I won't walk away unscathed. I cannot remain untouched. I want to leave this Friday and just leave. Too many good bye parties and dinners and events. Today was no different. My baby girl did it again. For the second year in a row, she received the "Most Improved" swimmer award at the annual swim team banquet. Again, my heart was swollen with pride and my eyes brimming with tears.
But more emotional than the award ceremony was the part where we had to part our ways with friends we love so much. Women who are like sisters to me, who squeeze me and begin to cry, damn them. I have been so strong and unemotional. I have been a rock to my kids and myself, wanting to pretend this is so easy and such an amazing adventure. Only to Marc have I cried aloud and expressed my doubt and concerns. I have agonized over the decisions we are making and buried my face in his chest looking for reassurance. I wanted to think everything is going to be okay. Maybe it is and maybe it will be, but today my heart aches saying goodbye to swim team friends. Today, Marc's response came back for the first time as, "I don't know what else to say, Pea." That is his polite way of saying I need to embrace this idea already. But this feeling of dread and darkness of what lies ahead is so foreign to me.
But how will we ever replicate what we have here? We have a family, a support team, a loving, cheering, enthusiastic network of people who care for us. Why start over? Is any amount of money worth it to leave? Not when I look at my kids and how they thrive in this environment. No amount of money will fill the void when I think of all of our friends and family here we leave behind. My chest aches when I think about how I feel like I am standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to dive in, rather, be pushed in, into the uncertain waters below. I hear the water there is warmer. And sharky.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
And the Child Lead Me
Yesterday was a big and important day around here. My six year old daughter had to have a mole removed from her right arm. We debated the issue, but after two different pediatricians pointed the growing mole out to me, I decided to take her in to the pediatric derm. After some debate in the office and two different derms collaborating, we decided to move forward with the procedure and have it taken off.
So, for the last 3 weeks, my girl has agonized over the whole ordeal. Mostly, she was terrified of the shots they were to give her to numb the area. We had scheduled this surgery on July 2, so for 22 days she had been agonizing over the whole procedure. It was a pretty good size mole,especially on that little pencil of an arm, so they had to take a large elliptical area out and stitch it up. For weeks now I have been telling her how it is "no big deal" for the doctor who is brilliant and I have had several moles removed, etc, etc, etc. I even went as far as to bribe her with a shopping trip (and like a good little woman, she took me up on that offer) to choose a new little accessory or toy once out of the clinic.
We arrived at the office yesterday morning, and while the original plan was for Marc to be stay home with our four year old, he decided he wanted to come and just wait in the waiting room with the little guy. Owen and I get called back and she is dragging her feet with trepidation. We venture in the room and see the doc in her scrubs, and Owen begins to cry a little. She was really nervous, so the doc (who is so sweet and very maternal) calls in for another male nurse to assist (there was already one guy in there to start).
So, now there are 2 male nurses (or MAs, not sure of their credentials) and the female doc. The new one to join us is very easy going and easy on the eyes with a warm smile. He sees her tentativeness and tells her he has 2 daughters and they wear Crocs, too, etc, etc. I tell everyone how brave Owen is and how she is tough, has run 3 5Ks already, and this is no big deal for her. She is laying on the table with me at her left side, sitting on a stool next to her head. The doctor and the looker are at her other side, and the other nurse at her feet, handing off tools.
The doctor gets her numb, and while she winced a little bit and cried out, the three shots were over fast and then they were ready to get moving. I brought a Junie B. Jones chapter book to read to Owen during the procedure to distract her, and kept telling her not to look at her arm and what they were doing. So, I begin reading the book, about this little girl, Junie B. Jones, the first grader and how she lost her top tooth. In the book, as I am reading about the blood Junie B. spit out when her tooth came out, I start to feel a little dizzy. Then, suddenly, I feel hot and clammy. I tried to keep reading, but now I am distracted by the sound of the doc snipping the stitches and clipping the thread as it tightens around that stupid tool that clicks. I cannot get the words to come out of my mouth anymore.
"Mom," Owen says, "Keep reading."
I feel faint, and cannot even read the words anymore as they dance around the page and now I know I am going to faint. I want to get up and leave the room, but I know I cannot leave her. I promised I would be with her.
I leaned my head between my legs and the doc stops working, looks at me and then to one of the assistants and says, "Get mom some water". The less congenial nurse dude asks if I need water and I said, "No, I need air.." not even recognizing the sound of the voice that spoke those words and really feeling like an idiot. Some cheerleader I turn out to be when Owen says, "Mom, what are you doing down there?" as my head is between my legs. I told her, as I am hyperventilating, "Oh,Sweetie, I am fixing my pants, they are wrinkled."
My mind is racing and I am thinking, "What the heck am I going to do??? I am going to hit the floor!" The nurse comes back in the room with a fan and starts to blow it directly on me, and not one minute too soon, since now I am drenched in sweat. I sit up and Owen says, "Mom, why do you have your head laying on the table?" I said, "Oh, Honey, I want to see you better." I still wanted to vomit, but I tried to smile at her reassuringly. The doctor is working faster now and saying, "We are almost done. You guys are doing so great," her eyes darting back and forth between me and my daughter's exposed arm. The other MA at the doctor's hand says to me, "Yeah, you guys are a great team." If only they were more convincing, because I could not wait to get out of that spinning room.
"Mom, keep reading." Owen begs. I try to read some more, but I am instantly taken back to the days of when I was a kid and would try to read in the car. I used to get so carsick with the scenery speeding past us when I was trying to focus on the words on the pages back then. This was no different. The room may as well have been a carousel and as I read a few more words on that page about how Junie B.'s tooth was pulled out and bloody, and I had to stop again. It was killing me.
At last, the feeling of nausea subsided when the doctor said, "Okay, all finished." It helped when I realized her little arm was no longer with a gaping hole in it. I began apologizing profusely. I was so mortified that my girl was so totally fine and I almost hit the deck. They told me it happens all the time (yeah)and that I was white as a sheet. The doctor then handed a lolly pop to Owen and one to me, and insisted on me eating it, regardless of the calories. She didn't let me out of the chair for a while, either.
So, Owen did great. I almost passed out. Marc later said to me when he learned of the incident, "Why didn't you let me go in there with her?" And really, I told him that I did not see that coming at all! The scary thing was how fast that cropped up and came out of nowhere!One minute I was fine and not even concerned about the procedure. The next, I was going to fall off the chair. Why? Is it because this decision, like so many other ones in our current situation, was elective? Was I stressed about us making the right choice for our baby girl? I think I am overwhelmed with the stress of the move and the changes in their world, that this was just one more hurdle to get over.
Today, we had to change the bandage after bath time. Owen and I saw the aftermath of her once peaceful little mole. Under the steri strips there are blue stitches, gaping out like a little picket fence along the jagged cut. Caked in dried blood, the wound looks red and angry. One can make out what the scar will eventually look like. Owen said to me, "Quick, Mom, clean it and cover it again. That is giving me the Hebe Gibbie's!"
All I could think to myself was, "Yeah, me, too. I just hope Florida doesn't leave the same scar in the end." After all, I have same fears and misgivings about going across the country as she did going into surgery. Will the move give me the Hebe Gibbies once we are there? I cringe to even think about it.
So, for the last 3 weeks, my girl has agonized over the whole ordeal. Mostly, she was terrified of the shots they were to give her to numb the area. We had scheduled this surgery on July 2, so for 22 days she had been agonizing over the whole procedure. It was a pretty good size mole,especially on that little pencil of an arm, so they had to take a large elliptical area out and stitch it up. For weeks now I have been telling her how it is "no big deal" for the doctor who is brilliant and I have had several moles removed, etc, etc, etc. I even went as far as to bribe her with a shopping trip (and like a good little woman, she took me up on that offer) to choose a new little accessory or toy once out of the clinic.
We arrived at the office yesterday morning, and while the original plan was for Marc to be stay home with our four year old, he decided he wanted to come and just wait in the waiting room with the little guy. Owen and I get called back and she is dragging her feet with trepidation. We venture in the room and see the doc in her scrubs, and Owen begins to cry a little. She was really nervous, so the doc (who is so sweet and very maternal) calls in for another male nurse to assist (there was already one guy in there to start).
So, now there are 2 male nurses (or MAs, not sure of their credentials) and the female doc. The new one to join us is very easy going and easy on the eyes with a warm smile. He sees her tentativeness and tells her he has 2 daughters and they wear Crocs, too, etc, etc. I tell everyone how brave Owen is and how she is tough, has run 3 5Ks already, and this is no big deal for her. She is laying on the table with me at her left side, sitting on a stool next to her head. The doctor and the looker are at her other side, and the other nurse at her feet, handing off tools.
The doctor gets her numb, and while she winced a little bit and cried out, the three shots were over fast and then they were ready to get moving. I brought a Junie B. Jones chapter book to read to Owen during the procedure to distract her, and kept telling her not to look at her arm and what they were doing. So, I begin reading the book, about this little girl, Junie B. Jones, the first grader and how she lost her top tooth. In the book, as I am reading about the blood Junie B. spit out when her tooth came out, I start to feel a little dizzy. Then, suddenly, I feel hot and clammy. I tried to keep reading, but now I am distracted by the sound of the doc snipping the stitches and clipping the thread as it tightens around that stupid tool that clicks. I cannot get the words to come out of my mouth anymore.
"Mom," Owen says, "Keep reading."
I feel faint, and cannot even read the words anymore as they dance around the page and now I know I am going to faint. I want to get up and leave the room, but I know I cannot leave her. I promised I would be with her.
I leaned my head between my legs and the doc stops working, looks at me and then to one of the assistants and says, "Get mom some water". The less congenial nurse dude asks if I need water and I said, "No, I need air.." not even recognizing the sound of the voice that spoke those words and really feeling like an idiot. Some cheerleader I turn out to be when Owen says, "Mom, what are you doing down there?" as my head is between my legs. I told her, as I am hyperventilating, "Oh,Sweetie, I am fixing my pants, they are wrinkled."
My mind is racing and I am thinking, "What the heck am I going to do??? I am going to hit the floor!" The nurse comes back in the room with a fan and starts to blow it directly on me, and not one minute too soon, since now I am drenched in sweat. I sit up and Owen says, "Mom, why do you have your head laying on the table?" I said, "Oh, Honey, I want to see you better." I still wanted to vomit, but I tried to smile at her reassuringly. The doctor is working faster now and saying, "We are almost done. You guys are doing so great," her eyes darting back and forth between me and my daughter's exposed arm. The other MA at the doctor's hand says to me, "Yeah, you guys are a great team." If only they were more convincing, because I could not wait to get out of that spinning room.
"Mom, keep reading." Owen begs. I try to read some more, but I am instantly taken back to the days of when I was a kid and would try to read in the car. I used to get so carsick with the scenery speeding past us when I was trying to focus on the words on the pages back then. This was no different. The room may as well have been a carousel and as I read a few more words on that page about how Junie B.'s tooth was pulled out and bloody, and I had to stop again. It was killing me.
At last, the feeling of nausea subsided when the doctor said, "Okay, all finished." It helped when I realized her little arm was no longer with a gaping hole in it. I began apologizing profusely. I was so mortified that my girl was so totally fine and I almost hit the deck. They told me it happens all the time (yeah)and that I was white as a sheet. The doctor then handed a lolly pop to Owen and one to me, and insisted on me eating it, regardless of the calories. She didn't let me out of the chair for a while, either.
So, Owen did great. I almost passed out. Marc later said to me when he learned of the incident, "Why didn't you let me go in there with her?" And really, I told him that I did not see that coming at all! The scary thing was how fast that cropped up and came out of nowhere!One minute I was fine and not even concerned about the procedure. The next, I was going to fall off the chair. Why? Is it because this decision, like so many other ones in our current situation, was elective? Was I stressed about us making the right choice for our baby girl? I think I am overwhelmed with the stress of the move and the changes in their world, that this was just one more hurdle to get over.
Today, we had to change the bandage after bath time. Owen and I saw the aftermath of her once peaceful little mole. Under the steri strips there are blue stitches, gaping out like a little picket fence along the jagged cut. Caked in dried blood, the wound looks red and angry. One can make out what the scar will eventually look like. Owen said to me, "Quick, Mom, clean it and cover it again. That is giving me the Hebe Gibbie's!"
All I could think to myself was, "Yeah, me, too. I just hope Florida doesn't leave the same scar in the end." After all, I have same fears and misgivings about going across the country as she did going into surgery. Will the move give me the Hebe Gibbies once we are there? I cringe to even think about it.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Out Of The Mouth of Babes
Our six year old is fascinated with all things death and destruction as of late. She loves the story of the Titanic and wants me to read and re-read the part about the iceberg. She loves the sheer terror of it all.
"But why are they running for the lifeboats, Mommy?"
I once read that children at this age are just learning to get a handle on things permanent and things not so lasting. They have come to a place of understanding that death transcends life and that people pass away and things pass on. That is, she is now trying to reconcile things that fade in this world.
Today on the way home from her swim workout she began asking questions about cremation. Questions such as "How is it done, Mommy?" or "What exactly are the ashes, Mommy?" and "What do people do with dead people ashes, Mommy?" and then, "Do the ashes just blow away?"
All of this questions were tolerable until the question came, "Mommy, when you die, do you want to be buried or cremated?"
"Cremated. Can we change the subject please?"
"Mommy, where do you want your ashes to go?"
"Honey, I haven't really thought about it. Some people choose the ocean, some people want to be left atop a mountain..."
"But YOU, Mommy, where do YOU want to be left?"
Not getting the point that I was trying to defer specific questions as a result of my lack of preparation and discomfort over this issue, I again tried to evade it by making it more general. She was having none of this.
"Oh, Dolly, most people simply choose somewhere they really loved in life, a romantic spot where others might think of them in coming years..."
Again because I hesitated, she blurted out, "OH! I KNOW! Mommy! Maybe your ashes should be put in a STORE! Like where you LOVE to shop!"
As comical as this was at the time, I tried to dispel the laughter I was choking down by explaining that it is totally inappropriate to scatter ashes at the mall and that it should really be somewhere out in nature and creation, etc. I told her that our bodies really mean nothing once we die, that it is our spirit that lives on and that I won't need this body once I am dead, that it will be irrelevant.
This seemed to satisfy her for a moment until I could pull in the driveway, pull the kids from the car, and shuffle them up to showers. But, her questions stirred something in me. Something I am still not really sure I understand how I feel. This idea of permanency versus gone. It really is the idea of the evolution of change in our lives and how we handle it.
I sort of feel now that our family is standing in the threshold of this place in our lives. We have been waiting so long to make a move in our future. Do we move to Florida, or not. Okay, we are going, but what now with the house? Okay, the house sold, now what? Which city? Which schools? What to pack? What about the cat? The cars? The questions are endless and the answers are just as long.
How can the days be flying by when I keep wishing away the time to find the answers to more questions as they arise? How are there just not enough hours in each passing day, but the days on the calendar are slow to move forward while we look to what our new lives will look like? We keep waiting, watching the clock, wishing the time away to get settled into a new city. I can't help but wonder, is this what life is?
That is, are we just spinning our wheels here, waiting for a change, wanting something new and adventurous? How can we savor the days more while we have them? Life is so fleeting. Why am I so anxious to step over the threshold and into the next thing? Why, I beg the question over and over and over again, WHY leave San Diego when our lives have been so happy and good here? We have friends, and family and a wonderful routine. Why venture out? Why? I guess the only answer I can come to is the inertia of change. We are being swept into it, resisting it little, this change. And, I kind of feel like we will have to be Reborn to survive. We will have to reinvent ourselves in Florida in order to live again. Certainly we cannot replicate what we have here in Cali, so we will have to look for some romantic place to leave our memories behind here as we travel into the unknown. Let's just hope in this process we don't get swept away by a hurricane. I feel like I need a lifeboat right about now.
"But why are they running for the lifeboats, Mommy?"
I once read that children at this age are just learning to get a handle on things permanent and things not so lasting. They have come to a place of understanding that death transcends life and that people pass away and things pass on. That is, she is now trying to reconcile things that fade in this world.
Today on the way home from her swim workout she began asking questions about cremation. Questions such as "How is it done, Mommy?" or "What exactly are the ashes, Mommy?" and "What do people do with dead people ashes, Mommy?" and then, "Do the ashes just blow away?"
All of this questions were tolerable until the question came, "Mommy, when you die, do you want to be buried or cremated?"
"Cremated. Can we change the subject please?"
"Mommy, where do you want your ashes to go?"
"Honey, I haven't really thought about it. Some people choose the ocean, some people want to be left atop a mountain..."
"But YOU, Mommy, where do YOU want to be left?"
Not getting the point that I was trying to defer specific questions as a result of my lack of preparation and discomfort over this issue, I again tried to evade it by making it more general. She was having none of this.
"Oh, Dolly, most people simply choose somewhere they really loved in life, a romantic spot where others might think of them in coming years..."
Again because I hesitated, she blurted out, "OH! I KNOW! Mommy! Maybe your ashes should be put in a STORE! Like where you LOVE to shop!"
As comical as this was at the time, I tried to dispel the laughter I was choking down by explaining that it is totally inappropriate to scatter ashes at the mall and that it should really be somewhere out in nature and creation, etc. I told her that our bodies really mean nothing once we die, that it is our spirit that lives on and that I won't need this body once I am dead, that it will be irrelevant.
This seemed to satisfy her for a moment until I could pull in the driveway, pull the kids from the car, and shuffle them up to showers. But, her questions stirred something in me. Something I am still not really sure I understand how I feel. This idea of permanency versus gone. It really is the idea of the evolution of change in our lives and how we handle it.
I sort of feel now that our family is standing in the threshold of this place in our lives. We have been waiting so long to make a move in our future. Do we move to Florida, or not. Okay, we are going, but what now with the house? Okay, the house sold, now what? Which city? Which schools? What to pack? What about the cat? The cars? The questions are endless and the answers are just as long.
How can the days be flying by when I keep wishing away the time to find the answers to more questions as they arise? How are there just not enough hours in each passing day, but the days on the calendar are slow to move forward while we look to what our new lives will look like? We keep waiting, watching the clock, wishing the time away to get settled into a new city. I can't help but wonder, is this what life is?
That is, are we just spinning our wheels here, waiting for a change, wanting something new and adventurous? How can we savor the days more while we have them? Life is so fleeting. Why am I so anxious to step over the threshold and into the next thing? Why, I beg the question over and over and over again, WHY leave San Diego when our lives have been so happy and good here? We have friends, and family and a wonderful routine. Why venture out? Why? I guess the only answer I can come to is the inertia of change. We are being swept into it, resisting it little, this change. And, I kind of feel like we will have to be Reborn to survive. We will have to reinvent ourselves in Florida in order to live again. Certainly we cannot replicate what we have here in Cali, so we will have to look for some romantic place to leave our memories behind here as we travel into the unknown. Let's just hope in this process we don't get swept away by a hurricane. I feel like I need a lifeboat right about now.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Fourth of Joy July
Today was our family annual tradition. I am really going to miss traditions like these: The Coronado 15K and 5K race. I love that in the 10 years I have lived in San Diego, I have made it to 9 of these. I even ran it one year 8 weeks post C Section (against the advice of my OB) and loved every minute of it. Not sure if I love the race or the festivities that follow it more, but every year it is pure joy.
We began the tradition with Marc and I running the 15K. Then came the birth of a baby girl and she ran along with Marc in the jogger. Baby number 2 brought us to buy the double jogger so he could participate, too. Now, our baby girl runs the 5K with dad and 4 year old boy rides in the single. Funny how life evolves.
That baby girl ran 44 minutes today, 2 minutes slower than a 5K just 6 weeks ago. She did awesome. I ran 1:07 and change, 2 minutes faster than last year. This just goes to show that my training for RNR Marathon last year was a complete disaster, knowing that I had such a poor race there in '06 and then ran the 15 K on legs that were still tired, apparently. This year, RNR was so much better and I felt fresh in Coronado, as well.
Susan and Steve came out for the run, with their 2 beautiful boys and nephew. Susan got 7th in her age group, which rocks, knowing how long she has been on run hiatus. She is tough as nails, that chick. I saw her at the turn around and was amazed at her determination and strength. Biker chick maniac, winning her races on 2 wheels and crossing over to crank in running shoes. What a woman.
For me, the first mile was 6:52 pace, followed by a few 7 minute miles, as I tried to settle in. We got on the amph base and at the turn around I still felt surprisingly good, but I backed off the pace to try to hold on, knowing I still had 4 plus miles to go. Came off base, hit mile 6 still smiling. Mile 7 was not so happy as I was running out of gas. Mile 8 I ran to catch Tattoo Man who I had been chasing most of the way, and ran on his heels to the finish. Passed some spectator who told me I was 17th woman overall, but in the results, it seems I bettered that a bit, taking 13th? Too bad my age group is so tough and I only got 7th, to be robbed of the podium finish. I'll take what it was. A great day with friends and family, emotional thinking of all the hereos who have died to make this country what it is, and then a feast in front of the parade. Love it.
We began the tradition with Marc and I running the 15K. Then came the birth of a baby girl and she ran along with Marc in the jogger. Baby number 2 brought us to buy the double jogger so he could participate, too. Now, our baby girl runs the 5K with dad and 4 year old boy rides in the single. Funny how life evolves.
That baby girl ran 44 minutes today, 2 minutes slower than a 5K just 6 weeks ago. She did awesome. I ran 1:07 and change, 2 minutes faster than last year. This just goes to show that my training for RNR Marathon last year was a complete disaster, knowing that I had such a poor race there in '06 and then ran the 15 K on legs that were still tired, apparently. This year, RNR was so much better and I felt fresh in Coronado, as well.
Susan and Steve came out for the run, with their 2 beautiful boys and nephew. Susan got 7th in her age group, which rocks, knowing how long she has been on run hiatus. She is tough as nails, that chick. I saw her at the turn around and was amazed at her determination and strength. Biker chick maniac, winning her races on 2 wheels and crossing over to crank in running shoes. What a woman.
For me, the first mile was 6:52 pace, followed by a few 7 minute miles, as I tried to settle in. We got on the amph base and at the turn around I still felt surprisingly good, but I backed off the pace to try to hold on, knowing I still had 4 plus miles to go. Came off base, hit mile 6 still smiling. Mile 7 was not so happy as I was running out of gas. Mile 8 I ran to catch Tattoo Man who I had been chasing most of the way, and ran on his heels to the finish. Passed some spectator who told me I was 17th woman overall, but in the results, it seems I bettered that a bit, taking 13th? Too bad my age group is so tough and I only got 7th, to be robbed of the podium finish. I'll take what it was. A great day with friends and family, emotional thinking of all the hereos who have died to make this country what it is, and then a feast in front of the parade. Love it.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Trying to find the air
How will she go on? How will she get up in the morning? He was her everything, and she was his. How can she possibly exist in a world without him? They were always a pair, one never traveling far from the other. I cannot think of a single race or event where I saw him without her?
What is the worst part of the whole story? The cruelest point of it all? The fact that he was only 46? Horrifying. The idea that he was seemingly so healthy? Shocking. The simple way in which he gave so much to the Triathlon community with no fanfare? Selfless. The grimest detail for me is the understated that we all are aware of. His loving wife never got to say goodbye. She came home to the horror of it all. She had to pick him up off the floor and plead for him to answer her. Of course he never did. She will have to relive that moment of terror for the rest of her young life without him. He will not be here to comfort her. He didn't make it.
I am empty when I read his contact information posted on the website as the Club president. I am numb when I read past emails from him in my inbox over wetsuit correspondence. I am so utterly sad when I think of how little I ever told him what a wonderful job he did and what an amazing person he was. I am defeated to think of a world of Aquathlons without him standing at the finish, quietly encouraging people to keep going. Mostly, I am so lost when I think of what to say to her, his widow. There really are no words. How can any of us be as sorry as we want to express? How can we even pretend to be compassionate enough to try to understand her torture?
How will we ever move forward and be normal in our events and training without him? I cannot comprehend this yet. How will she ever move forward and be normal in her life and routine without him? I cannot bear the thought of this now or ever. Does time really heal all wounds? In this case, I dare say no. Time may numb the pain, but every little memory will tear at the seams of the wound and threaten to reopen it again. The very thought of how thoughtless and pointless this death was, how we all feel so ripped off as a result of a life cut short, there are no words.
I feel as if we are all holding our breaths, waiting to exhale and wanting to take another breath, but we are not really sure how? I liken it to swimming in the sea and suddenly losing direction. We are all swimming together, in unison, wanting the same thing, loving the workout, surging ahead. Suddenly, he is gone and we are not sure of the direction in which we should go? We lost our team captain who was leading the pack and I am starting to panic and sink. I want to just give up and forget the swim entirely. I am trying to find the air to breathe as I tread in one place, but it seems futile. The stroke is not working and the swim now seems silly.
This is how I feel, so far removed from him. How will she ever even get back into the water?
What is the worst part of the whole story? The cruelest point of it all? The fact that he was only 46? Horrifying. The idea that he was seemingly so healthy? Shocking. The simple way in which he gave so much to the Triathlon community with no fanfare? Selfless. The grimest detail for me is the understated that we all are aware of. His loving wife never got to say goodbye. She came home to the horror of it all. She had to pick him up off the floor and plead for him to answer her. Of course he never did. She will have to relive that moment of terror for the rest of her young life without him. He will not be here to comfort her. He didn't make it.
I am empty when I read his contact information posted on the website as the Club president. I am numb when I read past emails from him in my inbox over wetsuit correspondence. I am so utterly sad when I think of how little I ever told him what a wonderful job he did and what an amazing person he was. I am defeated to think of a world of Aquathlons without him standing at the finish, quietly encouraging people to keep going. Mostly, I am so lost when I think of what to say to her, his widow. There really are no words. How can any of us be as sorry as we want to express? How can we even pretend to be compassionate enough to try to understand her torture?
How will we ever move forward and be normal in our events and training without him? I cannot comprehend this yet. How will she ever move forward and be normal in her life and routine without him? I cannot bear the thought of this now or ever. Does time really heal all wounds? In this case, I dare say no. Time may numb the pain, but every little memory will tear at the seams of the wound and threaten to reopen it again. The very thought of how thoughtless and pointless this death was, how we all feel so ripped off as a result of a life cut short, there are no words.
I feel as if we are all holding our breaths, waiting to exhale and wanting to take another breath, but we are not really sure how? I liken it to swimming in the sea and suddenly losing direction. We are all swimming together, in unison, wanting the same thing, loving the workout, surging ahead. Suddenly, he is gone and we are not sure of the direction in which we should go? We lost our team captain who was leading the pack and I am starting to panic and sink. I want to just give up and forget the swim entirely. I am trying to find the air to breathe as I tread in one place, but it seems futile. The stroke is not working and the swim now seems silly.
This is how I feel, so far removed from him. How will she ever even get back into the water?
Monday, June 04, 2007
I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends
The day began at 4:15 am when I picked up Amy's Dad from next door. We drove down to catch the shuttle together. We had a lovely morning in the dark, drinking black coffee and waiting in line for the port a potties together. Marshall is here visiting from Atlanta and it was a joy to share the experience with him. He prouldy finished his marathon, first one in 13 years!
But how, oh how, will I EVER survive in Florida without my dearest running partner and friend? Jen has been the training shoulder I am most familiar with. She has been my longest running comfort and support. She knows all of the intimate details of my soul, my deepest regrets, and my optimistic hope for the future. We share the love of not just running, but love for our husbands and our children. We trade running strategies as well as life secrets. How will I ever be able to race without her?
I write all of this because something became very clear to me yesterday at the Rock N Roll Marathon here in beautiful San Diego. It goes without saying that I felt convinced SD is home as I ran through the Gas Lamp District. We are departing from here, yes, but I will be pulled back to this place sooner rather than later. I am sure of it. This was not the epiphany I experienced yesterday. It was more that I have never felt totally comfortable in my own marathoning shoes without Jen. She has been on a little hiatis for the last year after the birth of son number two. She made her debut back with La Jolla Half Marathon this last April. She jumped in with me yesterday at mile 15 and ran me to the finish.
Here is the point that was really driven home to me about mile 8: I cannot help but run like the people I am near. That is, if I am running near someone with a short, frantic stride, it causes me to take smaller, choppier steps and it stresses me out. If I am running near someone who is smooth and kind of glides along, it reduces my adrenaline and causes me to slip into a comfortable stride and pace. I needed that from Jen with 11.2 miles to go yesterday.
The race was so crowded at the start, that I did not even SEE a mile marker until mile 8. Seriously, I think I was distracted with all of the people, but we were packed in there for a while. Perhaps it is good I was not able to agonize over every mile, though it is the later miles I really did suffer when I had full view of those numbers dragging by. I felt relatively good coming down the backside of the 163 freeway into mile 10. I loved seeing little Tracy (my other dear running partner, now injured) jumping up and down at mile 12. She, the tiny adorable brunette, bouncing up and down yelling, "I'm so proud of you, girl!!!" She handed me my Sports Beans and I kept moving. i couldn't stop. I was feeling the onset of pain.
I came through 13.1 at exactly 1:44 and remembering thinking that was suisidal. I know that my best marathons have always been me going out a little fast so I can have some time in the bank. I always seem to feel bad at the end, so why not have a few spare minutes to cash in? I was worried, though. I think I mostly maintained an 8:20ish pace until I got to Jen and she tried to keep me accountable to it. Then I got to mile 17 and felt tired and dehydrated. I decided to walk the water station to really get some fluid into my drenched body. We plotted on, with little chit chat, until we got to mile 20. There stood Marc and the little people, yelling for me. I heard Marc say, "The 3:30 pace group just went by like 2 minutes ago!!!!" The funny part is, I had been running behind the 3:40 pace guy, but I thought his pace was a little slow. I had pulled in front a bit, but by mile 16 I do remember seeing some 3:30 guys who must have fallen off their pace. This did my mental state well, especially since I was feeling the effects of going out too fast.
Mile 22 was ugly. There is no nice way to say it. It was the worst part of the course, the little less than scenic, finger that goes out and back where they are clearly just adding on mileage under the nasty freeway bridge. There were tons of people down for the count there. I felt like I had been hit by a truck and succombed to walking quite a few steps in between jogging at a 9 minute mile pace. It was terrible. This continued on through mile 23. I told Jen I was going to give up the Boston Qualifying dream. "I just don't have it anymore." I told her, completely defeated and deflated. She assured me it was just not a good day and reminded me of my 3:37 marathon last January.
Mile 24 and Jen was telling me track stories. I was listening and it felt good to feel free of being a slave to the time. It felt like we were just out on another training run and it was no big deal. I tried to ignore the thousands of people around me. But, I couldn't resist. I had to look at my watch. I think it read 3:22 if I remember correctly. It was going to be close. I decided that I would not be okay with running a 3:41 marathon that day. 3:45 would have been far enough off that I wouldn't have cared, but this close? I was pissed. I ate a few beans and picked it up a notch. Jen had been talking and then looked at me and said, "Good job. You are looking strong." I know she knew what I was trying to do, but the exceptional person and running partner she is, she said nothing to the effect. She continued her story and it was a welcome distraction from the pain in my hamstring that was moving down into my calf.
We hit mile 25 and that is when I said, "Do you think I am going to make it?" She gave me an emphatic, "Yes!" We heard our friend, Mike, cheer for us. I picked it up just a little. I really had nothing left in my legs. We were running along side the MCRD base and that was a little frustrating, to know the finish was so close and yet I still had so far to go. We finally made the left turn onto the base through the gates. Again I looked at my watch. "How far do I have left???" I begged her. She must have sensed the desperation in my voice because she said to me in the tone that only a sympathtic mom knows how to deliver, "I wish I knew..." Some woman in the sidelines heard us and yelled, "800! You have an 800 left!!!"
Just then some Marine yelled at Jen, "Anyone not wearing a race number, peel off now! Do not cross the finish line!" Jen said, "Go, go, go! Do not stop!" I needed to hear that. I was so desperate to be done. I really needed her to tell me to push it to the finish. She jumped out, but I could see her, running through the crowd along the to the finish on the other side of the fence. She was dodging bodies, hurdling kids and yelling at me. I could hear the announcer and see the end. I had to sprint the last 200 yards. I crossed the line with a clock time of 3:40:46, I think, and a chip time of 3:39:15. It was a happy day. I was so emotional when I stopped.
I heard someone yelling my name and I turned to look for Jen. She had found my neighbor and psuedo sister, Amy, along with her real sister, Arah, at the finish. They were cheering and yelling for me. I felt faint and really wanted to vomit. I deliriously walked over to them and told them I needed to keep walking. I went through the shoot and collected all the goodies and my medal. I was dizzy. I was never so happy to see Jen at the end of a race. I know that she made it happen for me. I know that I would have walked so much more if she were not on my shoulder. I know that I would have given it up as a wash and let the time go if she were not there to remind me of the marathoners we are. She is my motivation. She embodies all of the qualities of a runner I strive to have. All of these years the 3:40 has been evading me, it is in her absence. We used to run all our marathons together and consistently go better than 3:40, no problem. Then, life happened and we got married, had kids, got busy. We were not as connected in our races. I needed her yesterday like I needed water. The best part about it is she knew this before I did. That is why she was waiting for me at mile 15.
Things I wish I had done differently:
Not let my hell week take such an emotional toll on me.
Eat more than a quarter of a bagel and 3 bites of a banana at the start (I had a nervous tummy).
Take in more fluid from the beginning, knowing it was humid.
Not run in an outfit with shorts that were like granny underwear. I am filled with dread to see the pictures.
Things I am happy about:
Choking down some Sports Beans when I really did not think I could.
Taking in as much water as I did.
Having loving and supportive friends and family. There is nothing better in life.
But how, oh how, will I EVER survive in Florida without my dearest running partner and friend? Jen has been the training shoulder I am most familiar with. She has been my longest running comfort and support. She knows all of the intimate details of my soul, my deepest regrets, and my optimistic hope for the future. We share the love of not just running, but love for our husbands and our children. We trade running strategies as well as life secrets. How will I ever be able to race without her?
I write all of this because something became very clear to me yesterday at the Rock N Roll Marathon here in beautiful San Diego. It goes without saying that I felt convinced SD is home as I ran through the Gas Lamp District. We are departing from here, yes, but I will be pulled back to this place sooner rather than later. I am sure of it. This was not the epiphany I experienced yesterday. It was more that I have never felt totally comfortable in my own marathoning shoes without Jen. She has been on a little hiatis for the last year after the birth of son number two. She made her debut back with La Jolla Half Marathon this last April. She jumped in with me yesterday at mile 15 and ran me to the finish.
Here is the point that was really driven home to me about mile 8: I cannot help but run like the people I am near. That is, if I am running near someone with a short, frantic stride, it causes me to take smaller, choppier steps and it stresses me out. If I am running near someone who is smooth and kind of glides along, it reduces my adrenaline and causes me to slip into a comfortable stride and pace. I needed that from Jen with 11.2 miles to go yesterday.
The race was so crowded at the start, that I did not even SEE a mile marker until mile 8. Seriously, I think I was distracted with all of the people, but we were packed in there for a while. Perhaps it is good I was not able to agonize over every mile, though it is the later miles I really did suffer when I had full view of those numbers dragging by. I felt relatively good coming down the backside of the 163 freeway into mile 10. I loved seeing little Tracy (my other dear running partner, now injured) jumping up and down at mile 12. She, the tiny adorable brunette, bouncing up and down yelling, "I'm so proud of you, girl!!!" She handed me my Sports Beans and I kept moving. i couldn't stop. I was feeling the onset of pain.
I came through 13.1 at exactly 1:44 and remembering thinking that was suisidal. I know that my best marathons have always been me going out a little fast so I can have some time in the bank. I always seem to feel bad at the end, so why not have a few spare minutes to cash in? I was worried, though. I think I mostly maintained an 8:20ish pace until I got to Jen and she tried to keep me accountable to it. Then I got to mile 17 and felt tired and dehydrated. I decided to walk the water station to really get some fluid into my drenched body. We plotted on, with little chit chat, until we got to mile 20. There stood Marc and the little people, yelling for me. I heard Marc say, "The 3:30 pace group just went by like 2 minutes ago!!!!" The funny part is, I had been running behind the 3:40 pace guy, but I thought his pace was a little slow. I had pulled in front a bit, but by mile 16 I do remember seeing some 3:30 guys who must have fallen off their pace. This did my mental state well, especially since I was feeling the effects of going out too fast.
Mile 22 was ugly. There is no nice way to say it. It was the worst part of the course, the little less than scenic, finger that goes out and back where they are clearly just adding on mileage under the nasty freeway bridge. There were tons of people down for the count there. I felt like I had been hit by a truck and succombed to walking quite a few steps in between jogging at a 9 minute mile pace. It was terrible. This continued on through mile 23. I told Jen I was going to give up the Boston Qualifying dream. "I just don't have it anymore." I told her, completely defeated and deflated. She assured me it was just not a good day and reminded me of my 3:37 marathon last January.
Mile 24 and Jen was telling me track stories. I was listening and it felt good to feel free of being a slave to the time. It felt like we were just out on another training run and it was no big deal. I tried to ignore the thousands of people around me. But, I couldn't resist. I had to look at my watch. I think it read 3:22 if I remember correctly. It was going to be close. I decided that I would not be okay with running a 3:41 marathon that day. 3:45 would have been far enough off that I wouldn't have cared, but this close? I was pissed. I ate a few beans and picked it up a notch. Jen had been talking and then looked at me and said, "Good job. You are looking strong." I know she knew what I was trying to do, but the exceptional person and running partner she is, she said nothing to the effect. She continued her story and it was a welcome distraction from the pain in my hamstring that was moving down into my calf.
We hit mile 25 and that is when I said, "Do you think I am going to make it?" She gave me an emphatic, "Yes!" We heard our friend, Mike, cheer for us. I picked it up just a little. I really had nothing left in my legs. We were running along side the MCRD base and that was a little frustrating, to know the finish was so close and yet I still had so far to go. We finally made the left turn onto the base through the gates. Again I looked at my watch. "How far do I have left???" I begged her. She must have sensed the desperation in my voice because she said to me in the tone that only a sympathtic mom knows how to deliver, "I wish I knew..." Some woman in the sidelines heard us and yelled, "800! You have an 800 left!!!"
Just then some Marine yelled at Jen, "Anyone not wearing a race number, peel off now! Do not cross the finish line!" Jen said, "Go, go, go! Do not stop!" I needed to hear that. I was so desperate to be done. I really needed her to tell me to push it to the finish. She jumped out, but I could see her, running through the crowd along the to the finish on the other side of the fence. She was dodging bodies, hurdling kids and yelling at me. I could hear the announcer and see the end. I had to sprint the last 200 yards. I crossed the line with a clock time of 3:40:46, I think, and a chip time of 3:39:15. It was a happy day. I was so emotional when I stopped.
I heard someone yelling my name and I turned to look for Jen. She had found my neighbor and psuedo sister, Amy, along with her real sister, Arah, at the finish. They were cheering and yelling for me. I felt faint and really wanted to vomit. I deliriously walked over to them and told them I needed to keep walking. I went through the shoot and collected all the goodies and my medal. I was dizzy. I was never so happy to see Jen at the end of a race. I know that she made it happen for me. I know that I would have walked so much more if she were not on my shoulder. I know that I would have given it up as a wash and let the time go if she were not there to remind me of the marathoners we are. She is my motivation. She embodies all of the qualities of a runner I strive to have. All of these years the 3:40 has been evading me, it is in her absence. We used to run all our marathons together and consistently go better than 3:40, no problem. Then, life happened and we got married, had kids, got busy. We were not as connected in our races. I needed her yesterday like I needed water. The best part about it is she knew this before I did. That is why she was waiting for me at mile 15.
Things I wish I had done differently:
Not let my hell week take such an emotional toll on me.
Eat more than a quarter of a bagel and 3 bites of a banana at the start (I had a nervous tummy).
Take in more fluid from the beginning, knowing it was humid.
Not run in an outfit with shorts that were like granny underwear. I am filled with dread to see the pictures.
Things I am happy about:
Choking down some Sports Beans when I really did not think I could.
Taking in as much water as I did.
Having loving and supportive friends and family. There is nothing better in life.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Oh Yeah. A Marathon THIS Weekend
I have almost totally forgotten. Really. 26 miles and I care nothing. In the midst of moving and my own private hell, I forgot about my passion for the marathon. This will be a training run, for sure. I am not even looking for something under 4 hours, sadly. Sometimes, life just gets in the way of training. It should be interesting, to say the least. Let's hope the weather coorporates at the very least.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Loss of Words
I have no words. I am all out. I am still in disbelief that we are really leaving this town. Moving on, moving out, moving up, or shall I say, down South? I feel numb. There are no words to descibe the loss I feel.
I tried to explain to my boy this morning that we will be saying goodbye to our house and this neighborhood and taking a plane to a new state. I told him his sister would start a new school and he would start school. He couldn't get past that statement. "Mommy, will you stay-stay with me?"
Somehow, I think this is the calm before the storm. Though all of my emotions feel turbulent inside of me, I have a feeling the worst yet to come. Between me trying to navigate and dance around my own sadness and nausea over the move, I am going to have to deflect the hard questions from the kids about why we are really leaving. I wonder how much of the impact they are going to feel? People keep telling me how resilient kids are and how they are flexible and able to bounce back. But how will I keep the pieces together to show them the way?
How will this California girl ever survive out of her element, if even for what she hopes is a short period of time? Days run into weeks and weeks bleed into months and then the years are passing fast. I simply hope we can work our way back before all of the precious ones are gone.
I tried to explain to my boy this morning that we will be saying goodbye to our house and this neighborhood and taking a plane to a new state. I told him his sister would start a new school and he would start school. He couldn't get past that statement. "Mommy, will you stay-stay with me?"
Somehow, I think this is the calm before the storm. Though all of my emotions feel turbulent inside of me, I have a feeling the worst yet to come. Between me trying to navigate and dance around my own sadness and nausea over the move, I am going to have to deflect the hard questions from the kids about why we are really leaving. I wonder how much of the impact they are going to feel? People keep telling me how resilient kids are and how they are flexible and able to bounce back. But how will I keep the pieces together to show them the way?
How will this California girl ever survive out of her element, if even for what she hopes is a short period of time? Days run into weeks and weeks bleed into months and then the years are passing fast. I simply hope we can work our way back before all of the precious ones are gone.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
La Jolla Half Quitter
I cannot believe it has been a whole year that I have managed to keep somewhat of a blog. Not as regular as I would like, but I have maintained a few entries and gained some insight on training as a result, which is a beautiful thing. Somehow seeing it on the computer screen in front of me sorts through the varied emotions I tend to feel about my training and racing. I think I have more respect for people who race as professionals (the pressure!) and those who race with disadvantages (the physically challenged). Today was no different when it comes to the emotional gammet I rode on "race" day.
Jen and her husband, Todd, picked me up and he shuttled us to the start. The event was sold out this year and all of my friends were left with 2 options: run as bandits or try to get a coveted race number. I heard when I picked up my number yesterday that people were begging for entries, offering up to $200 for a number from someone else, or some asking to donate as much as $1,000 to the Kiwanis for entry. Anyway, Jen was lucky enough to have John on her side, as he scored 3 numbers from injured racers, one for himself, one for Mike and one for Jen. They felt it was evil to run as mere bandits and couldn't wear that title.
There we all were, together at the start. I just was not feeling it today. I was remembering my 1:39 from last year and how much it hurt at the end and somehow I just could not get my mind around wanting to push (and hurt)like that again. But, there I was under the "start" sign with the usual suspects. Jen and I are so petty, laughing at the people in garbage bags, snickering at the people who wore today's race shirt (rookies), and busting a gut over some of the outfits we witnessed in general.
Anyhoo, the gun went off and we were on our way. I ran on John and Mike's heels through the first 4 miles. I pace felt a little fast, about 7:15s, I think, and I felt a bit dizzy. I am not sure, but my belly was kind of off and my head was just not in the right place. All that kept plaguing me was that I better suck it up, since this was a training run for a distance TWICE as far in a mere 6 weeks.
So, we climbed the hill up Fourth Street in Del Mar and I pulled out in front, I guess, since Mike came trotting along after me into the dreaded Torrey Pines State Reserve. THE hill. THE climb. I really wasn't that worried, until I began the ascent. It was hard today, more so than it has been for the last 6 weeks when I ran it with Jen. Whatever. Mile 7 was at the top and I felt like the hard part was (mostly) over. I saw her husband there with one of their boys and I felt good to be moving on. John came up next to me at that point and said, "That was the tough part. Now we settle into a pace." He popped a Motivator or two. I swear that guy is addicted to those little pills. He fell back a little, or maybe I picked it up. I remember looking at the clock at mile 8 thinking I was still faster than 7:30 pace, though I cannot think of what it said now.
Mile 9 was uneventful and 10 was a grind down, down, down the more dreaded hill, as far as I am concerned. We lost hundreds of feet in elevation and my quads were feeling it, for sure. My friend Theresa jumped in with me and tried to pull me along. My legs did not want to go any faster. Along the beach and some guy yelled that I was top 20 women. "Keep it there," he said. I was losing steam fast and barely managed a pathetic smile for him. Down the boardwalk to mile 11 and then the WORST part of it all, mile 12. The climb up Spindrift to Prospect Street, and more of a climb into town. It was hell. I ate some Jelly Belly Beans, looking for a miracle. It didn't come. I choked on what I was eating and tried to take in some water at mile 12, but felt like I aspirated it. John passed me on that hill, while I walked and tried to regain some composure. It was a losing battle.
Up to Prospect and then down the brick street into the finish. I looked at my watch and realized that I was not going to match last year's time. It already read 1:39 and I knew the finish was too far away. I crossed the line in 1:40 and change and was truly disappointed in myself for giving it up that last mile. I just did not have it in me. I wish I knew how to dig deeper and gut it out and hold onto it. I just never seem to want it bad enough. I think I finished 15th in my age group and like 47th woman overall. So, either the guy down at the beach was off in his counting or I gave it up to 20 woman the last mile. The latter is very possible, based on how I felt. Why have I not figued out how to hone that competitive drive? Why can I not dig deeper and go for it when it really hurts? Why have I not learned how to be a true competetor after all of this time? Why am I such a quitter?
Jen and her husband, Todd, picked me up and he shuttled us to the start. The event was sold out this year and all of my friends were left with 2 options: run as bandits or try to get a coveted race number. I heard when I picked up my number yesterday that people were begging for entries, offering up to $200 for a number from someone else, or some asking to donate as much as $1,000 to the Kiwanis for entry. Anyway, Jen was lucky enough to have John on her side, as he scored 3 numbers from injured racers, one for himself, one for Mike and one for Jen. They felt it was evil to run as mere bandits and couldn't wear that title.
There we all were, together at the start. I just was not feeling it today. I was remembering my 1:39 from last year and how much it hurt at the end and somehow I just could not get my mind around wanting to push (and hurt)like that again. But, there I was under the "start" sign with the usual suspects. Jen and I are so petty, laughing at the people in garbage bags, snickering at the people who wore today's race shirt (rookies), and busting a gut over some of the outfits we witnessed in general.
Anyhoo, the gun went off and we were on our way. I ran on John and Mike's heels through the first 4 miles. I pace felt a little fast, about 7:15s, I think, and I felt a bit dizzy. I am not sure, but my belly was kind of off and my head was just not in the right place. All that kept plaguing me was that I better suck it up, since this was a training run for a distance TWICE as far in a mere 6 weeks.
So, we climbed the hill up Fourth Street in Del Mar and I pulled out in front, I guess, since Mike came trotting along after me into the dreaded Torrey Pines State Reserve. THE hill. THE climb. I really wasn't that worried, until I began the ascent. It was hard today, more so than it has been for the last 6 weeks when I ran it with Jen. Whatever. Mile 7 was at the top and I felt like the hard part was (mostly) over. I saw her husband there with one of their boys and I felt good to be moving on. John came up next to me at that point and said, "That was the tough part. Now we settle into a pace." He popped a Motivator or two. I swear that guy is addicted to those little pills. He fell back a little, or maybe I picked it up. I remember looking at the clock at mile 8 thinking I was still faster than 7:30 pace, though I cannot think of what it said now.
Mile 9 was uneventful and 10 was a grind down, down, down the more dreaded hill, as far as I am concerned. We lost hundreds of feet in elevation and my quads were feeling it, for sure. My friend Theresa jumped in with me and tried to pull me along. My legs did not want to go any faster. Along the beach and some guy yelled that I was top 20 women. "Keep it there," he said. I was losing steam fast and barely managed a pathetic smile for him. Down the boardwalk to mile 11 and then the WORST part of it all, mile 12. The climb up Spindrift to Prospect Street, and more of a climb into town. It was hell. I ate some Jelly Belly Beans, looking for a miracle. It didn't come. I choked on what I was eating and tried to take in some water at mile 12, but felt like I aspirated it. John passed me on that hill, while I walked and tried to regain some composure. It was a losing battle.
Up to Prospect and then down the brick street into the finish. I looked at my watch and realized that I was not going to match last year's time. It already read 1:39 and I knew the finish was too far away. I crossed the line in 1:40 and change and was truly disappointed in myself for giving it up that last mile. I just did not have it in me. I wish I knew how to dig deeper and gut it out and hold onto it. I just never seem to want it bad enough. I think I finished 15th in my age group and like 47th woman overall. So, either the guy down at the beach was off in his counting or I gave it up to 20 woman the last mile. The latter is very possible, based on how I felt. Why have I not figued out how to hone that competitive drive? Why can I not dig deeper and go for it when it really hurts? Why have I not learned how to be a true competetor after all of this time? Why am I such a quitter?
Thursday, April 05, 2007
April Fools
That was Sunday, right? Yes, its has taken me this long to sit down at the computer and write about the tragedy I witnessed. Perhaps it had not all sunken in yet. I was still in disbelief until now. I could not really come to terms with it. My husband is mortal. He is mere human in the water. He wears a Speedo like the rest of us. He was defeated by his longtime rival and the rematch that was 16 years in the making was over in 2 minutes and 6 seconds. Marc lost??? April Fools, right? Nope. Read on.
From the moment we stepped onto that pool deck, Marc kept telling me, "Pea, I am not the world's fastest swimmer. You think I am, but I am not that fast compared to some of the people here." I still didn't believe it. Marc is very fast and I am sure he is top something percentile in the swimming world, I just don't know the stats, of course. I was just so happy to be there to see him, and even happier that all of my family was coming to witness the big event, too. Surely, defintely, Marc would beat Brian out of the water. He would catch him in the breaststroke and defeat him by a small but comfortable margin in the free.
Don't get me wrong. Brian is an amazing swimmer. He is super sleek and fast and determined in the water. He even wore that super cute speedsuit the real geeks wear to be faster. But Marc is, well, Marc. He is always the winner. Marc never loses at anything he does. He trains hard and he trains to be fabulous...not just to compete, but to go for the win. I am not used to anything but a podeum finish from that guy I sleep with. The outcome was totally unexpected for me.
The rematch was the 200 IM. He and Brian tied in high school and since there was only one medal, Brian took it with the idea they would someday come back to the rematch. The day had arrived and it was a bright beautiful one in Mission Viejo. The meet was much larger than I anticipated and the facility was super cool. The kids were loving the small pool they were allowed to swim in while waiting in between dad's events. I was grateful for the distraction, especially after the little one walked into the bleachers and put a hole in the top of his head. That was fun. Anyway....
Marc swam the 200 free first. By my standards, he is an Olympian, of course, going 1:57. He said he "took it easy". The unfortunate thing was that he pulled a rhomboid off the blocks. I think because he has not climbed up on a starting block in over a decade, he was simply out of practice, and he really injured something in his upper back and neck. This handicap secured the win, I was sure. Marc is so like that. If he is the underdog, if he has the disadvantage, if he is not the likely hero, he will win. He will dig and claw his way to the top and come out the winner. I knew he was in pain when he climbed out after that 200 free, but I thought little of it, knowing the big event was next. Surely he would smoke Brian. Our 6 year old told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to come home without that medal.
Guess what? She let him come home. It was his birthday, after all. The beep sounded and they were out. I wish I could give you the swim talk for the play by play, but I am not educated. It is a different dialect...one I am not verse in at all. This is how is was from my vantage point: both Brian and Marc came out in the fly very strong, but Marc looked like he was struggling shortly into it. Brian put some serious distance between them and didn't stop when it came to the backstroke. Marc closed a good portion of that gap in his favored stroke, the breast. But, Brian and he were equally matched in the free and that is where Marc gave it up. 2:10 to Brian's 2:06. I knew Marc was surprised. Not so much that Brian won, but more that his time read 2 seconds slower than what he thought he might go on a bad day.
Here is the thing...I am more inspired and awestruck by him now than ever before. To me, Marc is superhuman in the water. He smokes most of his competition and does it with confidence and ease. To see him swimming scared and looking for Brian in the lanes down from him during that breaststroke was to see my husband in a new vane. He is never uncertain. He never wavers in the pool. He is never rattled. But this day, he was.
At first it scared me. Then it shocked me. Then it transformed me. Marc lost with such humility and grace, we should all look that good when we come out second. Our daughter was in disbelief, too, but she learned a very valueable lesson...it was priceless. Winning is not everything. He worked very hard for a very long time to compete and be in the best shape possible for this meet. He dedicated the time and energy and gave everything he had. He simply did not have that extra gear in the pool that day. I think the reason I enjoyed the day so very much is that I finally had that little window into a world of his I never knew. For as long as we had dated and have been married, I have never seen him swim in a meet. I felt as though I was finally a small part of something that was such a huge part of who he was for so many years. Swimming defined his character for years, since he was a small child. When I came along, he was long since burned out and over competing. Here was my opportunity to catch a little glimpse of what that looked like. He looked like a hero to me. All he needed was the cape and he could be Speedoman.
So, it wasn't really a tragedy afterall. It was more of a comedy, or maybe even poetry. It was an amazingly fun weekend, with non-stop laughter with my family in town. The poetry came from the dose of humility and grace Marc provided. Nicely done, Pea. Brian, not bad for a swim geek in all your glory!
From the moment we stepped onto that pool deck, Marc kept telling me, "Pea, I am not the world's fastest swimmer. You think I am, but I am not that fast compared to some of the people here." I still didn't believe it. Marc is very fast and I am sure he is top something percentile in the swimming world, I just don't know the stats, of course. I was just so happy to be there to see him, and even happier that all of my family was coming to witness the big event, too. Surely, defintely, Marc would beat Brian out of the water. He would catch him in the breaststroke and defeat him by a small but comfortable margin in the free.
Don't get me wrong. Brian is an amazing swimmer. He is super sleek and fast and determined in the water. He even wore that super cute speedsuit the real geeks wear to be faster. But Marc is, well, Marc. He is always the winner. Marc never loses at anything he does. He trains hard and he trains to be fabulous...not just to compete, but to go for the win. I am not used to anything but a podeum finish from that guy I sleep with. The outcome was totally unexpected for me.
The rematch was the 200 IM. He and Brian tied in high school and since there was only one medal, Brian took it with the idea they would someday come back to the rematch. The day had arrived and it was a bright beautiful one in Mission Viejo. The meet was much larger than I anticipated and the facility was super cool. The kids were loving the small pool they were allowed to swim in while waiting in between dad's events. I was grateful for the distraction, especially after the little one walked into the bleachers and put a hole in the top of his head. That was fun. Anyway....
Marc swam the 200 free first. By my standards, he is an Olympian, of course, going 1:57. He said he "took it easy". The unfortunate thing was that he pulled a rhomboid off the blocks. I think because he has not climbed up on a starting block in over a decade, he was simply out of practice, and he really injured something in his upper back and neck. This handicap secured the win, I was sure. Marc is so like that. If he is the underdog, if he has the disadvantage, if he is not the likely hero, he will win. He will dig and claw his way to the top and come out the winner. I knew he was in pain when he climbed out after that 200 free, but I thought little of it, knowing the big event was next. Surely he would smoke Brian. Our 6 year old told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to come home without that medal.
Guess what? She let him come home. It was his birthday, after all. The beep sounded and they were out. I wish I could give you the swim talk for the play by play, but I am not educated. It is a different dialect...one I am not verse in at all. This is how is was from my vantage point: both Brian and Marc came out in the fly very strong, but Marc looked like he was struggling shortly into it. Brian put some serious distance between them and didn't stop when it came to the backstroke. Marc closed a good portion of that gap in his favored stroke, the breast. But, Brian and he were equally matched in the free and that is where Marc gave it up. 2:10 to Brian's 2:06. I knew Marc was surprised. Not so much that Brian won, but more that his time read 2 seconds slower than what he thought he might go on a bad day.
Here is the thing...I am more inspired and awestruck by him now than ever before. To me, Marc is superhuman in the water. He smokes most of his competition and does it with confidence and ease. To see him swimming scared and looking for Brian in the lanes down from him during that breaststroke was to see my husband in a new vane. He is never uncertain. He never wavers in the pool. He is never rattled. But this day, he was.
At first it scared me. Then it shocked me. Then it transformed me. Marc lost with such humility and grace, we should all look that good when we come out second. Our daughter was in disbelief, too, but she learned a very valueable lesson...it was priceless. Winning is not everything. He worked very hard for a very long time to compete and be in the best shape possible for this meet. He dedicated the time and energy and gave everything he had. He simply did not have that extra gear in the pool that day. I think the reason I enjoyed the day so very much is that I finally had that little window into a world of his I never knew. For as long as we had dated and have been married, I have never seen him swim in a meet. I felt as though I was finally a small part of something that was such a huge part of who he was for so many years. Swimming defined his character for years, since he was a small child. When I came along, he was long since burned out and over competing. Here was my opportunity to catch a little glimpse of what that looked like. He looked like a hero to me. All he needed was the cape and he could be Speedoman.
So, it wasn't really a tragedy afterall. It was more of a comedy, or maybe even poetry. It was an amazingly fun weekend, with non-stop laughter with my family in town. The poetry came from the dose of humility and grace Marc provided. Nicely done, Pea. Brian, not bad for a swim geek in all your glory!
Monday, March 26, 2007
"Are We There Yet?"
This is the typical sentence my kids aways seem to ask on the in the car on the road. Particually for my six year old, this question is the one that always comes when she simply cannot wait to get out and to the destination. Usually this is to Grandma's house in LA or, as was the case this past weekend, to a friend's house for a party or playdate. Sometimes it is because they have to use the potty or they are bored and anxious. This phrase about exactly sums up where I was this morning in the pool.
I have commited to moving back up to my "nomal" lane. Back in Decemeber when I had bronchitis, I moved down a lane slower since my lung capacity was about nothing. I fell right into the groove of swimming my newfound slower guys and it felt so good, I have never gone back. Comfort over effort. Call me lazy (some of my original lane mates have), but it was actually a relaxing experience to be at the workout. Instead of desperately clinging to the feet in front of me, I was able to causally float as caboose in this new lane.
However, I know a better swimmer this will not make me. So, I have asked the girls in the previous lane for some accountability, and this morning, they were all over that. I wanted very much to slink into the lane further North, but my girls were having none of that. Sadly for me, today a guy by the name of Ben, a former coach for the team, was in town visiting. He got in and he lead the lane...even faster than I anticipated.
Maybe it was because my shin was still throbbing from having kicked the tarp cart as we were pulling them off. (Is that the term, by the way? Tarp "cart"? What does one call the contraption we roll the tarps onto, anyway?)Maybe it was because I no longer come with latte in hand to the deck. Maybe it was because I didn't feel like getting out to pee (I held it, by the way). The set was awful and the whole time I was thinking, "Are we almost done yet? Are we there yet????"
100 swim, 75 stroke, 200 swim, 75 stroke, 300 swim, 75 stroke, 400 swim, 75 stroke.
The swims were supposed to be breath control, breathing every other side or something. Breath control for me was trying not to get hypoxic and control some breath...that is, actually get it to enter my lungs. I was clawing for the feet in front of me, trying desperately to hang on. That 400 loomed like a bad omen, but I was so happy to reach that final 75 at the very end.
This represents a set that is semi okay for me to handle, due to the fact that the stroke work in there is a much needed break. I still hyperventilate when I see a 400 on the board, but it would have been worse if it were all swim in a pyramid and then back down again. It just kills me to know that Marc's taper this week will "only" be 3000 a workout. For me, that would be an Olmypic standard. I don't know how those swim geeks do it? Lap after lap, turn after turn, as if it is nothing. I think I swam 2000 today and that was a huge day.
I really wanted out of that lane and to my final destination: the shower. Perhaps I need to be more sympathetic to my kids when they ask the predictable question. My lane mates were not so much with me. They chidded me for getting out when I did, chest still heaving and arms exhausted. I was so happy the clock read what it did: time to get out and get home to the little people.
I have commited to moving back up to my "nomal" lane. Back in Decemeber when I had bronchitis, I moved down a lane slower since my lung capacity was about nothing. I fell right into the groove of swimming my newfound slower guys and it felt so good, I have never gone back. Comfort over effort. Call me lazy (some of my original lane mates have), but it was actually a relaxing experience to be at the workout. Instead of desperately clinging to the feet in front of me, I was able to causally float as caboose in this new lane.
However, I know a better swimmer this will not make me. So, I have asked the girls in the previous lane for some accountability, and this morning, they were all over that. I wanted very much to slink into the lane further North, but my girls were having none of that. Sadly for me, today a guy by the name of Ben, a former coach for the team, was in town visiting. He got in and he lead the lane...even faster than I anticipated.
Maybe it was because my shin was still throbbing from having kicked the tarp cart as we were pulling them off. (Is that the term, by the way? Tarp "cart"? What does one call the contraption we roll the tarps onto, anyway?)Maybe it was because I no longer come with latte in hand to the deck. Maybe it was because I didn't feel like getting out to pee (I held it, by the way). The set was awful and the whole time I was thinking, "Are we almost done yet? Are we there yet????"
100 swim, 75 stroke, 200 swim, 75 stroke, 300 swim, 75 stroke, 400 swim, 75 stroke.
The swims were supposed to be breath control, breathing every other side or something. Breath control for me was trying not to get hypoxic and control some breath...that is, actually get it to enter my lungs. I was clawing for the feet in front of me, trying desperately to hang on. That 400 loomed like a bad omen, but I was so happy to reach that final 75 at the very end.
This represents a set that is semi okay for me to handle, due to the fact that the stroke work in there is a much needed break. I still hyperventilate when I see a 400 on the board, but it would have been worse if it were all swim in a pyramid and then back down again. It just kills me to know that Marc's taper this week will "only" be 3000 a workout. For me, that would be an Olmypic standard. I don't know how those swim geeks do it? Lap after lap, turn after turn, as if it is nothing. I think I swam 2000 today and that was a huge day.
I really wanted out of that lane and to my final destination: the shower. Perhaps I need to be more sympathetic to my kids when they ask the predictable question. My lane mates were not so much with me. They chidded me for getting out when I did, chest still heaving and arms exhausted. I was so happy the clock read what it did: time to get out and get home to the little people.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Am Runner
That is the title of this blog and that is who I am. I went to the gym and lifted today at 4 am, then raced over to the track to meet up with the group. The workout was 2 times 20 minutes at tempo pace.
What exactly is "tempo"? I am not even sure of what my pace should be, but I think I was running around 6:40, as far as I could tell. I lost the rest of the group because some decided to do 4 by 10 minutes at tempo instead. A few fell off the back in favor of hitting the pool. That left me running alone in the dark. Am runner. Yep. It was hard and it was early, but it was great. I had to adjust my attitude at first, and then I was there. My hamstring still aches, but I tried to ignore it. I am looking forward to a long Saturday run at a comfortable pace again. I miss Tracy terribly, but I must say, I love Jen and our pace.
My girl came home from school and told me how disappointed she was that no one would run with her at lunch. They have a group called "Road Runners" that encourages the kids to run laps around the field during lunch. She mostly loves it and looks forward to participating. Usually she runs with her friend, Mason. Today she was sad that she did not have a "running buddy". This is funny, because I shared with her my same delimma hours earlier. It occured to me that anything is more fun with friends, including exercise, but sometimes, it is nice to blow off some steam in the silence of our own heads.
Is this a universal thought? Are we trained from a very young age to do everything in a partnership or group? Why do we feel at a loss or shunned if we are running solo? I must admit, I eventually got into a groove, but I still felt a little self-conscious running alone when I passed by random people from track coming the opposite direction. Why? Ridiculous. I tried to adjust my attitude to believe that I was ultra cool and completely comfortable in my isolation. I almost convinced myself by the time I caught up with one of my "running buddies" in the trails with 8 minutes left of the second set.
What exactly is "tempo"? I am not even sure of what my pace should be, but I think I was running around 6:40, as far as I could tell. I lost the rest of the group because some decided to do 4 by 10 minutes at tempo instead. A few fell off the back in favor of hitting the pool. That left me running alone in the dark. Am runner. Yep. It was hard and it was early, but it was great. I had to adjust my attitude at first, and then I was there. My hamstring still aches, but I tried to ignore it. I am looking forward to a long Saturday run at a comfortable pace again. I miss Tracy terribly, but I must say, I love Jen and our pace.
My girl came home from school and told me how disappointed she was that no one would run with her at lunch. They have a group called "Road Runners" that encourages the kids to run laps around the field during lunch. She mostly loves it and looks forward to participating. Usually she runs with her friend, Mason. Today she was sad that she did not have a "running buddy". This is funny, because I shared with her my same delimma hours earlier. It occured to me that anything is more fun with friends, including exercise, but sometimes, it is nice to blow off some steam in the silence of our own heads.
Is this a universal thought? Are we trained from a very young age to do everything in a partnership or group? Why do we feel at a loss or shunned if we are running solo? I must admit, I eventually got into a groove, but I still felt a little self-conscious running alone when I passed by random people from track coming the opposite direction. Why? Ridiculous. I tried to adjust my attitude to believe that I was ultra cool and completely comfortable in my isolation. I almost convinced myself by the time I caught up with one of my "running buddies" in the trails with 8 minutes left of the second set.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
I'm A Spaz, I'm A Spaz, I'm A...
...Spaz, Spaz, Spaz.........
But I am so happy because my coach gave me a new calendar to follow and it feels like crack. I am already totally addicted to it. Like heroin, I cannot stop thinking about the new plan and I am already dreaming about running the marathon in 10 1/2 weeks. I love the idea of long, EASY runs on the weekends. As sad as I am to say good bye to Tracy (and she is injured with a hamstring overuse deal right now), I am looking forward to the solace and low-key runs I will be partaking in.
OHHHHHHHHHHH, I'm a Spaz, Spaz, Spaz!
But I am so happy because my coach gave me a new calendar to follow and it feels like crack. I am already totally addicted to it. Like heroin, I cannot stop thinking about the new plan and I am already dreaming about running the marathon in 10 1/2 weeks. I love the idea of long, EASY runs on the weekends. As sad as I am to say good bye to Tracy (and she is injured with a hamstring overuse deal right now), I am looking forward to the solace and low-key runs I will be partaking in.
OHHHHHHHHHHH, I'm a Spaz, Spaz, Spaz!
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
I Defeated Myself, More Accurately
This is the word from the coach and her word is the law, right? My track coach told me I left my race on the training course by running a 26 mile marathon 5 weeks out, followed by 18 miles at pace, 22 miles at pace, 22 miles faster than race pace, and then 8 miles where I felt dead but dragged myself along at pace. She was not surprised to learn my LA time.
I ran too fast on those long runs. The mileage was acceptable, but not the pace. Interesting. I ruined my race with my training that I felt so good about. I felt so good while training. How can something that feels so right be so wrong? Dunno. We cannot always operate on emotions, I guess. Sometimes we need to face the consequences of our actions and take responsibility for the repercussions. The marathon didn't beat me. I beat myself (or, beat myself up?).
I think I feel better about this. It is not as scary of a prospect. I am more in control of my destiny, not the Monster that I thought was behind the wheel. It seems more tangable and maybe even fixable. It is not this huge enigma now. There might actually be an equation I can work out. Can I really maybe fix it? I simply cannot put my mind around the fact that I have to give up my Kenyan running partner and run 45 to 60 seconds slower per mile for my long runs. That sounds, well, slow. Bummer. I am willing to try, however, and see where it takes me for Rock N Roll and maybe even Long Beach? I am thinking about kissing the idea of the CAF Half Ironman goodbye and making this a marathoning year. Something about that sounds very romantic. My love affair with 26.2 continues.....
I ran too fast on those long runs. The mileage was acceptable, but not the pace. Interesting. I ruined my race with my training that I felt so good about. I felt so good while training. How can something that feels so right be so wrong? Dunno. We cannot always operate on emotions, I guess. Sometimes we need to face the consequences of our actions and take responsibility for the repercussions. The marathon didn't beat me. I beat myself (or, beat myself up?).
I think I feel better about this. It is not as scary of a prospect. I am more in control of my destiny, not the Monster that I thought was behind the wheel. It seems more tangable and maybe even fixable. It is not this huge enigma now. There might actually be an equation I can work out. Can I really maybe fix it? I simply cannot put my mind around the fact that I have to give up my Kenyan running partner and run 45 to 60 seconds slower per mile for my long runs. That sounds, well, slow. Bummer. I am willing to try, however, and see where it takes me for Rock N Roll and maybe even Long Beach? I am thinking about kissing the idea of the CAF Half Ironman goodbye and making this a marathoning year. Something about that sounds very romantic. My love affair with 26.2 continues.....
Sunday, March 04, 2007
It Defeated Me
The monster defeated me. The marathon. It is an enigma. Why? How can one person be so inconsistent? I did everything the same as I did 5 weeks ago....except, my heart was not into it this morning. I wanted to quit before I began and that was only the beginning.
We arrived at the start by 6:30 am for an 8:15 race start. Things were chaotic and crazy from the beginning. Apparently it was my responsibility to double check at the expo that I was assigned the right bib color to be in the correct corral. Hmmm. I did not know this, nor did I think there would be an error, since I had long ago mailed in proof of past sub 4 hour marathon times. There I was, regular white bib and not the green one I was told I needed to be in the front corral. They turned me away, so there I stood in the back with the 11 minute milers. This, I would soon learn, was the highlight of my long and grueling day.
8:24 am we started, 9 minutes longer in the clauserphobic mass of stinky people, crammed into the chaotic start and baking in the already searing sun. The man I was having a conversation with called it: "I wish this f*#@%ing thing was over already." When I protested that it had no yet even begun, he replied, "Yes, I know. It will be whatever it will be. We always know early on what kind of day we are going to have out there, regardless of the training." This was foreshadowing at its best, applicable to my real life senario to come.
I had met another young guy who was aiming for a 3:25 marathon. He was very relaxed and composed and I liked his approach to the beast before us. He was not at all stressed about the corral situation, nor did he care. He had 6 GUs on a special belt, flapping behind him as we took off. I dubbed him "GU Man" and ran on his heels until mile 8. We came through right at one hour, exactly. It was at this mile marker, I knew it was going to have to be a training run for me. Right off the bat, I had a side stitch. Why? I rarely EVER get side cramps, and here this one was jumping back and forth from left to right side, making itself at home in my ribcage. So, by mile 8, it was no surprise to me that I felt terrible. I began drinking fluids. I drank and I drank and I drank and was amazed that I had no desire to visit a port-a-potty. I was dumping cup after cup over my head by mile 10, and yet I was bone dry by the next water station....these stations were at every single mile.
I was actually surprised to think how quickly the aid stations kept rolling by, but more dismayed that my legs were toast. I literally had nothing in them. It was an out of body experience. These were not my legs...they felt tired and heavy. I was literally exhausted, beat, defeated by mile 10. I considered quitting. I couldn't decifer which was worse: running a 4 hour marathon or stopping? I decided it would be worse in the eyes of my little people if I came home with no medal. I braced myself for a very long day. I have never, ever, never walked as early as mile 10 in a marathon until this day. I walked through the water station at mile 10 and took in more water still. The advice that was given to me by a running friend was to "run contently". For me on this day, "contently" meant walking. There was no way around that.
Did I mention it was hot? It was dreadful. The pavement seemed to reflect the glare times ten. I was wishing for a pair of sunglasses and I never run in shades. Running along Rossmore Street was the only repreve from the sun under the big, beautiful trees that lined the community. Miles 11 through 13 dragged on forever. I crossed the half marathon in 1:44, I think, still sub 3:30 pace, but I knew I was slowing by the minute. I think it might have been mile 17 that the 3:30 pace group passed me. Some guy yelled to me to jump on. "Yeah, right," I was thinking. My only objective at that point was to hold on to some dignity and perhaps cross the finish line under 4 hours. I felt like my legs were simply dead weight. My right hamstring felt as though someone was taking a sledge hammer to it repeatedly. Mile 18ish was novel in that Sprint Phone company was on the course, offering to allow runners to call family and friends. People in yellow shirts were literally running up next to us with phones in hand, offering to dial the digits. I gave my yellow guy Marc's digits. "Honey, I am off pace. I am going to be late," I reported. It felt good to let him know I was alive, but I felt bad he would have to wait that much longer for me at the finish. At least that pressure was off.
My mile 20, I still had some hope to run 3:40, but that dream was quickly squashed when I was reduced to walking through yet another water station. I knew it was over. The dream was fading fast. I was delirious, at best. Then I saw GU Man. He was way off pace and fading even faster. "Come on, GU Man!" I yelled as I shuffled by him on my stick legs. He kind of mumbled back, "I'm, I'm, I'm not well. I can't...I really can't..." He was crusty with white salt all over his face. I ran along side him until I realized his pace was even slower than my shuffle and that I had to combat the misery in my own mind without taking on any more from someone else. My own private agony was overwhelming, so I was forced to keep moving without him.
I began to realize there were fire trucks and firemen everywhere, attaching apparatuses to every fire hydrant and turning on the water. The spray was a welcome break. I could not get enough water into and onto my body fast enough. The little kids lining the streets of the poorest neighborhoods with their Dixie cups of water drove me to tears. I am such a fool to think I should even be sad about my poor marathon time. Did it really matter looking at their little faces? How tragic that I should even care about something so trivial as a time when I was faced with the conditions they live in? These awful neighborhoods we were trying to survive running through were the conditions of their every day survival. How shallow am I? Could I get a grip on some perspective here? Was the marathon even a challenge now?
I basically ran/walked from mile 21 to the finish. I have never been reduced to walking as much of a marathon as I did today. I felt like I was in a foreign body and I did not even care. I was numb. My only goal was to get to the finish and sit down in the car waiting for me there. Mile 25 was a beautiful banner to behold. I found my legs and RAN the last 1. 2 in, crowd going wild along the sidelines for all of us on cramping stick legs up the last dreaded hill. Truth be told, I got my one wish: it was a vomit-free marathon and I am so grateful for that. It meant little to me that the clock read 3:57 at the finish. 20 freaking minutes slower than the marathon 5 weeks ago. Why? Are my legs tired? Am I over-trained? Am I not a warm weather runner? I am tired of even trying to analyze the situtaion, and I really do not even care. I was never so happy to see my sweet husband smiling at me as I pushed my way through the mobbed shoot past the finish line. He looked at me in such a way, that I knew it didn't matter. None of this matters. He is the love of my life and my greatest support. I cried when I saw him. Not because I was completely disappointed in myself, but more because seeing him reminded me of what is most important in the grand scheme of things.
Now I can cross this marathon off my list and never consider running it again. I really did not enjoy anything about the course and would not recommend it to anyone. I mostly felt sad for any virgin marathoners out there. I felt like the whole experience did not represent the beauty of what a race could be. Not just because I had a bad day, but because the whole time felt hostile and hot and dirty. The volunteers were hostile, the air was hot and the streets were dirty. I cannot wait to go soak all of the filth of the day off in my family's hot tub tonight. These are the experiences that make us stronger. We are better athletes because we can chalk anything up to a learning experience. I still love the marathon. I will never give up on the distance. It is one of the more complicated things in my life of which I cannot let go.
We arrived at the start by 6:30 am for an 8:15 race start. Things were chaotic and crazy from the beginning. Apparently it was my responsibility to double check at the expo that I was assigned the right bib color to be in the correct corral. Hmmm. I did not know this, nor did I think there would be an error, since I had long ago mailed in proof of past sub 4 hour marathon times. There I was, regular white bib and not the green one I was told I needed to be in the front corral. They turned me away, so there I stood in the back with the 11 minute milers. This, I would soon learn, was the highlight of my long and grueling day.
8:24 am we started, 9 minutes longer in the clauserphobic mass of stinky people, crammed into the chaotic start and baking in the already searing sun. The man I was having a conversation with called it: "I wish this f*#@%ing thing was over already." When I protested that it had no yet even begun, he replied, "Yes, I know. It will be whatever it will be. We always know early on what kind of day we are going to have out there, regardless of the training." This was foreshadowing at its best, applicable to my real life senario to come.
I had met another young guy who was aiming for a 3:25 marathon. He was very relaxed and composed and I liked his approach to the beast before us. He was not at all stressed about the corral situation, nor did he care. He had 6 GUs on a special belt, flapping behind him as we took off. I dubbed him "GU Man" and ran on his heels until mile 8. We came through right at one hour, exactly. It was at this mile marker, I knew it was going to have to be a training run for me. Right off the bat, I had a side stitch. Why? I rarely EVER get side cramps, and here this one was jumping back and forth from left to right side, making itself at home in my ribcage. So, by mile 8, it was no surprise to me that I felt terrible. I began drinking fluids. I drank and I drank and I drank and was amazed that I had no desire to visit a port-a-potty. I was dumping cup after cup over my head by mile 10, and yet I was bone dry by the next water station....these stations were at every single mile.
I was actually surprised to think how quickly the aid stations kept rolling by, but more dismayed that my legs were toast. I literally had nothing in them. It was an out of body experience. These were not my legs...they felt tired and heavy. I was literally exhausted, beat, defeated by mile 10. I considered quitting. I couldn't decifer which was worse: running a 4 hour marathon or stopping? I decided it would be worse in the eyes of my little people if I came home with no medal. I braced myself for a very long day. I have never, ever, never walked as early as mile 10 in a marathon until this day. I walked through the water station at mile 10 and took in more water still. The advice that was given to me by a running friend was to "run contently". For me on this day, "contently" meant walking. There was no way around that.
Did I mention it was hot? It was dreadful. The pavement seemed to reflect the glare times ten. I was wishing for a pair of sunglasses and I never run in shades. Running along Rossmore Street was the only repreve from the sun under the big, beautiful trees that lined the community. Miles 11 through 13 dragged on forever. I crossed the half marathon in 1:44, I think, still sub 3:30 pace, but I knew I was slowing by the minute. I think it might have been mile 17 that the 3:30 pace group passed me. Some guy yelled to me to jump on. "Yeah, right," I was thinking. My only objective at that point was to hold on to some dignity and perhaps cross the finish line under 4 hours. I felt like my legs were simply dead weight. My right hamstring felt as though someone was taking a sledge hammer to it repeatedly. Mile 18ish was novel in that Sprint Phone company was on the course, offering to allow runners to call family and friends. People in yellow shirts were literally running up next to us with phones in hand, offering to dial the digits. I gave my yellow guy Marc's digits. "Honey, I am off pace. I am going to be late," I reported. It felt good to let him know I was alive, but I felt bad he would have to wait that much longer for me at the finish. At least that pressure was off.
My mile 20, I still had some hope to run 3:40, but that dream was quickly squashed when I was reduced to walking through yet another water station. I knew it was over. The dream was fading fast. I was delirious, at best. Then I saw GU Man. He was way off pace and fading even faster. "Come on, GU Man!" I yelled as I shuffled by him on my stick legs. He kind of mumbled back, "I'm, I'm, I'm not well. I can't...I really can't..." He was crusty with white salt all over his face. I ran along side him until I realized his pace was even slower than my shuffle and that I had to combat the misery in my own mind without taking on any more from someone else. My own private agony was overwhelming, so I was forced to keep moving without him.
I began to realize there were fire trucks and firemen everywhere, attaching apparatuses to every fire hydrant and turning on the water. The spray was a welcome break. I could not get enough water into and onto my body fast enough. The little kids lining the streets of the poorest neighborhoods with their Dixie cups of water drove me to tears. I am such a fool to think I should even be sad about my poor marathon time. Did it really matter looking at their little faces? How tragic that I should even care about something so trivial as a time when I was faced with the conditions they live in? These awful neighborhoods we were trying to survive running through were the conditions of their every day survival. How shallow am I? Could I get a grip on some perspective here? Was the marathon even a challenge now?
I basically ran/walked from mile 21 to the finish. I have never been reduced to walking as much of a marathon as I did today. I felt like I was in a foreign body and I did not even care. I was numb. My only goal was to get to the finish and sit down in the car waiting for me there. Mile 25 was a beautiful banner to behold. I found my legs and RAN the last 1. 2 in, crowd going wild along the sidelines for all of us on cramping stick legs up the last dreaded hill. Truth be told, I got my one wish: it was a vomit-free marathon and I am so grateful for that. It meant little to me that the clock read 3:57 at the finish. 20 freaking minutes slower than the marathon 5 weeks ago. Why? Are my legs tired? Am I over-trained? Am I not a warm weather runner? I am tired of even trying to analyze the situtaion, and I really do not even care. I was never so happy to see my sweet husband smiling at me as I pushed my way through the mobbed shoot past the finish line. He looked at me in such a way, that I knew it didn't matter. None of this matters. He is the love of my life and my greatest support. I cried when I saw him. Not because I was completely disappointed in myself, but more because seeing him reminded me of what is most important in the grand scheme of things.
Now I can cross this marathon off my list and never consider running it again. I really did not enjoy anything about the course and would not recommend it to anyone. I mostly felt sad for any virgin marathoners out there. I felt like the whole experience did not represent the beauty of what a race could be. Not just because I had a bad day, but because the whole time felt hostile and hot and dirty. The volunteers were hostile, the air was hot and the streets were dirty. I cannot wait to go soak all of the filth of the day off in my family's hot tub tonight. These are the experiences that make us stronger. We are better athletes because we can chalk anything up to a learning experience. I still love the marathon. I will never give up on the distance. It is one of the more complicated things in my life of which I cannot let go.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Oh No. Here I Go...
..into the taper. I love it and despise it. I want to tear my hair out from feeling so ancy, but I am relieved the long miles have been put in. I felt tired and extremely unenthusiastic about this morning's run. Not sure if I am burnt or that it was the feeling 8 miles is hardly worth lacing up the running shoes for?
Other than that, in taking inventory on the body, my broken toe from October is still bothering me post runs and my arches are reluctant and whiney after the shoes come off. My calves are a little tight and my right knee sore. I hope these are all good signs for a happy marathon in 8 days.
I have really made peace with the idea that LA will be whatever it will be. I am totally unfamiliar with the course and I am going with the attitude that ignorance is pure bliss. I am hoping that I can just click the miles away and roll with it without being a slave to the watch and the clocks. My sweet friend, Tracy, gave me a card this morning with advice that read: "Just flow". I think that is a good thought and I may even leave the watch behind race day. I mean, I am not a Kenyan, afterall. Who cares, right? Really, if I have one dream, one goal, one desire, my hope and prayer is that I can be GI issue-free. Please, God, let me know another marathon without vomit involved. Maybe this is a syndrome? Bulimiarathoning? Hmmm. I hope I am not destined to always fall into that diagnosis.
Other than that, in taking inventory on the body, my broken toe from October is still bothering me post runs and my arches are reluctant and whiney after the shoes come off. My calves are a little tight and my right knee sore. I hope these are all good signs for a happy marathon in 8 days.
I have really made peace with the idea that LA will be whatever it will be. I am totally unfamiliar with the course and I am going with the attitude that ignorance is pure bliss. I am hoping that I can just click the miles away and roll with it without being a slave to the watch and the clocks. My sweet friend, Tracy, gave me a card this morning with advice that read: "Just flow". I think that is a good thought and I may even leave the watch behind race day. I mean, I am not a Kenyan, afterall. Who cares, right? Really, if I have one dream, one goal, one desire, my hope and prayer is that I can be GI issue-free. Please, God, let me know another marathon without vomit involved. Maybe this is a syndrome? Bulimiarathoning? Hmmm. I hope I am not destined to always fall into that diagnosis.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Saturday Rave Run into Sick Week
Last Saturday was my last 22 mile run before LA. It was great. I felt great, minus the last 2 miles where my legs felt cooked. My friend, Jody, graciously offered to ride her bike next to me the whole way so I could start in the dark. I was most grateful. 3 hours total, just shy of, actually, with a negative split. I am elated I am in the taper now.
Sick kids vomiting kept me home this morning and now I am feeling a little off. I hope I don't have to take another morning off tomorrow. I am craving the treadmill and hoping to get in the water, too. Ugg. I hate illness. It is such a bummer. Makes me appreciate the well days.
Sick kids vomiting kept me home this morning and now I am feeling a little off. I hope I don't have to take another morning off tomorrow. I am craving the treadmill and hoping to get in the water, too. Ugg. I hate illness. It is such a bummer. Makes me appreciate the well days.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
My Lazy Mind
I think I have truly, finally, at last really come to terms with why I am such an awful swimmer: my mind is just simply too lazy. It is as straight forward as that. When one does not think in the pool, one gets sloppy and that is what I am! Sloppy swimmer girl.
I ran 22 miles this morning, out and back course threw in some tough hills and went solo. I was content and even happy with my situation about 99 percent of the time. I think the only time I was a little concerned was when I was wishing I had brought extra nutrition and worn less clothing. Because I was solo, I went out a little later. Therefore, I was warmer than usual and felt more hungry than usual, too.
As I was en route back with still about 9 miles to go, I was in a groove. I felt strong and genuinely happy. It occured to me that I don't ever think about running. This, after I almost tripped coming up on a curb because I was visualizing stepping up on it too much. Sound crazy? Maybe, yes. I was thinking as I came upon this curb at the top of La Jolla Shores, a good climb and my legs were tired, that maybe it would be my right foot to lead me over the curb first. Then, as I got closer, I thought, no, it will be my left that leads. I literally almost tripped over-thinking this ridiculous senario and so I had to remind myself that I never think when I run. That is, I get lazy and allow my thoughts to wander wherever they may.
I think about my daughter's homework assignments for the week. I think about her birthday rapidly approaching and what the party favors will be. I think about how adorable my son was digging in the sand at the park, despite kids playing around him with monsterous behavior. I think about my husband and his desire to heal his foot and get back to where he was so he is not a prisoner to the pool...and then I thought of swimming. Maybe this is the heart of the matter. Maybe, though my form is far from perfect on pavement, I run with such passion and ease because it just comes more naturally to me. I think most people would agree we are not built for water. Swimming is an acquired skill, no doubt. Maybe my running is smooth because I can enjoy it while I enjoy some quiet time-alone. Often I am with friends, yes. But we are not chatting when we are racing or running track workouts or tempo miles. We are together, but totally alone in our heads.
Swimming does not allow me that same grace. Swimming is just hard. Swimming is so much work. Swimming never feels good or graceful or fun. I am still not sure why I even go? I love the people at the workout. I love the coaching staff. I love the smell of the chlorine on my skin when I get out. But, really, the whole time I am in the pool, I am thinking about the getting out and into the shower. I think I allow my mind to wander too much in the pool to pass the time, and I do not think about my stroke. I think I use the quiet of the pool as another venue for quiet in my head. No talking, no ipod, just thoughts....and now, I guess they will be thoughts of bringing my left elbow up higher and rasing my head up a bit, and all the other issues I have. Now, that really kills the fun.
I ran 22 miles this morning, out and back course threw in some tough hills and went solo. I was content and even happy with my situation about 99 percent of the time. I think the only time I was a little concerned was when I was wishing I had brought extra nutrition and worn less clothing. Because I was solo, I went out a little later. Therefore, I was warmer than usual and felt more hungry than usual, too.
As I was en route back with still about 9 miles to go, I was in a groove. I felt strong and genuinely happy. It occured to me that I don't ever think about running. This, after I almost tripped coming up on a curb because I was visualizing stepping up on it too much. Sound crazy? Maybe, yes. I was thinking as I came upon this curb at the top of La Jolla Shores, a good climb and my legs were tired, that maybe it would be my right foot to lead me over the curb first. Then, as I got closer, I thought, no, it will be my left that leads. I literally almost tripped over-thinking this ridiculous senario and so I had to remind myself that I never think when I run. That is, I get lazy and allow my thoughts to wander wherever they may.
I think about my daughter's homework assignments for the week. I think about her birthday rapidly approaching and what the party favors will be. I think about how adorable my son was digging in the sand at the park, despite kids playing around him with monsterous behavior. I think about my husband and his desire to heal his foot and get back to where he was so he is not a prisoner to the pool...and then I thought of swimming. Maybe this is the heart of the matter. Maybe, though my form is far from perfect on pavement, I run with such passion and ease because it just comes more naturally to me. I think most people would agree we are not built for water. Swimming is an acquired skill, no doubt. Maybe my running is smooth because I can enjoy it while I enjoy some quiet time-alone. Often I am with friends, yes. But we are not chatting when we are racing or running track workouts or tempo miles. We are together, but totally alone in our heads.
Swimming does not allow me that same grace. Swimming is just hard. Swimming is so much work. Swimming never feels good or graceful or fun. I am still not sure why I even go? I love the people at the workout. I love the coaching staff. I love the smell of the chlorine on my skin when I get out. But, really, the whole time I am in the pool, I am thinking about the getting out and into the shower. I think I allow my mind to wander too much in the pool to pass the time, and I do not think about my stroke. I think I use the quiet of the pool as another venue for quiet in my head. No talking, no ipod, just thoughts....and now, I guess they will be thoughts of bringing my left elbow up higher and rasing my head up a bit, and all the other issues I have. Now, that really kills the fun.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Rituals
Rituals. We all have them. Are our rituals interchangable with superstitions or are they something independent? Do we wear the same outfit we wore to a previously successful race or event with the hope of a similar outcome? Rituals often are ceremonious. They can feel like an obsessive compulsive behavior if we insist on practicing such rituals as we have done in the past to get it "just right". Rituals can be like traditions, too, right? We often like to participate in rituals so that it feels familiar, something we are accustomed to, something that reminds us of the past and creates another memory. I like to think of rituals as the little acts that help prepare us to be better athletes. Maybe these rituals help create better people in us if we are repeating positive behaviors and shring our insite with others?
I know someone who does a little Shakkira dance at the start of a race, hip rotation and all. People, this is not pretty. I know someone else who always recites the same thing standing at that line: "Trip the standing and hurdle the fallen." He still thinks it is funny everytime, and honestly, I do, too. I have yet another friend who goes into seclusion in the days and weeks leading into an event to clear her head. She is like a hermit pre-marathon. Another spazy friend tunes into his ipod and tunes the rest of the world out as he sets up his bike and lays out his nutrition for a triple event. We make fun of him, but it clears his head in a way nothing else can. It is my ritual to bring my grande soy latte to the pool on these frigid mornings so I can slide in the water with a little better attitude (less cursing as I dangle my toes in the pool to check the temperature initially). I dare not think of my monthly allowance in coffee. I justify it by telling myself I am healthier for going with coffee than skipping the swim altogether.
So, what will my ritual be for LA Marathon? I am not sure. I would like to just have a repeat performance of what happened here in Carlsbad: a nice, strong marathon where I didn't come undone at mile 20. The fear of the marathon is creeping back into my feeble and unforgiving brain. My wonderful husband keeps telling me that I am "back" to my marathoning ways, yet my negative intuition wants to repeat over and over that Carlsbad was a fluke. A perfect day, with great weather and the right balance of fluid and nutrition. I realize I am talking about that day as though I ran a 2:37, as opposed to the added hour I truly ran it in. I think I have just been so paralyzed by negative thoughts and discouraging times, I would be elated to think I could climb somewhere closer to the 3:30 range in which I used to run the marathon.
Rituals? I know I have them. These are as common as OCD among the triple A triple sport athlete. Maybe I will repeat what I did that day for Carlsbad: Slimfast shake at 4:30 am, followed by a cup of McDonalds coffee (they were the only establishment open at 5 am on Sunday, and yes, I was fearful someone I knew would see me in the drivethru....how embarassing!), half a bagel one hour before and a banana with 30 minutes to the start. And, how can I forget? The little green Jelly Bellies in my belly along the way. The time now seems to be dragging to raceday, with still two 22 mile runs to go, including this weekend when I have to do one solo. Yet, somehow, I know March 4th will be here all of a sudden, like the last 100 feet in the drop from an airplane. I am ready to pull the ripcord. And, I am going to wear the same outfit I wore in Carlsbad. Not so much because I am superstitious, but I love wearing something new to a race. This is my ritual.
Kudos to my swim geek husband who did the one hour swim at the noon Masters workout today. He did the best overall at the workout, with 5025 yards in 60 minutes. I love that I am married to a true swimmer. What is the attraction? It could be the speedo, or maybe I fell in love with his little ritual of the squirmy little dive he does into that end of the pool every time he begins. He claims he has a sloppy stroke, but I would take it if I could do five grand in that time, too.
I know someone who does a little Shakkira dance at the start of a race, hip rotation and all. People, this is not pretty. I know someone else who always recites the same thing standing at that line: "Trip the standing and hurdle the fallen." He still thinks it is funny everytime, and honestly, I do, too. I have yet another friend who goes into seclusion in the days and weeks leading into an event to clear her head. She is like a hermit pre-marathon. Another spazy friend tunes into his ipod and tunes the rest of the world out as he sets up his bike and lays out his nutrition for a triple event. We make fun of him, but it clears his head in a way nothing else can. It is my ritual to bring my grande soy latte to the pool on these frigid mornings so I can slide in the water with a little better attitude (less cursing as I dangle my toes in the pool to check the temperature initially). I dare not think of my monthly allowance in coffee. I justify it by telling myself I am healthier for going with coffee than skipping the swim altogether.
So, what will my ritual be for LA Marathon? I am not sure. I would like to just have a repeat performance of what happened here in Carlsbad: a nice, strong marathon where I didn't come undone at mile 20. The fear of the marathon is creeping back into my feeble and unforgiving brain. My wonderful husband keeps telling me that I am "back" to my marathoning ways, yet my negative intuition wants to repeat over and over that Carlsbad was a fluke. A perfect day, with great weather and the right balance of fluid and nutrition. I realize I am talking about that day as though I ran a 2:37, as opposed to the added hour I truly ran it in. I think I have just been so paralyzed by negative thoughts and discouraging times, I would be elated to think I could climb somewhere closer to the 3:30 range in which I used to run the marathon.
Rituals? I know I have them. These are as common as OCD among the triple A triple sport athlete. Maybe I will repeat what I did that day for Carlsbad: Slimfast shake at 4:30 am, followed by a cup of McDonalds coffee (they were the only establishment open at 5 am on Sunday, and yes, I was fearful someone I knew would see me in the drivethru....how embarassing!), half a bagel one hour before and a banana with 30 minutes to the start. And, how can I forget? The little green Jelly Bellies in my belly along the way. The time now seems to be dragging to raceday, with still two 22 mile runs to go, including this weekend when I have to do one solo. Yet, somehow, I know March 4th will be here all of a sudden, like the last 100 feet in the drop from an airplane. I am ready to pull the ripcord. And, I am going to wear the same outfit I wore in Carlsbad. Not so much because I am superstitious, but I love wearing something new to a race. This is my ritual.
Kudos to my swim geek husband who did the one hour swim at the noon Masters workout today. He did the best overall at the workout, with 5025 yards in 60 minutes. I love that I am married to a true swimmer. What is the attraction? It could be the speedo, or maybe I fell in love with his little ritual of the squirmy little dive he does into that end of the pool every time he begins. He claims he has a sloppy stroke, but I would take it if I could do five grand in that time, too.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Ode To The Green Beans
Today was the Carlsbad Marathon and I knew all I wanted out of it was a strong training run in prep for LA. What I ended with was a lesson in humility and gratitude, and it was great practice with nutrition and fluids, to boot. I made the decision pretty early on to forgo the Gus in place of the Jelly Belly electrolyte beans and I am so happy I did! No GI distress and no vomit with those little green wonder beans. This is a victory in and of itself for me. I know it is not polite conversation to discuss the intermost workings of the GI track, but I really detest vomit, so to skip it altogether was a beautiful thing for me.
Miles 1-10 were uneventful. It was a beautiful day, clear and crisp, with little wind until the end of the race. The marathon and the half began together this year, so it was super fun to have the company of other runner friends. We went our seperate ways around mile 3, however, and I realized just how all alone I was. Up the hill, Palomar Airport Road and into what felt like the abyss with other strangers. I came in mile 10 just under 1:20 and decided then and there to back off the pace, for fear I might repeat the dreaded experience of Long Beach Marathon when I hit the wall hard. I am grateful that today did not bring fantasies about being hit by a car in order to end my misery. I felt realtively (this term is used very loosely) comfortable the whole time (until about mile 21). After mile 10, the next I looked at my watch was the half marathon point, 1:45:00 exactly, 3:30 pace. I thought this was comical, considering the 3:30 pace guy seemed so far ahead of me. I kept catching glipmses of that group when we did the little out and back fingers. I had been admiring the grace of their stride and unbreakable, blank stares of determination. No chatting going on there at all. I backed off the pace again. I knew the 3:40 pace group was somewhere behind me and I wanted to stay right around that place.
Mile 15 brought a full range of emotion. I was a little discouraged thinking about the fact that I still had 11 miles, and some serious rolling hills, to go. But then, per my ipod, I was sucked into a song "Indescribable". It literally brought me to tears when I was thinking about the lyrics, "Indescribribable, uncontainable. You place the stars in the sky and You know them by name. You are Amazing, God. All powerful, untamable, You see the depths of my heart and You love me the same. You are amazing, God." The part that choked me to nearly a walk was thinking about the fact that I am a small and dispicable human being. Who am I that the Lord would care for me? He knows my heart, yet He loves me the same. The song culminated in "Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee, how great Thou Art, how great Thou Art." I really felt like I was just leveled by feeling my frailty in the universe.
Now, here came the lesson: for the last few marathons, I have been chasing after breaking the 3:40 mark again. For some reason, I have not been able to do this post two kids and it has plagued me. Yet, here I was, trotting along up the hill to mile 18, and it hit me. It is not at all about me. I was running under someone else's name and number. I know this can be objectionable, but really, my friend who gave the number up due to illness, had already paid the fees and simply offered it as a token to my road to LA. I think the lesson I took from this is, even if I could qualify for Boston again and it was not in my name, it doesn't matter. If I could run 3:40, all that matters is that I know I can do it again. I really wanted that little boost of confidence again. I NEEDED it to feel like a true marathoner again, that I had somehow lived up to my potential. Regardless of the name or number, I felt so incredibly humbled by the thought of feeling like I understood this and accepted it. I may very well have left my legs on the course today, but LA is almost irrelavant now. Does Boston even matter? In a word, no. I want to glorify the One who makes it all possible. He has stirred my heart to revisit this and it feels so good to run for a greater purpose.
Mile 18 was the turn around. Here I popped a few more green bean wonders and sipped a little water. The other commitment I made early on was not to overdue the fluid. I rarely drink anything before mile 15 on training runs, and while I would not advise this for everyone, for me, it seems to work. Without the slushy slush in my belly, I felt so much better, coupled with the fact that the day was cool and I felt like my core stayed the same temperature. Most of the water cups I grabbed were to simply toss over my head.
By mile 20, I was feeling my legs. A stitch chewed away at my side, which actually distracted me from the pain in my right hamstring. My calves were tight and my quads ached. At mile 21 I decided to walk through the aid station for the first time and take in some more beans and water (doesn't that sound like a strange prison diet?). Back into some kind of pace, really a little bit of a shuffle, until I got to the top of the next hill. Around mile 23, I was so happy to have some spectators shouting at us and to think we were only a 5K away. This gave me new legs and I passed some runners, thinking about the finish. The wind had picked up now off the ocean and was blowing onshore. I gave myself permission to walk the final hills, at mile 24 1/2ish and then mile 25. I passed some guy in tights. He had passed me around mile 11 and I remember thinking he was a nut for being in tights and long sleeves. He body was flawless as it moved along earlier, but now he looked like he was suffering, slurping his Gu. I felt sorry for Under Armor Man.
Walking those hills renewed my spirit and I felt alive and ramped to run again. I was afraid it might be the death of me to walk, but I think it really did help. Thank you, little green beans! Thank you God, because mile 26 was a beautiful sight, and then on around the corner to the finish. The announcer said, "I can't see her number, but she is obviously a marathoner with a strong finish like that. She's in the blue top, come on people, help me bring her in." That was all I wanted to hear. I felt like a marathoner again. Not because the clock read 3:37 and change, but because I had regained the confidence to go the distance. Two bad marathons in recent past had really killed my self-esteem in the 26.2, but today, I felt confident in a humbled sort of way. I was defintely in touch with my humanity, but in a driven sort of way. The scripture I was recently reminded of that I carried with me today:
"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving." Colossians 3:23-24
God is the author and finisher of my race, my life.
Miles 1-10 were uneventful. It was a beautiful day, clear and crisp, with little wind until the end of the race. The marathon and the half began together this year, so it was super fun to have the company of other runner friends. We went our seperate ways around mile 3, however, and I realized just how all alone I was. Up the hill, Palomar Airport Road and into what felt like the abyss with other strangers. I came in mile 10 just under 1:20 and decided then and there to back off the pace, for fear I might repeat the dreaded experience of Long Beach Marathon when I hit the wall hard. I am grateful that today did not bring fantasies about being hit by a car in order to end my misery. I felt realtively (this term is used very loosely) comfortable the whole time (until about mile 21). After mile 10, the next I looked at my watch was the half marathon point, 1:45:00 exactly, 3:30 pace. I thought this was comical, considering the 3:30 pace guy seemed so far ahead of me. I kept catching glipmses of that group when we did the little out and back fingers. I had been admiring the grace of their stride and unbreakable, blank stares of determination. No chatting going on there at all. I backed off the pace again. I knew the 3:40 pace group was somewhere behind me and I wanted to stay right around that place.
Mile 15 brought a full range of emotion. I was a little discouraged thinking about the fact that I still had 11 miles, and some serious rolling hills, to go. But then, per my ipod, I was sucked into a song "Indescribable". It literally brought me to tears when I was thinking about the lyrics, "Indescribribable, uncontainable. You place the stars in the sky and You know them by name. You are Amazing, God. All powerful, untamable, You see the depths of my heart and You love me the same. You are amazing, God." The part that choked me to nearly a walk was thinking about the fact that I am a small and dispicable human being. Who am I that the Lord would care for me? He knows my heart, yet He loves me the same. The song culminated in "Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee, how great Thou Art, how great Thou Art." I really felt like I was just leveled by feeling my frailty in the universe.
Now, here came the lesson: for the last few marathons, I have been chasing after breaking the 3:40 mark again. For some reason, I have not been able to do this post two kids and it has plagued me. Yet, here I was, trotting along up the hill to mile 18, and it hit me. It is not at all about me. I was running under someone else's name and number. I know this can be objectionable, but really, my friend who gave the number up due to illness, had already paid the fees and simply offered it as a token to my road to LA. I think the lesson I took from this is, even if I could qualify for Boston again and it was not in my name, it doesn't matter. If I could run 3:40, all that matters is that I know I can do it again. I really wanted that little boost of confidence again. I NEEDED it to feel like a true marathoner again, that I had somehow lived up to my potential. Regardless of the name or number, I felt so incredibly humbled by the thought of feeling like I understood this and accepted it. I may very well have left my legs on the course today, but LA is almost irrelavant now. Does Boston even matter? In a word, no. I want to glorify the One who makes it all possible. He has stirred my heart to revisit this and it feels so good to run for a greater purpose.
Mile 18 was the turn around. Here I popped a few more green bean wonders and sipped a little water. The other commitment I made early on was not to overdue the fluid. I rarely drink anything before mile 15 on training runs, and while I would not advise this for everyone, for me, it seems to work. Without the slushy slush in my belly, I felt so much better, coupled with the fact that the day was cool and I felt like my core stayed the same temperature. Most of the water cups I grabbed were to simply toss over my head.
By mile 20, I was feeling my legs. A stitch chewed away at my side, which actually distracted me from the pain in my right hamstring. My calves were tight and my quads ached. At mile 21 I decided to walk through the aid station for the first time and take in some more beans and water (doesn't that sound like a strange prison diet?). Back into some kind of pace, really a little bit of a shuffle, until I got to the top of the next hill. Around mile 23, I was so happy to have some spectators shouting at us and to think we were only a 5K away. This gave me new legs and I passed some runners, thinking about the finish. The wind had picked up now off the ocean and was blowing onshore. I gave myself permission to walk the final hills, at mile 24 1/2ish and then mile 25. I passed some guy in tights. He had passed me around mile 11 and I remember thinking he was a nut for being in tights and long sleeves. He body was flawless as it moved along earlier, but now he looked like he was suffering, slurping his Gu. I felt sorry for Under Armor Man.
Walking those hills renewed my spirit and I felt alive and ramped to run again. I was afraid it might be the death of me to walk, but I think it really did help. Thank you, little green beans! Thank you God, because mile 26 was a beautiful sight, and then on around the corner to the finish. The announcer said, "I can't see her number, but she is obviously a marathoner with a strong finish like that. She's in the blue top, come on people, help me bring her in." That was all I wanted to hear. I felt like a marathoner again. Not because the clock read 3:37 and change, but because I had regained the confidence to go the distance. Two bad marathons in recent past had really killed my self-esteem in the 26.2, but today, I felt confident in a humbled sort of way. I was defintely in touch with my humanity, but in a driven sort of way. The scripture I was recently reminded of that I carried with me today:
"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving." Colossians 3:23-24
God is the author and finisher of my race, my life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)