Merrily we run along! And longer and longest!

I promise I’ve not forgot about you.
I didn’t forget my password.
I didn’t lose my laptop.
I’ve just been . . . well . . . running.
And working and other things, but what I mostly think (and I’m sure my non-runner friends will say talk) about is running.
And eating.  There’s a lot of eating and thinking about eating and talking about eating going on too.  My appetite has been taken over by an adolescent boy and that kid can put away some groceries.

We’re 73 days from Race Day and the training miles are starting to ramp up.
Last Saturday we ran fifteen miles. All at once. On purpose.
This week we’ll do the same thing for sixteen miles.

Twelve Miles seems to be my personal Waterloo Distance.
Last year when I ran twelve training for my first Half it was torturous and involved far more walking than I’d have preferred. I don’t recall all of what contributed to that, likely the fact that it was the first time I’d ever run that distance. But it was awful and had me going into that Half with more fear and angst than was necessary. Fortunately I paired up with another first-time Halfer who was as nervous as I was and enough younger than me that my Inner Mommy sprang into action, my own fears were set aside, and the race itself was a blast!
I know exactly what loosened the lug nuts on the wheels of this year’s twelve miles: lack of rest and insufficient fueling. Those lug nuts started dropping around mile nine when I actually considered stopping. As in sitting down right where I was and calling someone to come get me. Quitting.  And crying. There might actually have been a few tears mixed in with the sweat dripping down my face during that mile. I did not; however sit down, quit, or phone-a-friend.  But with the wheels falling off we walked nearly all of the last two miles.
It was ugly.
It was awful.
It was demoralizing.
It was a Lesson Learned.
You must rest.  You must fuel.

Fourteen Miles was looming the week after The Worst Twelve Miles Ever which began with me really, truly, not caring if I ever ran another step.  After consultation with one of my Running Mentors, I blew off Monday’s short run. I just wasn’t feeling it (not good when you’re coming up on The Longest Distance You’ve Ever Run at the end of that week).  But, according to the wisdom of my Mentor (which turned out to be wise wisdom indeed) sometimes you just need to step back from something, even something you love.
As it turned out what I was feeling was a combination of defeat and sinus infection.  I went to the doctor who put me on one of those antibiotics that upholds the adage “the cure is worse than the cause”. The combination of illness and side effects of the ‘cure’ had me walking more of those last two miles than I ran as well.  I spent a fair amount of the next couple days beating myself up over those last two miles until I finally accepted that being sick (and medication side effects) were a factor and it wasn’t (entirely) a huge personal failure.

Sidebar:
Before we get to Fifteen Miles, Let’s talk about running on flat courses versus running hilly courses, shall we?
Conventional Wisdom would dictate that running flats is easier, therefore it is better. Right?
Wrong!
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong wrong!
Remember that fourteen mile run? We ran that one out of town.  We were in St. Louis for HCRP’s 30 year reunion and rather than running the ridiculously hilly (and sidewalk deficient/not very safe) course he’d mapped out (not knowing about the no sidewalks/shoulders thing) we opted for one of their Rails-To-Trails courses: Grant’s Trail.
Beautiful trail!
Very well maintained trail!
Essentially flat trail.
I say “essentially flat” because the way we ran it it was seven miles of a ½% – 1% ‘downhill’ grade followed by that same percent ‘uphill’ grade on the way back. Essentially flat.
Our first run back home we ran on Memphis’ own R-T-T which is flat, then the Friday night we ran a race whose course was also essentially flat. For those of you playing at home that comes to twenty-four miles of . . . Flats!
And buddy boy did my quads let me hear about it on that ‘just’ nine miles!
Yet another Lesson Learned: Hills are our friends!
End Sidebar

The next week (after Fourteen) was a ‘drop back’ week – nine miles.
The night before our nine mile run was one of the best and most popular races in Memphis and since we’d missed it last year we were determined to run it this year. This meant switching up our training schedule, skipping Thursday and running Friday, but since it was ‘just nine miles’ (cracks me up every time I hear myself say that) I wasn’t worried about it.
And I PR’ed the four miles!
I mean, it was a ‘given’ PR since it was my first four mile race. But I PR’ed the first mile (11:03), ran the entire first 1.45 miles with no walk intervals, and finished the race with an overall pace of 11:41 min/mile. Official Finish Time: 47:48.  Booyah baybee!
For someone who sticks to those regular run/walk intervals like they are oxygen and maintains a consistent 12:00 – 12:30 min/mile pace that was pretty cool! 
We stayed up way past our bedtime enjoying the race’s after party and the company of our BRFF Couple so Saturday’s nine started well after our accustomed 6am start time and we ran that nine in our (very hilly) subdivision.
Running Friday night then getting up and running our long run Saturday was good experience for running on ‘tired legs’.

In the wake of my recent ‘disastrous’ twelve and fourteen mile runs, I went into this past Saturday’s FIFTEEN MILE run with a fair amount of ‘fear and loathing’.
Lots of fear and loathing.
I had visions of not just thinking about quitting and sitting crying on a curb waiting on someone to come get me, I had visions of that actually happening.
Not because I wanted to quit, but because I had to.
Because I failed.
Because I had bit off more than I could chew with this whole “Hey everybody! I’m gonna run a marathon!” delusion and was simply not capable of it.
To say I started Saturday’s run with ‘butterflies in my stomach’ would be an understatement of hyperbolic proportions.  I started Saturday’s fifteen miles nearly nauseous with butterflies stomping around in combat boots in my stomach. Combat boots made of fear and laced with loathing.
My mantras (mantri?) for the entire fourteen miles were:
This isn’t harder than chemo for a kid.
and
I can do anything for five minutes.
And at the end of that fifteen miles? I did it! We did it! Because HCRP was there with me every step of the way.
When we came to a completely unexpected overpass where I nearly stopped dead and turned back around.
When we ran (TWICE!) past one of Memphis’ best breakfast joints and did not stop in for either biscuits & gravy (first pass) or bacon (second pass).
When we knew we were absolutely, positively Dead Last by a good distance.
We were doing it.
And we did it!

At about mile thirteen when I knew we still had two more miles to go, and the specters of the ‘walked more than run’ last two miles of Twelve and Fourteen playing at the back of my brain, I had an epiphany: I felt really good!
Not “That was a great massage” good.
Not “Mimosas and Omelettes at Noon” good.
But definitely good for thirteen miles in and two more to go good.
We finished those last two miles running more than walking. In fact, with one brief ‘walk off a cramp’ exception we ran every run interval and only walked the walk intervals and hit the ‘finish line’ marveling at just how Fifteen of Fifteen Miles Good we both felt.
And for the first time in all this running, and running longer, and Running Longer Than I’ve Ever Run Before I began to see The Finish Line of This Marathon (My Marathon) as truly doable and not just some pipe dream made of other people’s marathons and finish lines.
Now I’m excited!

One last ‘shout out’ before I put this one to bed…
Our local Running Store that sponsors our training program/runs are some of the most incredibly supportive people I could ever imagine having behind us on this journey.  And these are some serious, experienced, fast runners I’m talking about!

Saturday’s fifteen consisted of a 7.5 mile loop through neighborhood streets, a greenline trail, and trails through a large urban park that we ran twice.
There were five points along the trail where store employees (and the owner) were set up to provide us with water, make sure we didn’t miss turns, and make sure we were okay (by which I mean vertical and moving). When we got to the first aid station on our second loop we told the guy standing there that we had ample water in our CamelBaks and to call ahead and let everyone know they could go on about their days since we were Dead Last by a good distance and knew it. He asked if we were sure, and we assured him we were.
As we got to the second aid station, there sat Michael. Encouraging, offering water, and just there.
We got to the next place where we knew someone was ‘supposed to be’ and sure enough: There sat BR (the owner) with water and encouragement and shrugging off our “We told him you didn’t have to wait for us!”, because that’s just not how they roll. They’re not done supporting until there are no more runners out there.
You don’t get that just everywhere. But here in Memphis, and especially with Breakaway, it’s pretty much the norm.
For which we are grateful beyond words!
And because of which we’re really gonna do this thing!

Did you mean WordPress Dot Com?

That’s what my browser asked me when I clicked on the shortcut to my blog dashboard.
Has it really been so long since I came here that even my browser doubts my intentions?
*le sigh*

Marathon Training is rocking right along.
Three weeks ago we ran nine miles about seven miles into which I had reached the obviously inescapable conclusion that there was no way I was ever going to complete a marathon.  Ever.  I was delusional and this was stupid and I was just fooling myself.
Evidently my whining and self-doubt was toxic enough that HCRP couldn’t take it anymore as he (probably wisely) went on without me while I walked (and whined) through what was supposed to be a running interval.  I considered, briefly, just walking the whole thing in but then I got to the intersection of a major thoroughfare and realized there was a good chance someone I knew would see me walking and so I started running again.  Then I walked the appropriate two minutes, then I ran five, then I walked two, and I finished the nine miles running.
Not because I particularly felt like running.  But because I’d have been damned if I was going to be seen by all the other people in our running group finishing the run walking!
So I finished running.
Dripping wet from the What do you mean it’s not raining yet?! percent humidity.
But running.
Still doubting my ability to complete a marathon e-v-e-r.
But running.
The Good Book teaches us that pride goeth before a fall.
Sometimes pride goeth before a finish!

Two weeks ago we broke our ten mile run up into two runs.
There was a 5K we were committed to running in honor of the son of a dear friend who lives with the condition this 5K is put on in support of.  So we ran that then got the other seven in a couple hours later.  Thankfully this was during the Unseasonably Cool portion of The Summer of 2013, otherwise running seven miles at Noon in Memphis could have ended very badly.
Sunday was another 5K we were determined to take part in for a couple reasons.
#1 because it was put on by our favorite local running store; and
#2 because it supported St. Jude and clearly there’s just something about St. that makes us want to run.
Plus it was a great race with a kick-butt after party!
Sundays are our Rest Days.  As in the “Remember the Rest Day and keep it holy” Rest Days.  We didn’t keep it holy.
For a good cause!
For a great time!
And we paid for it the entire rest of the week!
We were wiped out all week!
It was worth it!
But I have a whole new respect for The Rest Day.

Last Saturday we were staring down 11 miles and the start of 6am runs rather than 7am runs.
This was the first time I’d run 11 in just about a year and between the humidity (93% at 6am), the course (through a lot of neighborhoods that made it somehow feel like a really long way), the hills, and mostly the way I’d felt doing the 9 miles just two weeks before I wasn’t particularly excited about the run.
I leaned – hard – on my new “This can never be harder than chemo for a kid” mantra and off we went.
And I did it!
It was long.  It was humid.  And by “humid” I mean my clothes come out of the washing machine dryer than they were at the end of that run.  But it wasn’t anywhere close to as bad as I’d been afraid of it being.

Until Monday morning.
I woke up Monday morning feeling like someone had driven, and was continuing to drive, an ice pick into my left thigh just above the knee.
It wasn’t Runner’s Knee.  Been there, done that.
All I could think was “Stress.  Fracture.”
I was working very hard at not freaking out.
Really hard.
A stress fracture at this point would knock me out of the marathon.
I reached out to one of my Running Mentors who has had a stress fracture.
Based on her experience it didn’t sound like that’s what I was dealing with.
She reached out to some PTs she sees at work every day.
Their sight unseen diagnosis: Quadricep Tendonitis.
The ‘prescription’?  R.I.C.E.
They also assured her to assure me that stress fractures don’t generally occur in the middle of a large muscle mass like the quads.
So I did the R.I.C.E. thing Monday and Tuesday.
And the pain that was excruciating and distracting all day Monday dulled by Tuesday and was gone by Wednesday.
I’d already decided that if I was still in pain Wednesday I’d be getting an appointment with Dr. Awesome Sauce the Official Unofficial Chiropractor of Choice of Runners around here.
As fun as he his to see I was just as glad not to have to make that appointment.

We ran three on Wednesday and everything went well.
We ran six on Thursday and everything went swimmingly!
By which I mean we looked like we’d swum six miles by the end of the run.
If you ever wonder whether it’s The Heat or The Humidity let me assure you that it is most certainly The Humidity.

None of which excuses the absence of my presence here.
But between the running and the cross-training and the eating I sit down and the sleeping takes over and I’m not especially good at writing in my sleep.

We’ve also perfected our pre-long-run eating strategy: Steak and Baked Potatoes.
We’ve done it every Friday night for a month and it really seems to give us what we need to get through those long runs.
Which are only going to get longer.
Which secretly makes me more than a little excited!

The scale might lie – but the PJs never do!

As seen on Facebook:
Okay, I have to brag a little here…
A couple months ago I snagged a pair of summer PJs that consisted of a cute little tank top and a pair of cotton – dress shirt cotton, not t-shirt cotton – pants. Grabbed them off the rack based on (my recently acquired) no-longer-XL size and took them home. Went to put them on that evening and was mortified to find they were ENTIRELY too tight! Can’t sit down without splitting a seam tight. I was pissed! I threw them in the back corner of the closet and went back to my faithful, t-shirt cotton PJs that fit comfortably and non-judgmentally. Meanwhile, I’ve been running and running and yoga-ing, and Ye Olde Scale has remained unrelentingly stuck on A Number so I’d given up any hope of New Summer PJ pants fitting.
Tonight in a fit of morbid curiosity I grabbed New Summer PJ pants and put them on, fully expecting a seam to split.
And guess what?!
Guess!
They fit!
As in “I’m sitting in them with all seams in tact” fit.
The number on the scale? Hasn’t budged. Not 1/10th of a pound.
But something has obviously changed because The PJ Pants fit!!
I swear I’d wear them to work tomorrow if I thought nobody would notice!

Which was followed by (my own) disclaimer/comment:
The Moral of this moment of braggedness: The scale might lie, but the PJs never do! Just because weight doesn’t change doesn’t mean changes aren’t taking place in the body.

Just about the time I was going to delete the post because I was worried it would hurt or offend some of my friends who are struggling with weight loss issues, I was tagged in a post by one of the women who is participating as a Beginning Runner in the Women’s Running Program that got me started running two years ago.
I just want to “Thank” Middle-Aged-Woman for her PJ story!! I have been having a pity party these last few weeks b/c I hurt my hip and the doctor told me NO running for 2 weeks!! NO RUNNING are you kidding me?? I am on a running plan and have been so excited about the Womens Run Walk program that this is going to KILL me…Then football practice started and then I went on vacation so needless to say I am a little unhappy at the moment that I know for a FACT that I am behind in the run…So then I read your PJ post and it made me smile…It made me think to keep going no matter what (I too have been mad at the scale for not moving) and I was whining to Brian about next Monday and how I am going to suck and he said NO your going to go and run what you can. No matter if I am behind I am going to keep going….I am so lucky to have encouraging people in my life:)
And, as I commented back to her:
Oh B! You just BLEW AWAY every doubt and ‘second guessing’ I had about sharing that. It felt so ‘selfish’ and ‘braggy’ that I seriously almost deleted it as -soon as I posted it. I have so many friends struggling with weight loss and I really questioned whether or not posting that would come across as a ‘slap in the face’ to them.
I am just in TEARS reading this post and realizing I was so right to listen to that ‘still small voice’ that said “Share this”. Thank YOU for this affirmation that sharing our little victories is done for a reason and serve as an encouragement to others!
You will do great Monday. Run your pace and stick with the program and you will ROCK that Finish Line next month!!
Followed – once I was no longer all puddled-up – by:
Thank you more than I can say.
Also, thank you for redirecting me to the greater point of what happened for me with those PJ Pants. I don’t run to “fit into the PJs”. I run to run, and to remind myself of what I can do today that I couldn’t do last week.

Earlier today another online friend messaged me sharing her intention to get back into running.  She’d been a cross country runner and swimmer in high school and over the (much fewer than mine) years since she’d fallen into a more sedentary lifestyle.  Of everything she said to me in her message, this stood out the most: I joined a local gym tonight, and just wanted to say that reading your posts about the running events and training you do has been a huge inspiration for me with getting back into it and hoping that one day, I too can complete run events…  but I know I can do it, because the running/fitness journeys of you and many others show me that it IS possible, no matter how unfit I am right now. So thank you for sharing about your running and fitness, because I know I really appreciate it and find that it has spurred me on with this. 

A few minutes later I received a text from my DIL that led to a textversation about the ways our bodies change, but more importantly the way our expectations of ourselves and what we can do change as we continue our journeys as runners.

At the end of the day – and especially any given run – it is those immeasurable, un-quantifiable things that running gives us that keeps us coming back for more.
It’s running a distance you’ve never run before.
It’s a body that just feels stronger.
It’s doing A Thing we never thought we could.
It’s hearing “Your calves look amazing!” when we’ve been focused on our gut.
It’s ‘getting’ what “I ran ‘X’ miles today!” means to another runner.
It’s knowing what PR/PB means because you’ve had one.  And want to set another.
It’s having someone say “You encourage me!”  “You inspire me!”  “I appreciate your encouragement!” 

And then there are the messages that make it just impossible to ever – no matter how bad last week’s second four mile run s-u-c-k-e-d, and no matter how many doubts about finishing a marathon Saturday’s eight miles left me with – quit this thing called running.
How do you quit a thing that gives you all that?!

But, some nights, it’s putting on Those PJ Pants.
And having them fit!

The Cherry on Top. WAY on top!

That’s what a marathon is.
I’ve already decided that’s what it is and it’s still four months and six days before the Starting Line is even set up.
It’s the cherry on top of the sundae that is made of dedicating months of your life to a single thing: Training for The Marathon.
It’s the justification for all the Friday night get togethers you skipped because you had to be up at the BCOD (Butt Crack Of Dawn) Saturday morning to get in your long training run.

And maybe it’s a little bit of vindication thrown in for all the people who couldn’t understand that you Made A Commitment to The Marathon that is just this side of taking vows.
The sprinkles are the exclamation points at the end of every time you answered “Is that all you do is run?” with a resounding “Yes, yes it is!”  (Except when you’re cross-training, eating, sleeping, and washing running clothes.  Oh, and working the day job that pays for the race registrations. And new shoes. And Glide. And Gu. And Other Runner Stuff.)

We are finally, HCRP and I, getting into The Meat of The Training Miles.
Earlier today I was staring at the calendar above my desk that holds all those miles in its memory for me, and seeing the mid-week and Saturday numbers steadily moving further and further away from ‘3’ and ‘4’.

We have a five mile race Saturday morning after which we have to run another three to get in our eight.
Two weeks from Saturday we have a 5K we have to supplement with seven miles to get our ten.
In August.
In Memphis.
Just another scoop of rich, creamy, sweet/sweat/salty, running goodness in the bowl that will make that cherry sit just a little higher.

Speaking of heights . . .
Last Saturday we were in Omaha for my thirty year high school reunion and we had to get a run in.  One of my former classmates took up running a few months before I did and we’ve enjoyed sharing our experiences as middle-aged, newbie runners via Facebook posts and commentversations.  As the reunion drew closer our discussions turned to getting together for the Saturday Long Run HCRP and I would be getting in.  Because I wasn’t athletic in high school I really wanted to begin and end our run in front of good ol’ CHS which is right smack in downtown Omaha (incredibly hilly!).  Bob’s kids go to our alma mater and are active in sports (unlike us back in the day – we were choir geeks) so he gets a lot of his runs in while he’s waiting on their practices.
During one of our chats he mentioned the Bob Kerrey Pedestrian Bridge which spans the Missouri River between Omaha and Council Bluffs.  I looked it up online and about fell over just looking at the website!
Here’s the thing: I am petrified of heights.
I get up high (defined as my feet more than a foot off of terra firma) and my entire equilibrium shifts and I feel like I am sliding/hurtling over the nearest edge towards sudden death.
Bridges really tweak this fear/sensation. Particularly bridges over water.
The Bob Kerrey Pedestrian Bridge is a bridge over water.
The very thought of running the 3,000 feet across that bridge (and back) was enough to make me dizzy.  And queasy.  And scared half crapless.
And so.
I had to do it.
It was a mandate.

If running has taught me nothing else it has taught me this: I can, in fact, do things I never thought I could.
I can run – not walk, run – a 5K.
I can run a 10K.
I can run a Half Marathon.
Therefore, I could run The Bob Kerrey Pedestrian Bridge during our trip to Omaha!

I started putting this intention “out there” back in March.
And I kept putting it “out there”.
I did this for a couple reasons.
First: So I couldn’t chicken out.  You can’t chicken out when it’s “Out There”.
Second: To convince myself that I actually wanted to do this. Theoretically, I did.  In practice?  There was some wiggle room.
By last Saturday morning, I was convinced.
If not “convinced” I was committed.  Or needed to be committed.  Jury’s still out on that…

HCRP and I met Bob at the high school and off we went!
The first couple miles getting from CHS to the foot of the bridge were nothing more than a warm-up/necessary evil for me, and I wasn’t even thinking about the rest of the distance we were set to run.  I had one, and only one, thought in my head: Getting across that godforsaken structure, then coming back across so that I could say “I.  Did.  It!”

We got to the foot of The Bridge during a walking interval and I paused to take a picture before we headed up.

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We’d been chatting along as we ran, but when we headed up the curly-cue ramp that led to the actual off-the-ground part of the bridge I told the guys (something like) “I can’t talk to you while I do this.  I’m turning up my music and not stopping until I’m on the other side.”
And off we went.

The liars at Wikipedia say it is 52’ above the Missouri River.
I say nay, nay!
It has got to be further up than that.
Whatever, Wikidiots. Wikiliars.  Wikiceivers.
I know the truth.
Somewhere in the middle of the (really freakin’ high up) bridge is a line that says you’ve crossed from Nebraska into Iowa (and vice versa on the return).
I vaguely heard Bob say something about it.
At that point I was focused on breathing rather than hyperventilating and keeping my feet pointed forward since everything inside me felt like the bridge was tilting from side to side and I was about to go hurtling off the side to certain death in the torrential rapids of the river below.  (I’m pretty sure, although not 100% because I wasn’t looking, that the bridge didn’t move and the river was flowing along smooth as glass.)
One of the reasons I “couldn’t talk” to Bob or HCRP was because I was exercising my freedom of speech by uttering every profane word in the known English language in what I consider to be some fairly creative combinations.

It is at this point in the narrative that I have to pay special homage to fate, karma, kismet, or whatever you happen to call it when The Exact Right Song comes on your randomized playlist at The Exact Moment when you need it most.
In anticipation of The Bridge Run – what this particular seven miles will always be in my mind – I had set up a very specific playlist.  I’ve been listening to it on every run for the past two months getting my mental game set.  There is No Fear in these songs.  They move me, motivate me, and make it impossible to feel weak or unable.
One of my favorite songs on that list?  Gwen Stefani’s Hollaback Girl.
And guess what song came on just as my feet hit the Nebraska end of The Bridge?
You got it!
My Girl Gwen!
Okay, technically she’s HCRP’s Secret Girlfriend, but for purposes of that song on that playlist, she is all mine! 

We made it to the bottom of the Iowa end of the bridge at the start of a walking interval and paused, in part, so I could take a picture from that end.
For the record: All intervals were OFF during The Bridge portion of the run.  If I so much as slowed to a walk all bets were off and I was going to be on my hands and knees.  So it was “run or stop and wither” on The Bridge.

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HCRP and I hit our Gu, hydrated, I took a deep breath, backed back up to my girl Gwen, and we headed back across because . . .  well . . .  all my crap was in a hotel room on the other side for one thing.  And we still had four miles to finish for another.  (There was a reason I put The Bridge in the middle of the run.)

The picture below is me (I think) at the Iowa/Nebraska Line mark.

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Not fainting.
Not puking.
Not crawling on my hands and knees sobbing.
Running.
And damn well Doing It!

Because that’s another thing running does.
It shows you there’s nothing to fear but the fear of a thing.
Face-planting on a run?  Everybody does it once.
Finishing dead last?  Somebody has to.
Crossing a raging river ridiculously high above it on a reeling unsturdy thread of cement?
Easy freakin’ peasy!
Just keep breathing.  Keep your feet moving.  Think about The Run.
And it’s all over but the high five and (look away Mother) “I fucking did it!” at the end!

And that, My Minions, is likely going to end up being the biggest, best, creamiest, tastiest scoop of running goodness under that cherry on top of this whole thing.

(Betcha wondered how I was gonna get back to that whole ice cream sundae metaphor.  Din’tcha?  See?  I did that too!)

Because it will never be harder than chemo for a kid

Today is exactly 20 weeks – 140 days – from Marathon Day!
Today’s Long Run was 6 miles.
Today’s run is the shortest Long Run we will have until after The Marathon.
I have our entire Marathon Training Program on a Google Calendar, a paper calendar that hangs above my desk at work, a second paper calendar that hangs in our kitchen at home, and on an Excel Spreadsheet.
Oh, and in my Franklin Covey Planner.
I have it in all those places not because I have some undiagnosed psychosis or neurosis. I have it in all those places so I don’t have to constantly be thinking about “What’s next?”
(Which could, quite probably, have led to the development of some undiagnosed psychosis or neurosis. But I fixed that.)

Early on in this whole process I started freaking myself out by constantly checking and rechecking the whole entire thing semi-obsessively to make sure I wasn’t double-booking us for some sort of non-running event – because we have so much time in our calendar for anything non-running these six months – and in doing that I started looking at the number of miles we’d be working up to and Freaking The Eff Out!
“I can’t possibly run 14/16/18/22 miles! I’ll die! My legs will collapse. My lungs will explode! I’m not THAT kind of runner!”
Thankfully, during one particularly freak-out filled run I had the sudden flash of sanity that I didn’t have to run 14, 16, 18, or 22 miles that particular day. All I had to run was that day’s three or four or however many miles it was.

Much like the sudden flash of sanity I’d had the first time I set out to run more than four miles.  After nearly hyperventilating I realized that I didn’t have to run the entire four miles that minute, all I had to run was the five minute interval I was at the start of. Then I would walk for two minutes. Then I would run the next five minute interval.  But in that moment all I had to run was the given five minutes.

So, just like I worked through that little existential crisis, I realized that in documenting the entire training plan (in a ‘couple of places’) I no longer had to focus on anything other than any given day’s scheduled miles.

And, four weeks ago, we set off on Our Marathon Training Program.

Brief Aside
We are incredibly blessed (and grateful beyond belief) to live in a city that boasts an indescribably amazing Running Club. We are surrounded by experienced runners (many of whom are certified trainers) who are more than willing to impart their knowledge and wisdom-from-experience anytime we ask.
In addition to that we have not one, but two, actual Running Stores (as opposed to Big Box Sporting Goods Stores) each of which offers a Marathon Training Program designed to prepare local area runners for St. Jude. This year St. Jude is also offering a Marathon Training Program, which is also great! We decided to go with the training program offered by our favorite Running Store, in great part because we have a great relationship with the owner and his staff and trust their judgment and guidance.

Brief Aside Concluded

The first two weeks our training runs felt like what I’m pretty sure military boot camp does. On X Day we ran X Miles.
Why? Because we had to. The Schedule said so. And so we did.
And those runs felt like exactly how I was approaching them: Mandatory steps to get to what I really wanted to do – Run The Marathon.

I began to dread these runs the way one dreads going to the dentist, making a toast at a distant relative’s wedding reception, and trotting out the Christmas Sweater you got from Aunt Hattie in 1987 because “she just adores seeing you in it”.
Don’t get me wrong.
I love running.
I love everything about running.
I love the release, the relief, the effort, the personal barrier shattering.
I love finishing a run dripping with sweat, red-faced, gasping for air, with at least some part of me crying out in protest for a few seconds.  Just because.
But I found myself not loving The Training Runs.
And it stymied me.
I mean, what the hell?!  (Sorry Mother.)
Here I am doing something I love to raise money for a place I love and believe in like few other places I know.
And I am haaaaating it!
Quitting was not an option, so I decided to heed the advice of one of my favorite Bondi Band headbands and “Suck it up, Buttercup!” hoping that the dread of the Must Do Training Runs would somehow get left behind me on the pavement like the stress of work or several ounces of sweat.

And then.
It happened.
It was on a Monday about two weeks ago and, after a week or two of unseasonably cool summer weather, it was hot.
Hot hot.
Ugly, muggy, nowhere for sweat to evaporate to, sun glaring down like the wrath of someone wrathful, hot.
Memphis in July hot.
Who saw that coming?!
Oh.
Wait.
Anyone who’s ever spent a July here.
Enough about the weather.
Memphis.
July.
Hot.
Happens.
Back to my epiphany…
It was hot and there I was again not looking forward to that evening’s run.
Add to that the fact that it was the first week of our running club’s Women’s Running Training Program which I should have been looking forward to.
No, I was looking forward to it.
Really, I was!
I love seeing all these Beginning Runners taking control of their health and, for many of them, doing something Just For Them for the first time in their lives.

I just wasn’t looking forward to my run. My miles.
HCRP and I were going to get to the venue early to get in a couple miles so our total mileage would add up to what the training plan called for.
As I was changing from work clothes to running clothes and mentally bitching about the heat and why couldn’t it be a little bit overcast and where did our cooler summer weather go a thought came slamming into the front of my brain: Kids going through chemo at St. Jude don’t get to ‘just not do chemo’ because it’s too hot. Or too cold. Or too early. Or because they’re “just not feelin’ it”. They have to do it No Matter What.
From that realization was born my New Running Mantra: No run will ever be harder than chemo for a kid.
Since that moment there’s been at least one day when I just really didn’t “feel like” running. But I did. Because kids can’t “not feel like” chemo.
There have been moments during runs when I wanted to just stop and walk the rest of the way back to the car. But I didn’t. Because kids can’t “just stop” chemo.
There have been times when my lungs protested sucking in 70+% humid air and sweat was running into my eyes and my knee was twinging and IT Band and/or Piriformis was screaming and I tied my shoes too tight and . . . and . . . and . . . And whatever it was that was uncomfortable couldn’t hold a candle to what chemo does to a kid during and after.
They can’t make excuses. I don’t have any.
And you wanna know a little secret?
There are no more ‘bad’ runs for me.
I cherish every one of them.
Because no run – no matter how long how hot how cold how anything – will ever be harder than chemo for a kid.

Ready. Get set. Go Ladies, go!

Nearly a MONTH since my last post?!
Seriously?!
*looks back*
Yep.
Nearly a month.

Well, I have been running.
I have also been not running while dealing with The Mother of All Blisters and her Evil Spawn The Blister’s Blister.

Quick Lesson Share:
If you happen to develop a blister on the sole of your foot that is, oh, say, roughly the size of your thumb do not attempt to run again until it is fully healed.  This is The Mother of All Bad Decisions and will lead to missing over two weeks of running rather than seven to ten days.

But back to the point of this post…
Monday begins the 2013 edition of our running club’s Women’s Running Training Program.
Once again I’ll be volunteering as a Coach with the Beginning Runners group.
And once again, I already find myself so inspired by the women who are doing this for the first time who I had the opportunity to meet and talk to at the Expo this past Monday night!
Women who are, for the first time in decades, doing something just for themselves.
Women who are seizing control of their health.
Women who aren’t 100% certain what they’ve got themselves into.
Women who have always wanted to run but never knew how or where to start.
Women who are scared and excited all at the very same time.
Women who, in nine weeks, will go further than they ever thought possible.
Oh, and then they’ll run the 3.1 miles of the Graduation 5K.

And that’s when the fun really starts!

It’s only Algebra if you let it be

After my last post I received a text from a very dear friend that brought me up a little short and forced me to realign my thinking.  She started with “Just read your blog, as usual I loved it.” because she is my friend and she loves me.  And then she stopped preachin’ and started meddlin’.  I love having friends who do that for me.

Among the points she brought to my attention was that if I exercise only one hour a day that is only 4% of my day.  I did the math and she’s right!  Whether you divide 1 by 24 or 60 by 1440 (then multiply the result by 100) it still comes out to 4.  And if something that’s important to me doesn’t deserve 4% of my own time, I’m not 100% certain what does.
Since we began our marathon training program right at a month ago I have found it all too easy to allow Other Things to come between me and our scheduled runs.  Tiredness, busyness, doing-other-thingsness.
You name it, I’ve skipped runs for it.
I even stalled on seeing a doctor for a nagging pain I allowed to go on for a month.
Me, who “learned my lesson” with Ye Olde Knee over a year ago.

It has been all too easy to say “It’s ‘only’ a couple miles.  Missing that won’t make that big a difference at this point in the training.”  Which, from a strictly physical perspective, is true.  I mean heck, I ran a 10K virtually ‘untrained’ back at the beginning of May.  I certainly hadn’t built up to running 6 miles, but I did that race and finished in decent time and without any injuries to show for it.  I have developed enough basic fitness about myself and I’ve learned enough about running, pacing, and my body that I pulled it off.  Not the smartest thing, but crazier things have been done by runners other than me.
But how far I can (or can’t) run on a given day wasn’t the point.  And I knew it.

But getting back to my friend’s point – which was spot on – even I had noticed that it seemed way too easy for me to let “other things” come between me and the miles.  I’d actually been a little puzzled by it given that I truly do love running.  Her point (and I knew it and she knew I knew it but she still spelled it out for me in Just So Many Words because she knew I needed that) was this: YOU deserve that time.  To me it’s like a spiritual practice and a must do every day.  I love you and feel like you struggle with doing for yourself.  Just do what makes your heart sing.

And then it hit me:
I had made running my Algebra.
Let me explain . . .

Math is, simply put, not my forte.
I’m not talking in that ‘Math Is Hard’ Barbie kind of way.
Obviously I can do math – I did it up there with that whole 4% of the day thing up there!

I mean in that This Is My Strength and Brings Me Fulfillment/Accomplishment and Makes My Heart Sing way.
Writing is my Thing.
Cooking is my Thing.
Laundry is my Thing.
Singing is my Thing.
Math is notsomuch my Thing.
I can do it.  Like I can clean a toilet and clip my toenails.
Because it has to be done.
But there is no joy in my personal little Mudville or music in my heart from having done it.

In high school (and a-freakin’-gain) in college, Algebra Had To Be Done.
Not like Breathing Has To Be Done.  I could have simply Not Done the Algebra.  But it was a necessary, nay mandatory, step in accomplishing the goal of achieving the accomplishment of graduation.
And so I did it.
I slogged through every “Solve for X” and found every “Y” with varying degrees of success.  But I did it.  And at the end of both experiences I got to The Finish Line and was handed the less shiny “Finisher’s Medal” of a diploma with all the honors, rights, privileges thereunto appertaining.  And the student loans.
When I look back on the experiences of high school and college I can’t tell you who sat next to me in study hall while I beat my head against the Algebra, and I don’t remember the answers to any of those test questions.  Because, for me, Algebra was the necessary evil.  The foe to be conquered.  The thing done because it had to be in order to get what I wanted.

It did not make my heart sing.

What I do remember are the choir concerts and who I stood beside and what part I sang.
What I do remember are the works of literature I read and the short story that got published in the high school’s literary publication and the essay that made gave the professor “that Emily Dickinson top of my head just came off” feeling.
I remember sitting in the church sanctuary or my parents’ basement playing Beethoven over and over again for nobody but me.
I remember cooking dinner for my family and having it pronounced “Delicious!”
Those things made my heart sing.
I loved the doing of the things.
I loved the time spent with others.
I loved that something I did touched or inspired someone else.
I loved that even if nobody else got anything out of it, ultimately I did it for the joy I got from it.

Here I am, thirty years after high school and almost twenty-five years after college with another Big, Long-Term Goal ahead of me: Finishing A Marathon.
And there are the “have to” aspects of it. Cross-training on an elliptical.  Possibly even getting on a bicycle and riding.  Because I know it will make me a better runner and benefit my body.  Not because I particularly enjoy ellipticalling or cycling.
Another Algebra.
I will do them, with varying degrees of success, but in all likelihood there will never be any heart singing in it for me, and they won’t be what I remember when I look back on this marathon years from now.
And I’m okay with that.
But the running itself, now that makes my heart sing.
Because I never thought I ‘could’ run.  Like I never thought I could hit a high C.
Even the runs I start out “not feeling” end up being some of the best, not unlike being handed A Tale of Two Cities sophomore year (which is now one of my favorite books).
But somewhere in the past few weeks I had begun to see the training runs not as “time spent doing something I love” but as some sort of big, long algebra equation to be slogged through to find the ‘X’ of Finishing the Marathon instead of focusing on the joy of doing the runs for their own sake.
Just like all the hours spent in practice rooms, and the time poring over words (my own and those of the masters) were done with the joy of my heart singing, and at the exclusion of other activities and distractions because they made me happy; so shall be my commitment to The Practice of my running.
And that’s really what it is: A Practice.
Like going through Salvation over and over for the sheer joy of hearing the notes coming from my mouth.
Like reading Dickens’ opening hyperbole of adjective knowing it will eventually lead to a far, far better thing.
Like knowing that seventh grade home-ec’s Tomato Cheeseburger Pie will eventually become to Julia Child’s boeuf bourguignon.

Like prayer and meditation.
I do it for me.
Oh I am doing it for the Finish Line and that big, heavy medal around my neck!  Make no mistake about that.
But every run between now and then, and all the ones that will come after, those are for me because I do deserve those moments of a singing heart that comes somewhere between start and finish.
I’m done with Algebra, it’s time to run!