Run, Not Race

Today was time to pay the Piper after all the long miles on the pavement in the small town we call home. But, before I get to that, let me get back to my blond roots here in Cali and share a story about a lapse in brain power.

We arrived in Los Angeles Thursday morning, ahead of schedule and with a fabulous pilot who landed our 747 on a dime. We got our rental car and sailed down to San Diego with no traffic and empty stomachs, but we pushed the pace to get South before we decided to stop for food. After lunching at Kai's on the beach in Cardiff By the Sea, it was on to the in-laws for what Abbe is now calling the "Spa Accommodations". I cannot remember being so happy and in love with life in recent memory. The houses on the hillside were glorious in the afternoon sunlight as we reached Poway.

Abbe and I decided to run Friday morning and take Saturday off before the marathon. We agreed on a 5:30 am start time so we might sleep in a little and stock up on rest before D Day. It is funny, because I really have had zero stress or preparation for the race. Of course, I ran long training runs, but I have not had the usual butterflies or apprehension that usually precedes a long race. I hadn't thought about outfit or replacing my well-worn soles, or planned the pre-race dinner. Regardless, for the last junk mile training run, I set the alarm Thursday night for 5:25 (to squeak in every last minute of sleep before heading out the door) and fell into bed after a long day of travel. I must have been exhausted, because it felt like I had just put my head on the pillow when the alarm jolted me out of bed. Ugg. I was tired.

I crept down the dark hallway on cold tile to get Abbe out of the bedroom she was sharing with Kimmie and coaxed her out of the billowing covers. The house was cold. We are having unusually cold weather right now with May gray not even burning off by its usual midday disappearance. Abbe reluctantly dragged herself out of the room and echoed my sentiment of being exhausted. After dressing in shorts and long sleeves, we walked up the first mountain and then slowly began a jog down the decent. We were freezing in the damp morning and agreed on about three miles, just to turn the wheels and loosen up after being on a plane and in a car for the day prior. The air smelled sweet of jasmine all around and in the darkness, the sycamore trees looked foreboding and eerie- something right off the pages of a storybook. The streets were soaked with the marine layer that hung heavy in the air, a chilly 57 degrees. Though tired and cold, I felt so alive and thrilled to be sharing my California joy with a Florida friend. I was home again.

The streets were so slick, we slid right along, up another long climb toward the high school on top of the ridge ahead. After cresting that hill and following the rolling hills to level ground, we decided we had already exceeded our three mile easy run limit and decided to turn around.

"Why am I so tired?" Abbe kept saying. I promised her it was a sign of a good taper, or so Marc has told me when I have complained of the same ailment in the past leading into a marathon. It sounded good at the time, anyway. As we headed back up the hill toward Marc's old high school, the fog swooned in the light of the street lamps and the heavy mist seemed to dance around them, as well. I couldn't help but notice how very dark it still was and how few cars were on the road- we had seen two altogether. Wasn't this a work day? It was Friday, after all. No matter, and we continued down the hill.

Just then, head lights came from behind. The morning was black as night and I told Abbe I thought we might be better off jumping over the guard rail on the trail that paralleled the street since we were without reflectors or blinker lights. Despite the fact that it sounded great to get hit by a car and not have to race Sunday, I didn't want to be maimed for life. She obliged and we swung a tired leg over the cold metal and the other followed. The car that approached from behind came to a screeching halt. Were we going to be abducted out in the middle of horse country? It was a cop. A cop? What did he want with us?

The young cop, who was very easy on the eyes, asked if we were okay. Abbe wasted no time in telling him our life stories about training for the marathon, visiting from Florida, and hanging with Marc's family. His response was he thought we were teenagers coming in from a late night. "Oh, I love you! May I have your badge number?" Abbe said. He told us to be careful and wished us luck for the marathon. His partner was in the marked car behind him and over the PA the second cop said, "Have a nice days, girls."

"Wow! Your California Cops are so friendly and helpful!" Abbe remarked. We trudged up the last hill and then down a long stretch into the driveway. When we got into the light of the driveway, Ab looked at her watch and said, "Oh schmutz. My watch must have broke. It reads 3:40 in the morning." All at once my stomach hurt and I knew why those cops stopped us. As Abbe began to change her watch, I had to report the dreaded realization-it was 3:40 in the morning. No wonder the sun had not woken up yet. I set my alarm the night before, but forgot to adjust the real time to West Coast. We had left the house at 2:30 in the morning. Sometimes my brilliance astounds me.

We slinked into the kitchen and checked the time on the oven in the kitchen. Yep. 3:42. It was confirmed- I am a genius.

Fast forward to today, race day. I am thrilled there is no vomit to report. While a time of 3:52 is nothing to write home about, the fact that it was not preceded by any unwelcome bodily fluid is a victory for me. I had anxiety walking up to corral three this morning when I thought about how painful last year was. I could not put my mind around hurting like that again for the sake of some numbers on the clock. I did not want history to repeat itself, and so I truly gave myself permission to let go of any expectation of time. I have told myself this before, but then reneged on it in my mind. Today, when I saw the 3:40 pace group in front of me still at mile 9, I dropped back and let them go. I couldn't bear to even think about the possibility.

There was such joy and freedom in running in ignorant bliss. While I do admit to looking at my time at the half way point (1:50 high), I can honestly say I never did read a clock again until I saw the numbers at the finish. It is amazing when I run and don't try to race how much more fun it really is. I stopped and chatted with old friends at mile 17 and again at mile 19. The social became more important than the end product and it was as though I really were no longer captive to the idea of the "race". I was enamored with the beauty around me. I dare say there was a tear in my eye as I came down the backside of the 163 freeway and specifically turned around to drink in the sea of people chasing me down the hill. The mountains were *are* spectacular and to be running among them made me feel like a speck of dust in the universe. All of a sudden, I felt very small and grateful and I knew I had to acknowledge the marine layer and 59 degree temps as a gift. The whole day was nothing short of a gift- to be running on two legs, to celebrate life with friends, to have four hours to myself, alone in my head, to think about everything I have- these are all gifts.

The smells of the marathon were all around me- the sharp, gingery smell of some one's muscle relief ointment, the sticky orange Gu the man next to me was slurping down, the distasteful smell of the woman who chose not to wear deodorant this morning, the scent of someone else's shampoo now that her hair was damp with sweat.

Crossing the line was bitter sweet, knowing I had let go of working for a respectable time, but free from the bondage that comes with that effort. My feet hurt, my calves were sore from the hills, but I rejoiced to see our ride home, Tracy and her sweet husband who chauffeured us to the start, as usual. It made me realize just how fabulous it is to have friends on both coasts.

I could recount all the miles and emotions. I could try to articulate the beauty of the day. I could try to paint the cold, gray picture of happiness in the midst of 20,000 runners, but I won't. There are no words to describe the relief I feel now that the race is over and the contentedness I feel having completed it as a runner and not a racer. That was huge in and of itself.

Inspired

I refuse to believe there is a marathon in my near future. My head is so not there and I could care less about the finish. Is that wrong? I am waiting with great anticipation to see friends at home, who are now calling me daily asking for the count-down to our arrival (18 days, thank you very much). Summer is here and I can almost taste the salty Pacific air. I cannot wait to dive into the blue waters of my childhood and lay on West Coast sand again. I can't wait to drive along Pacific Coast Highway and run the hills of Torrey Pines. The mountains are calling my name more than anything else from home. I might even be down for a little earthquake action, just for old times sake.

As for training, it is what it is. I love to run and could do so for miles at a time-21 miles yesterday and then ten more today on tired legs. I love running with the boys-no b.s. and all work horse. Craig raised the question today about what kind of time I am looking for in San Diego and I told him I honestly could not care less under current circumstances. Somehow I rarely have successful races anymore, so I think I will have no expectations for May 31st. Speed begets speed, and I have not been consistently running track. I long for a big group of early morning runners again to tear around a track with. I miss the chest-burning pace my peeps used to push me to in days of old. Without speed, how can I possibly expect to have a strong marathon? I have made peace with it.

Maybe it is lack of motivation, or maybe it is increase in maturity, but I care so little about what the clock reads. It is kind of empowering that a clock doesn't define me anymore (neither does my weight, or the shoes I wear, or whatever). I want to enjoy running for the pure and simple sport it is meant to be. I love my training partners and we have such a great time together in the wee hours of the morning. I love that we text and email each other incessantly throughout the day because I cannot live without that contact with my athletic friends. I love being a mom, I love being a wife, I love being a friend, I love being a runner-these words define me. Maybe a marathoner I am not? I am not inspired to run a "fast" marathon, but I am inspired to do great things otherwise.

I have a new plan as to how I am going to attain great things. Wait for it. I want to inspire other people, too.