But as the injury settles in, I slip further and further away. Emails from the team remain unopened (what does that have to do with me anyway?) Therapy appointments get scheduled right over practice times (I can’t run so why be there?) Before too long, a random run-in with a teammate at the grocery store becomes as awkward as a conversation with an ex-boyfriend. By eight weeks in, I might as well be shacking up in the Maldives. I’m totally gone.

Then, eventually, the injury starts to come around. Every few days or so, there is a small improvement. The list of activities I can do grows. Every day I gain a little more trust in my body. Health is somewhere up ahead, calling to me. And that’s when I have the desire to be around my team again.

Today, my OTCE teammates were scheduled to meet up at a remote logging road outside of the rural town of Marcola. This place has a beautiful tree-lined dirt road that rolls along a creek and plenty of steep side roads that are perfect for hill repeats (it’s at the end of Wendling Rd if any of you want to check it out, but it’s only open to the public on weekends). The dirt roads are totally inappropriate for someone with a fragile IT band, and hills are not on my list of activities yet, so there were plenty of great excuses not to drive 30 minutes to meet them for the workout. If I drove out there, I’d have to do my workout all by myself on the flat asphalt road, something I could easily do from my front door instead.

I went to Marcola anyway, and it was awesome.

Being on the team’s schedule gave me structure for my day. Carpooling with my teammates made me feel like no time had passed, and it was nice to be around the energy of other people as we collectively ramped up for a big effort. The five minutes I got to warmup with the team, the cacophony of random chatter filled in the spaces of the otherwise empty forest, and I grinned ear to ear. God I missed this. I’m running right now. I’m on the Nike Oregon Track Club Elite Team. I’m running!

My 40 minute progressive run went better than expected. The course I chose was a 0.9 mile pavement loop, part of which went over a classic Oregon covered bridge, repeated over and over again until the 40 minutes was up. I stayed in my trainers instead of flats, heart rate and effort were my only guides, and only when it was finished did I check the splits on my SportWatch to see how it shook out. 6:20′s to start before settling into 6:05′s for a while, and finishing the last 10 minutes at 5:45 pace. Not too bad, considering!

Finishing way before the rest of the team, I had 30 minutes or so to wander down to my favorite swimming hole to ice my legs. I started to think about how easy 5:45 miles felt on November 6th in NY for the first 19 miles, and then I made myself stop looking behind me. I thought about the hard, smooth granite underneath me. My feet and ankles ached as the frigid water rushed over my legs. I wrapped my hoody tighter around my face and hugged my body against the breeze. The sun peeked out from the grey sky just long enough to ripple the river with tin foil and pull my attention skyward past the cathedral of trees to watch it slip behind the clouds once again.

How can you not do what this woman says?! Just look at her!

Whenever I’m in Phoenix, I think about going up to Flagstaff and visiting my buddy (and Picky Bars partner) Stephanie Rothstein, but it never happens. The drive is over two hours each way, I usually only have 24-36 hours to visit between ART appointments with Dr. Ball, and besides, I’m in Arizona on the serious business of getting well. While fun, allowing a car to press me into a panini two days in a row is not conducive to healing.

Stars aligned last week when I was in Phoenix and I got to visit her after all. We were both seeing Dr. Ball on Wednesday and he was leaving for a four-day trip so I wouldn’t be getting any treatment for a while.

Steph’s pitch: “You don’t have to drive; you can stay with me since Ben’s out of town. I’ve got access to an ElliptiGo, pool, gym, anything you need,” she said. “You’ve got an ART appointment with Kym on Friday morning and a massage with Monica on Friday night. My brother will drive you back to Phoenix on Saturday.”

In typical Steph style, in five minutes she had my whole life sorted in Flagstaff better than I can manage in my own hometown. The chick is an organizer with a capital O! Of course I feel totally guilty because SHE is the one with the Olympic Trials in 10 days and she’s looking after ME. But that’s just how she rolls. Next thing you know we are driving to Flagstaff baby!

Rewind to 2008

Any time I hang out with Steph, I feel better about the world. When I met her in 2008, we were both injured strangers cross training in this crappy apartment complex “gym” on ancient, neighboring spin bikes.

Steph uses visual cues and reminders to get herself in the frame of mind to be successful. Her apartment is like the most positive place on Earth.

After some neighborly small talk, Steph busts out a doozie: She’s going to be an Olympian in the marathon in 2012. As in, “Hi, I’m Steph. I’m going to be an Olympian in four years.” I stare at her waiting for the punch line. At the time, she was quite good (2:40 marathon) but she was off the radar. There were lots of women at her current level, she had no contract and little support, no health insurance, she was cleaning houses for extra cash, she was totally injured, and yet she said it like it was a fact. Not just any fact but a FACT, underlined with barbed wire and surrounded by an electric fence.

I had just missed the 2008 Olympic Team by one spot and was suffering a navicular injury that may or may not heal right. I was struggling just to get my ass on the bike in the first place thinking, “Will I ever be good again? What’s the point?” I was simultaneously licking and picking at my wounds and here comes Steph with a busted back and a huge grin talking about how she is going to be an Olympian. I couldn’t decide if I admired her or wanted to smack her with my spin bike’s broken handlebar.

She told me that the only way to make a goal happen was to say it out loud. Still singed from my dream going down in flames, I tried to caution her about making her career all about one goal or she might end up viewing her career as a waste if it doesn’t work out (like I was doing). Next thing you know we’re debating the merits and risks of making specific, bold goals. I still don’t know how she did it, but somehow her raw optimism and passion penetrated my thickened armor and the fighter in me ever-so-subtly stirred.

“I used to be like her,” I thought to myself. “Can I allow myself to be that way again?”

I decided I liked her. The rest of the hour flew by with story telling and joking around and within five minutes of post-workout stretching, she had organized our next four hangouts. Capital O style. I’m the type of person who blows from place to place saying things like “Whoopsie! How’d I get to the grocery store? Hmmm…well while I’m here…what do I want for dinner in 45 minutes?” Now I had an insta-friend that cracked me up who liked to organize?! With a facilitator among us, we might actually get to hang out!

I gave her a print of the poem I wrote for Believe I Am as a good luck gift and she loved it.

And hang out we did. We watched dollar movies, went wine tasting, danced to Mylie Cyrus in the car (against my better musical judgement), started Picky Bars together, and just generally supported one another. We had the goofiness and vulnerability of high school BFF’s, and it was awesome.

In 2010, Steph reached a dead end in Eugene athletically, and made the tough choice of moving away from everything and everyone she loved to train in Flagstaff, Arizona with Greg McMillan. It was a really hard decision based PURELY on chasing her dreams and once again, her passion both scared and inspired me.

Now as we rolled into her driveway in Flagstaff, Steph was the picture of confidence and fulfillment. Her choice to move to Flag had taken her from pretty good to truly great: a 2:29 marathoner with a legitimate chance of being an Olympian. She was the type of athlete she told me she would be back in 2008.

As we hung out, I tried to play it cool, but she was like this turbo powered Native American dream catcher or something; in her presence you felt anything was possible. She was fit, healthy, beautiful…the spark in her eye made you consider wearing flame resistant clothing for God’s sake. I really felt like it was going to happen and all I could think about was that day on the spin bikes when she got me to start believing again.

Reality

Steph’s dream didn’t come true. Last weekend at the Olympic Trials in Houston, on her birthday, she ran 23 miles of the Olympic Trials and had to drop out due to pain in her hip. In her words, “My biggest dream suddenly turned into my biggest nightmare.” I was following twitter updates (since some genius network decided it wasn’t worth playing the race live) and when I heard the news, something cracked and then splintered inside my chest. My heart ached for her. I cried on and off for two days. I cried for her and for Amy Hastings and Deena Kastor and Magda and Dathan and Brett. And I cried for myself because I’m injured and struggling to get myself into the pool every day and the girl that stirred my armored heart four years ago has just realized what I’ve known for four years:

There is a Herculean price to pay for making yourself vulnerable to a dream.

Dear Depression,

I know we’ve been spending a lot of time together over the past month, but with the New Year upon us and all, I’ve decided we should go our separate ways.

It’s natural to have a low following a big high, but this time, instead of just flirting with you, I let you stay the night. And then another. And then a month. I never should have done that, and I apologize for misleading you. This simply can’t be a long term relationship. I’m a one man kind of girl.

Look…it’s not you, it’s me. Don’t worry, you will find someone else. You have incredible strength of character. You are nothing if not consistent and nobody darkens up a room like you do. I never slept so well in my life before you. When we were together, I could wear you like a big warm jacket, put the hood over my head, and simply exist.

Well now that I think about it, maybe it is you a little bit. You never shower or shave and you wear your sweats all the time. Frankly, I like to feel sexy and awesome now and then and it’s impossible to do that when you are around. I need to start putting myself out there so I can reach my potential, and that kind of thing just isn’t your style. We simply want different things out of life.

I know a break up letter is kind of juvenile, but I’m not really interested in your opinion on the matter. Your departure is non-negotiable. I’m kicking you out. Git. Pack it up. Scat. Move out.

Peace,

Lauren

P.S. If I see you spending too much time with any of my friends or loved ones, I’m going to tell them you are bad news.

P.P.S. Happy New Year to all my readers. May we all choose joy in 2012, even when it’s hard work.

First run back was last weekend (8 days ago): an easy 3 miles. Felt like a million bucks. Alright, lets train! The next day I tried to go for my 6 mile loop and my knee flared up (same one from before the marathon). I ended up walking 2 miles home, peeved, worried, and trying to figure out what to do. What happened?

Well, I hadn’t done shizz-all since the race for training OR for rehab, despite being told to do lots of stretching. I stretched my quads and that was about it. I just wanted to disengage from being an athlete for a while; to escape. And it really was lovely to do that.

But then the whole first week “back” was fruitless, unable to make it further than 10 or so minutes before my knee started suddenly yelling at me. I decided to see John Ball in Phoenix, as soon as Thanksgiving was over, and just making that decision lifted a load off my shoulders.

That is, until I started trying to make it happen. Ticket prices were astronomical last minute. In order to make this work, I was going to have to find ways to cut costs. So two days ago I contacted a runner, Kerry, who had offered me a place to stay via my blog next time I came to Phoenix to see Dr. Ball (as an alternative to sleeping in my van like last winter). Despite never having met one another, we made arrangements. Rental car was booked on Hotwire for $9/day. Jesse and I got back from Thanksgiving in Bend, OR yesterday and I unpacked and repacked my bag to leave our house at 6:30am this morning.

After several flight delays and missed connections, I unloaded my bags at Kerry’s house and made my way to see John Ball. When he asked me what the deal was, I stuttered, stumbled. Here I was in Phoenix after all that arranging and moving things around and I could hardly get it out. I just wanted to say, “Here I am. Fix me please.” I didn’t have the energy to explain all the “when I do this, this hurts, but when I do that, this hurts over on this side, and it might be related to this but when I wake up in the morning it doesn’t do that so…” My mind and heart needed a spa massage with a Buddha fountain and that yoga-sounding music, where I could simply melt away. My body, unfortunately, needed Active Release Therapy.

This disconnect between what I wanted and what I needed was illuminated in giant neon lights after a brief conversation with Dr. Ball while he dug into my gritty hamstring.

“It’s obvious you haven’t been getting enough treatment lately.”

“I’ve been on my break. I just wanted to live like a normal person for two weeks.”

“Lauren, I hate to break it to you, but you don’t get to live like a normal person until you retire.”

Dammit, John Ball. Grrrrr.

Control

The pack spreads out almost instantly as we climb the first mile up the Verezzano-Narrows Bridge and I settle back into a controlled pace. I had hoped the pack would start more conservatively like last year, (giving me at least a couple miles to feel the thrill of running with the leaders,) but they take off. According to my watch, my first two miles are 5:53 and 5:15. The goal was to average 5:45 for the two, but I’ve run too fast up one side of the bridge and too fast down the other side. Less than two minutes later on flat terrain, I get a stomach cramp. 24 miles to go. Sweet.

The third mile I run much much slower, belly breathing and massaging my stomach, remembering there is a long way to go. But the cramp gets worse. I debate stopping and rubbing it out. Instead I reach into my sports bra and unzip the old Picky Bar bag that is living its second life as an emergency liquid antacid stash and attempt to pour it in my mouth, but half of it catches the breeze and blows across my face. Hopefully its enough.

I hit the 5k mark, take my first water bottle, and the cramp disappears. Relief and optimism flood in with my electrolyte drink. American Molly Pritz pulls up by my side and we begin what would become the best 12 mile run of my life.

The Scenery

NY Marathon is famous for the energy of its crowds, but since the pro women start 30 minutes before the other 47,000 participants, everywhere we go there is a feeling that we are a bit early for the party, the hosts still mixing the guacamole and figuring out where the guests will put their coats. Nonetheless we run past grunge cover bands, curious families, church choirs, a community of Hasidic Jews, DJ’s. There are moments I notice the strangest details around me but there are far more miles that simply pass by in a blissful blur.

My legs are locked into a rhythm and my body flows freely. Molly and I chat a bit here and there and giggle appreciatively when fans scream our names. I pat myself on the back for how conservative we are running and start plotting the logistics of when I’ll make my big move…10k to go? Wait for a little final 5k smack-down?

The Beginning of the End

And then…THEN…the freaking Queensboro Bridge. This long, lonely, barren, dark, concrete covered, windy, solitary, stupid bridge. My heart-rate skyrockets as we head up the first minute of the bridge’s incline. Its clear I’m working much harder than Molly so I let her go and run within myself the rest of the way up the hill.  After FINALLY cresting the top, I attempt to float down the other side but my feet seem to be smacking the pavement rather than springing back.  This is the first sign of wear but the rest of me feels refreshed after the downhill as I work back into my groove up 1^st Ave.

The road is incredibly wide and lined with screaming spectators and I can see at least four of my competitors spaced out in front of me over the course of  the next mile. Despite having six road lanes to choose from, we all run in a single-file line in the footsteps of whoever came before us, preferring not to think for ourselves.

I see mile 19 and take note that I’m not thinking very clearly anymore. It’s a subtle change, but I’m thinking less and less about passing people and more about the basics of survival: water stops, fueling opportunities. I attempt to refocus by running through an inventory of my body: heart, lungs, core, legs…all still working pretty well. I’m no spring chicken by any means, but I’m still clipping along. I tell myself to forget everything that has come before this. Take the edge off. Don’t worry about time. Pretend you are just going out for a brisk 7 mile run back in Eugene, like you do almost every day. You’ve run tired many times before. 

The Wall

Its not like they say it is in books; at least it doesn’t feel that way to me. Somewhere around mile 21 it’s feeling very difficult to run but it’s not like I’ve smacked head first into a wall. It is more like someone has added a sandbag to my back every couple minutes while I was zoning out and suddenly I realize I’m running much slower. I try to pick up the pace but my body simply will not respond.

At mile 22 I’m having trouble doing the math of what’s left. I decide to ignore all the mile markers and screaming fans and focus exclusively on moving my legs; I completely remove myself mentally, refusing to let myself freak out about the loss of control over my body. I’m afraid that if I acknowledge the problem, it will get worse and my body will simply stop moving. Instead, in my mind I’m on Pre’s Trail in Eugene going for an easy four mile stroll like I’ve done a thousand times before. My hope is that if I tune out for long enough, I’ll reopen my eyes and find myself in view of the finish line in Central Park.

After what feels like forever, someone leans way over the railing and screams my name inches from my face, drawing me out of my trance. Her eyes are brown and she has the skinny arms of a distance runner. I must be near the finish…where is the mile marker? The sign ahead slowly comes into focus: 23 miles. Oh God. It’s only been one mile. How is that possible?

It’s Only a 5k

The state of my mind and body is so terrible that I can’t even imagine covering a distance that should be a reflex for me after 16 years. How the hell am I going to make it 5k in this state? I feel every meter of those last 5000. My tonail is hanging by a thread. My quads, hips and butt muscles are hardly even firing and I feel like a sloppy puppet on strings being dragged up and over the hills by a 3 year old child. 

As soon as I think it, I throw the thought away and go right back to putting one foot in front of the other. I am flow. The marathon doesn’t even exist. The metal barricades lining this hilly course through Central Park don’t exist. The rows of people three-deep screaming at me don’t exist. I’m running with my eyes nearly closed, tiny slits allowing only a ray of light through my eyelashes. This gives me the impression that I’m in that white room in the Matrix, surrounded by nothing. It feels good to be surrounded by nothing.

Time passes. A girl is screaming at me. I open my eyes. She is wearing a Canyon High School Cross Country T-shirt just like one I have at home. She is running alongside me. She has hopped the barrier. She is cheering me on and smiling. She suddenly looks alarmed. Is she in trouble? No. She is alarmed because of how I look. She is concerned. I start to laugh.

You know what’s awesome? I say to myself. Never in my life will a 5k feel this hard again. There is something powerful and crazy and amazing about that realization. I notice the sign that says Mile 26. Road markers tick down the yards to the finish line that towers ahead of me. Its closer than I thought. Someone is waving me to the right side of the finish line. I cross under the banner and I stop. A medal is placed around my neck. My legs feel like they want to keep going, caught in perpetual motion like when you step off a treadmill. I suddenly wonder if I stopped too soon. Is the finish line further up there? No? My legs suddenly kill. I can hardly stand. My back muscles, hips and quads have been disengaged. Mary Wittenberg is holding me up. I thank her. Jesse takes me from her. I thank him. Why am I thanking people? My eyes are back to tiny slits. All I see is noise.

Aftershocks

Jesse told me that it took 10 minutes for me to come back to Earth. All I remember is pain, being walked places, and a self-conscious feeling that I shouldn’t answer any questions or baby noises might come out of my mouth. After that I start talking to everyone and feel fine except that I’m hypothermic and freezing to the point of convulsing. Despite the alarm of people around me, I keep insisting that I’m totally fine. It takes 30 minutes in a tent, a Mylar blanket and two cups of scalding tea that burn my shaking arms before my body stops shivering. And as soon as it does, I’m whisked off to a press conference where I run into Queen Latifa (total coincidence), eat lots of amazing food and talk to reporters for a couple hours. I’m gleeful at my accomplishment but also exhausted. This makes doing interviews especially challenging.

As I walk back through the lobby of my hotel, I’m amazed to see at least 200 other runners milling about, wearing their medals. I limp through the crowd, past people hugging, chatting, limping in other directions. The wall of the elevator supports me on the ride up to the 40th floor. In my room, Jesse is fast asleep, experiencing the unique exhaustion of an invested partner of a marathoner. I watch him for a moment trying to figure out what to do with myself. There will be parties to attend, champions to crown, and people to celebrate with. I lift up the covers and crawl in behind him, asleep before the covers are again warm.

__________________________________________

Interested in another side of the story? Read Jere Longman’s version of the weekend and see some pics in his piece from the New York Times. Here’s the link.

I’d love to read your comments about your marathon experiences. Do tell!