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.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
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.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Base
"We have to build a bigger base so the whole thing doesn't fall apart."
This is what I was telling my three-year old yesterday as we built a huge, tall, rather skinny and shakey Lego tower. The rainbow bricks were taller than he is, and I knew the frustration that would follow if it all came down, so I was gingerly trying to coax him to increase the base before the meltdown. He wasn't going for the pitch, so I tried again, "If we don't make the foundation larger, the tower will come crashing down." He seemed to better understand this concept and agreed to add some thickness to the bottom.
It occured to me, this is the essence of our training, too. We try to build a solid base so we do not fall apart come race day. But how much base is really enough? Do we really know how many miles we need to log on the bike, in the pool and in our running shoes? We follow schedules and compute the outcomes, but how much base do we need to survive? How much to thrive? We analyze nutrition and read various programs and books, but how much is enough? Too much?
Today at the memorial for Mike's mom, it became clear that base is so much more than just a training base. We have all come from a foundation. Some of us, maybe from shakey foundations, some from rich and solid foundations, but nonetheless, our parents are our foundations. Listening to complete strangers share beautiful stories about Mike's mom, Pat, was truly touching. I sat there, my vision blurred by tears, absorbing details of a woman I never had the pleasure of knowing, but realizing that she was the base for my running friend. I had nothing to share, since I did not have the privledge of meeting her, but something in me stirred. I almost wanting to stand up and tell that room of mourning people that her legacy of kindness and positive thinking will live on because I know Mike. His character speaks volumes of the foundation she was in his life. I knew I wouldn't, but I wanted to speak out just how much he loved her because she was such a driving positive force in his life, and she will continue to be, of course. Our parents teach us how to survive and when we lose one or both, the world just never looks the same. We never quite get over it. There is a vulnerability that becomes so real when we realize how fragile we are without mom or dad.
I would like to be grounded in all things. I would like to be able to continuously lean more on God and on my husband and family and friends for support and the base I so desperately need. Not just for races, but for my character and who I profess to be. I want to be an accurate representation of the love that was instilled in me and the love I have found from my faith. I want my kids to grow up with a solid base for life.
My son's lego tower grew taller than I anticipated. And, more impressive, it stood all day long. I think that was a record in our house.
"Where can I go from Your Spirit? Where can I flee from Your presence? If I go up to the Heavens, You are there; if I make my bed in the depths, You are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there Your hand will guide me, Your right hand will hold me fast." -Psalm 139:7-10
This is what I was telling my three-year old yesterday as we built a huge, tall, rather skinny and shakey Lego tower. The rainbow bricks were taller than he is, and I knew the frustration that would follow if it all came down, so I was gingerly trying to coax him to increase the base before the meltdown. He wasn't going for the pitch, so I tried again, "If we don't make the foundation larger, the tower will come crashing down." He seemed to better understand this concept and agreed to add some thickness to the bottom.
It occured to me, this is the essence of our training, too. We try to build a solid base so we do not fall apart come race day. But how much base is really enough? Do we really know how many miles we need to log on the bike, in the pool and in our running shoes? We follow schedules and compute the outcomes, but how much base do we need to survive? How much to thrive? We analyze nutrition and read various programs and books, but how much is enough? Too much?
Today at the memorial for Mike's mom, it became clear that base is so much more than just a training base. We have all come from a foundation. Some of us, maybe from shakey foundations, some from rich and solid foundations, but nonetheless, our parents are our foundations. Listening to complete strangers share beautiful stories about Mike's mom, Pat, was truly touching. I sat there, my vision blurred by tears, absorbing details of a woman I never had the pleasure of knowing, but realizing that she was the base for my running friend. I had nothing to share, since I did not have the privledge of meeting her, but something in me stirred. I almost wanting to stand up and tell that room of mourning people that her legacy of kindness and positive thinking will live on because I know Mike. His character speaks volumes of the foundation she was in his life. I knew I wouldn't, but I wanted to speak out just how much he loved her because she was such a driving positive force in his life, and she will continue to be, of course. Our parents teach us how to survive and when we lose one or both, the world just never looks the same. We never quite get over it. There is a vulnerability that becomes so real when we realize how fragile we are without mom or dad.
I would like to be grounded in all things. I would like to be able to continuously lean more on God and on my husband and family and friends for support and the base I so desperately need. Not just for races, but for my character and who I profess to be. I want to be an accurate representation of the love that was instilled in me and the love I have found from my faith. I want my kids to grow up with a solid base for life.
My son's lego tower grew taller than I anticipated. And, more impressive, it stood all day long. I think that was a record in our house.
"Where can I go from Your Spirit? Where can I flee from Your presence? If I go up to the Heavens, You are there; if I make my bed in the depths, You are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there Your hand will guide me, Your right hand will hold me fast." -Psalm 139:7-10
Sunday, January 14, 2007
And The Funk Goes On
I am in complete disbelief that the weekend is already over. Not for everyone, of course. As in the case of my 5 year old, she will enjoy one more day of rest tomorrow. But, it is back to the grind stone for most, including myself, and that goes for the training, as well.
I have officially decided to run/jog/walk to the finish of the Carlsbad Marathon next weekend. It will be an interesting day, to say the least, but I am excited to get a really long run in, with aid along the way. I love support on a long run and to "race" without any expectation or pressure. The best part is, I am not even running under my name, not that anyone but me cares anyway, so there is really no expectation to produce any kind of respectable time. I am completely discouraged that marathon finish times are such a mystery to me now. I am never quite sure what the day will bring.
I have many theories, but none I can base concretely as to why I cannot run a "successful" and consistent marathon anymore. Before having two kids, I was able to consistently run sub 3:30 (or right around that time) marathons void of any GI issues. Now, I cannot seem to break the 3:45 barrier, and always with GI distress. I am not sure exactly what has changed in my training program or my chemistry, other than perhaps I am really not running as many miles as I used to log before motherhood responsibilities. Whatever the case may be, I have to continuously remind myself that finish time is not really the main objective. I am grateful to have a husband who supports my habit (or, more accurately, my addiction) to running and exercise, and that I am so happy for the opportunity to live in a beautiful place and "race" with the Pacific Ocean as my backdrop. Overall, I think it is very safe to say I would not ever trade motherhood (or the havoc it caused on my body) for faster marathons. I love my little people and feel so very grateful to have and hold them.
Yet, pregnancy is a funny thing. It was a long, hard, dreadful road. I will never understand the woman who exclaims she loves being pregnant. Some would argue that there is little to truly celebrate, until the baby actually arrives. I know that sounds awful. Of course, there is the excitement of a little life fluttering in the belly. But does it outweigh the morning sickness, swollen feet, and constant heartburn? It is not often talked about, but I think many women who have had the privledge to experience pregnancy would agree that it is difficult and was a time of survival, a means to an end for something greater. There were so many sacrifices along the way. Adjusting to non-caffinated mornings, trying to maintain stellar nutrition, giving up the vanity thing and losing all control to a body that was unrecognizable to me. I had to quit long runs, then running altogether for a non-impact morning in the dreaded pool, then on to bedrest, which meant no exercise at all. If I sound selfish, I guess I am. But, I would not change any of it. I truly think that pregnancy was the first step in preparing for parenthood. It was a lesson in selflessness, an act of courage, and the very first taste of realizing what it truly means to have to be flexible. And when those 40 weeks of trial were over, there was a tiny little creature, a living, moving miracle, and all of the doubts and promises of "never again" faded away. I did, aferall, do it twice, and with no regrets!
Marathoning is not all that different. The 16-20 weeks of training are grueling and come with many sacrifices, as well (long runs in 30 degree darkness come to mind first). Then race day comes, and I am never really sure what it will look like. The finish always brings emotion, no matter what the outcome, and all of the thoughts along the way, promises sworn that I will never run one again, are immediately replaced by thoughts of planning for the next venture when I see people passing out the phamplets for upcoming races.
So, which came first, the chicken or the egg? Am I a better, more dedicated mom because I was first a marathoner? Or am I a better(albeit slower) marathoner because I am a mom? If I tell myself it is not all about the finish time, then what is it really about? I think it is still the journey. Growing a human or growing a training program, the journey is never boring. There is so much to experience and learn all of the time. If I were advising my 5 year old before a swim meet, I would tell her to just do the best she can, knowing she will take away a lesson from her experience, regardless of where she finishes. I think I may have to give myself the same advice. Not for this upcoming weekend, of course, but more for the LA marathon. I want to enjoy the journey of 26.2 miles and learn from the experience and maybe be touched by some people along the way. I have loved the training and pushing myself to new limits with faster training partners. I just hope it translates into a beautiful birth of a day March 4th.
I have officially decided to run/jog/walk to the finish of the Carlsbad Marathon next weekend. It will be an interesting day, to say the least, but I am excited to get a really long run in, with aid along the way. I love support on a long run and to "race" without any expectation or pressure. The best part is, I am not even running under my name, not that anyone but me cares anyway, so there is really no expectation to produce any kind of respectable time. I am completely discouraged that marathon finish times are such a mystery to me now. I am never quite sure what the day will bring.
I have many theories, but none I can base concretely as to why I cannot run a "successful" and consistent marathon anymore. Before having two kids, I was able to consistently run sub 3:30 (or right around that time) marathons void of any GI issues. Now, I cannot seem to break the 3:45 barrier, and always with GI distress. I am not sure exactly what has changed in my training program or my chemistry, other than perhaps I am really not running as many miles as I used to log before motherhood responsibilities. Whatever the case may be, I have to continuously remind myself that finish time is not really the main objective. I am grateful to have a husband who supports my habit (or, more accurately, my addiction) to running and exercise, and that I am so happy for the opportunity to live in a beautiful place and "race" with the Pacific Ocean as my backdrop. Overall, I think it is very safe to say I would not ever trade motherhood (or the havoc it caused on my body) for faster marathons. I love my little people and feel so very grateful to have and hold them.
Yet, pregnancy is a funny thing. It was a long, hard, dreadful road. I will never understand the woman who exclaims she loves being pregnant. Some would argue that there is little to truly celebrate, until the baby actually arrives. I know that sounds awful. Of course, there is the excitement of a little life fluttering in the belly. But does it outweigh the morning sickness, swollen feet, and constant heartburn? It is not often talked about, but I think many women who have had the privledge to experience pregnancy would agree that it is difficult and was a time of survival, a means to an end for something greater. There were so many sacrifices along the way. Adjusting to non-caffinated mornings, trying to maintain stellar nutrition, giving up the vanity thing and losing all control to a body that was unrecognizable to me. I had to quit long runs, then running altogether for a non-impact morning in the dreaded pool, then on to bedrest, which meant no exercise at all. If I sound selfish, I guess I am. But, I would not change any of it. I truly think that pregnancy was the first step in preparing for parenthood. It was a lesson in selflessness, an act of courage, and the very first taste of realizing what it truly means to have to be flexible. And when those 40 weeks of trial were over, there was a tiny little creature, a living, moving miracle, and all of the doubts and promises of "never again" faded away. I did, aferall, do it twice, and with no regrets!
Marathoning is not all that different. The 16-20 weeks of training are grueling and come with many sacrifices, as well (long runs in 30 degree darkness come to mind first). Then race day comes, and I am never really sure what it will look like. The finish always brings emotion, no matter what the outcome, and all of the thoughts along the way, promises sworn that I will never run one again, are immediately replaced by thoughts of planning for the next venture when I see people passing out the phamplets for upcoming races.
So, which came first, the chicken or the egg? Am I a better, more dedicated mom because I was first a marathoner? Or am I a better(albeit slower) marathoner because I am a mom? If I tell myself it is not all about the finish time, then what is it really about? I think it is still the journey. Growing a human or growing a training program, the journey is never boring. There is so much to experience and learn all of the time. If I were advising my 5 year old before a swim meet, I would tell her to just do the best she can, knowing she will take away a lesson from her experience, regardless of where she finishes. I think I may have to give myself the same advice. Not for this upcoming weekend, of course, but more for the LA marathon. I want to enjoy the journey of 26.2 miles and learn from the experience and maybe be touched by some people along the way. I have loved the training and pushing myself to new limits with faster training partners. I just hope it translates into a beautiful birth of a day March 4th.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
In A Funk
This is how I feel today. Funky, but not in a cool way. I am as gray as the sky is outside my window. I am not sure why. I really cannot explain the whole melancholy thing. I am finally over bronchitis, which laid me out for 10 days. I have not taken that much time off exercise since bedrest with pregnancy. It was ugly around here through Christmas and New Years. But even running the track workout this morning, something was amiss.
Perhaps it was the weight I carried on my chest, running behind our friend, Mike, who lost his mom to cancer on Tuesday morning. It was hard to breathe, replaying the conversation in my mind about how he took with him her chemo hat to hold on to the smell of her. He spoke of how he gave her his Ironman Germany Medal at the viewing yesterday. It is never easy to watch a grown man cry, or to know what to say to comfort him. We all just stood there, paralyzed by his words, not having many of our own to return to him. We were helpless. What can one really say? It was completely depressing to think of that ache in his heart, mostly because I am able to relate. I can remember the emptiness when my own dad died. Even 9 years ago, those feeling are raw. To think of those dark days, and to know a friend is enduring that now, is surreal.
Whatever the cause of my mope, my legs felt like concrete blocks today when we ran 2 by 12 minutes @ tempo pace, though mine did not accurately reflect it. I shouldn't say, I really have no idea on the pace, since we didn't follow mile markers today. We simply ran on time, and somehow the air would just not flow into the lungs. My legs lumbered along and my mind was screaming at me to stop and just give it all up. Chasing Mike and Traecy down the center of campus toward the fountain, I really wanted to quit and walk back to the car. Something in me just wouldn't do it, though. I couldn't stop. I had to keep running, though I was hating it. I tried to find a song to sing in my head, but nothing would stick.
Then there was the thought of the marathon, and yet another marathon. LA is a sure thing, March 4th, but there is this nagging marathon that does not want to be ignored, in just 10 days. I am not signed up for Carlsbad, but I have an entry, should I want it. All reason in me tells me to walk away. The voices of reason in my head tell me not to even consider running it, but this funk, this emptiness, this little shadow that is following me, tells me to stir the pot and go for it. This little lonely ache in my heart that is looking for validation is just hanging around and sometimes a race is just what I need to supress that hollow feeling. A reasonable athlete would ignore the funk and pass up the entry to follow her schedule for the race on calendar. March 4th is really only weeks away.
I guess I am not reasonable, because I really want to run Carlsbad. I think I will just have to say, "What the funk".
Perhaps it was the weight I carried on my chest, running behind our friend, Mike, who lost his mom to cancer on Tuesday morning. It was hard to breathe, replaying the conversation in my mind about how he took with him her chemo hat to hold on to the smell of her. He spoke of how he gave her his Ironman Germany Medal at the viewing yesterday. It is never easy to watch a grown man cry, or to know what to say to comfort him. We all just stood there, paralyzed by his words, not having many of our own to return to him. We were helpless. What can one really say? It was completely depressing to think of that ache in his heart, mostly because I am able to relate. I can remember the emptiness when my own dad died. Even 9 years ago, those feeling are raw. To think of those dark days, and to know a friend is enduring that now, is surreal.
Whatever the cause of my mope, my legs felt like concrete blocks today when we ran 2 by 12 minutes @ tempo pace, though mine did not accurately reflect it. I shouldn't say, I really have no idea on the pace, since we didn't follow mile markers today. We simply ran on time, and somehow the air would just not flow into the lungs. My legs lumbered along and my mind was screaming at me to stop and just give it all up. Chasing Mike and Traecy down the center of campus toward the fountain, I really wanted to quit and walk back to the car. Something in me just wouldn't do it, though. I couldn't stop. I had to keep running, though I was hating it. I tried to find a song to sing in my head, but nothing would stick.
Then there was the thought of the marathon, and yet another marathon. LA is a sure thing, March 4th, but there is this nagging marathon that does not want to be ignored, in just 10 days. I am not signed up for Carlsbad, but I have an entry, should I want it. All reason in me tells me to walk away. The voices of reason in my head tell me not to even consider running it, but this funk, this emptiness, this little shadow that is following me, tells me to stir the pot and go for it. This little lonely ache in my heart that is looking for validation is just hanging around and sometimes a race is just what I need to supress that hollow feeling. A reasonable athlete would ignore the funk and pass up the entry to follow her schedule for the race on calendar. March 4th is really only weeks away.
I guess I am not reasonable, because I really want to run Carlsbad. I think I will just have to say, "What the funk".
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