running around ...

Mobile, AL -- running, B&B, upcoming race

2012-01-18T14:52:00.000-08:00

Had the wonderful opportunity to visit Mobile earlier this month for the city's First Light Half Marathon ... a gorgeous run through the city's historic district, lined with beautiful homes, and filled with support on almost every corner.

Including this place:

Berney/Fly Bed and Breakfast, 1118 Government Street, Mobile

I stayed at the Berney/Fly Bed and Breakfast while in Mobile, a wonderful change of pace from a hotel, and a place where peace meets comfort, and where hospitality is at its finest (i.e. where coffee is ready for runners at 5:30 a.m. Sometimes the smallest things are the most important.). Berney/Fly also is a place that just past mile 5 on the half marathon route, you high-five Steven, the innkeeper, who stands outside the bed and breakfast watching the runners with a friendly smile you need to see at almost the half-way point of the race.

The Jan. 8 First Light was a great race. I traveled the 2.5 hours from Montgomery to Mobile with the intention of having a good time, and that's what I did. The morning was warm -- it was 60 degrees at the start of the 7 a.m. race. This was a no-pressure race, so there were no pre-race jitters to contend with -- just the mindset to finish, have fun and to remember why we love to run.

It didn't take long to find a running "partner." For the first four miles, another woman and I kept pace with each other. We didn't say a word to each other, but quietly made room for each other around corners and gave each other room when we passed someone in front of us. She was running the full marathon, so I'm sure her mind was at a completely different place than mine. The silence and focus was nice.

I later ran a mile or two with a runner from New York, who was running the full marathon (and who told me he had just run the Mississippi Blues Marathon the day before in 3:18) at an easy-to-him "I'm-here-to-finish" pace. We chatted for a couple of miles before he pulled ahead. I then met a couple of military men -- one, in the Coast Guard, another, the Marines. Coast Guard was part of a relay team, and the Marine was running the full marathon. We split at about mile eight, when the full marathoners went one direction and the rest of us, another.

At about mile 10, I met Lori. We went back and forth passing each other. During a quick stop to stretch my hip, she passed me, offering an energy gel, asking if I was OK. I later passed her during her quick water break, checked on her, and at the end, we joined forces to "Finish Strong, right?" (as she put it) down the final stretch. She won our age group by three seconds, and PR'd. I placed second.We were 9th and 10th Master women overall.

One of the draws to this race -- aside from the support along the course, friendly runners and warm atmosphere the city itself provides -- is the reasonable race fee, even when registering close to the date. Early registration for the half marathon is $35, and it increases only to $40 and $45 after. The full marathon ranges from $50 to $80, from early to late(r) registration.

Shirts are short-sleeved and cotton, unless you pay extra for a tech shirt. Pre- and post-race meals are included in the race fee.I passed on the pre-race meal for a dinner at Spot of Tea. The restaurant has a relaxed atmosphere, and on the evening of Jan. 7, was a short walk to the Mardi Gras parade spectated by many in town for the GoDaddy.com Bowl game between Arkansas State and Northern Illinois.

I did not take advantage of the post-race offerings of food, music and fellowship because I had to head back to Montgomery to work. I returned to Berney/Fly and Steven offered me breakfast, but I passed in order to get ready and head out of the city. He did make sure the coffee was hot upon my return from the race, which was an easy less-than-a-mile walk away.

The day before the race, as I checked into Berney/Fly, Steven showed me the back of the bed and breakfast, and said that one year, a group that ran the Azalea Trail Run 10K (and 5K and 2-mile run) booked all the rooms that weekend and barbecued out back by the pool.

If traveling this way for that race, I recommend checking for availability here.

And I recommend First Light. For its hospitality and for the allure the city offers.

back from injury

2011-11-30T19:31:00.000-08:00

The above photos are a result of my dog catching me with his line outside, pushing my foot forward and under his dog house, twisting/spraining it and leaving me unable to run the Chickamauga Half Marathon on Nov. 12. This happened five days before the race.

I don't think I talked to Bo for two days after the sprain.

Three and four days before the race, I was at PT Solutions receiving physical therapy care from Quinn Millington (qmillington). Up to 15 needles were put into my foot (for information on acupuncture, read page 20 in the River Region Health and Fitness magazine.) and the ankle was wrapped, twice, to prevent a lot of movement.

The healing itself was about three days too late. But the therapy worked: I was running again within nine days of the injury, and back on a normal training schedule within 14 days. Had I run the race, there would have been further damage.

It was a hard call on race day to not run. I didn't make the decision to not run until I warmed up at the race site the morning of the race.

To say I took it hard is an understatement. But, I moved on.

Next up is First Light Half Marathon in Mobile on Jan. 8. The 20 weeks of (heart rate) training that led up to Chickamauga is still there. The training plan has been restructured for the next few weeks, and I feel good. I look forward to the race knowing I made a hard decision, but the right one.

I'm healthy, running happy, and even talking to Bo again.

Nutritional supplements not meant as key play in training

2011-10-25T13:40:00.000-07:00

Of the top four ways Robert Keith suggests someone follow a training program, taking nutritional supplements is not one of them.

Proper diet, exercise and physical training, rest and recovery, and mental training, though, are.

"Supplements are not a major part of a training program,” said Keith, a retired professor of nutrition from Auburn University. “Could they fit here? Yes, under proper diet and vitamins, but you shouldn’t have supplements be the major focus — as in, ‘I can’t lift these weights unless I take these supplements.’”

Keith spoke on ‘Nutritional Supplements Related to Training and Performance’ as part of the ongoing Auburn Montgomery Sports Medicine Lecture Series on Oct. 13.

For athletes alone, the nutrition supplemental industry in 2009 yielded total sales of $25.3 billion. The prime driving force for someone trying to sell these products is “someone trying to make money,” Keith said.

Supplements that should be okay to take, he said, include: energy bars; sports drinks (Gatorade, Powerade); complete nutritional beverages (such as Boost, chocolate milkshake); multivitamins and mineral tablets; and protein powders.

“Substances that might increase your performance beyond what you normally can do might be ergogenic, which is what we can consume that can enhance your physical performance to a level greater than that which you could produce by normal training alone,” he said.

“Why do athletes take ergogenic supplements? For anabolic affects, to increase muscle mass and strength.”

And to increase speed and power.

"It helps control any decrease in tissue that is causing fatigue,” Keith said.

Supplements that have very low possibility of being effective, he said, include: orchic tissue (bull testes); vanadyl sulfate (found in foods such as pepper, dill, radishes, eggs, vegetable oils, buckwheat, and oats); and bee pollen.

Supplements with possible ergogenic effects include: beet root juice; guarana; ginseng; and glucosamines.

Supplements, Keith said, with probable ergogenic effects (and used for short duration/maximum effort, such as for weightlifters, football players and sprinters), include: creatine monhydrate; caffeine; sodium bicarbonate; and carbohydrates (gels, powders).

Caffeine endurance most likely enhances endurance performance — any kind of event lasting 30 minutes to an hour. These athletes include mainly runners and cyclists.

Caffeine stimulates the central nerves, increases adrenaline and alertness, and also increases the release of free fatty acids to the blood for a fuel source.

Caffeine can include: brewed coffee; brewed tea; colas; energy drinks; and tablets (such as NoDoz).

“Practice with this ahead of time,” Keith said. “Don’t ever do something new at an event. That just doesn’t make good sense.

“Taking supplements is okay, but you have to be careful. Most of the supplements out there are not bad. The only time they get into trouble is when something goes wrong.”

Women of Hope speech

2011-10-07T05:31:00.000-07:00

(Was asked to speak at this year's Women of Hope Signature Luncheon. What an incredible honor. WoH is a Montgomery, AL., organization that provides support to women with breast cancer. Below, is my talk.)

There is a lot of love, and a lot of hope, in this room.

I'm very excited to be here today to share part of my mother's story. I look forward to talking about her and her journey with breast cancer -- not only because of what I've learned from her, and what I hope is passed on to my daughter -- but because my father is here. He flew in from Texas late last night for this luncheon.

Thank you, Maria, for asking me to be here.

One of my favorite Bible verses is "Be still and know that I am God," Psalm 46:10. The word “still” comes from a Hebrew word meaning to “let go” or “release.” It means coming to a place where we are willing to submit ourselves to God, and acknowledge that He is in sovereign control.

It is meant to tell us that when we realize that we are truly incapable of controlling life, we can surrender our will to God’s will. It may be a matter of finally saying we trust Him. This will open the door so that we may experience the fullness of all God wants and has for us.

The verse reminds me of my mother. And it brings me to the day we were standing in line to purchase groceries, and she froze.

On that day, just a handful of weeks before she would pass, she had a seizure. She was 40. I was 17. She was very quiet, and closed her eyes. In that one moment – in what felt like forever but was probably only a few seconds – she released control.

She didn’t fight. It was a defining moment. I watched her as closely as I could. I remember the blue scarf on her head, her blue jacket. When cancer took its hardest grip on her, she was always cold. Even while we lived in California, in 80 degrees.

And even at 17, I knew what strength that one moment took. What release of control it took. Still, I felt the pain because I saw it. But she moved forward — in the line, through the day. She was still. She trusted God. She let go.

***************

Pamela Klass 1947-1988

As we reflect here today, we take what we have learned from those who fought breast cancer before us – we learn from you, and from those we have lost. I keep with me that moment at the grocery store with my mom, because I will never forget it.

It taught me to stay calm. And in the 17 years before that, I learned enough to last me until I see her again.

I turned 40 this year – the same age my mother was when she died. And as I reflect on this year, I think first not of what I learned, but what I remember.

I remember when I learned my mother had breast cancer. And I remember when the first breast was taken away. And then the second. And the chemotherapy. And when the cancer spread, left, and then returned.

And I remember when it all just became too much. I remember when her hair started falling out. That is when my own nightmares began. I remember that. I remember the dream when my own hair fell out.

I remember her last year with us. She had lost a son three years before, and had three young daughters -- when she died, we were 17, 11 and 2 years old. I remember her fight, and I remember when the fight ended. When she said, "No more." I remember the last time she was in our home before she went to the hospital.

The cancer had spread to her liver and her body swelled. I remember her feet, because she had no ankles.

I remember that day, sitting at our dining table, trying to understand, at age 17, the significance of the moment. The enormity of what was taking place.

A week later, she was gone.

From my mother, I learned …

About Strength:

I learned what it takes to hammer through chemotherapy and radiation treatments, and even on your worst days come home to take care of your three daughters and a husband. I learned of the strength it takes to insist on cooking dinner for the family even at your worst. About putting on a smile and walking into church with your family. And I learned of the strength it takes to say 'no more,' – to let go -- when radiation becomes too much. When it's just not working. The strength it takes to choose the rest of your life -- even knowing those weeks, those days, are few.

I learned about Stubbornness:
those who know me best know this is a characteristic of mine, but it is one I don’t apologize for because with it, comes knowing what you want and how you're going to get it. For my mother, that was her treatments, her diets, her unwavering faith and her determination to do first what was right and good for her family before herself. I am more than happy to carry on her stubborn ways.

Even the thought of stubbornness takes me to my thoughts of when I ran the Komen for the Cure race in Shreveport in 2008. I was in the beginning stages of a blog project for the Montgomery Advertiser. I ran in five Komen for the Cure 5K runs in honor of my mother. That year, I had turned 37, the year my mother was diagnosed, and back then, knew I had to find a way to live the next three years LIVING like I know I’m living – just like my mother lived, knowing she was dying.

I ran these races to honor my mother – in turn, I got to know a woman I only thought I knew.
On September 13, 2008, after that Shreveport race, my blog, in part, reads:
The first five seconds after the Komen for the Cure race this morning in Shreveport went well.

I crossed the finish line, walked away from the cheering and felt good.

Then the enormity of everything hit me -- my mom, this journey, the race -- and I felt I could not breathe. I could feel within me giant sobs about to burst, and the deeper I tried to breathe, the more I could feel everything build up.
I sat on a concrete ledge on a lamppost and let the tears fall down my face, and the anguish release from my body. The only thing I was grateful for at the time was my sunglasses.

And a few seconds later, for the woman who became my temporary strength.

She saw me bent over at the lamppost and asked if I was okay. I told her I was not hurt, that I was fine.

She saw the sign on my back that read “In Memory of … My Mom Pam Klass.”

And she knew I wasn’t in tears from physical pain.

Without hesitation, she embraced me in a huge hug and said, “You’re doing this for your mom, aren’t you?”

I have no idea who she was. She left before I could ask.

I made the 200-yard walk to my car to and kept trying to breathe. Gave up after a while, and cried. And didn’t care.

My emotions weren't just because I missed my mom, but also for the fact there were more than 5,000 people in one area fighting for a cure. For one cause. For the reason my mother died.

My breathing was still shaky, but more calm.

(I had called home to Alabama) and the phone was passed to my daughter, who was filled with princess stories from a birthday party she attended Friday night, and who said she loved me. She slowly brought me back to Earth.

I started saying goodbye, and, thinking of the four Komen races I still have ahead of me in the next five weeks, thought, “I hope the other ones aren’t as hard as this one. I don’t know if I can do it.”

At the same time I thought that, I wondered whether my mom said that after her first round of chemo.

I doubt it.

She probably looked the staff in the eyes, and said, “See you next week.”
That’s the stubbornness I love. That’s what I learned.

I also learned from my mother, perseverance:
Her one and only marathon she ran was when we lived in Hawaii.
I remember my father dropped her off pre-dawn before the start of the race, and after church, we drove back out to the race site to wait for her to come in.

In the race’s 7th hour, we were still waiting.
My mother developed leg cramps at mile 16, and walked the last 10.2 miles.
She trained for this. And refused to quit. She persevered to the end. I think of this on my own training runs sometimes – how she never quit that race, or her fight against breast cancer.

She set high standards. I reflect on that often, and wonder, when I turn the age she never did, how I will live up to that.

How I will live up to the immeasurable standards she set – the way she lived her life, and how she pushed through in everything she did.

You women who have, and are, surviving this breast cancer journey – and you, David Barranco – have set a path for us of unwavering strength, of an example for your families to live by on their life journey. You have lived in a way, and fought back in a way, that will provide reflection on their own life forever. Thank you for that.

I leave with one more story. And that is what my daughter takes from my mother’s journey. It comes from the Komen races I did, after the fifth and final race.

Nov. 9, 2008
I took four days off from running after the last Komen run in Macon, Ga., on Oct. 25. My body thanked me. So did my daughter, as we spent a couple of those would-be-running-nights curled up on the couch watching movies.

Through this journey, she taught me how to be a better mom. I learned how to talk to her about breast cancer — I learned how to be honest about it. That yes, it is possible I could be diagnosed with breast cancer. Yes, I could die.

But yes, sweetheart, I could live.

My daughter and I grew closer during these runs. She prayed for my safety, and that I would do well in races. She held tight to an angel coin when I traveled to the first two races without her — she squeezed them whenever she sent me good wishes.

She said she was sorry my mom died.

We had talks in the car about cancer, about balloons floating up to grandma (and what happens if she has too many). And sometimes, I would catch her just staring at me — the time during the runs was an intense time in our house. It was filled with so much emotion, so many questions, so many tears.

There sometimes seemed to be questions I couldn’t answer well enough at home. The questions: "But what if you die ... but what if you get cancer and it comes back, then what? And it doesn’t go away? Then what?"

That is why it was so important that she watch, at every race she attended, the parade of survivors. (That’s you.) They gave her hope — as much hope as a (then) 5-year-old can understand. It was important for her to see so many women who battled the disease, and lived. So important for her to understand that not everyone dies. So important to know how hard people work to raise money to help find a cure.

She understood. She got that not everyone dies. She is reassured.

About a week after the races were complete, she looked up at me from the dining room table, and — out of the blue — said, "Mom, I hope you are a survivor, too."

***************

I told a good friend of mine just a couple of days ago that raising a daughter is hard … but that I’m fortunate that I learned enough in 17 years to bring my mother to my daughter this way.

Thank you, Maria, for asking me to be here. For allowing me to share part of my mother’s story. For inviting me and my family into a room full of this love and hope that – at this level – would be hard to find anywhere else.

A 3:04 half-marathon

2011-10-03T14:00:00.000-07:00


Mickey Welsh, Montgomery Advertiser

Me & Theresa before the race.
Mickey Welsh, Montgomery Advertiser

Meet Theresa LeGrady.

She completed the Montgomery Half-Marathon on Saturday -- her first -- in 3:04:40. A couple of months ago, she agreed to let me follow her on her journey and to write her story in the Montgomery Advertiser (the story is HERE.). From the beginning, I thought I would be the teacher ... that I would talk to her about running, training, hydration, etc.

That's crazy thought. Because what happened at the end of the race on Saturday surprised me: Theresa taught me a few lessons. I think I took more from the race than she did.

Theresa taught me a lot about perseverance, mental toughness and the drive to finish something you start. About never ever giving up.

I've never been in the three-hour half-marathon pack. And it is a pack. They stick together and encourage each other. I've seen the runners and walkers come in within 3 hours, but never understood their drive and motivation. Until this weekend.

My job Saturday was to encourage, and to take things at Theresa's pace both mentally and physically. My job was to tell her what was ahead -- an uphill, a downhill, turns, flat roads, where to expect big crowds. I know this course ... have run it many times in training. The course and the distance were new to Theresa. But her drive and her determination to finish the race was there before the race even started.

Aside from one 1 hour, 45-minute training walk last month, I had only met Theresa in person twice before the race: when she purchased new running shoes, and at dinner with some friends the night before the race. We exchanged several e-mails for the two months leading up to the race.

On race day, I ran/walked with Theresa the first 2.5 miles of the half-marathon course before having to run back to the finish line to interview the male and female winners of the half-marathon. After the interviews, I ran through downtown Montgomery and up, then down, Perry Street to wait for Theresa at mile 9.5.

She was hurting. Everything from the hips down hurt, she said. And I then watched someone, for the next 3.6 miles work harder than anyone I've ever seen. I've never been as inspired as I was watching Theresa push through. Her pelvic bone hurt. Her knee was numb. Her hips hurt. Her calf started cramping. And whenever she walked, and started running again, all the pain seemed to intensify.

She continued pushing. And on her schedule, we ran to a stoplight, then walked. Ran to a corner, then walked. Whenever she saw a mile marker, sprinted to it, slowed, then walked.

It became a mental game, a get-me-to-the-finish-line mentality. I'd never seen anything like it -- never been around someone wanting something so badly that she would give so much of herself in the process.

She crossed that finish line and smiled.

I was so proud of her, and for what she accomplished. I stayed with her until she received treatment from PT Solutions, downed a lot of fluids, ate, and was able to greet her family.

When I returned to the newsroom about an hour later to write her story, I realized this was more than just a story. This was personal, and triumphant, and gut-wrenching and a time when Theresa bared all for everyone to see.

That takes a lot of courage.

natural beauty of a runner

2011-07-31T19:46:00.000-07:00


Sacha Goldberger assembled a team who helped him create an outdoor studio at Bois de Boulogne, a park located near Paris. He stopped joggers, asking them to sprint for him and then pose right after for his camera. He then asked these same people to come into his professional studio exactly one week later. Using the same light, he asked them to pose the same way they had before. Goldberger did this to show the difference between our "natural and brute side versus how we represent ourselves to society." The project Web site is HERE. Now, my house is not a photo studio by any means, but during my run on Wednesday, I decided to give this a try. I took a photo about 15 minutes after my run, and again, about an hour later after I got ready for work. I have no special lighting, just a dim den with a dog that chases the two cats, bad lighting and a self-timed camera on my desk. I had two seconds to hit the camera button and smile. All very sophisticated, yes. Ha. If I had Goldberger at my house, I'm sure it would have turned out a lot different. The lighting would have been nicer. Bet my eyebrows would have been waxed and there would have been more time to move this/that way and maybe a touch-up on the make-up. But, I wanted to try, anyway. (And, I bet Goldberger wouldn't have needed to wait until a 13-miler on Sunday to take another "after run" shot because he wouldn't have accidentally deleted the Wednesday "after run" shot before posting on-line or elsewhere. [I'm not a pro.] And I don't have special lighting in my Honda, either, where the "after 13-miler photo" was taken. To be honest, I've never seen a runner look the way the lady in the above photo does. Only in Paris ...) All of this might make me a bona fide Geek, but that's okay.

I think there is a natural beauty with runners, and I believe it has to do with the glow of personal

victory and feat -- it has to do with sweating it out on humid mornings, and

returning home exhausted, but feeling accomplished.

I believe the natural beauty of runners has to do with being just that: natural. Being us. It has to do with doing something we love, something we know is bettering us as a person, a parent, a friend.

It has to do with some days, putting it all out on the road on good days and bad. It has to do with celebrating the joy, and dealing with the ugly. I believe our natural beauty comes from laughter on runs, or even crying when pressure hits. Or stopping when our body says to stop. For whatever reason.

Natural beauty in runners comes with being honest with ourselves on the roads.

Of taking what we have and making the most of it.

What we feel makes us better than nobody.

What we feel after a run -- or even during it -- allows us a freedom to express who we are: exhilarated, like we can breathe again even when we are out of breath. Whether what we show comes from a mile walk or from running miles and miles, it's undeniable:

We're happy. And free.

And sweaty and disgusting and we need a shower really bad. But at this moment, this moment of being natural, we are granted an amazing opportunity to find out who we are and what we're made of.

That's hard to pass up.

turning left again

2011-07-08T19:05:00.000-07:00

I knew I would run at my grandparents' old farm house a few months ago when my daughter and I decided we would return to Iowa this summer after being here in March for my grandfather's funeral. I needed peace. I needed to return to Iowa for a reason other than a funeral -- which is the reason for the past four visits in the past 26 years.

I needed new memories, and to know what was here other than sadness and mourning. I needed to drive roads other than those from the house, to the funeral home, to the cemetery and back. That routine was too familiar.

And, I wanted my daughter to get to know family. To understand that Iowa isn't just a place for funerals and tears.

My daughter and I planned for a week's stay, and thankfully my training schedule called for a four-mile run on Wednesday. I knew where I would go the second the workout was written into my training schedule a few weeks ago. I was excited to return to the farm.

This is where my four-miler started:

I was less than a quarter-mile from my grandparents' farm house, and was joined this week by my cousin's German Shephard named Taz. I ran this same route with my dad in the hot summers when I was younger when we would visit the grandparents. My grandfather used to always joke that he ran the same route an hour earlier, teasing me when I woke in the morning that he waited as long as he could before he took off for his run.

I ran this same route in March, the day we were to bury my grandfather. At that time, I wrote this for my running column for the Montgomery Advertiser:

“Country Mile” more than just a forever distance

FORT DODGE, IOWA – Sometimes, things don’t go as planned.

I arrived here a few days ago to say goodbye to my grandfather who recently passed. And, while here, I knew I would run on some country roads that I did when I was around 12, and in my early teens, when we made trips to Iowa to visit my grandparents. These country roads are different than the rural roads I run on in Autauga County. Different than the roads in Pintlala and Hope Hull.

I’m not sure how. Maybe it is the memories, or maybe it’s being where you want to be at that moment – and especially when that moment isn’t part of a structured training plan.

Before coming here, I was encouraged to see if a “country mile” was different than running a mile in more populated areas. A “country mile” is loosely defined as being longer than one would expect – or, seemingly longer.

I kept that in mind my first morning here. But not for long.

My dad dropped me off in front of my grandfather’s old farm house, where for years he and my grandmother owned and operated a dog kennel and tended to cattle. It is one of those places that is as impressive as an adult as it is as a kid, instead of seemingly just getting smaller the older you get.

He hasn’t lived there for years, having moved to a smaller house once he and grandmother retired.

Still, the familiarity of the roads was there as soon as I stepped out of the car, as though it just welcomes you back home to a house that wasn’t even yours.

The route ahead of me was only four miles – straight down the road for a half-mile, turn left for a mile, another left for a mile, another left for a mile, and another left for a half-mile to the old farm house.

My dad, coffee in hand, drove off, stopping every quarter-mile or so to take photos or just wait until I caught up so I wouldn’t be alone. More than 25 years ago, he ran these roads with me – I’ll take this time with gratitude, no matter how he’s able to join me.

The country mile – did it seem like it took forever? Sure. But that’s too easy.

Something else happened instead. It took on a new meaning. When nothing is in front of you but open fields covered with snow, and homes a half-mile apart or more, you get more than a country mile.

You get life. And you get to say goodbye to life in a way not many people do. You say goodbye to those you have loved. And you get to feel a new gratitude for those in front of you, coffee in hand or not. To those who recently have entered your life. To those helping you through this day, on this country road.

On this day I said goodbye to my grandfather, who was laid to rest next to my grandmother, mother and brother. These are the roads you run on to say hello, goodbye and the roads in which you try to make sense of everything inbetween.

That’s what I received in that country mile. All four of them.

The morning I ran, a friend of mine wrote to me: “Gotta love Midwestern spirit! God bless the endless prairie and the beautiful people who live and die there. God Bless.”

I love her for writing that. You don’t have to run a country mile to understand what takes place. To understand that the spirit can sometimes just be filled mile after mile. You can run or drive those miles … what matters is how you let them in.

***************************
I felt the same way this time. My cousin's husband Joe drove me out to the farm this summer. Taz and I hit the dirt road and all its lefts just like I've done so many times before.

On dailymile, I posted this:
Headed out to my grandfather's old farm house this morning for a run around the land -- took my cousin's German Shephard with me as we passed by cornfields, a rabbit, horse, other dogs. Peaceful out there this morning. Overcast, cool, and not another person in sight. Today's run makes it tempting to stay here for longer than vacation allows.

On this day, though, instead of attending a funeral, I visited the cemetery. My mom, brother, grandmother, grandfather and an aunt are buried there. I would visit it once more a couple of days later. You visit here and you learn. The older you become, the more aware you are of those you lost and everything they left you in spirit. You learn how to use it.

Being here provides a peace, insight and an awareness I can't get anywhere else. Maybe because family is here. Maybe because it is quieter. Maybe that's life in the Midwest. Whatever it is, I like it. Whatever it is, it embraces me as I run. It pulls me in and makes me want to stay.

But again, I say goodbye. And again, it is not easy.

Running Around ... Callaway Gardens

2011-06-20T19:14:00.000-07:00

I let go of the numbers and just started praying. Trying to maintain a decent run in the humidity of Georgia on a 13-mile run is hard. It is slow-paced. It is part walking to keep the heart rate down. And just after the mid-point of the run, the prayer is all that kept me going.

If you've never run the paths of Callaway Gardens, everything is worth the peace. Even when it hurts.

If you're driving from Montgomery at 5 a.m. just to get there, it is worth the drive. Even if you have to start your run at 9:30 a.m. -- and are soaked through every piece of clothing you wear by the time you are finished -- the serenity that is Callaway Gardens is worth every step.

I was in Pine Mountain, Ga., on Father's Day so my daughter could surprise her dad at the Callaway Gardens Sprint Triathlon. We drove from Montgomery that morning to meet up with him at the end of his race.

After he finished, and the two of them were settled, I said my goodbyes and took off for a 13-mile training run.

I had no idea which turn I would take, where I would end up, who I would see along the way, or what would come of the run. My only goal was to maintain a heart rate as close to 142 as possible. That took a lot more effort than I thought it would.

If you've never been to this area, it is gorgeous. I competed in the Sprint Tri here two years ago -- my one and only triathlon experience -- and always knew I'd want to come back to run the garden's paths and streets. On Sunday, two years later, I found the same roads and the same quiet that was there before.

I found myself in areas I didn't know existed. I ran around parts of the golf course, through deeply shaded paths that belonged to only me at that moment. I crossed paths with walkers, cyclists. But I never saw another runner. It was like my own forest.

I ran past cabins, golfers, restaurants (so hungry!), people BBQing and families sitting on the sand at the lake. It really was a gorgeous day.

At one point when my Garmin beeped at a mile split during the second half of my run, I thought I only had four miles left. I checked, and had five. I was actually discouraged. Even surrounded by beauty, exhaustion can take its toll. The run was turning into a chore. It was warm, humid. The slower pace was killing me. I was drenched. The heart rate was maintaining, but was taking so much slow shuffling of the feet that my entire body ached.

So, starting at this point above, I prayed out the rest of the run. Every mile, I chose a different person to pray for and realized as soon as I started, how easy it is to forget that in the midst of your own struggles and worries that others need prayer as well.
More. Just as much. Or just because.

One foot in front of the other ...

One prayer was for safety. A mile worth of prayer for someone in another country, that they remain safe and without worry. That they would experience joy and return home refreshed, recharged and energized.

Another was for a mother. For patience and balance and calm. And to embrace every moment.

Another, was for someone just because. For peace within them, and for calmness, and because I am thankful and humbled to have this person a part of my life -- for the trust and guidance they have provided.

Another was a prayer of thanks. For many reasons. For many people. Regardless. A long mile.

The last mile took me around a lake. By now, I just wanted the run to end. And that's where my focus remained. I was so tired, ached everywhere and just wanted it to go away. I wasn't sure how to even finish the last half-mile of the 13 miles on Sunday.

My 13 miles ended right here:

And, as I do after every run, I thanked God for it, and for my safety.

I sat up on the brick/stone ledge on the left and stayed there for a while ... glad to be done. I don't know that I've ever been so glad a run was over before. I sat there, and just remained still. Grateful for the opportunity to be able to run at all. To finally rest. To know I was about to head home.

You don't finish every run with pure joy at the end. Not every run is brilliant. This one wasn't. It was agonizing. I hurt almost the entire way. I wanted to end it at mile 8. And then at mile 11 when the sun came out in full force.

But I finished, and I slowly walked back to my car. Drained, and feeling defeated.

It's almost laughable a day later.

The two-plus hours I did receive were calm, though. They were quiet. Appreciative. Needed. You can't run here and not receive that in return.

To visit, click HERE

heart rate training: the first month

2011-06-07T18:44:00.000-07:00

Figured some things out yesterday. Ran 4x800 intervals and thought, "This feels familiar." I've run plenty of 800 intervals during training cycles, but never as fast as I did yesterday. The difference in yesterday is that I was forced to slow down in recovery.

These past four weeks I've been forced to slow down during heart rate (HR) training -- keeping my pace under an HR of 148 (Zone 2) for normal/recovery runs. For me, that has been about a minute and a half to 2 minutes slower than my "normal" pace. There have been really great days, and really horrible ones ... but yesterday, things clicked.

This HR plan? It's working.

I'm being coached by Quinn Millington. And, first day aside, there have been two days after an HR run during these past four weeks that I would have quit this type of training if it wasn't for him. His confidence, reassurance and encouragement is what kept me in those two days.

This past month, I learned of two ways that helps make this plan work: patience and trust.

I didn't realize how much patience this takes on both ends -- Quinn's, for dealing with my stubbornness, my sometimes quiet doubt and all of the questions. And mine, for running slower in recovery than I've ever run before, and for having the kind of patience in a specific kind of trust that this plan will work. It's a blind trust. He trusts this will work. I have to trust that trust.

I can look back to the first day of HR training, when my run ended in tears, and kind of laugh now. That first day was awful. I was so full of confusion and shock and 'what the hell' that I just went into the second day blind and numb. But it was better.

HR training plays with the mind, the ego, the head -- however you put it. Even this past Sunday, in my daily HR update to coach, I wrote, "How ... am I getting faster." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

The next day, I ran 800 intervals the fastest I ever have. Sold. I tried not to smile when I got home, but just wanted to jump up and down, and hug everyone -- I was that excited. Ridiculous, maybe, but it showed me the patience was paying off. The frustration, all the "how the/what the ... " questions I've tossed around -- everything came together at that moment.

There has been some tremendous support through this new way of training from other runners. Some have started their own HR training, and some encourage from the sidelines. That's important, especially in a process that is often frustrating and unknowing.

I'm looking forward to the next few weeks of the HR base training in preparation for a fall half marathon. This is a huge step in a journey I didn't even know I'd want to ever start. One that I've watched others also sometimes struggle through -- but who finish. My faith right now is that I maintain my love for running while at the same time grow as a runner. Hard days or not.

just a road

2011-05-21T18:20:00.000-07:00

This is nothing special. It's just a road. But today, it reminded me to pray. Lately, I've been worried that I have no answers to things heavy on my mind and heart.

This is just a road I run on almost every time I set out in the mornings in my rural neighborhood. The length of it that I run is almost a full mile out and another mile back, but it never seems long enough. And while running on it today, I said to myself, You're not praying enough. And I was immediately snapped back into place right here. At about this spot, where the shade meets the sun.

I prayed for guidance, faith, direction, vision. For understanding. For hope.

I've always loved what my runs bring me: the roads, the calm, the time I need for me. But that's just the simplicity of being out there. That's easy. Just get on the road and you'll have your time to yourself. What I've been missing is really being in the moment -- and today, almost found that again.

HR training: The Beginning

2011-05-15T18:54:00.000-07:00

Getting to the point:

Day 1:

The worst day. Ever. I strapped my heart rate monitor on, and headed off. That was the easiest part of the first day of heart rate (HR) training -- walking to my usual starting point in my neighborhood. Because after the first mile, all I heard was beep, beep, beep, beep. Slow down, slow down, slow down. I quickly became irritated with the "slow it down" beep notification on the watch -- by mile three of the 3.81-mile run, I wanted to turn the watch off, and chuck it.

I walked three times during this run to bring my heart rate down, and in the last half-mile, was so frustrated, I was in tears.

I ended my run, looked at my watch and saw my average pace: 9:10. Was not happy -- or, was in a state of shock. I'm not sure I could have differentiated between the two at the moment.

This is definitely not me.

I walked into my house and e-mailed coach. He received the rawness of how I felt: I can't run that slow. It killed me. I had to walk three times to bring my HR down after even the smallest of hills, because I couldn't run slow enough to do it. This has to be the most frustrating run I've ever had. I have never run this slow before and I ended my run in tears the last half-mile. I don't do that. I can't even wrap my head around this right now.

I was pretty numb to it all. And discouraged, and doubtful. The shock was the pace -- a minute or more slower than my normal "easy." The walking. Running again. Walking. Ridiculous. How am I going to get faster if I have to walk during a workout? There were words expressed out loud during the run that normally aren't muttered on my runs. There was a frustration of, "If I have to keep this up, I'm really going to hate running."

And I wondered how this would prepare me for future races.

There was the temptation of going faster anyway. But I knew, eventually, I'd have to download my workout to coach, and would be found out. No point. And, no point in turning off the Garmin and running faster -- that would defeat the purpose of the entire HR plan. There would be no secret races, no quick mile at the end of HR runs.

So I got upset instead, and probably increased my HR because of my anxiety over it all. But, I finished with an HR of 147. My goal right now is to stay at 148 or under. I realize later that a lot of my frustration comes from my competitive nature. And it made me realize how much I really love to run. How much I appreciate improvement. Bottom line, I run because I just really love to run. And I train to run better, and faster. I train to improve, and feel fortunate to have the drive to excel.

How it began:

Unfortunately, this is me. This is not a pretty process.

I asked Quinn Millington at PT Solutions if he would coach me. This came after almost the end of my injury recovery plan he put me on after I tore a tendon in my right ankle while running on a beach in California in mid-March. He agreed, and mentioned he would start me on HR training as soon as I was ready to increase my mileage.

It wasn't long before I found myself in his clinic, hooked up and ready for the VO2 Max test.

V = volume per time; 02 = oxygen; max = maximum

The process is simple: an oxygen mask is attached to a machine, and it measures how much oxygen is in the air you exhale as you perform higher intensities of aerobic effort. In other words, Quinn started me out on the treadmill slow, then increased pace/incline until I signaled to him it was fast enough. We held that for a few moments and the pace/incline was brought back down.

My resting heart rate was tested first (results: between 48 and 54). My aerobic threshold came in at 142. My heart rate peaked at 167, and after the test, it took 1 minute to slow down to 136, and another minute for it to fall to 90.

The decline of my HR after it peaked will later be used to determine how much rest time I need during interval training.

Results: I'll touch on more as I go along. All I know is "for now." For now, I'm to maintain an HR at 148 (was bumped up slightly from 142) or below at whatever mileage coach gives. For now, I'm up to 6 miles. Nice, because just two weeks ago, I was still at 2 to 3 miles (it is funny now) because of my injury.
Day 2:

What I learned on my 6-miler:

1. I love downhills. I'm going "faster" (such a relative term at this point!), and the HR decreases. Love that. Feel like I'm flying, especially when I'm running my last downhill heading to my house. Like my own little .2 victory run!

2. I'm at about an 8:35 or so pace at a HR of between 140 and 145, I think. I like that. It was very comfortable.

3. The hills kill me. Even the small ones. I can be at a comfortable HR of 142, 145, even 148 (max in Zone 2) and a tiny incline shoots my HR up to 152 in about a split second. Even when I slow down significantly. Yesterday, this killed me. Today, I sucked it up and let the watch beep and I slowed down as I could.

4. Today, the HR training and I made an agreement. I'm not stopping to walk -- I'll slow to a trot if I have to, but I'm not walking anymore. I think that's part of what killed me mentally yesterday. We'll call it cruising. I'll admit, though, when cars pass me, I want to say, "I really don't go this ... " Oh, forget it.

5. Ignore the beeping on the Garmin ... that killed me yesterday, too. Not "ignore," but I worked on not letting it consume me. I know it's there -- I know it's going to beep at me at even the slightest of hills, and I know it's going to take a minute or two to bring my HR back down. So go ahead and beep. I know you exist. Go away.

There are other times the HR goes up other than the hills. Like when I ran past a truck not normally seen on a certain road -- I prayed, and the HR went up slightly. Small enough, though, that it was easy to bring down. And, when I go too fast, getting caught up and excited in the fact that I can DROP my pace to 8:35 or so (I'm laughing right now) and then get slapped with a beep.

It was a good day. HR 147.

Day 3:

Lots of hills, but less frustrating. Maybe I'm just accepting this more, although I questioned a lot on today's 6.2-mile run that results will come from this. I think the hills do that to me. It's still hard to see a slow-paced run -- today was the slowest at 9:15 pace.

But after the run, I realized I was not out of breath at all. That was a new feeling. I could have just gotten into my car and left, but for fun, faked a "cool down." Don't know why. Even though I was a little nervous about being so isolated in my surroundings, I enjoyed the solitude of that one moment. My own happy-at-not-being-exhausted moment. I enjoyed feeling so relaxed and stress-free after a run.

HR 147.

Day 4:

I had to know what I could do on a completely flat surface, for at least three miles. So I went to a local track and sacrificed the 12 circles so I could see what this training is doing for me. I felt more relaxed today than I ever have on any 3-mile recovery run. My legs felt fantastic -- light, easy, strong. Rested. That was a key feeling today. Showed me something is working through this -- even on only the fourth day.

I even dipped sub-8 at points (the Garmin only beeped at me 3x to bring my HR down, and I had only climbed up to 149 or 150). The urge to go faster hit a couple of times, but otherwise, I just enjoyed the feeling.

HR 142. Pace: 8:42.

This week I'm upping my distance some. I get back a long run of 8 miles on Sunday, maintaining a 148 or below.

I'll admit when told I was going to be put on this plan that I had flashbacks to reading other people's HR training workouts on dailymile ... and the complaints and aggravation that came with it. I remember reading how much slower their pace was at the beginning, and how sometimes they had to walk, and I remember not being real excited about starting this, but I also remember having to put that to the side, and trust.

I think the start of this HR plan falls in line nicely with the end of the injury recovery plan for the ankle. This forces me to keep it easy while increasing my mileage -- which was the plan all along.

I'm putting a lot of trust in to this HR training. And, I'm feeling a difference after only one week. I'll update after another couple of weeks. Don't tell anyone, but I'm kind of looking forward to this. I know there will continue being good days with the bad, and days I'll continue questioning -- and feel like chucking the Garmin. But I'm up for this challenge.

I found this video if you want more of the ins/outs of VO2 Max testing and HR training:

Q&A with Becky Matthews -- Running without the Garmin

2011-05-13T11:50:00.000-07:00

After a disappointing finish at the Around the Bay 30K in Hamilton, Ontario, on March 27, Becky Matthews did what a lot of people wouldn't do: let go.

She took the pressure off from wearing a Garmin -- let go of the mile-by-mile pace, and just ran. She put her Garmin down for the entire month of April to take a mental break from the data ... even though she still had to finish training for the London Life Forest City Half Marathon (May 1).

Her goal: to just enjoy all her runs regardless of speed. We can all learn from this.

I met Becky on-line through www.dailymile.com, and asked her to share her experience. The end result is what you would expect (and hope!) to gain from letting go for a while, and just running.

I liked not having to stand at the end of my driveway at 5 a.m. waiting for satellite signals ... Running by feel took off the pressure for runs that were only supposed to be easy ... I tend to run all my runs too fast.

How long have you worn a Garmin?
I picked up my Garmin September 2009 and I currently have 4080.15 km (2535.29 miles) on it and 405 hours, 24 minutes, 38 seconds running time! Before I used a $30 Timex lap watch!

What were the first few days like without it?
The first few days without it felt like heaven. I thought it would bother me to not be able to "see" my run during and after, but it did not at all. I used favorite routes or made up a new route ahead of time to gauge how far I would go. I pushed myself too hard wearing the Garmin. I knew I was supposed to run 6:30 km for an LSD but I felt it was not fast enough and I would do a few km at that pace and then speed up and then burn out way too early. I was always looking down and stressing about running too slow.

When were you able to determine your own pace by feel?
This was tricky to do. I based it mainly on how fast my breathing synced up with my turnover. If I am huffing too early in the run, I needed to slow down. I tried to base it on pure comfort level. It was interesting because I was running the routes faster than I needed to, but I felt comfortable and strong. I have no real explanation for this other than I am a very "mental" runner. The mental aspect of running definitely supersedes the physical. I can do myself completely in psychologically -- long before I am physically tired. I know this is common for so many people, and running without the Garmin leaves only the physical. I don't know how successful I actually was in determining my pace by feel, but the runs felt stronger.

How did the month of April help you by not wearing the Garmin?
Overall, I just had to run as well as I could. I ran a 5k and PRd by a few seconds. I had feedback at the halfway point because it was a double loop so I did know how fast I was at the first lap. I was much faster than I had ever been at that point in any other race, and I was a bit concerned I would not be able to hold the pace. I did fall back a bit, so again I am not too sure at how successful I was at teaching myself to pace. For the month it was a nice mental break to run only by feel. I did not stress out about my times and I was pretty proud of my speed work.

Do you feel it hurt you in any way in training for a half-marathon?
Absolutely not. I felt no pressure at the starting line for the first time in my life. I only wanted to run the race as fast as last year -- I had no big time goals for it. A month previous was the Around the Bay which cut into the half training a bit because I was pretty fatigued for the next few weeks after. My training runs for April were consistently strong but I only had one run that was as long as 16km and it was hampered by pathetic weather! I would have liked to had a couple more long runs without the Garmin, and I certainly plan to, still.

Did you wear the Garmin for the half marathon race? How did that experience go?
I did not wear the Garmin for the half. It was great to get into the start line and not fiddle with the watch. I know I took off at a reasonable pace because I sang the ABC's at 3 km with ease (yes, I did this to ensure I was not taking off too fast.) I always run out too fast and everyone knows this is not conducive to a good race. I would look down at my watch at the 3km point and think "alright I am running 5 minute kms!" Then I would completely tank out in the last few kms. With this recent half, I felt like almost every km could have been close to even splits. That is why when I wrote about it on dailymile, I called it "my perfect race". I felt good throughout the first 19ks and then there is a hill which I ran up completely this time. The last three years I have ran this half, I have always had to walk a portion of it. This was due to my improved endurance I am sure, but also because I was able to conserve a bit of energy to finish strong which I did.

Since the race ended, do you still train without the Garmin?
Since the race ended I have been sick, so I have only ran a couple of times. I did wear the Garmin ... I ran through the trails and I wanted to keep track of how far in I was and how long I had been gone for and I ran a long run in another town and I felt it necessary to know how far and how long I had been. I probably will use it for track speed work on a regular basis and if I go away from home to do my long runs in an unfamiliar place. I will not use it for my easy runs. I am going to really teach myself to do the easy runs at the slow speed I should be running them at. If I can pace the easy runs by feel then I will work on the tempo pacing by feel. I am optimistic!

What advice do you have for others wanting to do the same thing?
I think everyone should try it. I do think you need much longer than a month to learn to pace by feel though. Even if you have no intentions of learning this, I feel everyone should have a few runs where the pressure is off and to just enjoy the surroundings!

new life

2011-04-29T18:23:00.000-07:00

Today, when I attended the funeral of Tim Justice, the man who died at the Resurrection Run this past weekend, I had planned to come home and blog about what I had heard, to write about who Tim was (awesome), and what I learned from this past week.

But it's hard to keep writing about sadness.

So it has to be about hope instead. Because while there is a lot of devastation out there this week, there have been very small signs of hope. That's something we can all hold on to.

As a reporter, I've seen a lot this week: death, loss, destruction, fear. I've also walked away from two assignments in tears. One, a (running) race this past Saturday where a man died after he finished a 5K. I was there as a volunteer, but went straight to the newsroom to write my Sunday column about how a running community gathered in a way I'd never seen before.

The second event ... a tornado that ripped through Alabama. On Thursday, I was sent to cover Eclectic, a town of 1,000 that lost six residents.

Through these tears, I've questioned my role as a reporter, and as a journalist. These tears were of sadness and disbelief and grief for others, and they've stayed with me through the week.

My chest was tight on Saturday and Sunday, and again, since Thursday. My stomach has been in knots. These stories -- they've made me want to pack up my desk in the newsroom and say 'no more.' They've made me wonder, if I can't get through some of these assignments, then what is my role at the newspaper?

At the same time, I wonder what I'm complaining about. Seriously. I didn't lose anything. My daughter and our pets sat in a closet during the tornado sirens, but we came out when the sirens stopped. And went to bed.

But the loss of others, their losses, can hit hard when you're walking through what used to be their home. You think, how can they ... how do they move on from here?

My highlight this week was being able to run an extra mile on Wednesday. That's where I felt the strongest this entire week. That's what did it: an extra mile. I'll take it.

I have watched this week as hundreds walked through debris -- looking for something, anything: a photograph, clothes to wear the next day, matching shoes. A woman who was happy her son found her make-up box among the pieces of her mobile home that was ripped apart on the ground. Another woman's friend found her wedding invitation.

Small things. Hope.

The funeral for Tim Justice? There was a lot of hope in that church. He was loved by many. Trinity United Methodist Church in Opelika, AL, was packed. Tim Justice was a man of God, and loved by his family, his pastor, friends, and his students from Columbus Technical College in Georgia, where he was the dean of Applied Business.

He died in Montgomery after crossing the finish line of a race on Saturday, April 23. That broke my heart -- it touched and affected a lot of people.

A few things I'll share from today's service that I found uplifting:

One, is when the Rev. Earl Ballard said of Tim Justice, "He's been running the Resurrection Run his whole life." That spoke volumes of who he was, and the comment fell in line with a Bible verse read aloud -- a popular verse among athletes: 2Timothy 4:7-8.

Many know it by heart:

I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing.

It's a comfort to hear that in church.

It also was a comfort to hear this song choice, See you on the Other Side, during the service: (I hope I'm not wrong in the artist, Morgan Cryar.)

As I sat there and listened to the song, I thought of Tim Justice, and I thought of the tears and pain I saw this week in Eclectic. There are a lot of people hurting. There's a lot of pain. In the middle of that, I've witnessed, there is a lot of hope -- hope from people who set examples for the rest of us. Who face adversity head-on, fighting all the way.
Some people this week were pushed pretty hard to the ground. From what I've seen, though, despite the pain and suffering, they are not going to stop fighting until they have pulled themselves back up. They have a lot of their side: God, family, friends.

Everyone I met this week is starting a new life. For those who lost their friend Tim, and for those who lost family, friends and their homes from the tornadoes, it could be the hardest thing they've ever faced, and it can take a lot of time and prayer and patience.

For those who have passed -- they are in a new life as well. They are celebrating. And waiting.

Thankful Tuesday

2011-04-26T14:17:00.000-07:00

(Background): For the past three weeks, I haven't been running as much in order to allow a torn tendon on the right side of my right foot to heal. For the past week, there has been no bleeding/bruising, and now am waiting for scar tissue to repair the tear and for the tendon itself to heal.

It's a long process ... made longer when I take it upon myself to push the limits.

Two weeks into the the recovery plan of 2 miles 3x week, I was given the go-ahead by coach to run 3 miles. At the same "allowed" pace. But I pushed it to a minute-per-mile faster. And was pulled back to 2 miles immediately. Slow.

During this time "off," I've been swimming once or twice a week and cycling when I can. I get on the elliptical as little as possible. And, I run my 2 miles.

What I learned I'm not giving credit for -- what I'm not really showing my thanks for -- is how this time off from running is building my strength.

At times, I feel the 2-mile runs are more-or-less cross-training for swimming rather than swimming being something that is making me a stronger runner. I thought of that this morning. And I thought of how some doctors or physical therapists who don't run would have told me to not run at all during this injury recovery period.

But I'm working with someone who runs, swims and cycles. And who knows the limits, even if I don't always follow them. I'm learning who is right in this. It is not me. And I'm learning to listen. Again.

I'm thankful for what this break has given me: a stronger upper body, rested legs (they are Ready! to go), sleeping in some mornings until 5:30 a.m. (when you only run 2 miles, you really just get up and go).

I'm thankful for getting to know Elizabeth in the pool. She has endurance I envy.

I'm even thankful for the ribbing from friends I sometimes join on Saturday mornings -- who joke that the "weight" is leaving the group after 2 miles as they head off for another 8 miles or more. I just smile and nod. (This recovery period won't last forever, gentlemen.)

But I'm thankful for them. They run a 2-mile route with me and run me back to my car before taking off for the rest of their run. That's sweet.

I'll be thankful when all of this is over, knowing I had the patience (sometimes, stubborn) to wait it out for six weeks. I'll be thankful for the results of a rested body, mind and spirit.

And I'll be most thankful for the encouragement from family and friends. That goes a long way.

40 miles through Chief Ladiga

2011-04-17T08:09:00.000-07:00

A two-hour drive northeast of Montgomery landed me and some friends on Saturday morning in Anniston, and at the start of (or the end of, depending on how you look at it) a former railroad that was turned into a 33-mile trail. Thank goodness for that rail-to-trail decision years ago -- and for this trip. The ride along the Chief Ladiga Trail was an escape needed for everyone for many reasons -- even if we didn't know those reasons until after we arrived, or even until after we returned home. When you're presented with nothing but a trail, trees, a one-armed man carrying an axe along the side of a highway, the aroma of honeysuckle in various spots and a quiet you can only experience in the seclusion of a trail hidden from the busyness of life, then you're right where you belong.

You're forced to be still. Don't know about the rest of the group, but that's my favorite part of life.

(Brief history: the Chief Ladiga Trail is Alabama's first rails-to-trails project. The 33-mile trail stretches from the Alabama-Georgia state line to Anniston. The Chief Ladiga is on the same rail corridor as the Silver Comet Trail in Georgia. The two are expected to be joined after the Cleburne County section is completed. When the Chief Ladiga and the Silver Comet trails are connected there will be a 90-mile corridor available for non-motorized travel from just west of Atlanta, Georgia to Anniston, Alabama. Source: http://www.chiefladiga.com/)

There were seven of us on this day trip. All of various speeds, experience, desires. Knowing this was a simple out/back, we took off (starting at the 33.5 mile mark, and I guess going 'backwards'), switching off partners, sometimes in a group of four, sometimes left to ourselves for miles at a time. No matter the company or solitude, the trail delivered. The path was relatively flat, with barely 2- to 3-percent inclines.

The path was smooth throughout for the most part, with only a few uneven spots that forced us to stand up on our bikes to avoid the pain of the bumps. There weren't many runners (I might have seen only two or three), but plenty of cyclists: there were tandem bikes, families riding together, and more serious riders making their way around us. There also was the man carrying the axe along the side of a highway. We noticed him hitting something into the ground (a sign?) and when he walked away, noticed the missing arm, and that the "hammer" was an axe. There were giggles from me and my friend Carrie, only because it was so out of the ordinary.

On the way out on this trail, three of us made our way to the 18.5-mile mark.

At the turnaround is where I met the little girl below. She and her two siblings stood along the side of the trail while their mother took down clothes from a line in their backyard. The little girl waved and smiled, and called out "Hi!" and when I turned at the 18.5-mile point (at the stop sign you can see behind me in the photos below), she was still there. So I stopped to say hello.

And then, she handed me the weed-flowers she had been holding. I regret not getting her name, but promised her I would carry the flowers back home to Montgomery. And did.

The ride back was hard, as we faced winds around 20 mph. I'm a recreational cyclist, and while I know what drafting means in cycling, I've never tried to incorporate it into a ride. On Saturday, I did. Had no choice. The rest of the ride brought us back through the towns we rode through on the way out, including Jacksonville (have you ever heard of Jacksonville State University? The trail took us through its campus, and at around 1 p.m., past some guys sitting on couches outside their apartment drinking beer. Go Gamecocks!) and Weaver (population, less than 3,000).

We stopped at Bubba's Used Cars lot to hydrate and eat a snack. I love any business that has the word Bubba in it. Not sure why, but it makes me chuckle just a little. It was a very small lot. Very friendly and trusting -- going as far as leaving keys in one of the the car doors.

We finished our ride back in Anniston, looping back about a mile or so to get in an even 40 miles for the day. It was a gorgeous afternoon -- sunny, clear skies. The scenery -- trees, mountains, the people, the quietness of the creek along parts of the trail -- made it a more than worthwhile trip.

I think everyone took away something from our Saturday trip. We made promises to do this again soon -- if not here, then somewhere else. If you have a chance to visit Chief Ladiga, read here to plan your day: http://bit.ly/g6hVpP

For other trails, visit: http://www.railstotrails.org/

Must. Swim. More.

2011-04-15T15:56:00.000-07:00

Today, I was willing to give up the swim. With less than 4 hours of sleep, it seemed logical. I'd reset my alarm and just get up to run. Running is always choice number one.

Instead, I woke at 4:30 a.m., and knew that if I got in my 3-mile run and swim, that I would get back in time for the plumber ("We'll be there between 7-9.") ... But You Have To Go Now.

And that was hard.

(I'm still on an "injury recovery" schedule. I put the schedule together every few days after my physical therapist tells me the distance and pace I can run (I've cheated on the pace the past two runs, I admit). This is the leisurely non-training schedule I'm on for another week (just one more week!! Maybe.). With the schedule, I mix in cycling, elliptical and swimming.)

Age 8. On the back of this picture, I wrote years ago:
That's me ... one with the goggles, red suit. This is 8-under.
I false-started 3 times in a row; I'll never forget it!
(I did forget. Thankfully, this did not scar me.)

I'm still only allowed to run three days a week, so this week chose Monday, Wednesday and Friday. (I'll count my Sunday run as next week.) I like to swim on Fridays because I have the time.

This week has been tough though, sleep wise. I haven't had enough. Tuesday night found me up at 2 a.m., and I never went back to sleep. On Wednesday, I fell asleep close to 1 a.m. (up at 6 a.m.).

Last night, after an exhausting day and a soccer game, I turned off my bedroom light and television at 9 p.m., but remained awake until around 1 a.m. -- and was up at 4:30 a.m. with the alarm.

Tired. But I had to do something. So I got up, drank a little coffee, put my Mizunos on, grabbed my gum, mace, house key, and headed out the door for my 3-miler by 5 a.m.

And it wasn't enough. These sleepless nights have killed me. I'm a zombie. I'm numb. And frustrated with the cause. And when the run wasn't enough, I followed through on the original plan and headed to the pool.

I swam 1150 yards; all I had time to swim. But I swam harder and was more out of breath than usual. My arms hit into the water harder and I'm thinking, Whoa! You can "get the mad out" in the pool, too? This was therapeutic!

I only thought this happened on the roads. I'm not a new swimmer. I started swimming when I was a day shy of 8. My main sport growing up was running, but I swam competitively from age 8 until about 17 -- and ran on school teams from age 12-18, so it's always been there. But today was different than the past few times I've been in the pool these past couple of weeks.

I usually swim a 100, then kick a 50 -- and do that for however many times I have time for. (The kicking rests the arms -- I really don't have strong arms.) Today, though, I swam a 150 and kicked a 50 until I had no choice but to get out of the pool. It either was adrenaline, or -- or, I don't know what. But I remember thinking, Must. Swim. More.

My neck is tight, so is my upper back. On a stress level, these past few days have been hard, physically. And while either a massage or time will take care of that, the swim was not affected by it. I'll never trade anything for running unless forced, but I also won't ever underestimate what something other than running can do for me.

A Year of Responsibility

2011-04-12T18:49:00.000-07:00

(My speech from when I was guest speaker at the Women of Hope breast cancer support group meeting April 12.)

A Year of Responsibility

Mom

When I was 12, my mom used to wake me up, and we would sneak out of the house at around 11 p.m. or midnight, and make our way to a local pizza place and sit in a booth. Just the two of us. I don't remember what we talked about, but I still can see us sitting in a booth, arcade game noises buzzing around us, and the waitress filling our plastic cups with soda.

This is the mom who didn't hesitate when I told her I wanted to start attending morning swim practices when I was 10 years old. Practice started at 5 a.m. – she just said okay. This is the mom who would let me ride with my cross country and track teammates on a bus to a meet -- and who would drive the hour or more behind the bus just to watch me run.

As the years pass, I work harder and harder for my memories. Many will stick out ... like when I watched my mom drive 80 mph (once; speed limit was about 55?) to get us to church on time. I remember her explaining to me what a mirage was when I saw it in the road. I remember having to admit to her that I purposefully ruined a lunchbox I didn't like, and her telling me, "All you have to do is talk to me."

I tell my daughter that all of the time. And she does.

I remember when I learned my mother had breast cancer. And I remember when the first breast was taken away. And then the second. And the chemotherapy. And when the cancer spread, left, and then returned.

And when it all just became too much. I remember those moments. When her hair started falling out is when my own nightmares began. I remember that. I remember the dream when my own hair fell out.

I remember her last year with us. She had lost a son three years before, and had three young daughters -- when she died, we were 17, 11 and 2 years old. I remember her fight, and I remember when the fight ended. When she said, "No more." I remember the last time she was in our home before she went to the hospital.

The cancer had spread to her liver and her body swelled fast. I remember her feet, because she had no ankles.

I remember that day, sitting at our dining table, trying to understand, at age 17, the significance of the moment. The enormity of what was taking place.

A week later, my mom was gone.

I remember sitting on my bedroom floor the day she died. And crying, wondering how I would make it through that day without her. And the next. And the years ahead.

Last month, I turned 40 years old. It is the same age my mom died, and some days, it scares me.

It is a lot of pressure to be the woman my mom was, and do as she did. To hold on to the goodness of life when everything stacks against you..

It is a year of responsibility. Of making mom proud, of living her spirit. Of providing that spirit to my daughter.

*****

In 2008, I completed a blog project for the Montgomery Advertiser. I ran in five Susan G. Komen for the Cure 5K runs in honor of my mother. That year, I had turned 37, the year my mother was diagnosed, and back then, knew I had to find a way to live the next three years living like I knew I was living – just like my mother lived, knowing she was dying.

I merged together my love for running and my desire to honor my mother and decided I would run, and write. The decision to do this was easy. But the journey on the path to honor my mother was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done because I didn’t realize how much was left undone while my mother still was with us.

I have chosen two blog entries to share – two parts of my journey that stand out to me, and that I believe helped me prepare for this year:

Maria Ashmore, founder of Women of Hope

September 13, 2008:
The first five seconds after the Komen for the Cure race this morning in Shreveport went well.

I crossed the finish line, walked away from the cheering and felt good.

Then the enormity of everything hit me -- my mom, this journey, the race -- and I felt I could not breathe. I could feel within me giant sobs about to burst, and the deeper I tried to breathe, the more I could feel everything build up.

Just breathe, just breathe, just breathe, I kept telling myself.

It did no good.

I sat on a concrete ledge on a lamppost and let the tears fall down my face, and the anguish release from my body. The only thing I was grateful for at the time was my sunglasses.

And a few seconds later, for the woman who became my temporary strength.

She saw me bent over at the lamppost and asked if I was okay. I told her I was not hurt, that I was fine.

She saw the sign on my back that read “In Memory of ... My Mom Pam Klass.”

And she knew I wasn’t in tears from physical pain.

Without hesitation, she embraced me in a huge hug and said, “You’re doing this for your mom, aren’t you? Your mom would be so proud! It’s okay to cry. You’re okay!”

I have no idea who she was. She left before I could ask.

I made the 200-yard walk to my car to and kept trying to breathe. Gave up after a while, and cried. And didn’t care.

When I had finally gathered myself together -- still at my car, pretending to "organize" things in my trunk so passers-by wouldn't think I was a basket case -- I called my husband. And said my emotions weren't just because I missed my mom, but also for the fact there were more than 5,000 people in one area fighting for a cause. For one cause. For the reason my mother died.

My breathing was still shaky, but more calm.

The phone in Alabama was passed to my daughter, who was filled with princess stories from a birthday party she attended Friday night, and who said she loved me. She slowly brought me back to Earth.

And when I got back on the phone with my husband, I started saying goodbye, and, thinking of the four Komen races I still have ahead of me in the next five weeks, told him, “I hope the other ones aren’t as hard as this one. I don’t know if I can do it.”

At the same time I was saying that, I wondered whether my mom said that after her first round of chemo.

I doubt it.
She probably looked the staff in the eyes, and said, “See you next week.”

****

In Memory of ... Grandma
Susan G. Koman, Nashville, 2008

Journey continues with my daughter:

Nov. 9, 2008

I took four days off from running after the last Komen run in Macon, Ga., on Oct. 25. My body thanked me. So did my daughter, as we spent a couple of those would-be-running-nights curled up on the couch watching movies.

Through this journey, she taught me how to be a better mom. I learned how to talk to her about breast cancer — I learned how to be honest about it. That yes, it is possible I could be diagnosed with breast cancer. Yes, I could die.

But yes, sweetheart, I could live.

My daughter and I grew closer during these runs. She prayed for my safety, and that I would do well in races. She held tight to an angel coin when I traveled to the first two races without her — she squeezed them whenever she sent me good wishes.

She said she was sorry my mom died.

We had talks in the car about cancer, about balloons floating up to grandma (and what happens if she has too many). And sometimes, I would catch her just staring at me — the time during the runs was an intense time in our house. It was filled with so much emotion, so many questions, so many tears.

There sometimes seemed to be questions I couldn’t answer well enough at home. The questions: "But what if you die ... but what if you get cancer and it comes back, then what? And it doesn’t go away? Then what?"

That is why it was so important that she watch, at every race she attended, the parade of survivors. They gave her hope — as much hope as a 5-year-old can understand. It was important for her to see so many women who battled the disease, and lived. So important for her to understand that not everyone dies. So important to know how hard people work to raise money to help find a cure.

She understood. She got that not everyone dies. She is reassured.

About a week after the races were complete, she looked up at me from the dining room table, and — out of the blue — said, "Mom, I hope you are a survivor, too."

****
I live this year for my mother. To honor her. To honor my daughter. To honor the women who came before my mother – and to those who will come years and years after. Her life will not be forgotten.

This year of responsibility is meant to set an example about how to live life to the fullest. It is a year of responsibility and more. More years. More living.

The age itself doesn't bother me. I've looked forward to 40, although almost every time I look at my daughter, I do wonder what my mother thought as she looked at her children in her last year. Age 40 -- I embrace it for what it is.

It is a year of remembering what is important – life. Living. Really living. It is about visiting a local pizza place at midnight with your daughter when you should be sleeping. About making memories that matter. For me, it is also about living the year of 40 with the same drive and guts my mother set by example before me. And then, to live a year she never did.

Jenna's marathon

2011-04-10T07:10:00.000-07:00

She sleeps as I write this -- my exhausted 7-year-old who completed her first marathon yesterday.

That's a lot of pounding on the pavement. A lot of wear on the body ... a few early mornings, and some long 2-mile runs at night. I'd like to say it was all for the love of running -- but with Jenna, it was all for the dedication of finishing. All for her commitment to finish a task. To finish what she started even if at one point she decided she didn't want to do it.

Jenna joined about 160 children yesterday at the Five Points of Life Kids Marathon sponsored by the LifeSouth Blood Community Centers. The kids were to run 25 miles up to yesterday morning and then complete their "marathon" with a 1.2-mile run at the YMCA Goodtimes Center in Montgomery.

She's tired.

Her feet hurt some. And where some parents might be concerned, when Jenna told me the other day "Mom, it hurts when I sit down and stand up sometimes because it hurts here ... " (and she pointed to her thighs), I smiled and told her, "You're sore! You've worked hard!"

That's never a bad thing. I was really proud of that soreness :)

Jenna started this journey several weeks ago, and when half-way finished, said she didn't want to do it anymore.

I realized at that moment there is a fine line between encouraging your child to complete what they started and not forcing them to do something they don't want to do. That was a hard call. So I let it go -- I didn't want to force her to keep running if she didn't want to continue. I was secretly disappointed she let go of the running, but we moved on, and put the Kids Marathon out of our heads.

Fast-forward a week: Jenna tells her dad this past week that she wanted to finish her 25 miles so she could cross the finish line with her friend Josie. She had to finish 12 miles in three days, and Jenna sent me an e-mail Tuesday night detailing it out:

Hi mommy! I have the scedrel for the miles, here it is. 2 tomorrow (morning) and 2 tomorrow night, 2 in the mooring on thurs. And 2 in the evnig. 2 in the morning on fri and 2 in the evning on fri. I have to do twelve instead of eighteen. I did 5 on daily mile and daddy was so nice that he gave 4 miles for the soccer practices and the game. Please reply soon. XOXOXO. Love, Jenna

So there you have it. A schedule/scedrel.

This child woke up at 6 a.m. to get in her 2-mile morning runs, put her shoes on to run 2 more miles before dinner (and these miles were put in after two soccer games and church choir) ... and so on. She finished. And every night was exhausted. This week she ran 12 miles (more miles than her injured mother -- I'll say it before you do), and the sense of accomplishment in her face was obvious.

She gained a new respect for running. A new respect for waking up early to run before school. To running even more after school. And I gained a new respect for Jenna.

Proud doesn't even begin to define it.

When she crossed that finish line yesterday, I embraced her in a hug a little bit longer than she probably would have liked, and her first question was, "Where's Josie?"

I smiled. This was about finishing something with a friend, about celebrating together. And about taking the next few days off from running.

It was about having confidence she could do this, about crossing that finish line and wearing her bib # all day.

I know there are a lot of stories out there. A lot of kids who sacrificed a lot of time and put forth a lot of effort to finish their marathon. There's also a lot of parents who encouraged their children to keep going, to accept changed minds and to encourage again at the drop of a hat.

At the end of the day, I asked Jenna how she felt when she finished her marathon, and she said, "Happy."

What a simple message.

2x3x3 + (x3 more)

2011-04-03T07:14:00.000-07:00

After taking my first few steps running this morning, I realized how lucky I am to be able to run at all because of my injury.

When it comes to moving forward in training, knowing when to start increasing pace and distance -- all while recovering from an injury (I'm using the 'i' word for the first time) -- you learn there is a tough balance between what you want, and what you need to do. Between what you recently have accomplished, and that of which you need to just let go. Let go, and let heal.

Happens all the time to runners. I'm not writing anything new here.

I'll preface the next sentence by saying I woke up feeling better about things. But. I did not receive good news yesterday -- well, good, as in what I wanted to hear. I visited my physical therapist, Quinn Millington, yesterday at PT Solutions because after a two-mile test run on the ankle earlier in the morning, there was slight (discomfort?) below the ankle and to the side of the right foot. There was no pain during the run, but there was about two hours after. Result? A tendon issue.

I blame the beach running (but it was less than a mile!) in California mid-March.

The price we pay for temporary peace. (---> that's the beach, scene of crime)

The ankle has been an issue since March 15, but since then have had some great runs. But the ankle problem never went away. It doesn't swell anymore, or become discolored after runs, but it still hurts some.

Bottom line instruction: run 2 miles, 3x a week, for 3 weeks.

That was a lot to disgest yesterday. Two miles?

After I left PT Solutions, I kept asking myself, "2 miles, 3x/week? 2 miles?" over and over.

Such tiny, yet big, numbers.

I mentioned to Quinn that running sub-8 put some strain on my foot during yesterday's 2-mile run and that I had to slow it down (ran it at an easy/slow 8:22 pace), I was told to run the 2-milers slow(er). Before he could suggest a pace, I said 9-minute miles were too slow and that it would hurt.

So I was told to run this pace: 8:45.

I never run that pace. But, I'm the runner who wants to keep running. I'll do what I have to. I tried this morning to keep at that pace, and ended at 8:32 average. I'll try to go slower on Tuesday.

When I can run and have a pain-free foot throughout much of the afternoon after a morning run, we'll discuss either increasing speed or the number of days I can run.

x3 more:
That's the number of weeks I was told it would take to bring myself back to the speed I was before I had to put the brakes on my training. (This will come after the 2x3x3). For me, that was a comfortable 7:49-7:52 pace for 9-10 miles.

And that's why running 8:45 pace for 2 miles is going to be hard.

I'll stare it down. I'll do what I'm advised (or encouraged) to do -- because I'm smart enough to, and because I want to come back stronger (stronger!). Meanwhile, I'll continue to get on the bike, jump into the pool, store my Gu packs for another day and enjoy the month of April -- sleeping in, coffee on the patio in the mornings, letting the body heal throughout.

I can even put off having to buy new running shoes for a while.

And if there was any chance of me being upset about this decrease in my training, I have friends who won't let me. As soon as I returned home this morning from my run/bike, my friend Barb text'd me and said, "How was your run? I hope you found joy in it."

Review: Easy Canvas Prints

2011-03-28T19:52:00.000-07:00

When I was asked to write a product review for Easy Canvas Prints, the request came just days after I visited family in Iowa for my grandfather's funeral -- just days after the above photo was taken as I ran a 4-mile route near my grandfather's old farm. My dad took the photo, and I posted it on dailymile.com and Facebook to share memories I was making and holding onto while in the mid-west.

A few months ago, the company Build-a-Sign found my blog in a blogroll from another blog and in an effort to reach out to fitness sites, offered me the opportunity to receive bumper stickers for my blog. And recently, they contacted me again to let me know they launched a canvas Web site -- Easy Canvas Prints -- and offered me the opportunity to receive a canvas print and write a product review. Of course! Choosing the photo was easy: the one near my grandfather's old farm. It was fresh in my mind, and something I knew I wanted to keep hold of.

Ordering was easy -- a simple four-step process that takes no more than 5 to 10 minutes.

-- choose a canvas size

-- upload an image

-- select a border option (mirror image, image wrap [my choice] or border color)

-- choose an optional color finish (none, black/white, sepia)

Less than a week later, I had this at my door:

It was shrink-wrapped and bubble wrapped and there was no damage in the shipping. I am impressed with the quality of the product -- how clear the photo was reproduced on to the canvas material. I love this -- it is not only a quality product, but it is a moment in time I will be able to hold on to for a long time. The canvas print is such a warm, subtle way to display a memory. I look forward to this hanging in my home for years.

Running Around ... Monterey & Pacific Grove, California

2011-03-24T13:47:00.000-07:00

(Along the Monterey Bay Coastal Trail)

What do you do when your job mandates a week-long furlough and you take it during your daughter's spring break? You go to California! Jenna and I traveled here the week of March 13, after a few days in Iowa, where we visited for my grandfather's funeral.

The time in California was needed for rest. For the soul. To numb the mind for a bit.

And, to run.

I'm lucky my best friend lives here, and even more lucky she understood my need to leave her house by 7 a.m. the three mornings I was there to head out for a run, while she stayed home with her two boys and my daughter -- feeding them, making sure they got dressed, stayed entertained, etc.

All the runs on those mornings were along the Monterey Bay Coastal Trail. And, why not? Look at this:

On my second run on the trail, March 15, I set out for 10 miles. I tucked my camera into my jacket and for the first five miles out, vowed to stop here and here and here and there on my way back to take photos. Then, I arrived here (above): my mile 5 turnaround at Lover's Point in Pacific Grove. If there ever was a time to make a stop, it was here. I stopped for longer than I should have, but I had to. I live in Alabama. Central Alabama, where I have been stopped by sunrises before, but this kind of reaches in to you a little more than the sun peeking out from a field. This grabs you and forces you stop for just a second. Or two. Makes you appreciate the day, no matter.

On my 5 miles back, I knew I couldn't stop everywhere I wanted to take photos, so I stopped at every mile for 5-10 seconds to take a quick photo of whatever was in front of me. Mile 6, above, and mile 7, below, had me at the Monterey Wharf ... if I had one wish, it would have been to swoop all of this up and carry it back to Alabama with me (or, I could run in Mobile, although I'm not sure I can find this there.).

Mile 8: Out of the Wharf area, and sadly heading toward the end of my run. This was part of the beach I ran on the previous day during a 6-mile run. I only ran on the beach for less than a mile, but that was all it took to do something to my foot that hours after the 10-mile run (and while wearing flip-flops) forced me to stop dead in my tracks. The pain in my right ankle wouldn't allow me to walk very well. We learn as we go. I learned to not run on the beach again -- and no more flip-flops, no matter how tempting.

Around mile 9: this was one of my favorite stretches. The path between the trees was short, but beautiful. It envelops you, and sits near the Naval Postgraduate School. I parked at this area for a quick 3-mile run on my third day (despite the ankle hurting -- not the smartest) to make sure I would run through this area one more time before leaving California.

Thank you, mile 10. The fence-lined path above had me running uphill for about half of my last mile, and back toward the beach where I started. The prize at the top of the hill was the downhill section I completely forgot about. The path allowed me to take in the water once more, and forced me to shift gears while running past the homeless living in campers parked out near the beach.

This path brought me back to the place I started my run, where that morning an older man questioned the purpose of my pink CEPs, and where moms and strollers started morning walks. It brought me back to where, the day before, I saw a young man finish his run, out of breath, and who did the sign of the cross and pointed upward.

It brought me back to where it began, to where my day had yet to begin. To my peace, to the calm in my life. To the drive back to my daughter at my friend's house -- my daughter, whose "Mommy!" as I walked in the door made the run worth it, settling me back into my comfort.

Being here was nice. The runs were wonderful -- it was a needed break, and it is a place I'll return to whenever I can. It was the first trip to California in which I didn't yearn to stay -- but vowed to return. Maybe I've found my home on the rural roads in Alabama.

Still, it is reassuring to know what is waiting out there.

The Run Shop at Montgomery Multisport

2011-03-21T10:57:00.000-07:00

I stopped into The Run Shop at Montgomery Multisport recently to pick up a new Bondi Band,

and to take some photos to show you what you're missing in case you haven't stopped in the store yet.

The Run Shop at MMS is owned by experienced marathoners, ironman triathletes, a physical therapist and a certified running coach, and the store offers these shoe brands: Asics, Brooks, K-Swiss, Mizuno, Newton and Saucony. To get started:

The Run Shop offers a digital footprint to assess load distribution during weight bearing while

running, and also a video gait analysis (running on a treadmill to have your foot strike analyzed in order to determine the proper shoe you should wear). This is incorporated into the store's five-step

process to find the perfect (shoe) fit. That process is: personal profile, advanced foot

measurement,digital foot analysis, video gait analysis and shoe selection.

Love these. Review of them HERE. Have been wearing CEPs for a few weeks now, on every single run.

Bondi Bands! The absorption factor is key. Personally, I

wear them on shorter, 5-mile runs, and longer-for-me 13-mile runs and from experience,

know they do not move around, they aborb all sweat, and they are very lightweight.

Glad they are at the store -- tired of wearing caps in the summer.

We've all attended races in which throw-away gloves are included in swag bags, or are given away as age-group awards. And, they always are the same size. What I like about the gloves at The Run Shop at MMS is that they are sized. I consider my hands small, but ended up purchasing a Medium size. They fit, whereas the 'free' throw-aways from races always have an extra half-inch or so on the fingers.

The first time I used the Stuffits Shoe Savers was when I traveled to Texas this past Christmas to visit

my dad. He said, "Oh, wow. Really? A suitcase for your shoes?" Cute. I received this as a gift from a girlfriend and love them. They contain natural cedar inserts and are made to protect shoes

from moisture and odor -- and they work.

The store carries various-sized water bottles. I started running with this water bottle a few weeks ago after a tantrum I threw on a run broke the top of mine. It's a little big, but the hand sleeve fits like a glove, and it has worked well for longer runs in terms of having enough water to get through (at least) 10 miles. If anything, I can take the sleeve off and it works well for cycling.

Yankz 'laces'

A column I wrote on the store is HERE (only on-line for seven days). Montgomery Multisport is located at 8107 Vaughn Road in Montgomery -- across from MetroFitness. Phone #: 334-356-7271

Snickers Half Marathon (the first [almost] 4 miles)

2011-03-05T15:29:00.000-08:00

3.64 miles ... 7:53 pace

That's where I stopped today. The pace was right where I wanted to be, and faster than I was at the start of the Chickamauga Half Marathon in November. Even pulled myself back some to make sure I didn't blow it.

It failed anyway. For those who can get two hours of sleep the night before a half marathon and still have an amazing race, they have a strength I don't. I've never been more ready for a race. I've trained hard. I've listened to my physical therapist, Quinn Millington, from PT Solutions, even when -- especially when -- he told me to cut back on my training. I did my homework.

Still, a friend told me today there are some things you can't control. Such as:

Staying at a hotel with people arriving to their rooms at around 10 p.m. or 10:30 p.m., and doors slamming shut loudly, because there is no other way for them to shut. You hear every single closing. And they walk in and out, and talk to their friends in the hallway. They were right across from me. And had a lot to say.

You can't control being able to hear the creaking of an ironing board being opened up in one of the rooms next to you -- really? Ironing at 11 p.m.?

If I have discussed my sleep habits with anyone, they know these two things: I need to fall asleep to absolute silence, and after, I'm able to sleep through most anything. Two, if something wakes me up at night, it can take me between 30 minutes to an hour to fall back to sleep. I can not control those things -- that's just the way it is.

All I could think was, "This is not happening ... this is not happening."

So, compounding those sleep 'issues' and the noise throughout the hotel -- including a couple hours of activity next door. Seriously. -- I last remember looking at the clock at 1:30 a.m. And I know I was up until at least 2 a.m. or 3 a.m. My alarm was set for 5:15 a.m. At one point, I turned off the room alarm, and reset my cell phone alarm to 5:45 a.m.

Didn't matter. Had one quick dream (proof that I slept at all) and was up on my own around 5:15 a.m. or so.

When I got out of bed, I was so tired, I could barely walk. My body was shaking a little, and it reminded me of the sleepless nights of when my daughter was up two to four times a night for feedings, and how I could barely function throughout the day.

And I'm supposed to run?

I was so tired.

I drove out to the race, did the mile warm-up, found my friend Duane, then Roxy, and then found our place in the group to get ready to run. "So? It's just a run ..." a friend told me last night as a way to calm my nerves. And after the night of "sleep," I had no choice but to treat it as such.

1st mile: 8:01
2nd mile: 7:53
3rd: 7:47
.64: 7:50

I was doing what I trained to do, but a "tired" headache hit, as did my body, and I knew that I either called it there, or later. When I stopped and lowered myself to the grass and had to hold On To the grass to remain steady, I knew I was just exhausted.

I'll give this race one thing: their volunteers are exceptional. Within a couple of minutes, I was approached, walked to a chair, given water, a Heatsheet/foil blanket, and talked to until a couple of volunteers knew I was okay.

I was so tired I didn't even know how to react.

I was taken back to my car and for whatever reason sat in the passenger side (hoping someone would drive me home?), and just sat and cried. Exhausted. Unable to believe what had just happened. I text-messaged my physical therapist, "After all that work, I am so sorry." He worked a lot to get my lower back feeling better, and I'll be honest, for a while I felt really guilty because my body feels great. I had no pain today, even now.

And I couldn't even say 'thanks' with a good race. It made me feel I had nothing to show for it.

I don't like pulling out of races. I think about it a lot, but only one other time have had to -- when I had a stomach virus at the Mercedes Half Marathon a couple of years. That was ugly.

I try to walk away from these situations having learned something. Today? Things happen, and I have to learn that they "just" happen, and that they are not excuses for anything. I wanted to be there -- I wanted that race to be a PR. I wanted it to kick off my Masters division.

But it didn't happen. And it's okay. Tomorrow, I'll run 13.1. Tonight, I sleep in my own bed.

review: nite beams cap

2011-02-22T18:21:00.000-08:00

I'll be the first to admit I usually (quietly) chuckled a little at people wearing hats-with-lights. I never saw the point in them (can't even bear to be seen above!), never wanted to wear it, and never imagined I'd wear one because of how much I thought the lights would move around as I ran -- and, to be honest, because I worried about how I would look. Montgomery Multisport asked me to try it out -- and I met their challenge this morning.

I left the house at about 5:40 a.m. for my 7-mile run, and had a good 20 minutes or so of decent darkness left. I purposefully ran down a dark highway near my home, at a time I knew traffic would start picking up. I also purposefully did not bring my LED flashlight. My faithful LED flashlight that I never leave home without in the dark. Ever. MMS says this is going to work? I'll have to trust them, and refused to be hesitant in doing so.

The description on the hats that I found HERE, and what MMS reassured me of is this (this is all I had to hold on to when I set out on my run. And for a girl who likes to stick with what works [the LED flashlight works just fine], this took a lot of trust):

The Nite Beams LED Headgear Double Vision Cap makes sure you are seen from both the front and the rear. Ultra-bright White LED's on the bill and Red LED's on the adjustable velcro strap are seen up to a 1/4 mile away so you can run with confidence in low-light conditions.

You can just 'hear' the advertisement for it, can't you? You want to believe them, but don't want to try it at the same time. But as I set out on this dark highway, cars started moving over. I don't have much shoulder room to move over onto (just an uneven surface of grass and rocks), so I initially was worried I wouldn't be able to find good footing with whatever light came from the cap. But, even though I had to bend my head just a little to see where I was stepping, I had plenty of light. I kept the lights on the entire run, even when dawn broke.

What I found better about this hat than the LED flashlight I carry, is that the lights are so bright, cars respond to seeing me better than when I just use my flashlight as the sky just starts to light up. I appreciated that. And, I appreciated being seen from the back with the two red LED lights on the back of the cap -- which can either remain blinking or be switched to a solid light setting.

I'll keep wearing it. I was seen, and cars responded when they could. The lights did not "bounce around" as I thought they might (it was one large steady light leading my way), and I had a free hand. I'll still wear my reflective belt -- the more seen, the better -- but I'd say the hat is a win-win all the way around.

(Montgomery MultiSport, 8107 Vaughn Road, 334-356-7271http://www.montgomerymultisport.com/)

(photo from: goneforarun.com)

(the lights are still pretty bright even in full daylight)

Iowa roads

2011-02-17T04:29:00.000-08:00

The roads around my grandparents house in Iowa were country: full of gravel, dirt, lined on either sides with fences, every half-mile or so a house. Cattle.

Whenever my family and I would travel here in the summers, my dad and I would take to those roads in the early mornings before it got too hot. We ran down the lonliest roads that today I would embrace, but at age 12, I just ran because I wanted to run with my dad. Back then, those roads seemed to take forever.

We'd walk down the long gravel driveway -- seemed all driveways in Iowa were roads themselves -- turn left onto the road in front of the house and run to a stop sign. Turn right. Run to the next road. Turn right. Another right. Right. Home. A big boring square. Today, those roads wouldn't be long enough.

Every morning I woke while at my grandparents house, my grandfather would already be up. I probably woke around early-for-me-then at 7 a.m. Aside from the farmland my grandparents tended to, they also ran a dog kennel business. They were up early to feed, and to bed late after the chores were done -- this consumed their lives for years.

I'd wake from one of the guest rooms, sleepy, running clothes on, shoes in hand and my grandfather would either be out in the kennels feeding the dogs or in the kitchen eating breakfast after an hour or two of chores.

Every time, I'd ask, "Grandpa, do you want to go run?"

He'd look at me and dead-pan, "I ran at 5. Where were you?"

I'd laugh, put my shoes on and head out with my dad to those empty roads. I might have asked dad at least once if grandpa was serious. Just to make sure.

This past Christmas, I drove home to Texas to visit my dad and family. My grandfather now lives in Texas from October through around April or May to get away from the Iowa winters. While there, the same question was asked -- "Grandpa, I'm heading out for a run around 6 a.m. Are you coming?"

He's 91 now, and said, "I run at 5."

I look at this sweet man and smile. He is frail, but sharp. We laugh. That light remains in his eyes.

My dad called last night. Said my grandfather has been diagnosed as terminally ill. He is a strong man: big hands, huge heart, strong, silent presence. Even the strongest fall.

We don't know how much longer he has -- doctors can always give a time, but when you've been through this with cancer before, you learn to just appreciate the time you have: the weeks, months, year?

We did with my mom. And my grandmother. I won't be counting weeks. I will call my grandfather today and just talk. Tell him I missed him on my run in Alabama, and hear how he beat me on my pre-dawn run by about an hour.

I'll think of my own rural roads I ran on this morning, and how I felt the roads of Iowa. The solitude, the beauty, the way I never wanted them to end this morning. My grandfather and I will laugh, and catch each other after the next run.