitivities and sweat was pouring down my face from the get-go. Given how beautiful it is in San Diego, the race course is curiously largely residential. Running through neighborhoods does have it’s charms and in one particular stretch I could have partaken of any of the following being offered to runners: mimosas, fireball shots, whiskey shots, bloody marys, and margaritas. I honestly can’t imagine any of those going down well while running 13.1 miles, but I did see one runner make an abrupt U-turn to get a shot of whiskey so I guess it works for some folks. Around the bend in another neighborhood, women were stationed on both sides of the streets handing out napkins. I might have cried upon receiving one of those napkins to wipe off my face, but it was a little hard to tell the tears from the sweat at that point.
For whatever reason, bystanders felt it was important to tell the runners we were “almost there” and that after whatever hill we were on it was “downhill the rest of the way.” These statements were both lies. I heard an “almost there” at mile 4. That is not even the halfway point. Why on earth would you tell a runner they were almost there when they had over 9 miles to go?? On behalf of all runners everywhere, please CUT THAT CRAP OUT. It’s annoying, it’s the opposite of encouraging and the only time I want to hear it is when the finish line is in eye-shot. And even though I should have known better, I really (*really*) wanted the “downhill the rest of the way” lies to be true. It was a huge letdown anytime I rounded the corner and there was another hill in front of me.
Around Mile 9, a fellow teammate who was not running the race jumped onto the course to run to the finish with me. This is an amazing gift and having a running mate makes the time go by so much faster. However, there is another racing phenomenon known as the “Bite Me Zone.” This is when you are getting tired, you are probably a little bit sodium deleted (note sweating comments above) and you are emotionally DONE with this race. Except you are NOT DONE with this race. I was full-on into the ‘Zone’ when Tamira joined me on the course. She was friendly and upbeat and wanted to check in with how I was doing. She has since told me I was not nearly as cranky as I felt, but I finally did have to tell her that I appreciated her company as long as there was no talking (except for me occasionally complaining that we were going uphill again after being promised that it was downhill-the-rest-of-the-way). She tried valiantly to get me to sprint the last .10 of the race across the finish line but I would have none of it and kept my slow and steady pace all the way to the end.
It was a good race, and a tough race, and I was glad to be finished. I also want to give a huge shout-out to my coaches Tessa and Erica who were both a very welcome sight when I saw them out on the course.
Aside from the injury issues last year, I have run in the Seattle Rock N Roll race series every year it’s been held. This is my “home race” and I didn’t want to miss it. Besides, after missing out last year, I thought why not try and run 2 half marathons this season. The Seattle race was just a couple of weeks after San Diego’s race and I figured if I was trained for one, I would still be trained for the other one two weeks later. After finishing the San Diego half-marathon, I was tired, but I felt there was still another half marathon inside of me.
I was hoping for another overcast day like the one in San Diego, but I woke up to bright blue skies without a cloud in sight. I was nervous about the heat, but it was a cool morning and if I could sweat my way through San Diego, I could sweat my way through Seattle. One big difference with this race is that the start line is only a few blocks from my home. I slept in my own bed and wandered down to the race at the far more reasonable time of 6:30 instead of 4:30. I was also starting this race with my longtime running partner, Duana. She was not in San Diego so it was a comfort to have her here this time – even though she was running the full marathon and so the only time we would see each other was in the starting corral.
I had raised money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society this season in honor of my good friend Josh Dand’s cousin, Keegan, who lost his battle with blood cancer. In both races, I wore the same jersey with Keegan’s name written on the back. The race started with a fanfare of fireworks shooting from the Space Needle and we were off. Early in the race, a random stranger shouted at the top of her lungs, “DO IT FOR KEEGAN.” Maybe a mile later a runner came up behind me and said, “You’re running for Keegan? I have a friend running for Keegan in Florida today.” If San Diego had been my own personal unfinished business, this race I was going to focus on Keegan, and for Steve Palesch, and for Gil – those who had lost the battle with blood cancer. This was their race.
One of my favorite parts of the Rock N Roll series of races is the high school cheer teams out on the course. The have some of the best signs (“If Britney Spears can make it through 2007, you can make it through this race.”) and yell out encouragement (“After this race, you won’t have to go to the gym for a month!”) and offer high-fives. I decided that high fives from kids and cheerleaders are filled with jolts of energy and that I was going to return every high-five offered to me. I also heard Tamira and another teammate hollering out my name at one of the cheer stops and this time I had a smile on my face when she saw me.
Close to Mile 9 there is a long slow section that goes through a mile-long tunnel. That might sound nice on a sunny day, but it’s muggy and the walls are covered in car exhaust and it’s all uphill. As I mentally prepared to approach the tunnel, I reminded myself that this race was for Keegan and “Do it for Keegan” was going to be my mantra. I entered the tunnel and that mantra powered my way up the hill. After that, you have another bit of a hill before the most beautiful glorious long downhill on the race. I decided Steve Palesch and Gil were going to power me up this next hill and once again I found myself at the top of the hill in short order. When I got there, I found one of my coaches from last year was helping out on the course. Yon sprinted up to meet me and it was a wonderful surprise to see his smiling face (and he is always smiling). He ran me down the hill and then ran back up again to greet other runners.
Between Mile 10 and 11, I noticed that I was not having my usual “Bite Me Zone” moment. Although sunny, there was a wonderful breeze and the weather remained cool. It was, in fact, perfect running weather. The Seattle course also showcases the city in a way that the San Diego course fails to do – we start at the Space Needle, skirt Lake Washington, and run along the waterfront on top of the Alaskan Way Viaduct. I saw Coach Erica at Mile 11 and she asked if I needed anything and I was happy to report that I felt good. As I came around the bend after Mile 12, I saw teammate Craig – or rather I heard him chanting my name and running up to run with me. There is nothing that beats hearing your name when out on a race. A few seconds later, I heard someone else yell out my name and found my good friend Mark was on the sidelines holding up a sign that said, “Run Lyda Run” and I was able to give him a quick and (sorry Mark) sweaty hug. Craig ran me to the bottom of the last push to the finish and as I entered the finishing chute, Brian was there on the sidelines to give me a high five. I basically floated across the finish line from all the support I received from my friends and family.
Before these races, I had begun to wonder if the Seattle event was getting a little tired and routine for me. But what I found is that sometimes the familiar has it’s own rewards. No one yelled out my name in San Diego like they did here. In Seattle, I knew the course well enough to ignore the “almost there” folks and I knew exactly where the hills were located and how bad (or not) they would be to climb. I reconnected with the reason I was running in Seattle in a way that I didn’t quite capture in San Diego. I was grateful to both races as I gained something important from both of them. As Dorothy says, there is no place like home, but she never would have had that sentiment if she hadn’t left Kansas in the first place. I may or may not run the San Diego race again in the future, but I will definitely be back home where I belong for the Seattle Rock N Roll race.
Yesterday, I completed my 5th half marathon, running the Seattle Rock N Roll Half Marathon. If you were to ask me today how I felt about the race overall, I would say it was okay – not great, but okay. It was a little too sunny for my tastes (50 and overcast being my definition of perfect long distance running weather) and I got a little dehydrated as a result, but nothing horrible happened and although a little sore, my feet were in far better shape than they were after last year’s race. I think it’s fair to say I was hoping for better results, although runners are notoriously under-satisfied with whatever result they get, and I can’t really complain. Overall, the race was fine…
But it’s not the whole race that stands out for me this time around. It’s the last 1.1 miles that really make the story. Let’s go back for a moment to that sunny weather. When you train all season in typical Seattle weather (cool and cloudy), it can throw your game off a little to suddenly be running in the sun come race day. Although I was carrying plenty of Gatorade with me on the course, and every coach I encountered made a big stink about drinking electrolytes, I was not actually drinking enough of the stuff. I don’t have a good explanation for this. It was just one of those mistakes that you don’t realize has caught up to you until, well, it catches up. I was starting to feel less than great as we entered the second half of the race, and the chickens came home to roost somewhere between Miles 10 and 11. This is the point at which I was, as they say, bonking. My run intervals became shorter, my walk intervals became longer until it was all walking. My two race buddies had gone on to finish their own races (first rule of race day is that everyone runs their own race), so I was by myself and along with being exhausted, and a little nauseous, I was also in the midst of a good ol’ fashioned pity party.
I started thinking that after a season of extolling the miracles of interval training, here I was on race day sucking wind. The coaches I encountered were all telling me I looked great, but I felt grumpy and miserable and I didn’t believe them. I whined to myself that although I saw coaches, I hadn’t seen any of MY coaches that I had trained with all season. Wah, poor me. And then I actually saw a familiar face in Coach Erica and she pointed out that I was close to Mile 12, almost done, and that I looked good. I finally decided to look at my watch and face the music of how pathetic I must be performing. That was when I got a little surprise. I was at 3:00 hours exactly with just over 1.1 miles to go. One of my goals for this race was to finish it in less time than last year. Last year my finishing time was 3 hours and 24 minutes. I had 24 minutes to go a little over a mile. I suddenly realized that my goal was actually still within my reach. I even started to run (and made myself stick to my walk intervals so I wouldn’t burn out). My entire perspective shifted and I focused on the next 24 minutes. I ran into another teammate I knew, Craig, and then another TNT participant, Miguel, who each ran with me for a bit. And then I rounded the next to last corner and saw Coach Shelby, and soon after saw my husband and my friends cheering me on. Not only was I doing this, but after 3 hours on my feet in the sun, I felt not only good, but great. I had found that elusive second wind.
I crossed the finish line in 3 hours and 22 minutes. Not a particularly spectacular race time, even by my own standards, but I was overjoyed by the outcome. I had proved to myself that even when the chips are down, you don’t have to count yourself out. It ain’t over ’til the fat lady sings – or, in this case, until the huge lady crosses the finish line.
For all the talk about missing the forest for the trees, sometimes the opposite is true. We miss the miracle that is a single tree because we can’t stop thinking about the entire forest. If I had stayed hung up on the overall race, I would have missed the opportunity to prove to myself that there was still a reserve of grit and determination left to propel me forward. At the time I looked at my watch, I couldn’t change the three hours that had already gone by, but I did have the power to focus on what I had in front of me.
Ask yourself: ‘Can I give more?’. The answer is usually: ‘Yes’
~ Paul Tergat, Kenyan professional marathoner
As I watched the coverage of Hurricane Sandy’s devastation on TV and followed the personal stories from my friends on Facebook, my first thoughts were simply for the care and safety of those in Sandy’s path. When the coverage switched to recovery efforts, my attention switched to the decision of whether or not to hold the New York City Marathon. I have always seen endurance races as hopeful and inspirational events. Initially, I thought holding the race could be a positive way to distract people from the struggle to get their lives back to normal. However, as I watched the pain and anger in the faces of those still in the throes of trying simply to live; to get food and water, electricity, heat, gas, I realized the wounds were simply too fresh and raw. These folks were at the starting line of their own personal marathon to normalcy. Throwing a 26.2 mile city-wide party would simply add more salt to the wound. I understand that the economic impact to the city for cancelling was not insignificant and I doubt anyone argues that NY needs all the economic help it can get right now. And, as much as Mayor Bloomberg and race officials said the race would not divert resources from the recovery effort, I can also understand how anyone else might say ANY police, fire, or other workers that were working the race are resources that could be helping those in need. I don’t really know if their reassurances about resources were true or not, but the reactions of the people of NY were emotional responses, not rational ones and they were starting to turn that emotion against the running community in general. I am such a lover of this sport, and I hated to see runners cast in the role of villain, so I was honestly relieved when the race was cancelled.
Of course, I wasn’t registered to run this race, so it’s easy for me to be relieved from the comfort of my armchair. I didn’t spend months and months training, I hadn’t asked my friends and family to donate funds to a charitable cause on my behalf, I wasn’t running in honor or in memory of someone close to my heart, or in celebration of any personal triumph over adversity. But I have done all those things for other races and I can easily imagine the aching hearts of those who did them in anticipation of this event. After one of the worst hurricanes this nation has seen, missing this one race pales so much in comparison that these disappointed runners didn’t even have a right to complain. They must put on their brave faces, openly share only their concern for the hurricane victims, and try to tell themselves and the world that it’s only a foot race.
Having been to the running rodeo a few times now, I have come to learn that disappointment and running are often partners in endurance running. Injuries plague even the fittest runners. For slow-pokes like myself there is the ever-present threat of being taken off the course for missing time limits. They don’t call it “hitting the wall” for nothing and some runners aren’t able to finish their race in the face of overwhelming physical and/or emotional obstacles. Even if you cross the finish line, it’s often in a disappointing time – maybe just short of a Boston qualifier for the faster runners, or your body is so wrecked you can barely remember getting there. It’s also not unusual for runners to find depression waiting for them on the other side of 26.2 miles once the high from crossing the finish line wears off. Given the never-ending opportunities for disappointment and disillusionment, it’s sometimes a wonder that anyone does these events at all.
In the middle of writing this, I took a break to meet a friend for lunch. We were chatting about the NYC marathon decision and I remembered that she had recently run a local half-marathon. I asked her how it went and she excitedly recounted the highlights of the race – where she saw her son and her husband on the race course, how Mission Impossible played in her headphones as she powered her way up one of the tough hills, and how for the first time she actually sprinted the last few hundred feet to the finish line. She said it was one of the best races she had ever run, and she even beat her time just a few months prior by almost 20 minutes. I could almost see that runner’s high in her eyes as she described the run. For even a chance at one of those magical moments, that is why we bear the pain and suffering that is training for an endurance event. And, honestly, if the training were not fraught with peril and frustration, the rewards would not be nearly so rewarding. Every lost opportunity and failed effort steels a runner’s resolve and makes the victory later just that much sweeter.
To the NYC marathoners who are staring straight into the face of disappointment and let-down right now, take heart. This too is part of your journey and the true athlete knows there will be more chances, more races, and victories yet to be had.
Including yesterday, I have completed 4 half-marathons, a full marathon, and countless 10K and 5K runs. I have participated in the Seattle Rock n Roll series every year it’s been held. You would think this would be old hat and that I would just stroll out to the start line like I was going out to get the mail.
Okay, even I don’t really think I will be quite that nonchalant, but it continues to surprise me how anxious and excited I get before every race. This year the start was literally in my back yard – just a few blocks from my home in Seattle Center. And this is my 3rd season with Team in Training, so I pretty much know the pre- and post-race drill with that group as well. I almost skipped out on the inspiration dinner and victory party figuring I had already “been there, done that.”
Yet, come Friday night (after the inspiration dinner), as I was laying out my gear and pinning my bib to my race shirt, I found the butterflies were starting to flit around inside of me. I didn’t settle down to sleep until almost midnight and my eyes flew open at 5am. As I walked over to the starting corrals with my friends, I could feel the palpable pulse of nervous energy in the air that seems to be present at every race. It was clear I was not the only one feeling a sense of anticipation.
Why the nerves? Even though I know from experience that my legs can carry me the distance, every race is unique and the possible hurdles are numerous. Am I hydrated enough? Did I bring enough food to fuel me? Will old injuries flare back up, or new ones present themselves mid-race? Will I be fast enough? Every runner, from the back of the pack to the winner, has a couple of numbers in their head at the start line. There is the finishing time you expect you will do based on your training, there is the time you would be happy with, and there is your dream fantasy PR (Personal Record); plus there is the slight fear of a dreaded DNF (Did Not Finish).
Ironically, I think it is exactly this guaranteed unexpectedness that keeps me coming back. You never really know exactly how all your training and the events of the day are going to come together for the finished product. Generally speaking, I like my life to be well-ordered and within my control. (Ask any of my friends – I don’t even like surprise parties.) However, I think it’s important to welcome a little uncertainty into our lives. Because, really, we can’t control everything and sometimes we all need a little reminder of that fact. Plus, once the start gun goes off, it’s not like these things are pure torture – the races are fun and I enjoy running them. They are always filled with unexpected pleasant surprises, too. This race, I was thankful for the small gifts, like finding a porta-potty with a small line, and for bigger gifts like getting an exhilarating second wind at Mile 9. Hearing a few of my TNT teammates scream out my name at Mile 12.75 and give me high-fives as I ran by gave me a shot of energy that practically catapulted me to the end.
Every time I cross the finish line, it represents the fears I have conquered, the obstacles I have overcome, and the pure joy of running with tens of thousands of other crazy people who love the sport nearly as much as I do. In spite of any doubts or misgivings I had on the other side of the start line, all I can think about at the finish line is how much I want to recapture the experience I just had. So, it will be no surprise to anyone, least of all myself, when I sign up again next year for another round of pre-race butterflies.
Now that the glow of the Team in Training kick-off party is over, and I’ve gotten my first practice out of the way, it’s down to simply doing the work. Probably because I am such a social creature, I look forward to the group practices and I pretty faithfully attend every Tuesday evening and Saturday morning practice session. It’s all the runs I have to do on my own that are trickier. I am actually the queen of procrastination and come up with any number of reasons that it makes more sense to delay my practice to lunchtime, then after work, and oh, maybe let’s just skip today (I only have to run 5 days a week and I take every loophole I can in regards to making that math work out). Before TNT, when I was training for half-marathons on my own, I told myself every weekend that I would do my long runs on Saturdays. Near as I can tell, that never happened. I always, 100% of the time, delayed until Sunday. And here was my typical Sunday thought process – I can’t run in the morning because I just had breakfast; oh now I’m hungry and I can’t do a long run on an empty stomach, so now I have to have lunch. I’ll just watch this movie first then I’ll go… I would delay and dilly-dally until it was literally as late as I could get away with leaving and still finish my run before dark (and I pushed that so far that I often returned to the trail-head in deep dusk). It’s almost a miracle that I was actually able to complete my training and run in two half-marathons. I suppose it’s a testament to my stubborn nature.
The structure TNT provides is a huge help, but my procrastinating ways are still in full force on those days I am left to my own devices. I had coffee with a friend at a nearby coffee shop this morning and as I was walking home the inner dialogue started. It was almost lunchtime, so maybe I should have lunch first (never mind the huge, late breakfast I had that morning). I stopped myself and decided to go home and simply change into my running gear, then I could weigh my options. Of course, once I put on my running shoes and leggings, I just sucked it up and got out on the trail. Now lest you think I have turned over a whole new leaf, while on my run I started debating with myself about whether or not I should do a run on Monday (here’s where that 5 day math comes into play).
No one held a gun to my head and forced me to keep signing up for these races. And I love the races – the excitement of the day, the sense of accomplishment. But that’s five months down the road. There really isn’t anything all that exciting about doing a 30 min easy recovery run on a cold and dreary Sunday afternoon. On the other hand, there really isn’t anything all that painful about it either. So why do I procrastinate almost to the point of absurdity?
I went to the source of all wisdom and knowledge…the internet. A search of “why do people procrastinate” turns up a bunch of pscyhology-based content that describes people who are afraid of success, unable to make decisions, or are uninspired by their goals. Well, I was pretty clear on my decision to sign up for the race in the first place, and running a half-marathon is in fact a very inspiring goal for me. I supposed I could buy fear of success if this weren’t my 4th half-marathon. I am already quite confident in my ability to succeed. I found another series of links for ‘Temporal discounting.’ This is a concept where our brains are warped by believing short-term rewards are more valuable than medium-term rewards. (In other words, I’m going to be happier by watching a movie now than I will by running 13.1 miles in 5 months – which requires I run 3 miles today). That may be closer to my situation, but considering I always feel so much better when I do go for that run (i.e., it provides a short-term reward), the internet may just be a bunch of bunk.
I think the truth is that the time in between the kick-off and the finish line is work. It’s not painful or unbearable work and it’s a choice I’ve made for myself, but these weekly training runs are just something that needs to be done. Fundamentally, I know if I don’t do the work I won’t make it to the finish line and that is not an acceptable outcome for me. I ran today. I may or may not run tomorrow, but rest assured I will run five times between now and next Sunday.
If you were to encounter me on the street, I hardly look like an endurance athlete. I’m on the brink of my 43rd birthday, short, and about 75 pounds overweight. Running is not generally the first thing one associates with middle aged women of my size. In fact, if you were to encounter me out on the trail, running looks pretty much like the last thing I should be doing. I am painfully slow (it’s not too hard to walk faster than I slog/jog), my face gets bright red, and I am generally huffing and puffing like a pack-a-day smoker. If I was being sensible I should be out walking, not pathetically attempting to do something that only barely resembles running. I have walked a half-marathon and I can extoll the many virtues of walking. The training is easier, you see more along the way, and if you have a good walking partner you save boatloads in therapy sessions. But regardless of all I have going against me and all evidence to the contrary, I can’t stop running.
There is something inside of me that simply yearns to be out running. I see other runners and it pulls strings deep within. The other day, I hopped on the bus and saw a couple out for their morning run. When I got off downtown and crossed the street, I saw them again. They had managed to run downtown in the same time it took me to ride the bus and I could see from their back-packs that they were running to work. As soon as I saw them, I didn’t think they were crazy or wonder how they did it, I just wanted to be them. I wanted to be the kind of person who runs to work.
I think the other thing skinny folks forget when they see us larger-proportioned athletes out there chugging away is that we can’t see what we look like. I don’t see the red-faced little plump girl. I only know how I feel from the inside. I hear my breathing and it reminds me I am alive. I feel the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground, and the cadence is comforting, if not mesmerizing. I feel the strength of my legs and am in awe of the distances they carry me. I feel strong, powerful, enduring. Or sometimes its more the way I feel after a particularly tough run. The running itself can be filled with aches, pains, and frustration, but when I have reached deep down into the reservoir I didn’t know existed and found a way to propel myself to the top of the hill, gone faster than before, or when my foot crosses the finish line, I feel like I am on top of the world. It’s not that elusive runner’s high, but the even more addictive drug of accomplishing your goals.
Why running? I have no idea. Does anyone really know why we have the passions we do, and does it really matter? I have friends who find themselves through art, music, cooking, or raising their families. It is just this thing I do. I have gone years without running for one reason or another and yet I always come back to it. People ask me if I am going to do triathlons. Maybe some day I’ll take on that challenge, but I mostly think why would I want to do those other two things when I could be running. One of my favorite race shirts had this on the back – “Run.” I guess I love it so much because it was such a great reminder not to over-think; just run, period. Why do I run? Because I have the soul of a runner. Period.
The training season is coming to a close. We’re in the tapering phase where we rest and heal our bodies in preparation for the big day. On June 25 I will walk 13.1 miles in Seattle’s Rock N Roll Half Marathon. I haven’t posted much this season and I knew going into the training that walking a half marathon would be a far different experience than running my first ever marathon. For starters, I have already completed a couple of half marathons, including the Seattle Rock N Roll Half back in 09, so I pretty much know what to expect. And last year was so monumental for me in accomplishing one of my lifetime goals, that this season has been a much quieter, calmer experience.
Many runners experience post-marathon blues after they complete their first (or fastest or Boston or…) marathon. I did not have this experience after my marathon – mostly I was filled with a tremendous sense of gratitude and the enduring knowledge that we are all capable of fulfilling any goal we set our hearts and minds to. However, I will confess to feeling a little melancholy as I approach this year’s event. I guess it’s a little like climbing Mt. Rainier after having summitted Mr. Everest. Maybe it is because the anticipation is gone. The fear that you don’t know the outcome mixed with the excitement that you are really doing it is not present. You still have to train and work for it because nobody wakes up one morning and says I think I’ll stroll up to the summit of Mt. Rainier today, but it’s just not the same. Honestly, I feel a little ambivalent and even a little jealous as I watch my teammates fill with excitement over their first time at “the show.” Oh, it’s not stick my leg out and trip them jealousy. It’s more wistful and nostalgic and it brings back memories of when I was in their shoes.
So, why did I come back? I have proven to myself twice now that I can train for and successfully run a half marathon on my own. I don’t need Team in Training to complete this event and, frankly, I don’t need to prove to myself that I can do this at all. I could have stayed home and had a pleasant spring sleeping in on Saturday mornings. On the other hand, I can’t imagine myself not being here, not being part of this group. For one thing, there is still that pesky blood cancer that insidiously takes the lives of young people far too soon (and I include my 41 years young friend Gil in that group). Training with a purpose, training as a way to do something more than just 13.1 or 26.2 miles, is one way I can leave a positive ‘footprint’ in this world. Secondly, training in a group, with people cheering and supporting you, is far more rewarding than training alone – even if the act of running or walking is ultimately a personal one.
But that doesn’t really answer the question of why do endurance events. I’m not sure I actually know the answer. For whatever reason, they are simply in my blood. Or maybe I have a bit of George Mallory’s “because it was there” sensibilities. I have 2 weeks to go before completing this year’s event and I’m already asking myself what I think I might like to do next. I just finished reading Marshall Ulrich’s Running on Empty (thanks Mark Maraia for the recommendation), which lead me to watch Running the Sahara on Netflix, about 3 men who run across the Sahara desert. Brian left the room mid-way through because it was too hard for him to watch how these men abused their bodies, but I could not peel my eyes away. I have zero desire to run 2 marathons a day for 111 days in a row (in the desert no less), but do I walk another marathon? Maybe next year I could run the half? Dare I even consider walking an ultra event? There are no definitive plans at this point and I promised Brian the summer for the two of us to be active together, but come this fall I am sure I will get that unexplainable itch, tie up my laces, and go out on the trail again, chasing the next mountain – big or small.