Grow Slow

Training is in full swing for marathon number 2, and I feel great.  Today I had 11 miles on the schedule that easily stretched into a beautiful 12, and boy, did I need that.  My brain just wouldn’t shut up for the first 5 or so, but eventually I found the peace and quiet I longed for. 

Blue Eyes once told me that, in letting go, one must release the good as well as the bad.  I never quite got that until today.  My week was full of exciting things that set my head a whirl, and I found it impossible to calm down until I let it go on this run.  The adrenalin is over and done.  I don’t live there anymore.  I gathered it all up in a mental bubble and watched it float away in the countryside.  Today is a new day with infinite possibilities for more good stuff; the 12-miler was a terrific start. 

Focusing more on my pace this time around, it’s really killing me to keep the “slow” in “long, slow distance.”  I run exactly the way I do life.  I find a comfortable place and stay in it, regardless of the conditions around me or the benefits of moving out of my comfort zone.  I will risk injury in order to keep doing it my way.  It throws me off balance to do it differently.  

Battling my legs and energy level, but mostly my head, I managed to hold my pace down by about 60 seconds per mile for most of this run.

My first double-digit run was last March, and I remember how I felt in that last mile.  My back hurt – my shoulders were drooping.  I was in determined survival mode.  And I did it.  And I went on to run longer distances the same way.  Today, months later, I finished faster (despite the conscientious slower pace) and fresher, and I was ready to do it again.

I’m always looking for immediate fixes and gratification, but certain things cannot be rushed.  Some things - like good cheese, amazing sex, divorce recovery, and becoming a long-distance runner - just take time.  And oh, they’re all SO worth the wait.

I Fought the Good Fight

Local Run, By the Dawn's Early Light

If I could describe for you the joy of long-distance running, I would do it.  If I could tell you the story of just one long, slow run so that you could feel it – not just hear it, but know it and experience it as I have done, I would write about each of the 1,000 miles I ran in 2011 and bind them up in a beautiful book that would shake your world and shine such a joy and light into your soul that you would immediately dash to the store for your first pair of running shoes. 

I would love to tell this story, but I find it quite impossible, despite my best efforts.

Alan Sillitoe, in The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner, writes about my beloved hobby:

And it’s daft to think deep, you know, because it gets you nowhere, though deep is what I am when I’ve passed this half-way mark because the long-distance run of an early morning makes me think that every run like this is a life – a little life, I know – but a life as full of misery and happiness and things happening as you can ever get really around yourself...

A little life – yes.  Each run is a little life.  Unique, with a beginning and an end.  And in the middle, there is breathing… and joy… and sometimes pain and disappointment… and… letting go.  And there is love.  Lots and lots of love. 

“It’s the most wonderful minute because there’s not one thought or word or picture of anything in my head while I’m going down.  I'm empty.  As empty as I was before I was born...” writes Sillitoe.

I am emptied out.  I am filled up. 

It sounds a little crazy to run 1,000 miles.  I don’t always want to jump out of bed and go, despite my love affair with it all.  Sometimes I lie there and think of a million reasons why I shouldn’t get up and run – and some of them are excellent arguments.  Sometimes “just do it” loses out to “no freaking way am I getting out of this bed right now."

But I am willing to fight small battles with myself every day in order to win the bigger war against insanity.  My anger at Mr. N/A is melting.  And the years of self-punishment and low self-esteem are fading away in the light of Joy.  I have already won.  

I have finally found my peace.  Thank you, Dear 2011.  Sleep well.

After the battle and we're still around
Everything once up in the air has settled down
Sweep the ashes let the silence find us
A moment of peace is worth every war behind us.

~ Indigo Girls

Only the Lonely

One of my favorite routes

This morning I headed out for a planned long, slow distance along one of my very favorite local routes.  With actual temps in the low 30’s and a “feels-like” temp in the twenties, it was a chilly one.  But the sky was a flawless blue, and the sun shone brightly and did its best to warm things up.

I made my way out of the neighborhood and up the street through the first little town, steadily, like a roller-coaster making the slow climb to the top of that first big hill.  I knew the thrill was coming; my insides were squirming and I couldn’t wait to get to the good part.

The good part came, indeed.  The spaces between the houses grew until eventually, I found myself alone, in the middle of sleeping orchards, spent cornfields, and woods without leaves.  I settled in for a groovy 13.75-mile ride through the quiet countryside. 

And I thought about how much I love to be alone sometimes. 

Winter dramatically changes the ambiance of the farmlands.  Desolation… barren land… seemingly forgotten fields... The brilliant colors of Fall have faded to dull browns, and the critters have found cozy places to hide until Spring.  It feels different out there now.  Sorta lonely.

And sometimes, I really, really like it. 

Live Like We're Dying

Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?  

 ~ Thornton Wilder

Tonight, for the first time, I watched the beautiful, artistic play, Our Town, by Thornton Wilder.  I’m a new fan.

I was intrigued from the start – the stark stage – the direct address to the audience – the raw naked truth about life and death in all its simplicity.  As the story unfolded, I became more and more moved, until I was wiping my eyes and sniffing at the end.  When the lights came up, my son was also fighting back his tears, and he said to me in a shaky voice, “That was really sad,” to which I responded, “Yes… I cried, too.  That’s a sign of good art – when it makes you feel your emotions.”  

I loved that he “got it.”  Meanwhile, my middle child looked bored and oblivious. 

I’ve come to a lot of realizations during these 6 post-divorce years.  But probably the most important one is how to connect with Life.  I can’t say I realize life every, every minute, but I think I’m pretty damn close when I’m running, and sometimes, if I’m really lucky, that spills over into the rest of my non-running life, too.

Today I ran 6 miles and felt the dissolving of time and space as I traveled on foot the ground I had just covered in the car.   The car trip seemed to take awhile; it actually seemed like nothing to run it.  The same tractor sat at the side of the road – the same houses and trees and signs went by – but it’s so different to be in it.  My feet strike the earth and I’m connected to it.  Some unseen force swallows me up into a beautiful bubble for an experience that cannot be had from a window. 

I’m filled up with gratitude tonight – it’s spilling out of my eyes and flooding my heart with warmth that’s radiating down to my fingertips and toenails.  

Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you! 

~ Emily, Our Town

Dying to Live

I watched my ponytail swinging in the long shadow running in front of me like a playful little girl. It inspired me to pick up my feet, and my form looked pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.

I bundled up to brace against the wind, but the sunshine and my own body heat kept me nice and toasty warm. I had chocolate in my pocket, and sweet grape Gatorade in my hand. This is my new “kicking back” on a Saturday afternoon, sans the easy chair.

I settled in quickly to a comfortable pace, and my body found its happy place right away.

I realized, as I bounced along, that I’m no longer a marathoner in training. I am a Marathoner. It’s beginning to sink in now, finally, now that the hype is over and I’m back home in the countryside. I did it. I think I ran taller, better, more confidently, knowing this. And I felt like the cars that passed would know. There’s that Marathon Girl. The small hills were nothing to me today, and I sprung up and down them easily, with power and energy to spare.

Farm machines sat idly in the fields, resting, after beginning the arduous job of turning the soil over to signify the end of yet another life cycle. The nearly naked trees cast long, skinny shadows across the roads, making interesting patterns among the crisp fallen leaves. Aromatic pines mixed with burning fires and decomposing organic stuff, creating a heavy, sensual musky scent that is unmistakably Fall.

It’s all so connected – this running and these farms. Watching the ground spring to life and then go to sleep again is a miracle that is deeply connected to my soul and brings me into a beautiful, coveted state of being. I am returning to the earth – to my life. I am shedding old skin, old thoughts, old behavior with every mile; my sanity is being restored to me.

My Self is re-emerging after a very long, very difficult winter. She is strong. She is determined. She is beautiful. And I love her.

Running for My Life - My First Marathon

Running is the greatest metaphor for life, because you get out of it what you put into it.

~ Oprah

I think Oprah should have stopped at the first part of this quote.  Running is the greatest metaphor for life.  Period.  Running shows me my life on a 360-degree, gigantic rotating movie screen in full HD resolution with vibrant color.  My training runs are old films.  My races are unwritten stories.   

When I am awake, I meet the Universe on the course – I breathe her in and my entire Self is flooded with some unseen electric energy that undoubtedly comes from a power greater than myself.  The smells, the colors, the fresh air… they all rush through me together with every blissful breath.  And I am changed.  I am bettered.  I am alive, and I know that I am. 

I think I slept through most of the Marine Corps Marathon.  

I dressed in the dark and rode the metro with thousands of others to Rosslyn to find Charity Village.  It was very, very cold, and we were bundled up in disposable layers trying not to think about our frozen parts. 

The pre-dawn air was still quiet as we all mentally prepared for the long morning ahead.  As we shuffled our feet across an icy bridge, I saw the orange glow of the rising sun behind the DC monuments, turning them into magnificent, familiar black shadows against the sky.  I was oddly comforted by that. 

Charity Village was a muddy mess, and I felt my prissy little girl protecting her new running shoes from the goo at all costs.  It was like finger-painting all over again – yuck.  It was probably during this time that I began to enter Survival Mode.  I found a port-a-pot and then we headed down towards the starting line, which was facing us, so I had quite a walk before I finally located the corral for a 5-hour finish time.  I squeezed in next to a young guy wearing Vibrams and khaki shorts and a tiny Asian girl who looked like she was freezing to death.  I sort of remember the gun going off, but it was anti-climactic, since we still had a good 10-minute delay until we were able to cross the start line and start jogging.  The tension was incredible. 

I ran unconsciously.  The sights and sounds of nature were interrupted with throngs of huffing runners and cheering spectators.  Thousands of feet hit the pavement over and over and over again and drowned out birds and the blessed quiet.  I was in a foreign land. 

I was on pace to hit my time goal for the first 11 miles.  The route was hilly (I do remember that – and a lot of friends complained about it later), but I did not feel impacted at all.  

I scanned the crowds for some girlfriends at mile 2, but all I saw were unfamiliar faces.  At mile 3, I heard someone screaming my name, and turned just in time to see my best friend and another girl (also a marathoner) waving frantically to me from the street.  I snapped out of my stupor and felt warm and happy and loved.  “You got this,” I told myself.  I waved back and trudged on, saving precious energy for the final four. 

I had to go to the bathroom early on, but I know from my training runs that sometimes the urge can be suppressed with a distance run, so I just held it and hoped for the best.  The port-a-pot lines were long, and I didn’t want to have to stop so soon.  I enviously watched men stop along the side of the road, do their business, and jump back into the crowd.  It seemed like we were on a wooded road forever, and I saw some women jumping off into the bushes.  I decided I would be much happier if I could stop worrying about my bladder, and I joined them. 

“Is this the girls’ section?”  I asked.  

They laughed and nodded, and we all squatted there together in the trees, feeling no shame whatsoever about our animal behavior.  I pulled up my shorts and hauled ass back into the mass. 

I vaguely remember coming to a small town and seeing familiar buildings.  Eventually, I recognized it as Georgetown and recalled various previous adventures to this iconic place which all seemed like a lifetime ago. 

The head fog returned for a few miles, and then, without warning, both of my knees started hurting like hell.  After my initial “oh shit” reaction, I had to figure out how to manage the next 15.2 miles.  Would I create a permanent injury by continuing?  Would I be able to run at all?  Then, more “oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…”

The miles began to get longer.  I remember thousands of faces – coats, hats, scarves – signs and waving gloved hands… then they would all disappear and it was just the sound of the feet again.  Around the 13-mile mark, the runners started to thin out a bit, and lots of people were stopped at the side of the road stretching.  Was I supposed to do that?  I didn’t know… Keep going… 

“Whose idea was this?  I’m never doing this again… There is no way I can finish…”

I don’t remember when I saw him the first time, but the second time was at mile 18, he says.  I stopped for a quick second and cried that my knees were broken.  I was devastated that I wouldn’t make my goal time.  He asked me if I wanted to finish.  I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes at him and kept going.   He caught me again at mile 19, and I was running with a smile.  I had a second wind.  

I have a vivid memory of wanting to flip off people who were screaming, “You’ve got this!”  I wanted to scream back and say, “Fuck you.  You don’t know shit.  Stop standing around and give it a try.”  

Eventually, my anger yielded to extreme appreciation, and I found myself whispering “thank you,” under my breath for every smile, for every sign, and for every darling child with an outstretched hand waiting excitedly for a touch.  

I remember one brief moment when the Capitol loomed large and magnificent right in front of us – the rest, I couldn’t tell ya.  The only things I remember about the National Mall were all the people and the rows of trees with gorgeous Fall color. 

We hit Crystal City around mile 24, I think.  It was one of the two times during the race that the course looped back on itself, and we could see the runners in front of us going in the opposite direction.  I wanted to hop the line and join them.  That’s when it seemed like it would never ever end.  He says he saw me there – that he screamed my name - and I just kept running along in my own little world.  Brightly colored flags lined the streets, along with cheering throngs, and I knew we were almost there.  Keep going.  

One more quiet section of road, and then I heard the announcer.  The final hill.  I mustered up everything inside of me and took it without consequence – I only know it was a hill because I saw the road incline, but I did not feel the challenge of it at all.  Numb.  The music volume grew.  The announcer was blabbering about the people in front of me, I think, who had raced onto the course to finish with their loved one.  “Please do not finish if you don’t have a bib.  Please leave the course.”  My eyes suddenly focused on the huge air-filled red arch across the road that signified the finish line.  I pushed forward, raised both hands in the air, and gave a loud, “woo hoo” as I crossed the mat.  

I did it.  

I thought I would cry.  I didn’t.  

We moved forward on auto-pilot and a Marine handed me a mylar blanket.  “Where’s my medal?” I thought.  Ahh… it was next.  

The line shuffled through photo ops and snacks.  One Marine asked me, “How’re ya doin’?  You okay?”  

“Not really,” I whined. 

He looked me straight in the eye, scanned my face and my body, and said, “Well, you look great – your makeup isn’t even smudged.  You look good!”  God bless you, Unknown Soldier.

I made my way back to the mucky Charity Village to meet my loved ones.  They were glowing and supportive and all of the things that we long to have around us when we feel vulnerable and tired.  I received a second medal from my hosting charity – the Organization for Autism Research, and then we drove to the Metro 29 Diner in Arlington for more post-race chit-chat.

When I finally limped “home” that evening, I emptied the water heater with a steaming hot shower, obediently took the four Advil given to me, and crawled into bed for eleven hours of blissful sleep.  By the next morning, I had my legs back without a trace of marathon-running evidence.

But I have a medal… and a picture.  I guess I did it.  

Au suivant!