Survival Shuffle

Army Ten-Miler Race Report

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Mon, 08 Oct 2007 01:54:00 +0000

It’s the rare race where everything comes together for the perfect performance. It seems as if something is always preventing me from doing my best. Excuses? Or poor planning?

Some things are just out of your control as a racer. The weather, for instance. But the best possible planning helps you overcome those things as much as possible. Train well, eat well, pack well. It’s a lesson I apparently need to relearn.

I’m running the Army Ten-Miler as a warm-up for the Marine Corps Marathon. I’ve been struggling through most of my post-partum recovery training just trying to get the miles in at whatever pace feels right that day, and I want to leave it all out there and see what I can do, and hopefully get an idea of what my marathon pace should be.

So I have 3 goals:

Run hard
Beat my 2006 time of 2:00, set while 4 months pregnant, and avoid a PW
Beat my husband for the first time since 2006. He’ll be running a 10:30 pace.

The forecast for the day is 90 and sunny. I know that spells bad news, since most of the course is in the sun. Following my mantra “Always be prepared” I buy a visor at the expo, some spray-on sunscreen, and pack my Race Ready shorts with some Carboom and eCaps. All set.

I get everything out and in a place where I won’t leave it behind.

At 6:30 AM my brother shows up to watch Baby Balgera. He’s 15 minutes early. I’m off to a good start. One thing out of my control went smoothly. Hop in the car, up to the start, find parking, arrive in plenty of time to use the bathroom and line up. No traffic. Another thing going smoothly.

DH and I cross the start line around 8:20. The crowd is not too bad. The three-wave start seems to have worked well. We trot along at what I think is a “comfortably hard” pace, but already DH is falling behind. This worries me. I have no idea how my pace should feel anymore. I ask him if this feels like the normal pace for his training runs (10:30), or faster. He says it feels about normal so I go with it. It’s a race after all.

He falls significantly behind, and I pass the first mile marker. 9:47. Woops.

Mistake #1 which could have easily been overcome by preparation. Not learning what the right pace for the race feels like.

So I decide to slow it down a hair. Good thing because by the time I cover the next two miles I’m starting to feel some fatigue. I miss the next mile marker, but mile 2 and mile 3 I cover in 21:30 or 10:45 per mile. Better. I decide I’ll keep it there.

Mile 4 passes and I’m feeling pretty good. 10:23. Here I stop for water. Unfortunately the Army Ten-Miler suffers from an overload of rookies who have no idea how to run through a water-stop. They all pile up at the very first table. Smartly, I think, I will run to the end. But I have outsmarted myself - at the end there is only Gatorade. Not what I want. Full-strength Gatorade will upset my stomach. But it’s that or walk against traffic for water. Preventable mistake #2 – listen to the volunteers handing out the water and plan the water-stops better.

Mile 5 goes fine however with no stomach upset. With the water-stop fiasco and a minute of walking I have an 11:40 split, but that means I’ve run in the neighborhood of a 10:40 pace. I seem to have settled in.

I push through mile 6 and I’m starting to feel it – 11:02. Another water stop is coming up just past the mile marker so I take a gel, get myself ready to grab a water and pick up the pace again. Only 4 more miles to go and I can push through that at under 11:00 per mile, I confidently tell myself. That will put me at the finish around 1:48, an excellent time for my current fitness level.

Only – there’s no water. Or Gatorade for that matter. Now it’s 90 degrees with the sun beating down, the band of my visor totally saturated with sweat, the overflow spilling into my eyes, my teeth coated with goo, and there’s no water. A group of soldier volunteers is standing around. I shout “Where’s the water?” They tell me to keep going. I near the end of the line of tables and realize that’s it. There’s just no water. A group of people is digging dirty cups out of the trash and scooping water out of a garbage can. I do the same. The water is full of dirt. I pour it over my head for momentary relief. Preventable mistake #3 – not bringing my own fluids.

This is demoralizing. I shuffle for a minute along with a crowd of grumbling people. I’ve spent 2-3 minutes searching for water so my goals seem shot. But I don’t want this to become an excuse, so I pick it up again. As we pass the Capitol, people start diving into the fountain on the lawn and drinking from it. This looks momentarily appealing but I decide heatstroke is a more pleasant affliction than dysentery so I run on past. Mile 7: 12:47. If subtract two minutes for dumpster diving I’ve run around 10:47, so at least my legs are still working and I’m theoretically maintaining pace.

After the 7 mile marker I can see down Independence Avenue to where the next water stop will be. There are two stone arches over the street where we’ll make the turn onto the 14th Street bridge. I’m on the edge of bonking, and I focus on the arches. I’ll get some water and Gatorade there. I count down the minutes.

The 8 mile mark is a few hundred yards beyond the tables. I make a quick estimation – if I can grab some water quickly I can speed (relatively speaking) on through the next mile in about 11:00. I round the corner prepared to grab the first cup I see and power past the crowd. And I see – groups of people bent over garbage cans, dirty cups blowing across the plains of empty tables. There’s no water here either.

Fully preventable mistake #4 – harboring optimism.

I spend a couple of minutes rooting for a cup and water. Since the last stop had no water, everyone who planned on getting some here has given up and is doing the garbage can scoop. I drop several minutes trying to find a clear spot.

I’m fully prepared to go ahead and drink this – I’m desperate now – but there’s just too much debris floating in the water. I pour it over my head again. I walk to the 8 mile mark. 13:57.

On to the 14th street bridge. Almost 2 miles of undulating concrete baking in the sun like the Iraqi desert, the river below like a fetid Persian Gulf. I’d rather swim through the Potomac than cross this.

I’m totally wiped, but I can’t decide if it’s from running faster than I should have, the lack of water, or the prospect of the bridge. A thick crust of salt coats my body and cracks with every movement. I decide it’s mostly mental and push on. Mile 9: 12:01.

My lower back is killing me. I’ve been leaning forward going up the hills on the bridge. My form and spirit are totally broken. I take a brief walk break. I look at my watch. I can still get in under 1:55. There’s a half-mile to go and one more hill. Time to dig in. I start to run. Not shuffle – run. I pass pretty much everyone on the bridge. I pass a double-amputee. He’s running. I pass a woman missing an arm. She’s running. Everyone else has been reduced to walking by the heat, the bridge, the dehydration. Or is it loss of faith?

I’m dizzy, my hands are tingling, and I’m shivering. Oh yay. Heatstroke. Well there’s an ambulance a few hundred yards back tending someone else. Maybe I can catch a ride.

I run through the finish at what feels like a sprint but probably looking like a lame Snuffalupagus at a gallop. 11:30. Total time: 1:54:42. I grab some water and nearly kiss the feet of the volunteer handing it out.

I don’t know what to think. I’m mad at the race organizers, I’m mad at the weatherman, and mostly I’m mad at myself. Because I’ve left myself with a lot more doubts than confidence going into Marine Corps Marathon in 3 weeks. Was this really a good test race? Did I bonk because of my early pace and my fitness level, because of the heat, because of the water situation, or because I let it all get to me? Do I take a few minutes off my final time due to the water stop fiascos for purposes of estimating my marathon pace or not? Do I use the time I think I could have run had everything been perfect? Did I really leave it all out there? I’ve had faster training runs, after all.

I just don’t know myself any more. I don’t know how to gauge my pace. I don’t know what to expect from this marathon. I don’t know if I can be satisfied with just “finishing” MCM. I don’t know if there will be excuses to make – I just had a baby, it was hot, the course was crowded… Or if I can be satisfied with my performance no matter what the outcome.

All I can do for the next three weeks is train well, eat well, pack well. I’ll leave nothing to chance, leave no doubt that I’ve done everything I can to control the outcome.

Hello, Old Friend

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Tue, 03 Jul 2007 23:01:00 +0000

11 weeks post-partum

Weight: 173 lbs
Waist Measurement: 39 inches
Clothing size: 12 (non-maternity)
Blood Pressure: 122/80

Things have not been going as planned. My body has not been behaving as it should.

To start with, there's the backwards progress on my weight. I have diligently counted calories in and calories out. The math tells me I should be losing about a pound per week. I am not starving myself, and I am not eating junk. I eat 6 small portions throughout the day. I have gradually upped my running mileage to 25 miles per week and have missed nary a workout in weeks. Yet I've gained a couple of pounds. Yes my waist measurement is smaller and I no longer need maternity clothes, but that has more to do with my internal organs migrating back to their original homes than with fitness.

Then there's my running. I consider it a minor miracle that I have perservered with my workouts considering how consistently poorly I am running. A 12:00/mi pace is an outright sprint. A five mile run feels like 20. And disturbingly, a good easy run leaves me feeling like collapsing, while a bad one leaves me dizzy and lightheaded.

All in all, this comeback is harder than advertised, further complicated by my higher than necessary weight gain during the pregnancy, and complications at the end. In short, I'm having trouble hauling around 30 extra pounds, while my heart is having trouble accomodating physical activity at this weight - delivering oxygen to all that extra tissue on a lower than normal supply of red blood cells.

Last week was promising though. Last Tuesday I didn't feel like collapsing for the first time after a run, although the pace was slow - 3 miles in 36 minutes. On Wednesday I did a slow 5 that didn't leave me as sore as a 20 miler might have a year ago. On Thursday I did 3 on the treadmill without having to slow the pace from 12:00/mile. On Saturday I was scheduled to do 5 miles at "marathon pace" - whatever that is these days. I knew I would probably have a heart attack if I did that, so I decided to see if I could do an 11:00 mile for just two miles. I did 10:40 for two miles, which felt like a tempo run, and left me exhausted, but excited. My legs do in fact remember how to move at pre-preggo pace. Then Sunday's coup was 8 miles at a steady 12:30 pace. I did not have to shuffle at all during the run, and felt good allt he way through the end. I could not have run another step, but I didn't feel drained either.

So some progress. I started to believe I might actually be able to finish MCM, and resigned myself to simply running slowly for the next 6 months. I decided to erase my expectations, just put in every mile of the training plan, and see what happens.

It's against this background that I set out for my run tonight. I've caught a slight cold from my daughter who brought the germs home from the cesspool of daycare. I'm tired and sad that I had to send her to daycare today because I have no vacation left after my maternity leave. The house is a mess and hasn't been cleaned since the birth of the baby. In short it's one of those nights that I just didn't feel like running.

But I resolved to do every mile of the training plan. And every mile I will do.

I set out just thinking I'd shuffle around our community lake, a roughly two mile trail, and tack a mile on the street. But within a hundred yards I start to notice the great running weather - unusually cool for this time of year, low humidity, low gray clouds, and a cool breeze that promises rain. Since the entire population of Washington evacuates the area for July 4, I have the trail virtually to myself.

Within a quarter mile I notice my legs. The stride feels strangely familiar, like an old friend I haven't seen in a very long time, and have trouble placing. I feel like I'm striding well, maybe at pre-preggo easy pace. But my body's been playing tricks on me, and sometimes a 12:00 pace feels like a 10:00 pace, so I try not to look at my watch. Just keep running at an easy pace that feels good.

Since the miles on this trail aren't marked, I don't know exactly where the first mile is, but with the hundreds of times I've run this trail in the 7 years I've lived here, I have a pretty good idea. And it appears I clocked it in somewhere between 10:00 and 11:00. Can't be possible, I feel too good. But I start to get excited.

OK, I think to myself, don't get your hopes up. Don't push it for the sake of clocking a fast time. Remember your goal - finish feeling good.

I get to a bridge over a small stream, roughly 1.5 miles, and I've clocked that in about 16:30, just 30 seconds slower than my fast run the other night. I still feel good.

Well here comes the test - a long climb of several minutes away from the lake onto the street. I start to slow down. I remind myself just to keep going. Slow the pace and shorten the stride, keep the effort level. I come off the hill and pick it up again, still feeling good. I get to the corner, about 2 miles, and look at my watch. 22 minutes. I'm keeping up a steady 11 minute pace.

At this point, still feeling good, I decide I can pick it up a tiny bit and push it through the end. I pass the park entrance again and realize a have a great shot at finishing in 32 minutes. I have two more hills to power through, focus on the corner up ahead, and stop my watch. 31:30.

I stand for a minute. I don't have a need to bend over and pant. I can continue to walk the 100 yards back to my house. I'm in no danger of passing out. I feel like... I just finished an easy 3 mile run.

And I made a 5 minute improvement over the time I ran on the same course last week. Close to pre-preggo pace.

Well I'm certainly glad I went out for that run. Who knows what happened. A normal post-partum return to form perhaps, but I'm inclined to thank Hal Higdon for scheduling a "pace run" the day before a long run. Perhaps that hard work last week, combined with normal post-partum changes is the source of the improvement.

Or perhaps it's my decision to let go of obsessing over performance that let me go out and have a good time running.

In the spirit of that decision, I won't question it, I'm just going to go with it and take everything one run at a time. I have 5 scheduled for tomorrow night. Perhaps I'll be able to maintain the same pace, but perhaps I won't. Either way I'll be happy because I finally know my old self is in there somewhere. Hello, old friend.

Baby Steps

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Tue, 01 May 2007 19:48:00 +0000

2 weeks post-partum

Weight: 169 lbs
Waist Measurement: 43 inches
Clothing Size: 10 (maternity)
Blood Pressure: 118/80

Today's Workout: 1.25 mile walk with stroller

This is the sorry state of my body. This once finely tuned machine has been totally ravaged by pregnancy. For the past 9 months I have devoted all of myself to growing a new human being. A noble cause worth sacrificing for and an amazing feat. The damage pales in comparison to what my body has just done.

And the beautiful face of my daughter makes it all worthwhile.

But now I have a long road back and it will be very slow going.

I've come to the conclusion that the glamourization of celebrity pregnancies has just as damaging an effect on women as any other body image portrayed in pop culture today. Britney, Gwyneth, Angelina, Jennifer Garner, Heidi Klum... They all sport fasionable bumps and appear just a few weeks later looking as fit and rail-thin as ever. I am ashamed to admit that I bought into this. I knew I would gain weight, but I figured I would have a basketball belly, gain the right amount of weight, and be back to running within days, having lost very little fitness, making a speedy recovery back to my old self.

Then I turned into my mother.

I gained 50 lbs and it seemed totally unrelated to what I ate. I developed the aforementioned problem with my platelets and red blood cells. My face puffed up like a balloon, Oprah Winfrey lent me her upper arms, and who knew bra sizes went past DD?

The good news is that in just two weeks I have lost 24 lbs. The bad news is I'm going to have a rough time losing those last 26.

So my goal is to chronicle my progress weekly, as I not only lose 26 lbs of baby fat (not all fat - I'm hopeful there's still some residual fluid in there to lose), but redevelop the ability to run 26.2 miles and become a better person and mother while I'm at it.

To that end, here are my goals, and my pre-pregnancy stats:

Weight: 142 (A bit higher than I like - I feel best at 135, so that will be my goal)
Waist Measurement: 27 inches
Clothing Size: 4 (WITHOUT stretchy belly panels)
Blood Pressure: 100/70
Marathon PR: 4:44

My goal race is the Marine Corps Marathon, my favorite race. I don't expect to run a PR, only to finish. I'm concerned about even doing that at this point.

Because of anemia due to the HELLP Syndrome, I'm currently wiped out by slow walks. But I am getting out there.

One week after Jojo was born, I went for my first walk - a quarter mile out to our community lake and back. DH had to push the stroller and I was completely exhausted. But my the end of the week I made it to one-half mile, and today, a week after that first outing, I walked 1.25 miles over rolling hills pushing the stroller and felt strong at the end.

Jojo and I will go for a walk every day for the next two weeks. I hope to work up to about 3 miles. At 4 weeks post-partum, I'm cleared to begin running, and will go back to my trusty friend Jeff Galloway for help. Most experienced marathoners despise "Gallowalking" but it's how I ran my first marathon, and in my mind, there is no better way to prepare physically and psychologically for the challenge of tackling 26.2 miles when starting from ground-zero as I am now.

After a couple of weeks of running, I will likely use the modified 18-week Hal Higdon training plan I used for my first marathon. This might include one tempo-run per week if I feel like it.

That's a key phrase - "If I feel like it." My challenge will not be losing weight and getting back in shape so much as learning patience and taking baby steps. Like many marathoners, I've always been one to ignore my body, but it's an absolute must to listen to it now. My hope is that in learning to listen to the fine cues of my body, I will help develop the ability to listen also to the fine cues of my baby, as well as the patience and insight to delight in small steps.

I hope you will follow me as I make the long march back to fitness and chronicle what it's really like to lose baby weight when you don't have a personal trainer and 12 hours a day to work out.

Plans mean nothing. Welcome to parenthood.

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Sun, 22 Apr 2007 21:14:00 +0000

I ended up using my “birth plan” to sweep the floor.

I was going to have the perfect pregnancy followed by the perfect all natural birth resulting in a perfect child. I was confident I had done everything right. I read all of the books. I knew the risks of every anesthesia option. I visualized my way through “hypnobirthing” classes. I have a team of doulas ready with birthing balls, acupressure massage techniques, and 1,001 ways to talk me out of an epidural. I knew things could go wrong but they weren’t going to go wrong at my birth. I’m the picture of perfect health after all.

The universe has a way of chopping off the over-confident at the knees.

Let’s start this birth story a few weeks ago, at my 36-week routine appointment. Mildly elevated protein levels were found in the cup I peed in, a sign of pre-eclampsia. I had no idea how they got there, since my blood pressure was the picture of normalcy at 118/70. The doctor ordered a blood workup to determine if my liver and kidneys were functioning correctly. The tests came back normal.

Except they couldn’t count my platelets. That part had to be rerun. But they were sure it would be fine.

At my 37-week appointment, protein again appeared in the cup. Again my blood pressure was normal. The doctor said some elevated protein levels are normal for the end of pregnancy. Oh and they still couldn’t get a platelet count. Would I go over to the hospital and have them draw the blood there?

Thursday, April 12. At my 38-week appointment, the protein count is very high. My blood pressure remains normal. My platelets are low. The doctor suspects HELLP syndrome, a severe form of pre-eclampsia which affects the mother’s ability to clot blood. She thinks the baby may have to come out sooner than expected, as this syndrome can lead to seizures in me and prevent the flow of oxygen and nutrients to the baby. She orders me to collect all of my pee in a jug for the next 24 hours, which I faithfully do and deliver dutifully to their lab on Friday afternoon.

Fearful of an induced labor, which can lead to all kinds of complications, I spend the weekend trying every old wives labor inducer in the book. Nothing happens.

Monday, April 16, I go back to the doctor. The nurse takes my blood pressure and immediately tells me to lie down on my left side. She takes it again. She tells me to stay put. The doctor comes in. I have ten times the legal limit of protein in my urine. A normal quantity is 300-400 mg in a 24-hour period. I have 4 GRAMS. In addition my BP is now 145/100.

Go to the hospital. Do not pass go. Do not stop at home to get your things. The baby is coming out NOW and if I’m lucky I won’t get killed in the process.

I get in the car and frantically call Todd. Come to the hospital now. Why? He asks. Why? Why do you think? I yell at him to just get there and hang up on him. I call my mother. I’m crying. I’m not ready to have the baby. I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know if everything will turn out ok.

I arrive at the hospital, walk up to labor and delivery, and check in. The doctor has called ahead and they are ready for me. They bring me to a room where I am promptly told to totally undress and leave a urine sample. There is a clear plastic basin at one end of the room which I know is to hold the baby. The baby goes there. MY baby goes there.

I sit on the bed for a few minutes until a nurse comes to take all of my vitals and draws blood. The on-call midwife from my OB practice comes in, examines me, and tells me I’m a good candidate for induction, as I’m already fairly far progressed, with my cervix dilated to 2.5-3 cm and 80-90% effaced. In fact, I’m almost at the end of the first phase of labor.

The nurse comes back and hooks me up to an IV. This is thing #1 on my birth plan that I didn’t want, because I wanted to be mobile to deal with the pain, and I also hate needles to the point where 50% of the time I am stuck with one I faint. Which would be one way to solve my blood pressure issue. But I know with my complications there’s no avoiding it so I don’t even ask about it. I just ask her to put it in my arm rather than my wrist and to tape it down so tightly it can’t possibly move and I can’t possibly see any tubing coming out of my skin.

Todd shows up. We sit and wait. He tries to arrange care for the dog over the phone. He thought he would go home later and take care of her. He gets yelled at by me again for thinking that he’s going to get to leave at any point in this process. He finds a friend to take the dog until we come home. He has to leave to let her in the house, and fetch my glasses and contact lens solution, which he forgot to pack.

An hour later the nurse needs to draw more blood for a manual platelet count. The stupid cells still refuse to show up under the microscope. She returns 15 minutes later and draws more blood.

Now I’ve been at the hospital 2 hours. Shift change. A new nurse comes in with the on-call obstetrician, who informs me that we will induce labor with Pitocin, a hormone that causes the body’s smooth muscle tissue (including the uterus) to contract, and I’ll also be on magnesium sulfate, an anti-seizure, which conveniently counteracts the effects of the Pitocin by relaxing all smooth muscle tissue. In other words, it will be a bumpy ride. Because magnesium sulfate relaxes muscles to the point where moving is very difficult and vomiting is almost a given, I will not be allowed to eat or to leave the bed and will have a urinary catheter. Oh and I can’t have an epidural because my platelet count is too low. It’s give birth with no pain medication in the worst possible position (tied flat on my back in bed) or have a C-section under general anesthesia. I agree to start the Pitocin.

Two nurses come in and start hooking up about 5 lines to my IV. This takes them roughly another half hour. Todd returns. The doula, Mary Beth, arrives. We sit back and wait for labor to start.

The labor floor is full tonight, and the fetal monitor shows the information for every room. I can see myself, with a flat line for contractions and a healthy rhythm showing for the baby’s heartbeat, as well as 10 other women up and down the hall. Not one is in active labor. The nurses have said that everyone is being induced. Must be the weather.

It’s now about 10 PM so we turn the lights down and settle in. Todd has brought relaxing music to listen to, but I am content just to listen to the gentle gallop of the baby’s heartbeat on the monitor. She is cruising along at 140 beats per minute, completely oblivious that there’s anything wrong with me. The staff is happy with her performance.

Several hours pass. The automatic blood-pressure cuff goes off every 15 minutes. It tightens to about the tightness of a normal cuff, then tightens some more. My hand turns purple every time.

The nurse comes in once per hour or so and asks me how my pain is. I have none. I’m showing mild contractions on the monitor. She readjusts the monitor every single time. She ups the dosage of Pitocin. Around 1 AM I fall asleep for an hour. When I wake up, my legs are wet. I tell Mary Beth I think my water has broken. She gets the nurse. I tell the nurse I think my water has broken. She looks at the fluid, looks confused, and gets a pH test strip. We sit around the bed excited that my water may have broken, because it means labor will speed up now. But it’s not my water. The nurse doesn’t know what it is.

We sit awake until 5 AM and then fall asleep. The nurse continues to ask me every hour how my pain is. I continue to say I have none. The nurse can see contractions happening in my belly, but can’t get the monitor to pick them up. We all hope I am a very lucky woman who will have a relatively painless labor.

At 9 AM Tuesday morning the obstetrician who sent me over last night comes in. She examines me and finds I’m still 3 cm dilated and 90% effaced. No progress. I am not one of those lucky women. Everyone is confounded as I have been on the maximum dose of Pitocin for many hours. According to everyone with experience, I should be in “head-bangin’” labor by now. The doctor says she will break my water and see if that starts things, but if I haven’t made substantial progress in the next 4 hours, I will be having a C-section with general anesthesia. It’s too dangerous to leave the baby in any longer.

As we have a conversation about how things might go, the first strong contraction happens. It appears breaking the water has done the trick. In another 5 minutes or so I’ve had two more strong contractions that require concentration to breathe through. I’m starting to feel pain in my back. Mary Beth gets out a rice-filled bag to heat and place on my back, which promptly explodes everywhere. Todd uses a copy of the birth plan to scoop up the rice.

I start doing my breathing exercises to get through the contractions. Todd reads birth affirmations to me. The doula speaks in soothing tones. It’s nothing I can’t handle so far. Contractions are about 4 minutes apart and last a minute a piece, which Mary Beth says is good.

At about 11 AM the contractions start to feel very intense. They have speed up and last even longer. I start to think I can’t get through them. Mary Beth thinks I’m probably not near the hard stuff yet. I start to think I probably have several more hours of intense contractions to go. I have a few more “I can’t do this” moments and a nurse enters the room. She tells me if I want an epidural we can do bloodwork to see if my platelet count is any better. It will take an hour so it would be best to draw it now. At this point, the midwife, Patrice, enters the room. She examines me and declares it’s way too late for that. I’m already a good way into transition and says I’ll be pushing in under an hour.

This lightens my mental state considerably. I’m almost through with what everyone tells me is the hardest part of labor. From there everything seems easier. Todd and Mary Beth continue to whisper relaxing affirmations in my ears during contractions. The midwife shows Todd how to put pressure on my tailbone to ease my back pain, which works miracles.

The next hour passes in a blur. Soon Patrice is sitting on the edge of the bed, asking me if I feel the urge to push yet. I tell her I feel like I need to take a big dump. She says that’s good. She examines me and says I’ll be there soon.

Soon I start feeling like I want to relieve myself, and I think this is the urge to push, but I’m not sure. Every time I bear down I have tremendous pain where the catheter has been inserted, so thankfully that gets removed. I have an easier time after that distinguishing the sensations that I’m supposed to be feeling, but I’m still confused. Pushing isn’t really instinctual. It’s partly like going to the bathroom yet totally different. The midwife has to coach me in a few different positions to get it right.

Soon the baby is crowning. All standing at the bottom of the bed say they can see she has dark hair. The midwife asks me to watch in a mirror, which I don’t really want to do, but she says it will help me push. What I see is the baby’s head coming out with each push and getting sucked back in every time. I am upset because every birth video I saw in childbirth class showed the babies flying right out. That’s when I started cussing.

Pushing is more arduous physical work than I have ever experienced. Even if I had had pain medication, that aspect wouldn’t have been taken away. I am sweating and panting. My blood pressure is up to 160/110. I say I can’t do it. The midwife says “OK, I’ll just pack up and go home then.” I want someone to reach in and grab the baby. Use the forceps. Cut me open. I don’t care. But there’s no way out of this except to run through the burning building.

Todd and Mary Beth each have one of my legs and have been telling me to use them for leverage. The midwife decides that’s not working. I have to run this part of the race myself. They let go, stand back and chant with each push. I close my eyes and they disappear. There are roughly 30 people in the room all cheering as if I’m running down the home stretch of the Olympic marathon, but I can’t hear a single one of them. I head down a long black tunnel and feel only the overwhelming effort crushing down on me like ten tons of water.

“Take your baby.”

I hear it at the end of the tunnel like a deaf person hearing for the first time and the world explodes into light. I reach down and pull the baby up onto my stomach. She is warm and creamy. She is not crying. She is looking around taking in the explosion. A thousand hands reach in to dry her. Todd is standing over me crying.

But I’m not crying. I expected to cry with an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. I cried at the finish of my first marathon. Look what I did! But I can’t. I feel no pride or accomplishment. I haven’t run a race and crossed the finish line.

In the moment her body has become separated from mine, I lose myself. I am forever part of this tiny person, and I have ceased to exist.

Johanna Patricia was 7 pounds, 2.1 ounces, and 18 inches long. They took her up to the nursery and pronounced her in perfect health, oblivious to all my concerns. I lost a fair amount of blood due to the clotting problem, and stayed in the hospital for two days longer than normal, but my health problems resolved themselves. Jojo, Todd and I are all resting at home, looking forward to our new life together.

Pictures from Jojo's birth are here: http://www.kodakgallery.com/Slideshow.jsp?mode=fromshar...hktse&Uy=p4c9ys&Ux=1

Literally Running for Survivial

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Tue, 30 Jan 2007 22:02:00 +0000

It's been a while since I posted and one of these days I hope to get a moment to write a real post, but in the meantime, please read and respond to this very important message from a fellow Survival Shuffler, Cathy Troisi, who I met at the Grand Island Marathon in July.

Cathy's daughter, also a runner, was diagnosed with colon cancer in 2005 and is currently fighting a metastatization of the cancer in her liver. Cathy will be running the Boston Marathon for the benefit of the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and is gathering support from the running community. If you can help support her, please do so. If you can't make a financial contribution at this time, please at least read her daughter's story, pray for Cathy, her daughter, and her family, and remember that colon cancer can strike even the young.

December 17, 2006
My daughter set the foundation for my running career in 1991. Initially I balked but relented to her persistence mid-year 1994. As a runner since her sophomore year in high school, she prefers the 5k distance (3.1 miles). She’s more interested in speed. I’m more interested in the marathon distance (26.2 miles) with focus on endurance. It helps me rationalize my lack of speed.

One year, one week, three days ago my daughter completed six months of chemotherapy for stage 3C colon cancer. She was diagnosed at age 35, well below the traditional medically accepted and recommended age of 50 to schedule a colonoscopy.

She’s looking good, her chemo-thinned hair replenished to its normally thick mane. Usually make-up free, she has a smooth complexion, once again highlighted by naturally pink cheeks. Her eyes, shiny and bright, radiate a healthful look. Knowing I’d understand she enthusiastically told me this morning, "I feel good. I’m running three times a week, three to four miles, eight minute miles." She continued, "I feel like a well-oiled machine, fluid and fast."

Eight minute miles! I’m impressed. Even if she hadn’t had an advanced stage of cancer, surgery, and 648 hours of chemo, I’d still be impressed. Her dust would have settled by the time I got to where she’d been! She proved that October 6, 2006 at the Albany Race For The Cure. With her two and a half year old son (weighing a hefty 38 pounds) in a jogging stroller, she pushed him the full 3.1 miles. I lost sight of her in the first half mile. She clocked a 31 minute finishing time. I finished in....well, let’s just say she could have run another one and a half miles while waiting for me to finish.

December 27, 2006
I returned to Albany to babysit my grandchildren during my daughter’s next day medical appointment to determine a course of action for the split muscle (behind her twelve inch surgical incision) and the consequential hernia. In an effort to keep the holiday spirit merry and bright, she only now shared the real reason for tomorrow’s appointment: the split muscle and hernia have been relegated to the back burner, replaced by the need for a liver biopsy. Instantly I’m paralyzed. With a self-imposed mantra of "breathe, don’t cry, breathe, don’t cry, breathe, don’t cry, breathe," I listened as she related the report from her December 18, 2006 appointment. The December 14th scan showed five tumors, each 2 cm, have invaded her liver. Her scan six months ago was clean. My mantra continues, "Breathe, don’t cry."

I did breathe. I didn’t cry. At least not until the household was settled for the night. Through those hours I cried and sobbed quietly into a continuous pull of kleenex tissues. I fell asleep crying and later awoke to the sensation of one lone tear trickling down my cheek.

December 28, 2006
Although my daughter’s husband is a successful attorney, he was unsuccessful in convincing the arbitrator and opposing attorney to cancel this day’s trial to allow him to accompany her to the biopsy. Which is how and why I’m in the room with her as she’s prepped. I haven’t yet been asked to go to the waiting room. Two male and two female "white coats" attend to various details, including the ultrasound. I wonder if they’ve forgotten my presence since no one has asked me to leave. Main "white coat" enters. More activity. Finally the words. They haven’t forgotten me. Main "white coat" speaks, "You’re welcome to stay if you want." Expecting to hear, "You’ll have to leave now," it took me a moment to process these words to the contrary. A few minutes earlier, expecting a momentary dismissal, my daughter and I shared our tears, our "I love you" and I steeled myself to exit my daughter’s bedside. I had expected to leave my only child in this impersonal room full of strangers whom we hoped had the most advanced medical knowledge and victim to medical equipment I’d only seen on Grey’s Anatomy. Now I’m told I’m welcome to stay if I want. I’m her mother, of course I want. Yet I offer, "Whatever she’s comfortable with." My daughter immediately counters, "Whatever you’re comfortable with. You’re the one afraid of needles." Very true, but my immediate retort, "Only when they’re directed at me," brings a chuckle from the "white coats." Main "white coat" responds, "Only one patient per room." Then a kind, soft-spoken "white coat" instructs me, "Bring you chair right up to her feet. It’s ok to touch her." Immediately, from my purse, I take out a photo of my daughter with her arms wrapped around her five year old daughter and soon to be three year old son. I captured that Kodak moment ten days earlier. I hold it up for her to see and then rest it against her feet. I put my hand gently on her foot, hopefully with enough pressure for her to feel my touch through the traditional hospital footwear, the tan footsie socks with skid proof soles.

Although the procedure is painful, she is unable to be under full anesthesia. It’s possible she’d be asked to breathe deeply or move her arm a certain way in order for main "white coat" to reach the affected areas of her liver. The room is quiet as he explains the procedure in detail, prepares her for the pressure and pain she will feel. I glimpse the needle. My maternal instinct is in overdrive, and although I’m grateful not to have been relegated to the waiting room, I also am unable to watch as he inflicts pain on my daughter. I maintain my hand contact with her foot, bend over and lower my head. I hear main "white coat" as he speaks gently to her. I note the room is silent except for his words. I know there is pain. I feel it. Not only as a mother feels mental and emotional pain for her child, but I feel her pain as her feet involuntarily flex against it. Now the only sound is the "click," five times over as a sample is taken from each tumor. Each click seemingly echoes in the quiet room. I watch as my silent tears puddle at my feet. On the fifth and final click, I breathe.

January 2, 2007
Although two active and precocious grandchildren kept me busy this morning, I found myself constantly clock-watching and listened above their din for the car to come up the driveway. I waited anxiously for my daughter and her husband to return from her follow-up appointment after last week’s biopsy. I hoped for a different outcome but was prepared as much as was possible to hear her tell me she would again have chemo. I forgot my mantra. I cried. Same routine as she had in 2005: 54 hours per treatment every other week for at least six months, probably a year. At some point another scan will be done to determine adjustments and/or further course of treatment, as necessary. Boston’s Dana-Farber Cancer Institute was consulted and there is agreement across states as to her treatment.

January 19, 2007
As I write this, my daughter has had her second treatment. She’s also had permission from her oncologist to continue running. Which she had planned to do anyway. I won’t be running with her; I can’t keep up. But I will be running for her in the Boston Marathon, as a member of the Dana-Farber Marathon Challenge team, on April 16, 2007. My challenge is to run 26.2 miles. Dana-Farber’s challenge is in their on-going efforts "dedicated to discovery, committed to care" in the continuous battle against cancer. My daughter’s challenge is to once again wage battle against this insidious disease. Please keep her as close to the top of your prayer list as possible.

*Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, a teaching affiliate of Harvard Medical School, is ranked by the National Cancer Institute as one of the world’s premier cancer centers for its research and improved treatments of cancer.
*Your support of my Dana-Farber Boston Marathon will partner us with qualified researchers and medical staff as they continue developing new and better cancer treatments while continuing their quest for a cure.
*100% of your contribution goes directly to the Barr program in cancer research.
*Checks for your tax-deductible contribution are payable to DANA-FARBER MARATHON CHALLENGE.
*Due Date: Friday, April 6, 2007
*If your employer has a matching gift policy, include the completed matching gift form provided by your employer with your contribution.
*If you have family, friends, co-workers who may be interested in contributing, please forward them this information.
*If you have family, friends, co-workers who would benefit from my daughter’s experience with colon cancer, please share her story with them.
*With your support, the efforts of everyone associated with Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and Dana-Farber Marathon Challenge will go beyond the 26.2 miles of the marathon course and marathon day.
*Thank you for your contribution and commitment to Dana-Farber’s efforts through the Marathon Challenge.

Cathy Troisi
11 Anthony Drive, Seneca Falls, NY 13148

It's natural

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Wed, 22 Nov 2006 23:04:00 +0000

Running is natural. The human body is designed to run, whether you choose to use it or not. Choose it and ignore all those who say you'll end up with arthritis and knee pain in old age, who say the first marathoner died. With a regular moderate running schedule you'll live a long and happy life with more mobility and energy than your sedentary peers.

Pregnancy is natural. A woman's body is designed to nuture human life. But unlike running, ignore everyone who says its natural and you'll figure it out.

Like the myths about running, myths about pregnancy abound. "I loved being pregnant"..."I had no morning sickness"..."The second trimester is wonderful"..."You have that glow"

These myths are as dangerous as listening to someone who tells you running will kill you.

Let me tell you something about myself. It is a large part of why I run. It's something I keep to myself because I see it as irrelevant to the outside world. It's not your problem, and it's not an excuse. But I'm beginning to see how it will impact my child because of the physical connection between us, and eventually the emotional one as well.

I have clinical depression.

I've struggled with this depression all my life. Every day is a battle for me to get out of bed and just find the energy to live. There have been times I've wanted to kill myself, but luckily rarely have found the energy to do anything about it. Depression is brown. You feel like you are swimming in a cloudy pool. The world is hidden behind a fog. It's a leaky drain that slowly saps your water levels. It's entropy: An inevitable force of nature that disorders everything inside you and around you.

Running is a natural high and a release that helps me feel good. If I can consistently overcome inertia and get out the door to exercise, my mood and energy level is immensly improved. Any good psychiatrist worth his $100 per hour will tell you to exercise regularly if you have depression. Running is also a spiritual lift for me that gives me time to clear my head of worries, anxieties, and the lead weight always hanging over my head.

But the key to reaping all that benefit is getting out the door in the first place. And that's the real crux of the condition, the insidious mechanism by which depression eats its victims alive. It ties them to the couch (or the bed or the floor) with gravity.

That's where, for me, medication comes in. I've been off and on various anti-depressants for the past 12 years. Prozac is my happy-pill of choice, a wonderous medication which can be life-saving for its users, and in my opinion ranks with the discovery of penecillin in the annals of great medical achievements.

I used to fight being on medication - insisted it was just the establishment's way of making me into someone I'm not. I would take it to pull myself off the couch for a little while, decide I was better, go off it, and instantly sink back into the mire.

In time I realized that I just needed it to maintain a floor under my feet, and with a few years of consistent use I was doing great.

Then I got pregnant. Prozac isn't technically approved for pregnancy because it's virtually impossible to do controlled studies on depressed pregnant women. But the anecodtal evidence collected on its use over the past 25 years is substantial, and all of it points to it being safe without any long-term effects on the child. The only potential issue is that the baby can have withdrawal symptoms after birth, so its recommended that it not be used in the third trimester.

This is where those myths become damaging. Far from being joyous, natural, wonderful, and something I was confident I could figure out, pregnancy has been one of the most stressful, worrisome, chemically imbalanced states I've ever been in. It's not that I'm not overjoyed to be having a baby. But the physical and emotional toll of pregnancy is incredible.

Everyone said the first trimester could be rough with all the new hormones, but things should stabilize by the fourth month. I'd have my energy back, morning sickness would subside, I'd be myself again with a cute little baby bump and a wonderous glow. "You'll be happier than you ever have been in the second trimester."

Well the only glow is coming from my greasy, unwashed hair.

I did fine the first trimester. I was more exhausted than I'd ever been in my life, and a bit cranky, but able to run, motivated to go to work, and excited about baby stuff, if a bit overwhelmed. A normal mother-to-be in other words.

At 4 weeks I started tapering off the Prozac, and got down to half a dose by 8 weeks. I felt pretty good. I ran the Army 10 miler. I was slowing down and tired, but having fun.

Prozac has a long "half-life" as its called in the parlance, and I guess it took a while for that reduced dose to start to have effects. At 12 weeks I started to feel sick and pretty much stopped running. 20 minutes on the staitonary bike was all I was getting maybe once a week. At 14 weeks I realized I hadn't gained any weight in 4 straight weeks and I had no appetite. I couldn't get out of bed. I almost broke down crying in a coworker's office telling her how I just wanted a break. I regularly came into the office at 10 instead of 9.

At that point I called the psychiatrist and told her I was worried my depression, which has caused me to drop weight like a war victim in the past, was affecting my ability to eat. But I also told her I'd been feeling nauseous and perhaps that was the reason for my lack of appetite. The OB told me my lack of weight gain was not concerning at the moment. My mother and all the books said the nausea, low energy, and bad mood would stop any day now. I made the decision to stay on the reduced Prozac dose.

At 15 weeks I started throwing up. I threw up once before work during that week. The next Monday I spent a few hours before work puking and took the day off, figuring it was an isolated incident. I needed that day off anyway. Tuesday I went into work, ran into my boss getting off the elevator, who told me I looked awful. Wednesday I spent most of the day in my office with my door closed lying on the floor and crying. Wednesday evening my boss found me keeled over the trash can and suggested I take the next day off. I spent Thursday in my pajamas.

Friday morning the 10th I had an OB appointment. I told him that I'd been getting sicker and sicker. He said "Well that's a little backwards but nothing to be concerned about." He prescribed a medication called Zofran for my nausea, which was developed for chemotherapy patients. He suggested it may have something to do with stress. I started reading about all the horrible effects of stress on the baby. Higher blood pressure, an anxious baby, loss of appetite and weight, premature birth, low birthweight. The risks of being chronically stressed out were starting to become more worrisome than the possible effects of Prozac.

I picked up my prescription Friday evening and read the pamphlet of drug information (I'm sure doctors hate it when you do that). To my surprise, I discovered Zofran works on serotonin, the same neurochemical that Prozac affects. I did more research (thank god for Google) and discovered Zofran is used to treat depression, OCD, bulemia, all kinds of things besides nausea.

I didn't take it because I didn't want it to interact with the Prozac, but called the psychiatrist and asked if I should go back up to my full dose of Prozac. We decided I should.

Within two days I stopped puking and within a week I was back to being myself. I never took the Zofran.

With such stark evidence staring me in the face that my depression is a physical disease with distinct physical effects, I am forced to admit that I can't change my chemical makeup. I'm stuck with it. And so's my kid.

Those of us who take anti-depressants beat ourselves up at times. Why do I need this? Why can't I just learn to be a better person? What's wrong with me that I feel like this? Why can't I just be grateful for my good life? If I were stronger I could do this alone. I'm just giving into the American ideal of the happy, productive, extrovert. I wish I could just be me. Which is fine to do if it's just you, but you really need to get over that when other people are involved.

But because of my horrible weeks of stress-induced morning sickness, I've finally realized I have the mental equivalent of diabetes. It's a physical disease. It has to be managed. If I were diabetic, I wouldn't beat myself up for it. I would try and make behavioral changes that could make me healthier but chances are I'd need to take some sort of medication for the rest of my life. Maybe it's genetic, maybe it's brought on by outside factors. But it's here and I'm stuck with it.

The physical change has been remarkable. I've gone running or biking every weekday for the last two weeks. I'm hungry again. I'm not too tired to get out of bed in the morning. My stress level is markedly decreased. All of this has convinced me that my decision is best for the baby. We'll deal with the third trimester issue later, but for now, I'm happy, I'm running, and I'm convinced my baby is better for it.

Though I've been miserable for a few weeks, I'm glad I've had this experience to teach me that I can manage this physical condition, and I don't need to beat myself up. I can let go of all of the anxieties I have about not being a good enough person to be someone's mother. Just take the medication, go to therapy, and with a little help, and a few good runs, I'll do just fine. Yes I'm flawed, but that's ok. Prozac doesn't mask those things. It just releases the bonds of gravity to get me off the couch to run. Or to feed my screaming baby. And if I bequeath my genetic legacy of depression to my child, then I know how to deal with it, and how to tell them that the person they are is just fine, no matter what.

Resetting Expectations

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Sun, 08 Oct 2006 21:27:00 +0000

I expected a PR in the Army Ten Miler.

The first time I ran the race in 2003, I recorded a time of 1:35:48. Though I'd been shooting for 9:00 miles, it was my first long race, my first big race, and I was very satisfied with the effort. Plus, it was more fun than I'd ever had in a race. I'd never run a big race with bands and cheering crowds. It got me thinking that I wanted to do more big races. It also got me thinking that a marathon wasn't out of reach, and started me on the path of running for the rest of my life.

So the Army Ten Miler holds a special place in my heart as one of my favorite races, but I've also been chasing that 1:35 time since then.

In 2004, I ran a 1:31:54 in the Cherry Blossom 10-miler (though under someone else's bib so it's not an official PR for me), and wanted to go under 90 minutes in the ATM. I figured it would be very doable coming off my first marathon that spring. But after the marathon, my feet started developing problems, which I medicated with ibuprofen and naproxen, which resulted in stomach bleeding and cancelled my running for the rest of the year. I was disappointed.

In 2005 I came back. The ATM was 3 weeks before my second marathon, the Marine Corps Marathon, where I was hoping to go under 4:00, just over a 9:00 pace per mile. I was going to use the ATM as a test race. If I could manage 1:27 or less in the 10-mile race which is run largely on the same course as MCM, I'd feel comfortable setting a 4:00-4:15 time goal for my marathon.

But 2005 wasn't to be my year. To start with, I spent the night before awake with a fever and chills. Race morning dawned and I had a bad case of the flu. But I felt like I couldn't back out. I went out hard, staying on pace through 6 miles. But I started to falter, took a major walk break at the 6 mile water stop and clocked a time of 1:00:03 through the chip mats at 6.5 miles (just over 9 minute pace). I decided to relax through 7 miles and then push it again. I passed 7 miles and got back on pace, then realized we were running down Independence Avenue away from the 14th Street Bridge which would take us back to the Pentagon. I did a little bit of thinking about the route back and realized that we were about to go over the Memorial Bridge and back over the first few miles of the race course. Knowing the mileage on that portion of the course already, I knew we'd be running over 10 miles, and so gave up. The course ended up being between 11.2 miles and 11.4 miles depending on whose estimate you believe, putting my final pace between 8:55 and 9:05 per mile. Not what I wanted, but impressive given my flu. Still, it wasn't an official time, and I didn't have an official PR. Plus that race forced my illness to linger for the remaining weeks till the Marine Corps Marathon, decimating my performance there. So that was a disappointing year.

This year, I signed up knowing I'd be coming off another marathon training effort. Without having another marathon to train for, I figured I could focus on speedwork and finally get my PR. I put in an optimistic time of 1:25:00 on the registration, and decided I'd be happy with 1:27.

Then I got pregnant.

Well, I knew I wouldn't be running that PR, but I had no idea just how much I'd have to reset my expectations. A 4 mile run in 50 minutes has been a good day for me in the past few weeks. I've had to start swilling water every few minutes. What's more, I've been craving hamburgers, egg McMuffins, and milk like I'm a baby cow. Not the most conduscive diet to running performance. (The old wives say this means it's a boy, BTW. I guess they have a 50% chance of being right.)

It is truly amazing how fast the dropoff in running performance has happened. As I wrote in my last post, I started to see the effects within days of conceiving. My body is obviously telling me it has reset priorities. It must take a tremendous amount of energy to build a new human being, and I've been ravenous just sitting on the couch.

Still, I've made it my goal to keep running for as long as possible. Though I am disappointed with every 15 minute mile I clock, I've decided to throw out the watch and just run for the freedom of running, knowing it will help me have a healthy baby.

So today I went out with no expectations, just praying that I could finish. (Though I did take my metro card with me in case I had to drop out).

DH was running with the "Back from Iraq" team which had a tent in the finish area. So we arrived at the tent around 7:00 AM and dropped off our warmups, and loaded ourselves up with gel. I wore my Grand Island Marathon t-shirt to remind myself that I was capable of finishing a long distance.

I left DH at the tent and ambled over to the start area, where I was going to be meeting a friend from the RWOL women's forum. She's running the Baltimore Marathon next week, and is an accomplished runner, typically pacing herself a bit faster than I would. But she wants to relax the week before the marathon, use this as an easy run to test out her outfit, fueling strategy, etc. I told her I'd be doing 11:00 miles at best, and she says that's fine. I'm sure she'll be pulling away after a few miles and I'm going to feel guilty if she stays with me the whole time.

I'm in the 7:00-8:00 pace corral, and decide to stay there rather than moving back, since no one at this race seems to pay attention to the corral guidelines. DH is in the second wave, starting 10 minutes behind us, anticipating a 10:00 pace, so he'll probably catch me.

It's a beautiful morning and I'm happy just to be out and proving to myself that I can still finish 10 miles. The race provided disposable cameras in the packets, so I have it with me and I'm hoping to take a few pictures of the beautiful scenic course through dowtown Washington.

There's a catch to this year's race - runners are not allowed to bring water bottles. So I will only be able to drink every 2 miles. Normally I wouldn't even take my own water in a short race like this, but as I mentioned, I've been a lot more thirsty. But I tested the 2-mile interval out the previous weekend, and it seemed to be all right, as long as I down a full 8 ounces every 2 miles.

So we start out and I feel a bit nervous. I decide to push myself a little bit for as long as I can, and clock the first two miles in around 10:30. The third mile contains a water stop where I walk for a bit, and clock an 11:30 split, with the same for Mile 4. Mile 4 I'm starting to feel the need for a bathroom, as is my friend, so we stop and wait in line just after the water stop, which takes 3-4 minutes. I enter the porta-potty and quickly discover that morning sickness and other people's waste don't mix. I involuntarily heave and hold my shirt over my face to try and keep myself from puking. I do my business as fast as possible and run out of the john, vowing to only run trails from now on where I can comfortably go in the woods. We continue along and pass the halfway point in just a few seconds under 1:00, an average of 12:00 pace, though with a 4 minute bathroom break, normally not a feature of a 10-mile race for me. All in all, I am quite impressed with myself, but I can feel the breakdown coming.

I start mentally running aid-station to aid-station, a trick ultra-runners have told me to use. I know I have only a mile to get to the next water stop. We clock it in 11:14. I take a picture of the Capitol here, and gulp down a gel and cup of water. With the break, Mile 7 is slower at 12:25. I'm really starting to hurt, and I look down Independence Avenue to a pair of stone pedestrian bridges that cross the street, knowing that's the next mile marker and the turnoff to the 14th Street Bridge. It looks close but feels far. Fortunately, this is one of the most crowded spectator sections, and we get a lot of cheering and high-fives. I start feeling some abdominal cramping and have to walk for a few seconds. This is almost certainly a bathroom issue coming on, which I normally start getting around this distance when I'm not restricting dairy. 12:38 for Mile 8. I'm losing steam.

Looking for a porta-potty at Mile 8 but don't see one. I take a lot of water and feel like I need more. Walk for a while and look at the hill leading up the bridge. I hate that bridge. With a passion. It comes at the toughest portion of both this race and the Marine Corps Marathon, it's exposed to the sun, with an imperceptible incline and a weird uphill portion at the end. There are no spectators. It's just you and two miles of desert-like pavement.

I'm wondering where DH is, and figure he must have passed me while I was in the bathroom. I start shuffling up the bridge and walk some more. DH's running partner passes us and tells us he's a few minutes back. We hit the flat-looking portion of the bridge and I start to run slightly faster. DH catches us and tells me I look good and he's proud of me. I tell both him and my friend to go ahead, and they insist on staying with me. I'm really shuffling and start to walk up the end uphill. I see the exit ramp back down into the Pentagon parking lot where the finish is. I just want to get off this road.

We head down the exit ramp, and run a bit harder into the finish. I've taken off my shirt, in spite of feeling like a flabby beast (I've put on 9 pounds in the past two months), because the sun was pretty brutal on the bridge. I realize I won't get a finishing picture if the photographers don't get my number, and really, all I'm finishing for at this point is that picture. So I rip my number off my shirt, hold it in front of me, smile at the camera, and point at my belly. Baby's first race! I hope it comes out well. If it does, I will probably order a copy. Something I don't normally do. This pregnancy thing is turning me intoa sentimental fool.

DH, my friend, and I all finished together. My time was 2:00:39, with DH's roughly 10 minutes faster. If you subtract that bathroom stop, I averaged 11:36 per mile. Much better than I thought I might do. I've never finished a race with DH before, and that makes me very happy. I'm very grateful my friend ran all the way with me, and I'm sure I would have walked substantially more without her support.

All-in-all, it was a fun day, and reminded me, as Grand Island did, that some challenges in running aren't about time. It's about just getting through, and doing something different. It's about having friends and good times along the way.

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Sun, 08 Oct 2006 21:16:00 +0000

Well I have to start by apologizing for my recent abscence, but hopefully everyone will appreciate the reason.

The week after the Grand Island Marathon I decided to take a little break from running and blogging. The following weekend, I went out and tried to run 5 miles. I couldn't finish. I slept a total of 20 hours per day those two days and was completely wiped out. I chalked it up to the marathon effort.

The following week was no better, with only one truly awful run. I started going to sleep at 8 PM every night. I could not figure out what was going on.

The next weekend, the reason for the fatigue became clear. My body is otherwise occupied, busy producing a new human life.

That's right, I'm going to be a mom. Run for the hills now.

I didn't want to make an announcement here as several colleagues from work occasionally read this blog. I wanted to wait a few weeks. In the meantime, running became close to impossible, and I felt like I didn't have anything to write about.

I am currently 12 weeks along and for most of that time I haven't managed more than a disappointing mile or two at a time once or twice a week, and have been collapsing into bed so early at night that I haven't had time to write.

Fortunately, for the past couple of weeks things have been getting better. I am not nearly as tired, and I've been able to run a bit more. So I hope to retrun to writing, starting with this post!

Today I had a major accomplishment - I finished the Army Ten Miler, one of my favorite races. A race report will be posted here shortly.

In the meantime, accept my apologies. I look forward to recording the changes in my self and my running here in the coming months, and hope I have something special to show my baby when it's all done.

Congrats to Cathy!

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Tue, 22 Aug 2006 00:15:00 +0000

Congratulations to Cathy Troisi (our new friend and fellow shuffler from the Grand Island Marathon) who just finished the Pikes Peak Marathon in 9:36:25! This grueling race is 13.1 miles of rocky climb to 14,110 feet at the summit of Pikes Peak, Colorado, followed by a knee-busting descent back down to the start. Cathy's one runner who lives up to the Survival Shuffle philosophy... Live life to the fullest!

Congrats! I hope to run in your footsteps someday Cathy!

Falling - The Grand Island Trail Marathon

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Tue, 01 Aug 2006 01:39:00 +0000

Photos from the Grand Island Marathon can be found here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/22577818@N00/sets/72157594219452099/

Anyone whose goal is 'something higher' must expect someday to suffer vertigo. What is vertigo? Fear of falling? No, Vertigo is something other than fear of falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves.
Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

I wasn't prepared to fall so hard.

I'm not talking about the tumble I took down the trail in the Grand Island Marathon this past Saturday.

I'm talking about falling in love.

With Michigan.

With the trail.

With flying face first down through the air and rain and mud.

We arrived in Marquette, Michigan on Friday morning. I expected a northwoods retreat with burbling streams and the bulk of Lake Superior lording it ominously over a few fisherman. I did not expect the Caribbean. Or the Grand Canyon.

But that's what the north shore of the Upper Penninsula is. If you took all that makes you gasp about the American landscape and compressed it into a several hundred square mile area, you'd end up with the U.P.

The water of Lake Superior is as clear and aqua blue as the Caribbean, with the kind of crystalline quality that lures you cleanse yourself in its frigid embrace. You imagine you could walk right in and just just keep walking along the rock-strewn bottom in a beautiful blue purity.

The sandstone cliffs that line the shore have been wind and water sculpted to resemble the Grand Canyon in striations and formation. Graceful arches plunge into the water like fountains while grottoes at the water line invite exploration. The gold, greens, ochres, bricks, whites, and blues reflect the setting sun bouncing off the water and give the heavenly lake a golden halo.

Dark, brooding forests of hemlock, birch, and maple blanket the clifftops with cool and languid carpets straight off a Vermont mountaintop. The black-green cloak soothes the wind and waterbeaten landscape and provides refuge from the bright blue-gold of the exposed lake and cliffs.

Beaches that might be found in Maine are strewn with boulders and driftwood, but also offer a cushion of soft gold sand that swallows your feet in sunshine. Waves crash as if at the ocean, further breaking down the cliffs into more beaches. From the forest just above, falls cascade into the lake with a soft burble, completing this utopia of the senses with gentle audial meditations.

I have fallen hopelessly in love.

After picking up our race packets and checking into the hotel, DH and I venture to the lakefront park for a short lecture on the geology and biology of Grand Island. We learn a bit more about its history in the past century and a little less about its geology than I would like, but the park vistor's center has plenty of information on that. After wandering over to the "expo" (really just a tent in the park with a few pairs of shoes and some gels) we go down to the lakefront, where I dip my toes in. Standing on the sand is hurting my foot a bit, so I make my way over to some rocks and dangle my feet in the water. It's pretty chilly, but not icy, probably because we are in a protected bay. I expect it will be a different story on the north side of the island tomorrow which is exposed to the buffeting of Canadian winds.

With an hour to kill before the spaghetti dinner at a local restaurant, we take a drive up to a scenic overlook and snap a few pictures of the island. It looks like it's going to be a tough climb up to the center of the island, which rises about 900 feet above water level.

We sit down at the spaghetti dinner with a woman named Cathy who had been on our flight from Detroit this morning. She runs a marathon about every 2 to 3 weeks, around 20 per year, mostly on roads, but is planning on doing the Pikes Peak Marathon in a few weeks so she's getting in some trail training. She attempted the race last year and made the ascent but found herself too wiped out by the altitude to descend. I ask her how she's handling training for the altitude this year and she says she's just going to suck it up. Literally. She's a self-proclaimed slowpoke (differently-paced) so we make a wager on who will take last place. Then we head off to the hotel and call it an early night, with the sun just throwing up its last dying rays at 10 PM.

The alarm goes off at 4 AM and I down a bagel, then dress. DH, my faithful pit crew, is checking everything to be sure its runway ready - filling our fuel belts, packing up gels, pinning on race numbers. We head out to the shuttle to the ferry landing at 5 AM. We are pretty seamlessly transported there, and then ferried over to the start line where we await the 7 AM start. It's an amazingly well-organized effort. We watch the sunrise from the start and a few of us note with trepidation the officials with "Search and Rescue" plastered across the backs of their shirts (of course, it's an island - pretty hard to get lost if you just follow the perimeter back around to where you started). I see a woman with her left arm in a cast. I go up to her and say "Well my foot was hurting but I think I'm going to stop complaining!" Her name is Dorothy, and she tells me the break just happened two weeks ago, and she's planning on walking the marathon. I wish her luck.

Just before start, Cathy finds me and sticks a ladybug sticker on my race number for good luck. I'm feeling a little anxious about my foot, but so far with a mega dose of Advil, I'm not much noticing the pain. But I'm also anxious because I have no idea what to expect on this trail, and figure I'll just take it as it comes.

At 7 AM, the people in front of me start running. I follow. That's it. No booming cannon or loud music. It's the lowest key race I've ever been to. A perfect introduction into the quiet solitude of the brooding forest.

The day starts overcast, which makes the temperature just about perfect for running. It's in the 60s with a nice breeze in the exposed sections of the trail. We run about a mile through forest and right away I notice one problem with trail races - it's impossible to pass. I'll have to wait until the crowd thins out a bit, which luckily doesn't take too long. First mile split: 11:13. A nice warmup jog.

My foot does not hurt and the crowd has thinned out, so I decide I want to take the first 10 miles in about 10:30 average pace - right around my typical long run pace which is very easy. If I'm feeling good I'll pick it up later, but I really just want to finish feeling good and enjoy the experience. I have a disposable camera strapped into my fuel belt so I can stop and take some pictures. The first 5 miles are flat, followed by a 600 foot climb over 1 mile, then another flat 2 miles, and a 1 mile descent, then another climb, so I feel like 10:30 is doable.

The next few miles fly by, I stop to snap a few pictures. Waves crash off the west-facing shore of the island and I could swear I'm on Assateague Island. The breeze is picking up and thunder is starting to roll. But overall it's very pleasant to have the crunch of the dirt and soft spring of grass under my feet. I feel relaxed.

Mile 2: 10:33
Mile 3: 10:53 (stopped for pictures)
Mile 4: 10:31
Mile 5: 11:00 (includes an aid station stop)

Now we start to climb. And the rain starts along with it. We're headed up a dirt fireroad to the center of the island, past an inland lake. The climb isn't too steep but it is relentless. Most people around me are walking, and I take a few walk breaks as well. There is a man of about 75 years passing me who is power-walking the slope, using his arms to drive himself forward while barely moving his feet off the ground. He is making excellent time, so I decide to imitate him.

I reach the top of the slope and realize it wasn't as hard as I'd been fearing. I know the rest of the climbs on the island aren't as long as this one, so I start to feel pretty confident. I push on to the end of the road, cheering on those in front of me who are returning back down the same road, when suddenly I see Dorothy (with the broken arm) run by me. She's quite a ways ahead of me. I am momentarily flabbergasted.

I reach the turnaround and by now the road is truning into a stream bed, but the footing is still solid. For the past two miles I have been leapfrogging a guy about my age with a Camelback. He's slightly in front of me at the turnaround and I creep up on him. When the downhill starts, I decide to book it and make up some time and pass the guy. He, I, and the 75-year-old man follow each other down the slope back to the aid station, where I stop to refill my bottles and am overtaken by the other two again.

Mile 6: 12:38 (climb)
Mile 7: 10:42
Mile 8: 10:33
Mile 9: 9:46 (downhill)

Just before the 10 mile mark the trail starts to climb again. I am not afraid of this climb any more, after having just tackled the last one in good shape, but I'm in for a rude awakening for the rest of the race. This portion of the trail is on some mildly rocky single-track and the rain has started to wash out the trail. I am following the 75-year-old up the trail, trying to stay with him and follow his path through the mud. The climb is much steeper than the last one but I still feel great. I pass the man and expect him to stay with me, but he drops back. Soon he is out of sight. I reach the top and there's a short descent followed by a few rolling hills. I stop for a picture at an overlook, and step back onto the trail. A shirtless middle-aged man passes me just as I drop my camera. We say a few hellos and shadow each other for a little while. Then the trail begins to descend steeply. I have planned on making up time on the descents, but it quickly becomes clear that's not going to happen unless I'm willing to roll down the hills ass-over-teakettle due to the rain-slicked mud and rocks. With every foot-plant I slide a few inches and with my inexperience its impossible to make a quick and safe descent.

At 13 miles I finally pass Dorothy of the broken arm. She is running when I spot her, but she stops to walk just as I reach her. I shout out "I saw you running!" and she calls back "You caught me!" I ask how she is feeling and she says fine, the swelling in her arm is not as bad as she thought, but she is going to walk a while. She tells me I look great and to keep it up.

I look great and feel great, but my time indicates I'm not doing so great. At halfway I'm just below 5 hour pace. The hills and mud have slowed me down much more than I ever thought possible and I can't make up any time on the descents as I had planned. Even relatively flat miles are slow going because of all the mud. But I make up my mind just to put out a hard effort and see what happens.

Mile 10: 11:26
Mile 11: 12:25
Mile 12/13: 24:19
Mile 14: 11:27
Mile 15: 11:44

The trail rolls for a few miles before beginning another steep ascent around 15 miles. I'm leapfrogging the shirtless man all this time. I've reached the most scenic portion of the run, with gorgeous views of cliffs shrouded in fog protruding from the north side of the island. I stop for pictures often.

At 16 miles after an aid station refill, the trail descends steeply from the clifftops and we are abruptly thrust out onto a mile-long stretch of beach bracketed by towering cliffs. I stop for a picture and run down to the wave-packed portion of sand, which is still pretty slow going. The waves lap at my tired feet and bathe them in ice. This is the Lake Superior I was looking for - white capped swells blown in from Canada, bringing up 40 degree water from its 1300 foot depths just north of this shore. I pick up a couple of pretty striated red and white rocks and stick them in my pocket.

I love this.

I head back inland and am faced with another tough climb. I head up the hill ahead of the shirtless man, and just as I reach the top, I trip on a root. I regain my balance, but as I am chastising myself for not picking up my feet, I hit another root and go down. This causes my calf to cramp up and I sit clutching it for a few seconds while the shirtless man passes me. He asks if I'm ok but doesn't stop. In a minute I get up and stretch my calf. As I am doing so another middle-aged man passes me and says "Plantar or Achilles?" I don't think he wants to hear about my extra foot bone so I just say "Achilles" and start running with him. He tells me about his plantar fasciitis and how his heel lifts have helped him, but I'm trying to push through the last few miles of this 10 mile section, and am gradually leaving him behind. He tells me I'm having a great race and good luck, I wish the same to him. Shortly thereafter, I have to stop for several minutes for a bathroom break, and he passes me. I keep him in sight until just before 20 miles but then lose him. I am running out of steam.

Still I keep pushing. I want to own this 10 miles, and then I will coast in the last 10K. I'm still slogging on pretty slowly, but I am definitely putting out an effort that would garner me below a 10:00/mile pace on the road, so I feel good about myself, and think to myself over and over that Marine Corps is going to seem like a cakewalk after this.

Near the crest of the hill at 20 miles there is another aid station. I am totally ignored as I pass through here, but its fine, as I have plenty of water to get through the remaining 6 miles. I do feel like I could use some solid food, however. I am actually hungry, which hasn't ever happened to me during a run before. I'm having hallucinations of ham sandwiches. They do not appear to have any, however. At 20 miles, I am at about 4:15 - about the time it would have taken me to run a road marathon.

Mile 16/17: 28:47 (contained the beach-slog and the fall)
Mile 18: 13:19 (bathroom break)
Mile 19: 12:02
Mile 20/21: 32:16 (bathroom break #2 and climb)

Just after 22 miles the trail begins to descend. Since I have brought the course map along with me, I know I am on the last descent back down to the flat area nearing the beginning of the loop. I am extremely tired but still putting out a good effort. However, I am really beginning to get mentally fatigued from slogging through the mud. I'm starting to think I will have run a 50K by the time I'm done with all of the sliding. This section of the trail is also not very picturesque - running inland through the woods. I am getting passed by more experienced trail runners who are hopping through the mud like its a walk in the park. An older man passing me at mile 23 shouts with glee "MILE 23!" and I manage a halfhearted cheer.

But just after he passes, I am faced with an ankle-breaking descent punctuated with water bars which seem to have been placed across the trail specifically to trip me. I stop. I want to cry. I just cannot handle any more mud. I'm a wuss. It was fun for the first 20 miles, but now I just want to go home. Unfortunately the only way home is through the mud so I walk down the slope and start back up with a jog again near the bottom. At the bottom of the slope is an unexpected aid station with many smiling faces, who see me coming from several hundred yards away and begin cheering wildly. They run up to me with water and gels, but I'm pretty well stocked, so I just take their good cheer and soldier on. I feel a little bit refreshed, and look at my watch. I'm just under 5 hours, but if I can push the last 5K I'll feel respectable. Fortunately from here on out it appears the trail will return to gravel fire road, and the going will be much easier.

I do feel a little defeated. I've been on my feet far longer than ever before, and over much tougher terrain than ever before. My quads feel like jello and I understand why trail runners have told me strength training is really important. But I take a perverse kind of pride in having run for this long. I've toughed it out much more than ever before. I may have been totally unprepared, but for almost 20 miles, I was having the time of my life. It has been a great performance, all things considered.

I come up on a man walking. I've seen him walking for a very long time now. I'm not sure how long, as the seconds are passing like hours at this point, buts its been much longer than a typical walk-break, I'm sure. I pass him and ask if he's ok and he says sure. I stop to take a walk break, and he quickly overtakes me. He's moving at least. He may have simply decided that walking at this point will be faster than running. The same is probably true for me but I have the stupid pride of a road runner.

I jog on, and begin to see people trickling back up the trail, telling me I'm almost there. At about 25 miles, the walking man passes me at a run. "I see you've got your mojo back" I say, and he says "Well, I figure it can't possibly hurt much more at this point."

He runs on just ahead of me for the remainder of the race. At 26 miles, I decide I've had enough of shuffling and try to pick it up for the last quarter mile. Suddenly, to my left amidst the clapping spectators, I see a bear coming out of the woods!

Wait! The bear is waving at me! It's a man in a bear suit!

I break out laughing but am too addled to take a picture.

I sprint up to the finish line and pull out my camera to snap a picture on the move. A man calls to me and offers to take my picture running across. I toss it to him and he brings it back to me.

I look at my watch. 5:27:26. Not too bad I suppose. In spite of just wanting to relax and finish, I secretly had a goal of 5 hours in mind for this first trail race (and an even more secret goal of 4:30 if it turned out the trail was not much of barrier) but given the muck, 5:28 seems pretty respectable. I'm not last, but I'm not so far behind the pack either. I end up 69th out of 94, and at least half the times are over 5 hours.

Mile 22: 13:22 (last major ascent)
Mile 23: 13:06
Mile 24: 15:19 (stopped to whine about mud)
Mile 25: 13:58
Mile 26.2: 15:55

DH runs up to me and hugs me. "Guess what? I ran the 10K in an hour!" This is a PR for him and I'm quite impressed as they had a pretty major ascent and descended the muddy portion of the trail that caused me to stop and cry. I tell him I'm proud of him, then hobble over to the lake, discard my shoes, and, as he shouts "What are you doing? Do you want some water? Are you ok?" I walk in fully clothed.

I am falling through the chasm of air and water that is the stillness of my land of beyond. And I've lost that sense of vertigo, the will to fight the fall. I have bathed myself in mud and icy water, I am baptised in the trail. And I have scaled to new heights.

Developmental Disabilities - 2 days till Grand Island

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Fri, 28 Jul 2006 00:24:00 +0000

The history of our development as a species and of our development as individuals is written on our feet.

As humans went from the trees to the savannah, our feet changed shape from the prehensile hand-like appendages of apes to the platforms made for stability, balance, and propulsion of bipedal walking. And running.

But we retain vestiges of that old appendage. The first metatarsal (the bone connecting the big toe to the rest of the foot) shows ancient and currently useless features which suggest the toe was originally prehensile.

While we've lost most of this grasping ability (not all of us have - my husband can move his big toe independently of the rest of his foot and regularly uses it for picking up around the house) we retain the ability to flex and point our toes - an ability crucial to propelling us off the ground in our running stride.

The rubber-band like tissue partly responsible for this is the posterior tibial tendon, which runs down the inside back of the leg and attaches to the foot just under the arch. This is the tendon that has been giving me trouble.

Today I went to a podiatrist I was referred to by the American College of Podiatric Sports Medicine. I explained the pain I was having and my running history. He asked me to invert my foot (point the toes inwards - the action the PTT is responsible for) and felt along the tendon, asking if I felt any pain. I did not until he came down to my arch where the tendon inserts.

Given that the whole length of the tendon wasn't in pain, he doubted a diagnosis of tendonitis, and decided to take x-rays to see what was going on.

When he brought the x-rays into the exam room and clipped them to the light box, he studied them for several long minutes in silence, with an occasional "Hm."

I doubted he was seeing stress fractures because I figured that would probably have elicited a different reaction, but I couldn't quite tell what was so interesting.

He flipped the xrays around several times, comparing my left and right feet, looking into every step I had taken from 12 months old written on my bones.

Then he turned to me and began: "Sometimes in human development you see these unusual occurences... These things are just leftovers from human evolution."

Huh? Did I have ape-feet?

He pointed out two bright white circles on the end of my first metatarsal. "These are sesamoids. They are small extra bones embedded in the soft tissue that aid the mobility of the joint. Like your kneecap. Sometimes, people have more of these. You have one here by your navicular bone embedded in your tendon. That extra bone is moving around and irritating the tendon."

I have an extra bone in my foot? COOL!!!

Even more interesting though, is that while the bone is irritating the tendon, it is not causing tendonitis. I have pain, but I am in no danger of damaging my tendon further by running. The doctor says "If you're not into pain, you shouldn't run, but if you can run through it, that's fine."

I tell him if I wasn't into pain I wouldn't be marathoning in the first place.

So my instructions are to Advil-load before the race and grit it out for as long as I want to. I should expect to be limping for a while afterwards, but it will clear up with rest after the race. In August, I will go in to be fitted for a better pair of orthotics with cushioning for this little extra bone. Eventually, I will need to have surgery to remove it, but that may effectively be the end of my running career, so we'll put that off as long as possible.

So there it is, in my foot - the history of a species that used to use its feet to grasp tree-trunks. I'm a practical evolutionary relic. I should donate my skeleton to the Smithsonian.

Also in my feet is my personal history - the bunion that is starting to develop tells the doctor of my penchant for couture shoes, the recurring case of athlete's foot that won't heal prompts him to ask if I have a family history of diabetes and to tell me to watch my blood sugar as I get older.

The feet bear the weight of every step we take, every decision we make, and even of the decisions and fates of those before us who handed down our unique make-up that enables us to leap into the air and run, or keeps us earthbound.

So, I and my ape-foot will be running the Grand Island Marathon on Sunday. I'll keep running for as long as I can, during the marathon and beyond. And when the time comes to excise my posterior tibial tendon and rebuild my foot, hopefully it will be an achievement of the most human of human evolutions, the brain, and my foot will be better than before, a testament to forward progress and the evolutionary step that allowed us to go from vegetarianism to brain-building protein brought down by running hunters.

But if not, and I have to give up running, maybe I'll move into competitive tree-climbing.

Subduing the tendons - 6 days till Grand Island

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Mon, 24 Jul 2006 23:53:00 +0000

The mutinous mobs are gaining strength. My foot is markedly worse today even without running.

The pain did not go away after getting up and walking around a bit. It got steadily worse all day.

In addition to the pain I have in the arch, I have developed pain in my inner ankle and calf. Meaning this is not plantar fasciitis.

My best guess is that it's posterior tibial tendonitis, based upon the fact that I cannot stand on the ball of my foot and my lower calf hurts when pointing my toes. From my reading I understand that this injury and plantar fasciitis often go hand-in-hand.

So I've had to call in the reserves. I'll be seeing a podiatrist on Thursday morning. I am hopeful that the pain will be mostly gone by then with a strict regimen of tape, ice, rest, stretching, and ibuprofen (which I am not supposed to take due to some stomach bleeding caused by chronic use of naproxen several years ago, but this is an emergency).

Then, in a last stand using all the firepower I can muster, I hope to convince the doctor to shoot me full of cortisone.

Why is this marathon so important to me that I am willing to risk stomach bleeding and a ruptured tendon to complete it? I'm not sure. I know I hate the idea of going all the way out to Michigan without actually at least starting the race. I hate the idea that all of my training will be wasted.

But I think the most important thing is to live for today. I am signed up for the Marine Corps Marathon at the end of October and could easily tell myself to save my feet for another day, but who knows where I'll be then? This tendonitis thing could still be plaguing me. I could have a different injury. Any number of things could happen. It's a lesson driven deep into me from my time spent waiting for the Iraq war to start, not knowing when DH would come home.

So yes, I may do serious damage to my tendon and force myself out of MCM in October and who knows how many races hence. But at least I'll have this: My first trail marathon, on an island in Lake Superior, feeling the clean lake breezes and pine needle bed underfoot, splashing through streams. If I only get a few miles of that, I think I would be fine with it. But at least I will have a few memories - better than none at all.

And if nothing else, Lake Superior will make a good ice bath.

Mutiny aboard the HMS Bon

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Mon, 24 Jul 2006 01:42:00 +0000

My body is in revolt. It clearly does not want me to run this marathon.

My joints, tendons, respiratory system, and immune system are all conspiring to take over the ship of my body and steer me away from Grand Island. And I have to compromise, string them along, pretend to meet their demands, until the 11th hour when I will pull my bargain off the table and my guts and heart will retake control of the ship.

After last week's 20-miler, I awoke the next morning feeling like I'd spent the night in a bar. My throat was raw and felt rumblings deep in my chest. The cold I've been working on since my first 20 miler 4 weeks ago keeps resurfacing with every hard workout.

So I made it my priority just to spend the next 2 weeks to rest and get better before the race. I began my taper with a short speed workout - 3 mile-repeats on the treadmill, out of the heat and smoggy thick air.

I felt great. Full of energy. Ready to run 26 more. I felt like I could have run repeats forever. But my right leg from my ankle to my hip felt a little out of whack. But it stopped just as I got off the treadmill, with only a nagging dull ache in the arch of my right foot. It was gone by the afternoon. Just a typical ache that I expect after last week's high mileage.

Wednesday I rode the bike and continued to feel great. Thursday, my plan had been to do 10 miles with 6 at marathon pace. But after a tough day at work, I felt tired, and fell asleep on the train on the way home, another indication of my ongoing cold. Groggily trudging up the steps to my house with a headache, I decided to postpone my run until Friday to get more rest.

Friday afternoon I hit the treadmill at work for 6 miles at marathon pace. As soon as I laced up my shoes I knew something was wrong. My right foot felt sore. I started to run and noticed my stride was off. I was also having to stop to shake loose muck from deep in my lungs, a whole-body cough which sapped my energy.

I finished the run and felt all right energy wise, but disturbed. Still, I reckoned that if I rested until Sunday before running again, I would be fine.

Saturday morning, I got up and went to a staff off-site meeting for work. As I slipped on my kittn-heeled mules I had very sharp pains in the arch of my right foot. Now I was upset. I limped into the Mandarin Oriental conference room and sat until 4 PM with our Board of Directors, stretching my foot under the table. By the evening it felt better. This morning soreness is a sure sign that I have developed plantar fasciitis.

Sunday morning, DH and I got up to take a short 10-mile run around Burke Lake. Again, as I laced up my shoes I noticed a dull ache in my arch. I set out around the lake and the dull pain continued like the nagging feeling that you've forgotten something. Always in the back of my mind but nothing that would cause any grief until it turns out I needed whatever I forgot and the situation turns dire.

We headed around the lake at an easy but relatively fast pace, maybe just a hair slower than marathon pace. Things are going ok until a little over halfway around, or 30 minutes into the run, when the pain becomes a lot more noticeable, and I'm forced to alter my stride and drop back. The pain is worse as my foot pronates on each step, another sign of plantar fasciitis, and I awkwardly try to keep my weight over the outside of my foot.

I give it 10 more minutes, about 3/4 of a mile from the parking lot and the end of our first loop. DH has pulled far ahead of me and I can't see him anymore. And I know that I'm only making things worse with each step. I do what I've never done before. I give up.

My body has mutinied. My feet are throwing me overboard. Enough. No more abuse.

But giving in to my body's demands isn't turning over control to the mavericks just yet. I'm simply negotiating and meeting their demands. So we won't do 10 miles today. That's fine. I didn't need this run anyway. At 6 days from my race, a 10 mile run isn't doing much but keeping my legs fresh, and breaking myself down to improve performance isn't part of the agenda right now.

So I go home, and put on a comfortable pair of flat shoes, and go out to the local Metro Run and Walk. I walk in, tell them I'm less than a week away from a marathon, I'm feeling the beginnings of plantar fasciitis, show them my shoes and orthotics, and ask what I can do to further support the arch.

They don't recommend I change shoes a week before the race, but after the race, I'm going to need to probably replace my orthotics and get a gait analysis to determine if the shoes are exactly right. The Asics Gel Kayanos I've been wearing have been a great blend of cushioning and support and have worked well with my orthotics, but I may need slightly more stability for my right foot.

For now, the clerk steers me away from the arch supports designed for plantar fasciitis and says, from experience, that taping will be easier and cheaper. He gives me a short description of how to do the taping job, and tells me where to find instructions on the internet.

I walk out of the store without buying anything. But they know I'll be back for shoe advice.

At home in the afternoon I ice my foot for several hours off and on. Then I shower and get ready to tape up. The instructions I found make it look like the taping will do a fine job of giving my tendons a rest, and DH very capably tapes me up.

The foot feels much better as of this moment, but we'll see in the morning. For now, the plan is to rest. I have just a couple of easy miles with strides scheduled for Tuesday. Depending on how that goes, I may just ride the bike for the rest of the week. I will be keeping the foot taped up and icing it, in an effort to assuage its demands without damaging my race performance.

And when it comes down to it, I'll gut it out through the race on Saturday. I am stronger than my mutinous tendons and bronchial passages. I may pay for it later, but I can only live for today. I don't know if I will get to run another marathon. This race is here and now, I am prepared for it, I have plane tickets and hotel reservations. I may not perform at my best, but I will not let my body steal this experience from me. I am the captain of this ship, and if I never sail again, I will return home victorious.

I'll deal with the unruly crew of this ship when I return to shore.

12 Steps

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Tue, 18 Jul 2006 00:43:00 +0000

Running is a delicate balance.

The act itself is a balance. Delicately striking the ground with one foot, pushing off on a toe while moving the other leg forward. Hanging suspended in fluid air weightless for one moment before succumbing to gravity, shifting your weight over the other foot, then pushing off to fly again. It requires strength to take off, and economy to execute the movement again and again. You need both components to be your best.

Training is also a balance. Train too hard continuously, and you will burn out or injure yourself. Just as the space between days, the act of sleeping, is necessary to recharge, space between hard workouts is necessary.

And finally, there is a great macro-balance to running and life. While running is a moving meditation, ultimately requiring individual focus, commitment, and soul-searching, the trail is not a monastery. While some are called to run for a higher purpose, most of us will spend our running lives in a private devotion to a personal cause which is often not related to running at all - spiritual enlightenment, personal achievement, a breath of fresh air, a break in the day, and friendships.

And as such it deserves an integration into our lives, rather than an absorption of our lives. Run for alone time, soul-searching, and personal challenge, but also run for fellowship and the rejuvenation that comes from sharing those challenges.

Perhaps this is why 12-step groups are so successful in accomplishing their goals. They have realized that soul searching cannot be done in a vacuum, that personal insight often comes from outside ourselves, and that our fellow competitors in life can buoy us to accomplishments we could not have reached through the power of faith alone, especially when that faith is tested. Just as Dick Beardsley used Alberto Salzar to reach his apex as a marathoner, achieving a feat no one thought possible of him based solely on his training alone, growth in any endeavor requires a balance of dedication to introspection and extroversion - a willingness to call up the unknown quantity from deep within yourself that you would not have seen if it wasn't for the mirror others have held up.

Sunday I met a group of friends for my final 20-mile run before my marathon. As a final confidence booster, I wanted this run to go well, and knew that the exhileration of running with a group would provide me a boost. And soften the blow if it didn't go so well.

I started at 6 AM from my house. When I woke up I could see the air lying in a down blanket over the ground. As I stepped out onto the trail, clouds lingered like a snowfall suspended over the glassy lake. A great blue heron appeared out of the gray. A ghostly figure approached me from the other end of the lake, a man walking his dog. Otherwise, I am alone.

I took the first 5 miles to the park alone, easing into my run, feeling the curtain of mist parting around me. I ran out on the road for a mile, then dropped into a trail running along a secret creek on the side of the road. The foliage was as thick as the air, and though I was only steps from a major road I was in another world. This was my alone time. I was centering myself for the remaining 15 miles.

I took a turn onto the road leading into the park where I would meet my friends. I ran a half mile down the road to the trail and picked it up heading towards the parking lot. In another quarter mile, my husband and friend came running toward me and we all lit up.

I turned and headed with them for a few minutes. They were running just a hair faster than I wanted to, so I stayed with them for 10 minutes and took a minute-long drink-break. When I started up again, they were still in sight, so I picked it up to catch them, splashing through the puddles as I came up on them. Running with friends reminded me how playful it could be.

On my next break, however, I dropped back, not willing to sacrifice an appropriate pace and damage my workout to stay with them. I knew I would probably catch my husband later on, so I anticipated running another few miles on my own. But within a few hundred yards, a man passed me and commented on how well stocked I was (this was not a lewd comment - just a reference to the four gels and 6 water bottles strapped around my waist). Several years ago I might have just laughed and let him go on his way. But I've realized what a resource other runners are on the trail, and when I spotted the VHTRC logo on the back of his shirt, I told him I was in the club as well.

He dropped back and ran with me the rest of the way around the lake, about 3.5 miles. I told him about my run with Vicki last week, and he told me about his upcoming ultra, the Catoctin 50K. I asked him if it was true that running a 50K was easier than running a marathon. We talked about our mutual experiences in the Marine Corps Marathon. We found a lot to talk about, and rather than feeling uncomfortable, as I might have in the past, it made the miles fly by.

On the next loop of the park my husband and friend came back to pick me up. DH was feeling a little like quitting, but realized we'd both tackle him if he did that, and decided to stick it out for one more loop, 5 miles, to bring his total run up to 10 miles, the longest run he's done since March.

This time, when I stopped for a drink break, DH hung back with me. The pace on the first loop with our friend had been too much for him and he was hurting now. We slogged it out through 4 more miles together. I was doing most of the supporting, encouraging him to ditch his hand-carried water-bottle for the sake of efficiency and sharing mine with him instead, counting out the minutes to our next break, strategizing about his upcoming 10K race.

When he felt he could go no further we made it a goal to go another half mile to the dam at the end of the lake, a mile from the parking lot. He made it, and as I trotted off away from him, he asked if he did good. I turned around and told him I was proud of him and I loved him. With encouragement he had pushed himself to accomplish something he didn't feel himself capable of, and ended feeling well prepared for his race and proud of himself.

As I reached the parking lot, our friend was waiting. I had one more lap to reach 20 miles, and I asked him if he was up for it. He said not a whole lap, but he'd run out 10 minutes with me then turn around and head back to the lot. We went a bit faster, and talked about his goals for his upcoming half-iron tri. I felt great at 15 miles - much better than I had at 15 miles on my previous 20 miler and 18 miler. I wasn't tracking my pace exactly as there aren't any mile markers on this course, but I had a split for each lap and if I was doing the math right, was holding a good 10:30 pace.

At 10 minutes, with 4 miles left to go on my run, my friend turned around and wished me well, leaving me to finish the run the way I'd started, and the way we ultimately all have to make it through life - alone. In another mile bad cramps came up on my and I pulled off into the woods for a bathroom break. But otherwise my legs were feeling good. After relieving myself I felt fresh and continued trotting down the trail. I was starting to feel the miles a bit, but enouraged myself to keep going. I made the dam a mile from the end, and started pushing myself through to the end. I exploded into the parking lot on a finishing kick and finished the lap only a minute slower than the previous lap, even with the bathroom break.

To my surprise, DH and our friend were sitting in camp chairs reclining with drinks and a couple of other women who had stopped me on the trail to ask about my Fuel Belt. We were making all kinds of new running friends out here today.

I settled back into the chair, downed some jelly beans and water and basked in the accomplishment of my run and of my friends. And I realized how much better shape I am in now than I was 4 years ago, when my husband left for the middle east. Not only can I finish 20 miles feeling strong and prepared for the marathon, I have a group of friends I can count on to get me through it, a position I was not in during those dark days in 2002.

Running has taken me to many places, allowing me to collect many souveniers along the way, but the journey I am most satisfied with is the journey on which I collected the friends who can help me see what I am really made of - the ones who pick me up and get me through that long long run, and give me the strength to keep going on my own.

Running With Scissors

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Sun, 09 Jul 2006 21:58:00 +0000

"Remember what your mother told you about not running with scissors? Forget all that," Jeff tells me as he hands me a giant pair of pruning shears.

I'm out with the Virginia Happy Trails Running Club on the south end of Massanutten Mountain near Catherine's Furnace. This is a trail maintenance trip for the upcoming Catherine's Fat Ass 50K and training run for those who want to see the course. I decided to come out to get in a training run on some rough terrain before I run my first trail marathon on July 29 - the Grand Island Trail Marathon. I've heard the people in VHTRC are pretty fast, so I'm hoping that the trail work will slow the pace enough for me to keep up on what will be my first trail run ever. I'm supposed to get 20 miles in today. I don't know if that will happen but I'm prepared to either run more at home in the afternoon or push the 20-miler back to next week which will still give me plenty of time to taper before July 29.

Unfortunately, because this is a trail maintenance trip, that means I have to carry tools while running, yet another new experience.

We met at the Centerville Park and Ride at 7 AM. There are 5 of us. We head out to Catherine's Furnace where we split into two groups to cover two different sections of the trail. I'm paired up with Vicky, who I am told has just completed races of 50 miles, 100K, and 70 miles in 3 consecutive weeks.

Jeff, the Catherine's race director, tells me to treat the first portion of our trail as "glaze ice" and I quickly discover why. The trail follows the rock path of a stream bed and is littered with mossy rocks. It's not runnable - very steep and slick, and there are about 10 crossings of an icy stream which is running high and fast due to all the rain we've had. I get stymied trying to hop from rock to rock on the first stream crossing and Vicky has to put out her hand to help me across. She knows its my first trail run and she's told me it will be difficult. She seems nice and willing to help me out, but I still feel like a neophyte and worry that I'm going to be dragging her down.

Up the mountain we go, and Vicky isn't running, but she's speeding over the rocks like a marmot and I have to run wherever possible to keep up. She bounds through the stream crossings - practically walking on the thigh high water ferociously rushing over hidden moss-covered rocks strewn like mines. I pick my way gingerly across each one, hanging on to whatever I can for dear life, trying not to fall on the pruning shears gripped in my other hand.

The trail straightens out and moves away from the stream and the rocks, but conditions don't get any better. Now its covered in several inches of sucking mud. I almost lose my shoes more than once. But I am making better time keeping up with Vicky now, able to run and not having to pick over the rocks. On this section her advantage of experience isn't quite as great.

We drop our tools at the head of a side trail up to an overlook. Vicky wants to show me why running the trails is so worthwhile out here. She also wants to find a bear and thinks this will be the most likely spot. We head up a quarter mile and are treated to a view of the patchwork quilt of the Shennandoah Valley, the hazy Blue Ridge in the distance, and the ridges of Massanutten taunting us from both sides. Vicky points out the location of an aid station for the race on the next peak over. No bears though. I am secretly thankful for that.

From here it's downhill back to the road, and while I think it's going to be no problem keeping up with Vicky on this section, she once again shows me the value of experience. The descent is steep and straight and the rains have littered the trail with fist-sized loose rocks. A thin layer of silt and running water covers it all. I get going too fast for my comfort level, burning my quads as a tough ski-run would do. Before I know what's happening I stumble on a rock and go down. I have the prescence of mind to flip myself over on my back (pruning shears up) before I land and I'm not hurt. It was actually a little fun, and I feel more like a genuine trail runner now - covered in mud, scraped up, legs feeling like jello.

I meet Vicky at the bottom of the road where she's got her shoes off, rinsing them out in the stream. I proudly tell her about my fall and she congratulates me. She points out a natural spring from which I can fill my water bottles. The water is icy and completely tasteless. It's the perfect refreshment after an hour and a half of hard running.

Here we have a choice to make. The other group is shuttling between two ends of of another trail which starts and ends on this road. We can head up a couple of miles or down a mile to either end. Vicky leaves the choice up to me. I came out here to get some climbing in, so I decide we should head up. Footing's not an issue on this gravel road, but Vicky's legs are used to the beating we just took on the trail, and mine are not, so I fall behind once again. She gradually works her way out of sight and I start to feel a little defeated. I have no idea what my pace is but its not fast. I take a litte restroom break (the nice part about being away from civilization is not having to worry about finding bathrooms) and start jogging again. Shortly after I see Vicky heading back toward me. "I thought you got kidnapped!" I think, no I'm just slow, but tell her I had to stop to use the facilities.

She doesn't get out of my sight again, and soon I see her standing at the top of a hill waving to me. I can't hear what she's yelling so I trudge up the hill. Looks like we're at the trailhead where the other group's car is parked. We take a break and sit in the shade, but after 10 minutes of swatting away flies determine we should head back down the road to the other end of the trail and hopefully catch the other group on the way back up the road to the car.

We start down and Vicky sticks with me, asking about the marathon. After taking 2 hours to run maybe 8 miles I tell her I've decided all notions of a time goal have just gone out the window, and she reassures me that I should be able to do the marathon in 5 hours if the trail isn't as technical. She recommends I do another run on a more rolling trail to practice footing and work the hill muscles without the demanding climbs and offers to set up a group training run for next week. These trail people are much less competitive than road racers it seems.

As we descend on the road we pass roaring waterfalls. Vicky stops to admire them and tells me this scenery is why she loves these trails. It is quiet and beautiful and spiritual in a way running down the crowded Mt. Vernon trail never is. Rather than listening to my feet and counting steps till mile markers, I'm looking at the scenery, stopping to admire a bird or a waterfall, not even concentrating on how many miles I've been.

We get down to the bottom of the road and the other trailhead where we are expecting to see the group. But they aren't there. We stop for a bit and wash ourselves off in the stream, but the flies are at it again, and even though my quads are telling me I can't run another step after several miles of downhill, and I want to throw the pruning shears into the woods, Vicky wants to start heading up the trail to intercept the other group.

I'm starting to get worried we'll never see them and I'll be forced to keep running uphill like Sisyphus for all eternity, but we see them in several hundred feet. We turn around and head back. Vicky wants to get in a few more miles snd starts heading up the road. We'll pick her up on the way to get the other car. She asks if I'm coming. I know I haven't run anywhere near my 20 miles for the day (Jeff tells me I might have done 10 in the three hours we were out), but I also know my legs will give out if I run one more step. They feel weak and jellyfish-like. Its a feeling I haven't experienced in a while. Plus I'm starving for some real food and all I have is gel. Clearly there's a reason most trail races stock "real" food at their aid stations in addition to gel and gatorade.

Rebecca, one of the runners in the other group, offers me a sandwich from her bag while Jeff brings out a cooler of beer. No food ever tasted so good as this does after being out in the mountains with some new friends.

Today I'm more sore than I have been in years after a run. I don't think I've felt like this since my first marathon. I didn't run as fast or as far as I have run before, but there are other challenges, such as tackling a relentless climb, scrambling over rocks, mastering the art of a controlled slide downhill. And other rewards. I've never run up a hill looking for bears. I've never just stopped on a run to admire the natural beauty with no regard to time. I've never filled my water bottle from a natural spring. I've never joked around with sandwiches and beer and a group of runners as fanatical as myself (even moreso) after a run. I've never run for the sheer joy of it.

Like running with scissors, doing something you're not "supposed" to do and that others will warn you away from (such as running up a mountain) can have risks. You can fall and scrape yourself on a rock. You can break bones. You can get swept away in a rushing river. You can land on a pair of pruning shears. But it can be beautiful too.

So go ahead. Run with scissors. Do something you've never done before. Do something others think is crazy. And have fun.

It is not possible to run too slow

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Mon, 03 Jul 2006 23:51:00 +0000

Much of training is counter-intuitive. To be able to run 26 miles at a given pace, you would think you'd have to run your training runs all at that pace or faster, right? You'd have to make sure you could do at least 20-24 miles at that pace, right?

But if you do that, you're racing yourself every day and breaking yourself down. Oddly, aerobic capacity increases best by running at a slower pace than you plan to race at. So most training plans tell you to run 10% slower than your goal marathon pace, or 60-90 second slower, or thereabouts. Sure, you throw in lactate threshhold workouts to lower the speed at which your legs become rubber, and throw in some track work to get your muscles drinking in more oxygen with each heart beat, but that's just spitting in the ocean. The bulk of any training program is comprised of slow, easy miles.

Guru Hal Higdon even says "It is not possible to run too slow during the long run."

I'm keeping that in mind this morning as I set out for an easy 13 miles.

This is a rest week, and rest I have. I've been trying to shake that cold and haven't laced up the shoes all week. I hit the bike a few times, and went to Pilates class, but mostly I've been sitting on my butt.

I'm still horking up some gunk and have a runny nose. I stuffed a few tissues in my pocket but since it's 90 degrees outside and the air feels like dog's breath, I'm pouring water over my head within 10 minutes, turning the tissues to pulp. So it's time to perfect the fine art of the farmer-blow. Some people like to lean over to the side and blow away from themselves, but, not wanting to lose any efficiency in stride or hit an unsuspecting biker coming up fast behind me, I prefer just to let it run down my face. Wipe it with the back of your hand and wipe your hand on your shorts. Anything remaining on your face will be sweated off.

So far in the short life of this blog I've relieved my digestive distress in the trees and blown virus-laden mucous all over myself. What's left to cover? Blood, pus, bile, and urine - a veritable cornucopia of the physical. We'll see if we can get to those in future entries. Running is not a sport for the faint of heart.

I run the first two miles at typical long-run pace of about 10:30 but the air is heavier than liquid lead and thicker than what's coming out of my nose so I give up fighting. Looking at the muddy Potomac tributaries on the stream crossings doesn't refresh me as it usually does, it looks like beef stew.

The typical recommendation for pacing on a hot day is to slow by up to a minute. I run a few miles even slower than that, at 12:00 to 12:30 pace but by the time I turn around I'm feeling a little perkier. I drenched my shirt in a water fountain and I am soaking wet from head to toe by the end. Even though I'm not working too hard today, I'm getting some comments about being tough. I must look like I crawled out of the Potomac. I keep passing two bikers who stop every 200 yards to rest in the shade. The overall pace ended up being about 11:30 for the whole run.

Sometimes on runs like this I take my watch off. I'll let it run to get an overall pace at the end, but I won't check splits every mile. In spite of knowing the value of the survival shuffle, the part of me that couldn't keep up with the cross-country team thinks its not good enough, and I tend to be disgusted at myself if I'm not running at or faster than the prescribed pace for my workout.

I know better, but I can't accept that very deep within me.

My husband started today's run with me. He loathes running but has signed up for a 10K run simultaneously with my goal marathon so that he'll have something to do. He also recognizes he needs to exercise and finds running to be the least of all evils. I wish he could find something to excite his passion the way running does for me. Something that would get him up excited on a weekend morning. But he trudges along running with an empty soul.

DH will try to go 8-10 miles today. Its the longest run he's done since the Cherry Blossom 10-miler. In fact he's done hardly anything since then. But if he's going to run a 10K in four weeks he has to start.

My hope is to catch him on the way back, but shortly into my run I realize that's not going to happen, and try to let it go. My evil competitive twin loves leaving him the dust, but he makes it almost no fun.

Because he's satisfied with whatever he does, no matter what the pace or the workout. He ended up running 6 miles because of the heat, but felt like it was good enough. I came back to find him contentedly sitting in his camp chair reading a magazine. I've run for about 2 hours, he just over 1. He's not terribly impressed with himself but not with me either. He feels no need to keep up with me. He doesn't keep score when we play golf even, picking up on half the holes, just out for a nice walk and a beer at the turn. What abscence of passion divorces him from performance?

And more importantly, how can he teach me to do that? For at every mile marker today I've beat back a small measure of disappointment and self-loathing when I looked at my split.

I have always battled the Martha Stewart of my self, the perfectly coiffed goddess who throws a fit if the Merlot is not the right vintage, if the cover shot of the magazine isn't a picture of perfection, if my stock takes a tumble. I berate myself with each failure to measure up to an impossible standard.

I have a feeling when I learn to stop doing that, I'll start training smarter and get faster. But will I enjoy running more or less? If part of what I love is the challenge of pushing myself harder and further, will running more miles without the pressure of the watch make me lonely and empty? Or will it leave more room for birds, and streams, and "good mornings" and sunrises?

Just as I have a fear when I step to the starting line of the marathon, that my 20-mile run substantially slower than my goal race pace will not be enough to get me through, I fear that those niceties of running will not fill me up the way the watch can. It's a dysfunctional, addictive relationship, and I have to break myself of it.

Until I learn to let go of the watch, I'm going to have to keep dragging my husband with me. For his apathy dulls my competitive edge and keeps it from slitting my throat.

The Outer Limits

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Wed, 28 Jun 2006 20:28:00 +0000

I've reached my limit. For now.

I'm not running today because Monday's traipse through the rain worsened my cold. Since it's a rest week, I'm going to give it a few days off and get better, so that I can thoroughly kick it and run my remaining workouts for this training cycle with some quality. Most importantly, if I keep running through it, the cold is likely to linger on until race day, which will make the race pretty much miserable.

This is the second time an illness has taken me down at the peak of a marathon training cycle. Clearly, my body is trying to tell me it has limits.

I'm often in awe of people who push their limits to incredible extremes. This past weekend was the annual running of the Western States 100, one of the ultimate tests of human limits. Runners careen over terrain that forced the Donner Party to resort to cannibalism. They run for up to 30 hours straight, through snow fields and desert canyons, through hallucinations, vertigo, trenchfoot. They are allowed to lose up to 7% of their body weight (that's over 10 pounds for a 150 pound runner) during the race before automatic removal. Both hypothermia and heat stroke are listed among the risk factors of the run. Don't forget muscle necrosis.

On the Runner's World online trail running forum, I read the stories of some who finished the run, as well as some who started but were forced out. In awe of their accomplishments, I told them what an inspiration they were. To even stand on the starting line of a race that can push you beyond the outer limits of yourself is a lofty goal few can dare to commit to. A few responded that there's not really any difference between running 100 miles and taking a 3 mile walk in the woods. Every run is special.

I thought about this. I agree in theory. Each run does present its own challenges. But what I really think is an important distinction is that each runner must test his or her own limits. If that means running 100 miles or 3 miles, that is the goal of running. Of living. If you go out and run the same 3 mile route every day, and never look beyond that experience, are you really living? If you stick to the same routine every day of your life and never try (and fail) at anything new, is that living?

Certainly there are other reasons to run. The child-like joy of splashing through the rain. The meditative effects of breathing in and out. The opportunity to get together with friends. These are all reasons I have run. But for me, testing my limits is the driving force behind my running. It's what keeps me running, when yoga would serve the same purpose as communing with friends, nature, and meditating. Perhaps it's a flaw in my outlook on life. Perhaps I should learn to be more content. That's what the Survival Shuffle is all about, right? Slowing down to catch your breath, smell the roses?

But if you never learn where your limits are, can you say you've lived fully? The survival shuffle is what lets me test my limits. Instead of quitting after 10 miles, I can make it through 20. I can find where that upper limit lays. It lets me see outside the lines, and determine if I can go there. The Survival Shuffle is about pushing boundaries outward, not bringing them inward. I'll do whatever I can to reach beyond the new line I drew on my last run. Whatever I can to get through a tough new experience in life. When I've shuffled through, I have a new limit. I've reached the new world outside the old lines, and it is beautiful.

My favorite poem, The Land of Beyond, by Robert Service, is the best way to explain the beauty of that new world to someone who has never been there:

Have ever you heard of the Land of Beyond,
That dreams at the gates of the day?
Alluring it lies at the skirts of the skies,
And ever so far away;
Alluring it calls: O ye the yoke galls,
And ye of the trail overfond,
With saddle and pack, by paddle and track,
Let's go to the Land of Beyond!

Have ever you stood where the silences brood,
And vast the horizons begin,
At the dawn of the day to behold far away
The goal you would strive for and win?
Yet ah! in the night when you gain to the height,
With the vast pool of heaven star-spawned,
Afar and agleam, like a valley of dream,
Still mocks you a Land of Beyond.

Thank God! there is always a Land of Beyond
For us who are true to the trail;
A vision to seek, a beckoning peak,
A farness that never will fail;
A pride in our soul that mocks at a goal,
A manhood that irks at a bond,
And try how we will, unattainable still,
Behold it, our Land of Beyond!

I used to be afraid to take personal risks. I worked a steady job. I came home to a nice apartment and a cat every night. I was alone, because I pushed people away trying to avoid the hurt that comes with rejection.

Then I got married, and my husband was sent to Iraq. As I was forced to test my personal limits, I began testing my physical limits as well. I wanted to see what I was made of. I ran a marathon. I started my own business. I committed to my marriage.

I have failed at times. My body has let me down. I've made mistakes in business. But through that failure, I'm standing in a new world, and I can see a new horizon beckoning.

Testing your limits doesn't have to mean running 100 miles or running a marathon. If your limit is a 5K or a mile, so be it. But find that limit. Find the point where you can't put one foot in front of the other. Find the point where you fail. And look outward from that point and let the new horizon invite you to strive toward it. Do what you must to get there.

Start your own business. Raise a child. Jump out of a plane. Travel to Antarctica. Climb a mountain. Taste new foods. Love someone. Find your Land of Beyond.

Fail. Live.

The kinship of rain

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Tue, 27 Jun 2006 00:35:00 +0000

I love the sun. Almost nothing makes me happier than spending a warm early summer day in the sun.

But sometimes, you just need to let the rain wash you of your cares.

When I was 20 and a senior in college, I took a trip to Seattle to interview for several jobs. I stayed with a friend and took the bus all over town. The week I was there, Seattle had record torrential rains, resulting in mudslides, floods, all kinds of catastrophe. I had my own catastrophe en route to my first job interview. I had to take the bus out to somewhere in suburban Seattle, transfer busses and ride the rest of the way to my destination. It was raining hard at the transfer and I had 30 minutes to kill, so I took refuge in a diner and ordered a sandwich. As I was paying the tab, I saw my bus pull up. I ran after it but missed it. If I waited for the next bus, I would miss my interview. This was in the days before cell phones, so I was not able to call and explain my predicament. I decided to walk to the interview, about 2 miles away. Lacking an umbrella, I got completely drenched. But I showed up on time, thinking I didn't look too bad. As I got escorted back to my interview, a girl in the office exclaimed "Oh my god! Look at your ankle!" I had developed a blister by walking in my nice shoes on the back of my ankle, and my nylons had wicked the blood into a 4-inch circle of gore on my ankle. It looked like someone had taken a knife to my achilles tendon. I was given the chance to go to the restroom and clean myself up, but I still looked pretty bad. The interview went ok, but I was sure I'd made a horrible impression. As I stood in the rain afterwards waiting for my return bus, I let it wash over me and let go of the day, thankful that it was over.

I did get the job, but decided I didn't want to live in Seattle with all that rain.

Today was a similar kind of day.

Over the weekend, I was supposed to do a 20 mile long run. I have two of these runs scheduled as part of my training for my July 29 marathon. I'll run one slow, just to get the feel of the miles, and attempt the second one slightly faster. Running this distance requires a rest week between efforts, to ensure both runs are as good as they can be. After the two runs, I have a 3 week taper scheduled to give my body a rest and store up speed for the marathon.

Which means I pretty much had to get the first run in this weekend.

But Saturday morning I woke up with a slight tickle in my throat. I'd been out to dinner the night before and had a rich meal, so I decided it wasn't the ideal day to run anyway. I'd try again Sunday. But by Sunday my cold had bloomed and it was pouring. There was no way I could run. I'd have to try for Monday, but that was the last possible day, as I'd have to work the rest of the week. I hoped my cold was not the result of pushing myself too hard in the hot weather on Thursday. I slept all day Sunday and by Monday felt pretty much normal.

I woke up Monday morning to the news of apocalyptic floods, and all of the trails I usually run on, which are near the Potomac, were underwater. More torrential rain was forecast all day. I spent a few hours distressing about what to do, and finally decided to drive the Mt. Vernon trail around 2 PM to see what it looked like.

Surprisingly, the trail looked clear except for a few downed trees, so I set out on my way. I started at Belle Haven Park on the Potomac. The park was completely underwater, but the trail bed is raised a few feet, so it snaked through the lake like a dam.

I started out and discovered I'd forgotten my watch, which was fine, as most gurus will explain there's no way to run these long runs too slowly. The idea is just to get in the miles and spend time on your feet.

Running without a watch in the rain, I was able to pay attention to the rest of my surroundings. I noticed the ducks swimming beside the trail in the raised water. I noticed the heightened babble of the creeks emptying into the Potomac under the trail's many bridges. I saw a great blue heron fishing, and a hawk with a mouse in its talons. A barge steamed down the Potomac, and I raced it. Clouds hung low over the hills of Mt. Vernon, and shrouded the Wilson bridge.

Through all of that, I was completely alone, except for just a few other souls. I saw maybe 6 people on this normally popular trail. We greeted each other as we passed, understanding the kinship of rain. The only other people out here on a day like today are people who understand the need to cleanse themselves through a run in the rain. They run faster than the typical weekend warriors out here. And they are quiet. No "good morning" or "hello" or "how long are you out for today" - just a nod, maybe a wave and a knowing smile. I wonder what they have on their minds right now. Are they trying to wash themselves of the day's trials, or just relishing the clean childish feel of running in a drenching rain?

I'm not running very fast, and stopping for frequent walk breaks. I feel run down from my cold and am not at 100%. But I'm just out here to get the miles in. I'm shuffling by mile 13. My back is tight, and my feet are feeling a little tender from running in sopping wet shoes. At the pace I think I'm running, I'll probably be on my feet for 4 hours - almost as long as it will take me to run the marathon and about 30 minutes longer than a typical 20 miler. But spending the time on my feet is good preparation. Even though I will never approach the 26.2 mile distance of the marathon in my training, I will approach the time it takes to run that distance - a fact almost as important. Its not the distance, per se, that wears a marathoner down, but the sheer number of minutes spent on your feet.

By 15 miles I'm not feeling great. I have a million little aches and pains, and I have developed the hiccups. This is a new one on me. I have to stop completely for a few minutes. I'm stopping for more frequent walk breaks to stretch my back and legs. This run is not going well, and I can't wait for it to be over. The pouring rain has started again and my clothes are clinging to me in ways that makes running difficult. At 15 miles I've turned back to run a 2 mile section of the trail again, to bring my total run up to 20 miles. This repetition is having a dragging psychological effect.

Finally, I reach the end. I walk back up to the park, refill my water bottles at the water fountain, and just sit down. Just relieved to be off my feet.

I sit on the bench at the water fountain, totally spent, flood waters rising around me, ducks swimming at my feet, letting the renewed torrent wash over me.

Washed thoroughly in the rain, I am just grateful that today is over.

Pace Yourself

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Fri, 23 Jun 2006 02:48:00 +0000

Why haven't I learned this lesson yet?

The need to pace yourself hit me full in the face early this morning, as a family situation that's been on my mind for the last few months frustrated me yet again. My friends counselled patience and reminded me that wanting to have things settled yesterday is my biggest shortcoming.

The marathon is a race of patience. Not only must you be certain not to start the race too fast, but you must progress slowly in your training. In addition, each workout in training has a prescribed pace aimed at acheiving a specific goal, and going out too fast will almost always destroy the rest of the workout.

Many a time I have started out a long run at a comfortable jog, only to look at my watch 5 miles in to discover I'm running at marathon pace. And the survival shuffle is always implemented in those runs.

Tonight my workout was an 8-mile "lactate threshhold" run. If you want the science of this, visit the website of marathoner and physiologist Pete Pfitzinger. I'll give you the layman's explanation:

If you want to finish a marathon, you can do it. It may take you the time it takes to drive from Washington to Boston, but I promise, barring injury or other medical condition, by gradually working up your mileage over the course of a year or so, you can complete a marathon. But improving your time, or doing something such as qualifying for the Boston Marathon requires you to run relatively fast (in distance running terms) over a very long distance. When you run, your muscles require oxygen to burn fuel for energy. Obviously this is why you breathe hard when working out. But at a certain point (which is different for everyone) your heart can't pump enough oxygenated blood from your lungs to your legs, resulting in your muscles burining fuel without oxygen. Like a panicked scuba diver out of air, they try to breathe in what they can't use, and in doing so, produce something called lactic acid. The buildup of that lactic acid is what makes it feel as if you're running with cement shoes, and also what causes soreness after a workout.

But the funny thing is - if you run at exactly the pace where that lactic acid production begins, you can train your muscles to become more efficient in using available oxygen, and also train your heart to pump more oxygenated blood to your muscles. And you can lower the pace at which that lactic acid is produced, and "push back the wall."

For me right now, that point is a little under 9 minutes per mile. Since my run is a little longer tonight, I should go a little bit slower to ensure I can keep the pace. Say 9:15. But since its 90 degrees with 90 percent humidity today, I'll be working just as hard if I run slower. So I resolve to set out at 10 minutes per mile, and see how I feel.

Pace is vital to this workout. Run too slow and its like tying your scuba-diving muscles to an infinite air supply from the surface. You increase your ability to keep moving over time, but not your speed. Run too fast at the beginning and you drown your muscles in lactic acid too quickly, forcing them to come up for air later in the workout, and forcing you to slow to deliver that air.

No, the only way to push back the needle on the air supply gauge and get faster at the marathon is to pace yourself just right in these workouts.

But since my eyes are bigger than my hamstrings, I nearly always start these workouts too fast.

I start out tonight with the goal in mind to run a quick but comfortable pace for the first mile. Right at about marathon pace, since its so hot. I'm running on the Capital Crescent Trail from Georgetown, a good place for this workout because the trail is marked every half mile, allowing me to pace myself better.

As I run along, thinking I need to hit the first half mile in just under 5 minutes, I start looking for the marker around 4:45. Most of the lower 4 miles of this trail look pretty similar so I'm not sure where it is. At 5:10 I realize I've missed it.

At 8:17, the first mile marker surprises me. I've run almost a minute faster than goal pace for this workout on a good day, let alone a hot and sticky day like this one. I know I can't keep this up. I just hope I haven't done too much damage.

I start the second mile resolved to slow down. When my mind wanders, I bring it back to my cadence. Count steps. Breathe. Relax. Feel comfortable. Don't overdo it. At 4:30 I hit the next half mile. Better, but I still need to slow down. Mile 2 comes up - 9:05. Much better. But I still need to slow down.

It happens between mile 3.5 and 4. I feel like I'm dragging a Hummer. And not the little one either. My chin drops. I'm hitting shuffle-land. I allow it for just a few seconds. Then I lift my head and push on. Finally comes the next mile marker, several hundred feet down the trail from where I thought it was. 9:45. OK. Faster than it felt. I hope I can keep that up.

Here I allow myself a one minute rest. This is a mental break only. Like drowning swimmers, my muscles can take a fleeting gasp as they break the surface, but the next wave is ready to crash down on them. I'm letting them glimpse the life ring and giving them false hope. One minute is not enough time for the metabolic processes of drowning to stop.

I start the next mile. I'm hurting now, but there's a water fountain coming up at the end of this one, which I mentally strive for. 9:20. I'm back on track, but perhaps still too fast. I fill up my water bottle and soak down my shirt in about a minute, then turn back.

Keep the head up. I contemplate taking another minute at the next half mile. I don't know why I do that. Its like a suicidal thought. I know I can't do it, but its an out. I turn it over in my head a while. What would I do? What would it feel like to just stop? I could just end all the hurt right now.

But that half mile comes and I'm at 4:45 seconds, and I know the rewards of finishing this mile will be so much more than stopping. Focus forward. Not at your feet. Keep your head up. I can see the next mile marker. Push it a little. You can stop there. 9:37. Not bad.

I take a minute walk. I feel like a statue when I start again. I could just stay here on the trail as a monument to all the Marine Corps runners who will be training this trail beginning in the next few weeks. What does one leg up on the statue mean? The general died in battle?

But once I start it gets easier. I've never been able to figure out why that happens to me. I feel best at about 5 miles into a workout. While I'm sure there's a scientific reason, I wonder if it just takes that long for my brain to shut down. Neurons all over are perishing because my legs are stealing all the oxygen. I sure can't walk straight at this point when stop to take a quick drink. My ears are ringing.

Still, the last 3 miles come at pace: 9:34, 9:42, 9:45.

I walk up into Georgetown and buy myself a monster burrito from Chipotle.

Was it fast enough to work? I hope so. It was faster than the pace I originally estimated for such a hot day.

But I need to learn to pace myself. That workout probably would have ended without the ringing ears and staggering gate if I hadn't gone out so fast. And even though I completed it, I may have done enough damage to delay recovery for my planned 20-mile run this weekend.

I will pay for my impatience as I always do. I need to learn to know myself, recognize my flaws, and control them.

As Edmund Burke said: Our patience will achieve more than our force.

But part of me still will always see the other side of that coin: Patience has its limits. Take it too far, and it's cowardice. (George Jackson)

Always Be Prepared

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Sun, 18 Jun 2006 20:20:00 +0000

The marathon requires preparation. Unlike the 5K, 10K, or even the half-marathon, all of which can generally be completed by a runner in reasonably good shape without much forethought, just getting through the marathon requires substantial preparation, both physically and mentally. Any oversight, no matter how small, can subject a marathoner to not just a few minutes of discomfort, but 3, 4, 5 hours of pain, injury, and even a dreaded DNF.

As with anything, the goal with the marathon is to make mistakes in practice, so they don't happen when they count.

Learn what pace to run, learn what it feels like to go out too fast, learn what it feels like to have too much in the can at the end.

Figure out if your shorts ride up, if your water belt bugs you, if your shirt chafes, if your socks give you blisters, if your sports drink makes you sick.

I discovered the wisdom of this philosophy during last year's Marine Corps Marathon, when a juicy orange which looked so good at 8 miles, forced me behind a tree at 10 miles, resulting in a 5 minute loss and the destruction of National Park land. (By the way, "stomach upsets" are the secret peril of long-distance running no one talks about. There will be more about such things in this post. For the faint of heart, or those eating lunch, stop reading now.)

So today was my day to test all of those accoutrements which seem as if they are unimportant, but which can make every step of 26.2 miles a living nightmare.

This was a rest week for me - a week where mileage is stepped back to give the body a break. I had a short 15 miler for my long run today. A shorter run would be an ideal time to test the sports drink which will be served on the course July 29, as well as my new race outfit. Long enough for something to potentially go wrong, but not long enough to be an "important" workout which would be ruined by Murphy's Law.

First off - I'll admit it. I have Flo Jo aspirations. Maybe its my early life as a sprinter. But I love to have a new outfit for each important race. I like to look like one bad mother. I like my fingernails to match my outfit. I like my hair to be "unique." It makes me feel fast. I won't apologize for that.

So yesterday I headed to the local sports superstore to pick out my outfit. This particular chain carried Under Armour, a brand which I love for its attention to detail such as flat seams. In a marathon, even something as small as the construction of a seam can have a life-altering impact. Too rough and after 50,000 steps you'll find yourself with a stinging abrasion like a hot pan laid on your inner thigh or armpit.

I have two things to get today: A new "bad mother" top, and a pair of shorts to replace the pair I have been so loyal to that I've worn a hole in them. The top I pick out is a fitted v-neck tank top with a mesh back, which I figure will be very cooling during the summer marathon I'm running. The reason I choose it is that the side seams have been rotated around to the back, which means there is nothing for my inner arms to brush against. It's also day-glo orange, which means if I get lost in the woods on my first trail marathon, search and rescue will be able to find me. Unfortunately, I can't find the exact pair of shorts I'm looking for. I try on several other pairs but all have piping along the bottom hem which I know will lead to chafing or bunching, and after my recent weight gain I no longer feel comfortable going with the compression shorts Under Armour is known for. Clenching my butt for 26.2 miles will certainly slow me down.

My next stop is the local triathlon store, Bonzai Sports, which carries the brand of sports drink and gel that will be served in the marathon - HEED (High Energy Electrolyte Drink) and Hammer Gel, by Hammer Nutrition. I've never heard of this before but its apparently popular in multi-sport circles and trail racing. The copy on the website promises limited stomach upset, a problem I always have with Gatorade, so I am looking forward to trying it.

Sunday morning dawns and my alarm goes off at 6:00. I am loathe to get up so early on a weekend but the forecast high for today is 94 degrees, and I need to get going. My plan fails, and I don't get out the door until 8:00, which means I won't be running until 8:30, as I am driving to the Mt. Vernon Trail. Given about 2:30 to run 15 miles, I'll be running until 11:00, well into the heat of the day. Already I've made a mistake I've made many times before.

I hit the trail with my HEED, two packets of Hammer Gel, and my new shirt. Since it's a short day, I'd like to hit most miles at near marathon pace, around 10:00 per mile. Two miles into the run, and the heat forces me to slow to just above shuffle pace. I can't believe how hot it is this early. But I figure slowing's ok, as its a rest week anyway. I'll just put in the miles. But its yet another mistake to assume I could hit marathon pace in heat like today. If I'd been bullheaded and kept going at that pace I'd never complete the workout.

2 miles later, and I'm overcome by wicked lower abdominal cramps. I have to stop and walk. My first instinct is to blame the HEED, and I start trying to decide if I should give it another chance or come up with a strategy to carry enough of my own Gatorade on the marathon course. 50/50 solution of gatorade is all my stomach has proven able to handle in the past. Even Gatorade Endurance Formula makes me sick.

I'm also trying to decide if I should turn back towards the start and the bathroom, or keep going. The cramps have subsided after a couple of minutes of walking, so I decide to keep going. I start shuffling, and feel ok. I decide I'll go to the next water fountain a mile and a half away and see how I feel. I may never have quit a workout, but I always like to have an intermediate "see how you feel" goal. By the time I get there, I never feel as bad as I did when I was pondering quitting.

I get close to the water fountain and I am convinced I need to stop at a bathroom, but by now, I'm closer to the bathroom I'll pass at my turnaround point near Mt. Vernon than the bathroom in the park I started at. So I keep moving. I've picked up a little speed, but not too much, as going too fast will often literally run the **** right out of me. I'm drinking nothing but water now.

I get to the bathroom and wait for relief. None comes. This is the second time this has happened to me in two weeks. As soon as I stop moving, my gastrointestinal distress stops. Maybe I should take that as a sign.

I can't decide what to do. Do I throw an extra two miles into my run by going all the way to Mt. Vernon and back, hoping that those two miles will induce an emergency by the time I pass this bathroom again? Or do I just head back to the start? I decide to head back. There's always the woods.

Sure enough, a mile and half later, I'm in a bad way again. I start eyeing the trees but this stretch of the trail is right on the Potomac, so there's not much cover and its swampy besides. Plus I'm pretty sure if I keep leaving presents in national parks I'm going to get arrested at some point. I'm about a quarter mile from Ft. Hunt park at this point, and I figure there must be another bathroom there, although I've never seen one right on the trail. I get there and look at a map of the park. Sure enough, there's a bathroom just up a side road. I am relieved.

As I ponder this situation in the bathroom, I gradually come to the conclusion that it's not the HEED that's doing this to me, since I've had nothing but water since my first bout of cramps, and I'm still sick. It must have been the cheesy southwest spring rolls and apple martini I had a Ruby Tuesday before a movie last night. In fact, as I sat at dinner, I thought to myself "I hope this doesn't screw up my run tomorrow" but dismissed it since it was "only" a 15 mile run. I've made another mistake I had no reason to make. I committed the sin of pride. 15 miles? Old hat. Go ahead and have that junk.

I'm back out on the trail now, and have picked up the pace substantially. 4 miles to the next water fountain at typical long-run pace. The sun's hot, but my new shirt is doing an excellent job of keeping me cool. I've soaked it down with cold water from the fountain and feel refreshed.

I'm in the shaded section of the trail now, with 2 miles to go to home, when another rookie mistake comes back to haunt me. Last week, for my 18 miler, in a rush to get out the door, I put on cotton socks with a heavy seam. I ended up with a dime-sized blister on my pinky toe. Today, even though I'm wearing my double-layered poly Wright Socks turned inside-out so the seam will not rub my toes, plus a fresh Hello Kitty Band-Aid, the Band-Aid has come loose, and my toe forces me to stop. I remove the shoe and sock and try to reaffix the Band-Aid, but it will not stick as my feet are soaked and white with trenchfoot from the drenching they've gotten as I've splashed water on myself at the water stops. Its time to start duct-taping my feet.

I do finish the workout. But at a price much higher than the simple act of running for 15 miles. Marathoning is a sport of discipline, and I've lost that. Its time to turn the screws. No dairy. Cut the fiber. No alcohol. No sugar. Carbo-load and rest before the long-runs. Apply duct-tape liberally.

Running a marathon is like many things you face in life then. But if you prepare yourself this way, there's nothing you can't get through. Eat well, rest a lot, and use duct-tape to hold the rest together.

Just Get Through It

noreply@blogger.com (Bon) — Thu, 15 Jun 2006 19:31:00 +0000

Stop.

Read no further if:

1. You've never survived anything (but I guess that precludes you from reading)
2. You've never needed an escape
3. You're happy sitting on your couch instead of living

On the other hand, if you need a way to get through life, if you have something you can use to keep your sanity, if you consider yourself an endurance athlete just for getting through the day, read on.

I'm a runner. After 30 years, that's how I've come to define myself. I say that because I need to run. A fact I've only discovered recently.

It started because my father ran the mile in high school. I signed up for track in junior high, and I ran the mile. I wasn't very good. But I loved being outside after school, bus trips with my friends, and the trophy cinders in my knees I won after falling at a meet.

I went to college and I continued to run. I never missed a practice. I had switched to the 400 meter hurdles by now, and I still wasn't very good. But I showed up. Every single day. I started running cross country for off-season training. I ran in the summer at home. Didn't feel like doing homework? It was time for a run!

Then I graduated and life got in the way. I didn't feel like running much. I got out of it. I gained 20 pounds. I ran a 5K here and there, never placing very high.

But the funny thing was I still told people I was a runner. I talked about running college track as if I'd been Flo Jo. When I won my age group in a 5K by virtue of being the only entrant, I hung my medal proudly on the wall at work. Calling myself a runner communicated in one word who I wanted to be:

Determined, Hard, Tough, Dedicated, Strong, Not-Someone-To-Mess-Around-With

I did my best to act that way. But the fact of the matter was I could barely complete 3 miles. I entered a 10K and walked most of the second half with an 80 year old man who outsprinted me at the end. I felt like a fraud.

In 2002, my husband, an Army Reservist was sent to the Middle East as the war in Iraq was gearing up. Most soldiers will disagree with me, but I almost would have rather been there at war than sitting home completely by myself in the dark winter wondering what was going on over there.

One November night, I decided I had enough sitting around. The inertia of depression is the most powerful force known to man, but I decided I couldn't bear the weight anymore. With the force required to bench-press your own body weight, I pulled myself up off the couch, laced up my shoes, and went for a run.

When I did that, I finally became a RUNNER. It didn't matter that I hadn't yet taken a step. Or that racing was the furthest thing from my mind. I went out and ran. In the rain. In the dark. Coming inside mud-caked, soaked to the bone, and shivering felt more alive than my dead house.

Every night from then on, when I returned home from work to my empty house where the silence was louder than a howitzer, I ran.

I listened to my breath. I counted my steps.

Some people like to think on a run. For me it became a meditation - a way to clear my mind. I eliminated all worry and terror - the viruses of anxiety and depression that will invade your soul with bile.

They always came back. But on a run, I was free for a few minutes.

My husband came home, but the problems didn't stop. If you think the familes who are reunited after Iraq have made it through their test and live happily ever after, you are very mistaken. Because its then that the test finally begins in earnest. Like the second 10 miles of a marathon, the following years were filled with introspection, self-analysis, self-flaggelation, and doubt that the end will ever come.

So I kept running. I signed up for the Army 10 miler in an effort to push myself from jogging once around our community lake (a distance of 2 miles). The farther I pushed, the more I started to wonder where my boundary actually lay. It didn't seem to be anywhere in sight.

I finished the Army Ten Miler, and decided to see what I could do. I tackled a marathon. And 16 miles into my first 20 mile training run, I had to implement the "Survival Shuffle."

The Survival Shuffle is a useful technique for getting through a run that my college cross-country coach taught me. I was out on my first run with the team. I'd never run longer than 10 minutes at a time. And here I was doing 45. At altitude in Colorado. I fell far behind, and the coach, running with us, turned back to get me. He told me to slow it down, barely picking my feet off the ground, just putting one foot in front of the other. It was more important to finish the workout than to go too fast and not complete it. He told me to "Just get through it" instead of worrying about being so far behind. He ran the rest of the course with me. He encouraged me to pick it up when I came out of hypoxia. He pushed me a little harder.

Every workout from then on, I got better. Eventually I kept up with everyone else. But whenever I felt like giving up on a long, tough day, I would say to myself "Survival Shuffle" and slow it down for a few steps, sometimes for the rest of the workout. Whatever it took to get through it.

I shuffled the last 2 miles of my first marathon, and the last mile of my second. Just this last weekend I shuffled the last mile of an 18 mile run. But I have never quit a race or a workout.

Six months ago I stopped running as often when life again started to get in the way, thinking my marathon days were over. 15 pounds and much unhappiness later, I realized that I need to run, or at least to shuffle. I'm now training for my third marathon. The family and job situation will dictate what exactly comes after that, but I know I'll never stop running again. But for now, I'm concentrating on getting through the last 6 weeks of training.

I decided to start this blog to share not only the training experiences and tips you can find in any number of places on the Web, but also to share how it affects my life.

And to remind us all to slow down and catch our breath.