"I always work out of uncertainty. But when a painting's finished, it becomes a fixed idea, apparently a final statement. In time though, uncertainty returns... your thought process goes on." - Georg Baselitz
I'm 16 days away from the Prague Marathon, and once again I am not healthy. I don't know what my injury is. I woke up last Monday with a sore left knee. By Wednesday it was worse. Swollen and painful. I had a severe limp. It was better on Thursday. Today is Friday and I think it will be manageable.
I put ice on it and the swelling went down, but I can't rest it forever. I have to work. And I have to be on my feet in order to work. I'm going to go to the gym today. I won't run. I couldn't run if I was being chased. But I can lift. I can swim. I can do the right things to keep the rest of my body feeling good. And I can hope that this blows over. Whatever this is.
But it is frustrating. I try to remind myself that this is a part of it. People that run long distances will usually suffer through some injuries from time to time. It's part of the package. I was lucky to make it through the first several years of marathon running without any significant injury. And now I just need to weather a few storms. Because the payoff is worth it.
But I wonder. I wonder if this is just the beginning. I turn 38 years old this summer. And I am starting to feel like the middle-aged man that I'm becoming. I don't have health insurance. I have a job that requires me to have healthy legs. Perhaps this is a warning sign. Maybe I should be "slowing down". Whatever that means. Maybe changing direction is a better way of putting it.
I don't know. I don't know what to think right now. And I probably won't have it figured out before I finish my morning coffee and this blog post. But I probably should be giving more time to these thoughts. Honest and constructive time.
So I'm 16 days away from the Prague Marathon. I am also nine days away from a three week vacation in central Europe. So my life is still pretty good, and that's worth remembering. I'll get a lot of time to myself. A lot of time to spend on (hopefully) long walks. Time in beer gardens and sidewalk cafes. Time in art museums and old castles. Time picking through fruit stalls. Time to meet some new friends. Time to catch up with an old friend. And with a little luck, some time to clear my head and sort some of these thoughts out.
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Friday, April 27, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
Roller Coasters & Do-Overs
The ankle feels good. I'm finally on the mend. The ankle hurts. I can't run. This sucks. It's been months. I'm never going to run hard again. It feels pretty good. A little sore. But if I take it easy, I can enjoy the run. New shoes. Limited soreness. Ready for the next marathon. Just have to slow the pace. Damn it. I'm never going to be healthy again. I'm just old. 37 years old. Isn't that the time when even Hall of Fame caliber, professional athletes start to hang it up? I'm not a pro, and I'm not hanging it up. People twice my age run marathons. This just won't be my fastest marathon. That was a great run! I felt amazing. Why can't this be my fastest marathon? Get to work! Slow it down. Not 100% yet.
And the beat goes on.
I think that this is one of those times when people tend to say that The Truth is "somewhere in the middle". Perhaps what that means is that there is some truth to all of what was said.
I could indeed hang it up. But that would mean that all of this running that I've done meant nothing. It would mean that I've learned nothing. And it would mean giving up on something that I genuinely love. So that's not much of an option.
And getting faster? Faster than I've been in the past? Perhaps an option. The human body is capable of incredible things. Especially when the mind is its' ally rather than its' adversary. I could dedicate myself anew. Lock into a strengthening program that would build me up fast. I have had some good strong runs lately. So my ankle can hold up. But even if I set aside the obstacles/excuses of work obligations and a social life, I can't honestly say that I want to put in that kind of work right now.
Which brings me back to slowing it down. Which perhaps isn't the right way of putting it. I've all but ground to a halt in the past few months. So any honest marathon preparation will involve more running and cross-training than I've been doing as of late. But the race itself? That will be run at a different pace, and with a different mindset, than that with which I've grown comfortable. And it does feel like slowing down. It does feel like a step back.
Which brings me to another one of those things that people tend to say: "I wish I could do it all over again." That, of course, doesn't happen. We don't get to go back. But we do sometimes find ourselves in situations that are similar to others that we've experienced in the past. Experiences that ended with the dreaded "shoulda, coulda, woulda".
So here I am again. Looking at a race that I know won't be my fastest. This realization came to me once during a marathon. And I fought that truth, when I could have embraced it. In the process, I soured what could have been a wonderful experience. I cheated myself out of something great, simply because it wasn't exactly the great thing that I had told myself that I wanted. And I was in this situation on another occasion too. I told myself well before that race, that it wouldn't be my fastest. That I would take it easy. And I took it too easy. I didn't train properly, and by the second half of the race I was miserable.
So I'm sitting here now with the closest thing to a "do-over" that I'll get. With the opportunity to find The Truth in the middle. I have 62 days left until the Prague Marathon. This will not be my fastest marathon. And it doesn't have to be my slowest. But time isn't the issue anyway. The process is what's important. Honest hard work and preparation, inspired by a love of running, is what's important. An appreciation for the opportunity to run through Prague is important. Finding rhythm and balance. That is important.
The roller coaster isn't in my ankle. It's in my head. It's in the way that I've chosen to view my injury. Time to get off of the ride, pull my laces tight, and run down the middle of this race course.
And the beat goes on.
I think that this is one of those times when people tend to say that The Truth is "somewhere in the middle". Perhaps what that means is that there is some truth to all of what was said.
I could indeed hang it up. But that would mean that all of this running that I've done meant nothing. It would mean that I've learned nothing. And it would mean giving up on something that I genuinely love. So that's not much of an option.
And getting faster? Faster than I've been in the past? Perhaps an option. The human body is capable of incredible things. Especially when the mind is its' ally rather than its' adversary. I could dedicate myself anew. Lock into a strengthening program that would build me up fast. I have had some good strong runs lately. So my ankle can hold up. But even if I set aside the obstacles/excuses of work obligations and a social life, I can't honestly say that I want to put in that kind of work right now.
Which brings me back to slowing it down. Which perhaps isn't the right way of putting it. I've all but ground to a halt in the past few months. So any honest marathon preparation will involve more running and cross-training than I've been doing as of late. But the race itself? That will be run at a different pace, and with a different mindset, than that with which I've grown comfortable. And it does feel like slowing down. It does feel like a step back.
Which brings me to another one of those things that people tend to say: "I wish I could do it all over again." That, of course, doesn't happen. We don't get to go back. But we do sometimes find ourselves in situations that are similar to others that we've experienced in the past. Experiences that ended with the dreaded "shoulda, coulda, woulda".
So here I am again. Looking at a race that I know won't be my fastest. This realization came to me once during a marathon. And I fought that truth, when I could have embraced it. In the process, I soured what could have been a wonderful experience. I cheated myself out of something great, simply because it wasn't exactly the great thing that I had told myself that I wanted. And I was in this situation on another occasion too. I told myself well before that race, that it wouldn't be my fastest. That I would take it easy. And I took it too easy. I didn't train properly, and by the second half of the race I was miserable.
So I'm sitting here now with the closest thing to a "do-over" that I'll get. With the opportunity to find The Truth in the middle. I have 62 days left until the Prague Marathon. This will not be my fastest marathon. And it doesn't have to be my slowest. But time isn't the issue anyway. The process is what's important. Honest hard work and preparation, inspired by a love of running, is what's important. An appreciation for the opportunity to run through Prague is important. Finding rhythm and balance. That is important.
The roller coaster isn't in my ankle. It's in my head. It's in the way that I've chosen to view my injury. Time to get off of the ride, pull my laces tight, and run down the middle of this race course.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Help From Outside
"You don't understand anything until you learn it more than one way." - Marvin Minsky
Run head first into the wall. Bang your head against it a couple more times for good measure. And repeat.
I spent a pretty good chunk of this past Tuesday afternoon doing that. I had a partner. Or perhaps I was her partner. Either way, the wall came in the form of fourth grade math. And we never did break through it. Nor did we wise up and look for another route.
Fractions and decimals. 3/4 = .75. That kinda thing. I couldn't get it to stick to her. I tried the usual analogies. I pulled coins from my backpack. Showed her some of the ways in which she already converts numbers from one form to another on a daily basis. But she wasn't having it. And as time wore on, she even seemed to regress. Not only was she failing to learn the new stuff, but she was suddenly incapable of doing the more simple work that she'd done just fine with only moments before. Arms folded. Lips pursed. Eyes stared off into eternity. The verdict was in. She had reached her zenith, and there was nowhere to go but down.
Of course that probably wasn't her zenith. Her next tutor probably found a better way to explain it to her. And she is probably on her way to new challenges in arithmetic as I write this. Or perhaps that was it. Perhaps she's smoking her first cigarette right now. Setting in motion a series of bad decisions that will culminate in a life full of hardship and bad math skills. But regardless of her path, my mistake remains the same. I didn't find another approach.
It's not that I didn't consider the need for another approach. I did. But I wasn't coming up with anything useful on my own, and I didn't ask for help. There was plenty of help to be had. I was in a room with more than a dozen other tutors. There was another tutor three feet away from me. Hell, I could have even asked an older student. Somebody that had just learned this stuff as recently as last year. But I didn't. I just beat my head against the wall. I acted as though I too had reached my zenith. I acted as though I had nothing more to learn from anybody else. That student and I were two peas in a pod.
The next morning, I went for a run along Lake Michigan with my friend Ryan. It was sunny and unseasonably warm. We ran at an easy pace. We talked about basketball. We talked about running. And we talked about running injuries.
I still haven't fully recovered from an ankle injury that I suffered over five months ago. I've tried a few things. I've tried rest. I've tried light running. I've ditched old shoes. I've done some ankle exercises. And then I've repeated those same things. Over and over.
As we ran, we dodged the holes and ruts that winter weather had worn into the lakefront path, and Ryan occasionally dropped behind me when the path grew narrow. That vantage point offers a view of a runner's form that they're unable to get on their own. From behind, you can see how a runner's feet hit the ground. And if you get just a little to the side, you can gauge their stride and posture. Ryan is a running coach, and naturally engaging and personable, so it made sense that as he dropped behind me while I talked about my injury, that he'd take a moment to assess my form and offer his thoughts.
He had several things to point out about my form. And he offered a number of suggestions as to how I might make some changes or improvements that might keep me healthy, and perhaps even make me a faster and more efficient runner.
I took his advice. I started working with his ideas during that run. And yesterday, I got on a treadmill by myself and focused on a couple of specific points that seem to need some work. And while that didn't lead to any immediate miracle cure, it did seem to help quite a bit. I found myself running with a level of physical comfort that I hadn't had in a while. And with that comfort came some hope and optimism that has also been in short supply as of late.
But there was also a sense of frustration. For months, I've been beating my head against the wall. Fighting this injury with the same failed tactics. Over and over. Folding my arms. Pursing my lips. Staring into eternity. And choosing to ignore all of the help that is readily available for me. Choosing to go at it alone, rather than acknowledge that somebody else can offer a perspective that I'm not seeing on my own.
This pattern isn't a new one. It's one that I've struggled with for as long as I can remember. And I know that there is not going to be any instant and immediate change in that regard. I won't walk away from this keyboard and make a dramatic and permanent change in the way that I deal with adversity. And my ankle won't instantly heal, simply because I tried something new. And that student won't magically let go of her frustrations and begin soaking up every lesson thrown her way.
But I can chip away at it. A moment of humility here. An awkward and embarrassing question there. I can let my guard down from time to time. And hopefully, eventually, come to the conclusion that I never needed to have it up in the first place.
Run head first into the wall. Bang your head against it a couple more times for good measure. And repeat.
I spent a pretty good chunk of this past Tuesday afternoon doing that. I had a partner. Or perhaps I was her partner. Either way, the wall came in the form of fourth grade math. And we never did break through it. Nor did we wise up and look for another route.
Fractions and decimals. 3/4 = .75. That kinda thing. I couldn't get it to stick to her. I tried the usual analogies. I pulled coins from my backpack. Showed her some of the ways in which she already converts numbers from one form to another on a daily basis. But she wasn't having it. And as time wore on, she even seemed to regress. Not only was she failing to learn the new stuff, but she was suddenly incapable of doing the more simple work that she'd done just fine with only moments before. Arms folded. Lips pursed. Eyes stared off into eternity. The verdict was in. She had reached her zenith, and there was nowhere to go but down.
Of course that probably wasn't her zenith. Her next tutor probably found a better way to explain it to her. And she is probably on her way to new challenges in arithmetic as I write this. Or perhaps that was it. Perhaps she's smoking her first cigarette right now. Setting in motion a series of bad decisions that will culminate in a life full of hardship and bad math skills. But regardless of her path, my mistake remains the same. I didn't find another approach.
It's not that I didn't consider the need for another approach. I did. But I wasn't coming up with anything useful on my own, and I didn't ask for help. There was plenty of help to be had. I was in a room with more than a dozen other tutors. There was another tutor three feet away from me. Hell, I could have even asked an older student. Somebody that had just learned this stuff as recently as last year. But I didn't. I just beat my head against the wall. I acted as though I too had reached my zenith. I acted as though I had nothing more to learn from anybody else. That student and I were two peas in a pod.
The next morning, I went for a run along Lake Michigan with my friend Ryan. It was sunny and unseasonably warm. We ran at an easy pace. We talked about basketball. We talked about running. And we talked about running injuries.
I still haven't fully recovered from an ankle injury that I suffered over five months ago. I've tried a few things. I've tried rest. I've tried light running. I've ditched old shoes. I've done some ankle exercises. And then I've repeated those same things. Over and over.
As we ran, we dodged the holes and ruts that winter weather had worn into the lakefront path, and Ryan occasionally dropped behind me when the path grew narrow. That vantage point offers a view of a runner's form that they're unable to get on their own. From behind, you can see how a runner's feet hit the ground. And if you get just a little to the side, you can gauge their stride and posture. Ryan is a running coach, and naturally engaging and personable, so it made sense that as he dropped behind me while I talked about my injury, that he'd take a moment to assess my form and offer his thoughts.
He had several things to point out about my form. And he offered a number of suggestions as to how I might make some changes or improvements that might keep me healthy, and perhaps even make me a faster and more efficient runner.
I took his advice. I started working with his ideas during that run. And yesterday, I got on a treadmill by myself and focused on a couple of specific points that seem to need some work. And while that didn't lead to any immediate miracle cure, it did seem to help quite a bit. I found myself running with a level of physical comfort that I hadn't had in a while. And with that comfort came some hope and optimism that has also been in short supply as of late.
But there was also a sense of frustration. For months, I've been beating my head against the wall. Fighting this injury with the same failed tactics. Over and over. Folding my arms. Pursing my lips. Staring into eternity. And choosing to ignore all of the help that is readily available for me. Choosing to go at it alone, rather than acknowledge that somebody else can offer a perspective that I'm not seeing on my own.
This pattern isn't a new one. It's one that I've struggled with for as long as I can remember. And I know that there is not going to be any instant and immediate change in that regard. I won't walk away from this keyboard and make a dramatic and permanent change in the way that I deal with adversity. And my ankle won't instantly heal, simply because I tried something new. And that student won't magically let go of her frustrations and begin soaking up every lesson thrown her way.
But I can chip away at it. A moment of humility here. An awkward and embarrassing question there. I can let my guard down from time to time. And hopefully, eventually, come to the conclusion that I never needed to have it up in the first place.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Backward and Forward and Right Here and Now
I haven't had this much down time since I started running almost four years ago. I had an easy summer, and that was planned. But since September, the down time has been due to a nagging ankle injury. The ankle feels like it's working its' way to being fully healed now, but it's been a slow process. And in the meantime, I've let myself fall out of shape. I could have done more to stay in shape, while my ankle was healing, but I didn't. That's done now though, and it's time to look forward.
I've got fifteen weeks to get myself ready for my next marathon. It's unlikely that I'll PR. Aside from the gap between where I am right now physically and where I'd need to be to PR, I'm also aware that coming back too fast and hard can aggravate the old injury or cause a new one, and land me right back on my butt. So I'm going to ease myself back. Which means a new approach for me.
I've never trained for a marathon, without the idea that I'd try to PR. And to my surprise, I'm actually liking the feel of this new vantage point. I got my first glimpse of what that might be like a couple of months ago, albeit under significantly different circumstances.
I went to Memphis for what I initially thought would be a full marathon. But as the injury lingered, I realized that running 26.2 miles probably wasn't going to be a good idea. My ankle was still hurting, and I had been severely limited in my training runs. So I decided to run the half marathon instead, and then get back out to the course to find my girlfriend, Abby, who was running her first full marathon, and cheer her on and take some pictures.
I was frustrated in the weeks leading up to that race. I'd signed up for the full marathon, and it was hard to swallow the idea that I was going to settle for the half. I knew that it was the best thing for me, but it felt like quitting, and I couldn't get rid of the sour taste in my mouth.
The morning of the race, my ankle was particularly sore, and in my mind I was questioning whether I should even run the half. I started with Abby. We ran together for about a mile. It was a great morning to run. The air was cool and crisp. Abby was excited, and I was excited for her. But after the first mile, as my ankle pain persisted, I told her that I was going to drop out. I wished her well, and cut my way to the side of the road.
I sat there for a brief moment. Feeling sorry for myself. Feeling frustrated. And then I took off my left shoe and looked at my ankle. It was stiff and sore, but there was no visible swelling. I could run. I couldn't run fast. And I shouldn't run 26.2 miles. But I could do 13.1 miles at an easy pace. I was in a city that was new to me, and I was dying to run through it. So with the thought of looking at the morning as an opportunity to see Memphis and enjoy an easy run, rather than as a race that wouldn't be what I'd originally hoped, I laced my shoes back up and got back on the course.
I was immediately happy with the decision. I found a pace that I was comfortable with, and I settled in and soaked up my surroundings. We ran along the Mississippi River, and I watched the runners around me. I was on the back end of the pack, and there was a different feel back there. There were more people running with partners, whether friends or lovers. People talked with each other. Some were running the half, others the full, but all had settled in for a long morning run. The urgency and intensity that dominates the front end was harder to find in the back, at least during the early miles.
I spotted Abby somewhere between the 3 and 4 mile marks. I watched her from behind as she smiled and laughed and interacted with runners and spectators alike. She looked like she was having the time of her life, and I was tempted to hang back and watch her all morning. But I made my way through the crowd and ran up to her side instead. She squealed and I smiled, but I didn't stick around. I had found a rhythm, and I wanted to hold it. I just told her that I needed to go ahead, and she nodded and smiled and told me to get going.
As I ran, I took in the people and the places that I passed. I talked with a woman that had a shirt from a 5k that takes place in my Chicago neighborhood every October. I read the stories of inspiration that people had written on their shirts. I looked at the pictures of children from St. Jude's Children's Hospital, which the race was benefiting. I ran through the Memphis Zoo. I stopped for a quick half-beer with some merry spectators. And I remembered the joy that comes from simply running for pleasure. Something that I'd allowed myself to forget while fighting through my injury.
Eventually the fork in the road did come. The half marathon course and the full marathon course parted ways, and my pride did feel a sharp stab as I made the turn for the former. But I quickly sat that aside, as I grabbed my bag and went to find Abby.
I found her quickly and easily, and she was much the same as I'd left her. Smiling and laughing. In the moment. Taking in everything that was there for her. And I smiled as I aimed the camera, and waved to her. When she got to me jumped at me and hugged me hard, and as good as that felt I urged her to go. I wanted her to save that energy, because I knew that there were tougher miles ahead.
But in hindsight, she was aware of something that I was missing. She knew that she needed to pace herself. She was running responsibly. But she was mostly present in that moment. She wasn't trying to run a race that wasn't there. She wasn't thinking about what could be and what might be and what wasn't. She was there. She was loving her run. And she wanted a hug, so she hugged me.
And as I gear up for the Prague Marathon, I'm going to try to keep that lesson close. I'm going to map out a training program, and when the time comes, I'll set some general guidelines for my approach to the race itself. But I'm also going to run for fun. I'm going to run because I love to run. I'm going to run at whatever pace feels right at the time. And I'm going remember to forget the big picture every now and then. So that I don't miss all of the little pictures that the big one is made of.
I've got fifteen weeks to get myself ready for my next marathon. It's unlikely that I'll PR. Aside from the gap between where I am right now physically and where I'd need to be to PR, I'm also aware that coming back too fast and hard can aggravate the old injury or cause a new one, and land me right back on my butt. So I'm going to ease myself back. Which means a new approach for me.
I've never trained for a marathon, without the idea that I'd try to PR. And to my surprise, I'm actually liking the feel of this new vantage point. I got my first glimpse of what that might be like a couple of months ago, albeit under significantly different circumstances.
I went to Memphis for what I initially thought would be a full marathon. But as the injury lingered, I realized that running 26.2 miles probably wasn't going to be a good idea. My ankle was still hurting, and I had been severely limited in my training runs. So I decided to run the half marathon instead, and then get back out to the course to find my girlfriend, Abby, who was running her first full marathon, and cheer her on and take some pictures.
I was frustrated in the weeks leading up to that race. I'd signed up for the full marathon, and it was hard to swallow the idea that I was going to settle for the half. I knew that it was the best thing for me, but it felt like quitting, and I couldn't get rid of the sour taste in my mouth.
The morning of the race, my ankle was particularly sore, and in my mind I was questioning whether I should even run the half. I started with Abby. We ran together for about a mile. It was a great morning to run. The air was cool and crisp. Abby was excited, and I was excited for her. But after the first mile, as my ankle pain persisted, I told her that I was going to drop out. I wished her well, and cut my way to the side of the road.
I sat there for a brief moment. Feeling sorry for myself. Feeling frustrated. And then I took off my left shoe and looked at my ankle. It was stiff and sore, but there was no visible swelling. I could run. I couldn't run fast. And I shouldn't run 26.2 miles. But I could do 13.1 miles at an easy pace. I was in a city that was new to me, and I was dying to run through it. So with the thought of looking at the morning as an opportunity to see Memphis and enjoy an easy run, rather than as a race that wouldn't be what I'd originally hoped, I laced my shoes back up and got back on the course.
I was immediately happy with the decision. I found a pace that I was comfortable with, and I settled in and soaked up my surroundings. We ran along the Mississippi River, and I watched the runners around me. I was on the back end of the pack, and there was a different feel back there. There were more people running with partners, whether friends or lovers. People talked with each other. Some were running the half, others the full, but all had settled in for a long morning run. The urgency and intensity that dominates the front end was harder to find in the back, at least during the early miles.
I spotted Abby somewhere between the 3 and 4 mile marks. I watched her from behind as she smiled and laughed and interacted with runners and spectators alike. She looked like she was having the time of her life, and I was tempted to hang back and watch her all morning. But I made my way through the crowd and ran up to her side instead. She squealed and I smiled, but I didn't stick around. I had found a rhythm, and I wanted to hold it. I just told her that I needed to go ahead, and she nodded and smiled and told me to get going.
As I ran, I took in the people and the places that I passed. I talked with a woman that had a shirt from a 5k that takes place in my Chicago neighborhood every October. I read the stories of inspiration that people had written on their shirts. I looked at the pictures of children from St. Jude's Children's Hospital, which the race was benefiting. I ran through the Memphis Zoo. I stopped for a quick half-beer with some merry spectators. And I remembered the joy that comes from simply running for pleasure. Something that I'd allowed myself to forget while fighting through my injury.
Eventually the fork in the road did come. The half marathon course and the full marathon course parted ways, and my pride did feel a sharp stab as I made the turn for the former. But I quickly sat that aside, as I grabbed my bag and went to find Abby.
I found her quickly and easily, and she was much the same as I'd left her. Smiling and laughing. In the moment. Taking in everything that was there for her. And I smiled as I aimed the camera, and waved to her. When she got to me jumped at me and hugged me hard, and as good as that felt I urged her to go. I wanted her to save that energy, because I knew that there were tougher miles ahead.
But in hindsight, she was aware of something that I was missing. She knew that she needed to pace herself. She was running responsibly. But she was mostly present in that moment. She wasn't trying to run a race that wasn't there. She wasn't thinking about what could be and what might be and what wasn't. She was there. She was loving her run. And she wanted a hug, so she hugged me.
And as I gear up for the Prague Marathon, I'm going to try to keep that lesson close. I'm going to map out a training program, and when the time comes, I'll set some general guidelines for my approach to the race itself. But I'm also going to run for fun. I'm going to run because I love to run. I'm going to run at whatever pace feels right at the time. And I'm going remember to forget the big picture every now and then. So that I don't miss all of the little pictures that the big one is made of.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
The Project
"If you want to run, run a mile. If you want to experience another life... run a marathon." - Emil Zatopek
"The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air. All I must do is find it, and copy it." - Jules Renard
As I've plunged into the world of marathons, I've met and talked with innumerable runners and marathoners. Runners with a vast array of histories, abilities, and motivations. Runners that have gone far beyond what they initially believed themselves capable of. Runners that have worked their tail off and still come up short of their goals. Runners that run to compete. Runners that run to prove to themselves that they can. Runners that run for sheer joy. I've experienced the incredible feeling of camaraderie that permeates the running world. And, at the risk of sounding hyperbolic, it's one of the most amazing things I've ever come across.
I also love to write. Though most of the writing that I've done over the years has centered around my own thoughts and feelings. But as running has helped me look at others with a fresh set of eyes, the idea of writing about other runners began to seem like the most natural thing in the world.
So far, I've talked with people that I know. I've tried to get their stories, while learning what questions to ask, how to listen to the responses, and how to best record and then write out those thoughts and experiences. But the list of runners that I'm going to talk with is now expanding well beyond my immediate circle of friends and acquaintances. This project is already going in directions that I hadn't anticipated. And I'm incredibly hopeful and excited about the possibilities.
I'm going to focus on marathons, because I believe that particular aspect of running culture is uniquely suited to expressing the more personal elements of athletic competition. Marathons require a great deal of time, effort, and sacrifice. And they are therefor inherently personal experiences. But running a marathon is also something that is within reach for most people. It simply requires an honest commitment to see the task through. Whether you're a 65 year old mother of four, and you finish in six hours. Or perhaps you're a 30 year old veteran runner that is trying to break the three hour mark. The core experience is quite similar. You set a high goal for yourself. Something that you know will be difficult. Something that seems intimidating and gives you reason to doubt. Then you chip away at that fear and doubt one step at a time. One run at a time.
"The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air. All I must do is find it, and copy it." - Jules Renard
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| Perry Coons (My Dad) - Four Marathons |
I also love to write. Though most of the writing that I've done over the years has centered around my own thoughts and feelings. But as running has helped me look at others with a fresh set of eyes, the idea of writing about other runners began to seem like the most natural thing in the world.
So far, I've talked with people that I know. I've tried to get their stories, while learning what questions to ask, how to listen to the responses, and how to best record and then write out those thoughts and experiences. But the list of runners that I'm going to talk with is now expanding well beyond my immediate circle of friends and acquaintances. This project is already going in directions that I hadn't anticipated. And I'm incredibly hopeful and excited about the possibilities.
I'm going to focus on marathons, because I believe that particular aspect of running culture is uniquely suited to expressing the more personal elements of athletic competition. Marathons require a great deal of time, effort, and sacrifice. And they are therefor inherently personal experiences. But running a marathon is also something that is within reach for most people. It simply requires an honest commitment to see the task through. Whether you're a 65 year old mother of four, and you finish in six hours. Or perhaps you're a 30 year old veteran runner that is trying to break the three hour mark. The core experience is quite similar. You set a high goal for yourself. Something that you know will be difficult. Something that seems intimidating and gives you reason to doubt. Then you chip away at that fear and doubt one step at a time. One run at a time.
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| Abby Smith (My Girlfriend) - One Marathon |
My goal is to find those stories, in all of their beautiful diversity, and tell them as well as I can. I don't know what form the final product will take. I just want to be open to whatever people give me. And I want to present those stories with an honesty that does justice to the effort that the runners have given.
I'm estimating that this project will take the better part of this year. I'm going to talk to people about past marathons, future goals, and any training that they're doing at the moment. I'm hoping to learn what drives each runner. What first prompted them to run a marathon. What keeps them going. What obstacles they've faced. What reflections they have to offer. Most importantly, I'm hoping to discover what their marathon experience has to say about them as a person. I want to know what it has taught them about themselves, and how it has changed them. And I'm hoping to find a way to convey those things through words.
If you're reading this, and you would like to contribute, or you know somebody that might like to contribute, just let me know. I can't collect too many stories, and I would love to hear yours.
Chris - marathonsproject@gmail.com
I'm estimating that this project will take the better part of this year. I'm going to talk to people about past marathons, future goals, and any training that they're doing at the moment. I'm hoping to learn what drives each runner. What first prompted them to run a marathon. What keeps them going. What obstacles they've faced. What reflections they have to offer. Most importantly, I'm hoping to discover what their marathon experience has to say about them as a person. I want to know what it has taught them about themselves, and how it has changed them. And I'm hoping to find a way to convey those things through words.
If you're reading this, and you would like to contribute, or you know somebody that might like to contribute, just let me know. I can't collect too many stories, and I would love to hear yours.
Chris - marathonsproject@gmail.com
Saturday, December 31, 2011
33. Wake Up And Fight
I like the idea of New Year's Resolutions/Goals/Rules/Plans. I like the idea of taking a moment to reflect upon what exactly it is that I want to get out of my life. Of course, plans and goals can change. Unexpected opportunities and circumstances can shift the direction that I want to go. And I'll never live long enough to do all of the things that I can dream of doing. But I'm going to try to do them all anyway. And making a list every now and then is helpful.
Most of the things that I'll put on my annual list are specific. Such as last year's "Run Three Marathons", "Clean the Apartment on the 1st and 3rd Tuesday of Every Month", or "Blog At Least Once a Month." (I ran two, and I missed the third due to injury. The apartment... Well, there's gonna be a do-over in 2012 on that one. And as for blogging, you're reading Post #52.) I like to be specific because I'm a cheater at heart. And I need a system that doesn't allow me to convince myself that I've done something, when I actually haven't.
For other people, the list is more abstract. Do this more. Do that less. Be mindful of this thing and that. And if that works, then that's fantastic.
But whatever form the list takes, the process itself is worthwhile. The process of asking yourself to consider what is important. What is fulfilling. And then making the conscious decision to move in that direction. The decision to move with purpose.
It's not so easy as it sounds, of course. And I come up short often. But it beats living life with one hand on the snooze button. So with 2012 just a few hours away, I want to throw a few of my plans out into the internet.
Writing. Last year, I just wanted to get comfortable with the idea of taking something that I'd written and putting it out into the world. I've done that with this blog. I've posted some random musings from my day to day life, and I've posted other things that have been quite personal. I'm going to continue with that, but I want to do more. I write fiction. I'm not terribly good at it. But I'm not terrible either. Before 2012 is over, I will submit at least three stories for publication. It doesn't really matter where. But I will put them out into the world. I will also complete the project that I've started, which involves interviewing marathoners and writing their stories.
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| Woody Guthrie's Resolutions for 1942 |
For other people, the list is more abstract. Do this more. Do that less. Be mindful of this thing and that. And if that works, then that's fantastic.
 |
| Feb 2011 - Learning To Ice Skate |
But whatever form the list takes, the process itself is worthwhile. The process of asking yourself to consider what is important. What is fulfilling. And then making the conscious decision to move in that direction. The decision to move with purpose.
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| 2011 Polar Plunge - Lake Michigan New Year's Day |
Writing. Last year, I just wanted to get comfortable with the idea of taking something that I'd written and putting it out into the world. I've done that with this blog. I've posted some random musings from my day to day life, and I've posted other things that have been quite personal. I'm going to continue with that, but I want to do more. I write fiction. I'm not terribly good at it. But I'm not terrible either. Before 2012 is over, I will submit at least three stories for publication. It doesn't really matter where. But I will put them out into the world. I will also complete the project that I've started, which involves interviewing marathoners and writing their stories.
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| Cleveland Marathon - May 2011 |
Running. I will run three marathons. Prague in May. Denver in September. And Sacramento in December. I will train my ass off. And by December, I will qualify for the Boston Marathon.
Travel. Three new countries. Czech Republic. Poland. Russia. Two new states. Oregon and Washington.
I'm going to fill that list up with some smaller goals too. But that'll do for this post.
Thank you, whoever you are, for taking the time to read this blog. I hope you've had a great year. And I hope you've got an even better one coming. Happy New Year, Internet Surfers! See you in 2012!
Travel. Three new countries. Czech Republic. Poland. Russia. Two new states. Oregon and Washington.
I'm going to fill that list up with some smaller goals too. But that'll do for this post.
Thank you, whoever you are, for taking the time to read this blog. I hope you've had a great year. And I hope you've got an even better one coming. Happy New Year, Internet Surfers! See you in 2012!
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Preaching and Practicing
"All it takes is all you got." - Marc Davis
I was on the treadmill yesterday and my thoughts drifted to a friend. I was going to meet this friend for coffee after I left the gym. Our original plan was to meet for pizza. (She is a former Chicagoan. And I would imagine that upon leaving this city, one of the more devastating losses to deal with would be the loss of Chicago pizza.) But pizza was cancelled. Though not because Chicago pizza became any less delicious. It was cancelled because she was at the borderline starvation stage of her seemingly endless cycle of dieting.
It's a frustrating process to watch. In part, because I know how fruitless and unhealthy that process is. But also because she knows how fruitless and unhealthy that process is, yet she continues with it anyway. However, I've had that conversation more times than I've cared to, and so I just agreed to switch to coffee and I kept my self-righteous rants to myself.
As I continued to run, my thoughts breezed on through other topics, before eventually settling on my upcoming marathon training schedule. I've been fighting an ankle injury for months. I think that it's more or less healed at this point, but I know that I need to do more to build the strength back up. I need to do ankle exercises on a consistent basis. That kind of stuff is not my strong point though. No part of marathon training outside of the actual running is my strong point. I don't stretch enough. I don't swim enough laps. I should lift weights more often. I should do yoga more often. I should invest in compression socks to help my legs recover from long runs. I should do a lot of things. But I don't.
And as I thought these thoughts, I began to recognize the similarities between my cycle, and that of my friend. I know what I need to do. I know that doing these things will help me achieve goals that I've been unable to reach so far. Yet I continue my pattern of short-cuts and half-measures anyway. I continue with my fruitless practices even as I preach to somebody else about the absurdity of doing the same damn thing. The hypocrisy is hard to ignore.
And this pattern exists in other areas of my life as well. In college I rarely missed a good History or English Lit class. But I skipped the hard sciences on a regular basis. Regardless of the knowledge that those were needed for a diploma. When I clean my home, I inevitably stuff junk into a closet or a drawer. Pushing aside an easy task, and saving it for a tomorrow that often never comes. In my private and public life, I often choose to do just enough. Just enough to keep my head above water. Like paying nothing but the interest on an old debt, even when it is within my means to pay it all off.
Which brings me to here. To this morning. To this keyboard. In just a few days, I will begin an eleven month training schedule. A training schedule that I'm writing out right now. I will run three marathons in that span. The goals are simple. Set the bar high, yet realistic. Train hard. Train smart. Train honest. Skip nothing. Take no short cuts. And cross the Finish Line of that third marathon in under 3:10:00. Qualify for the Boston Marathon.
Half-measures won't get me there. Nor will excuses. There is no easy route. There is no pushing it off for another day. Either bridge the gap between what I preach and what I practice. Or come up short. Either, or.
I was on the treadmill yesterday and my thoughts drifted to a friend. I was going to meet this friend for coffee after I left the gym. Our original plan was to meet for pizza. (She is a former Chicagoan. And I would imagine that upon leaving this city, one of the more devastating losses to deal with would be the loss of Chicago pizza.) But pizza was cancelled. Though not because Chicago pizza became any less delicious. It was cancelled because she was at the borderline starvation stage of her seemingly endless cycle of dieting.
It's a frustrating process to watch. In part, because I know how fruitless and unhealthy that process is. But also because she knows how fruitless and unhealthy that process is, yet she continues with it anyway. However, I've had that conversation more times than I've cared to, and so I just agreed to switch to coffee and I kept my self-righteous rants to myself.
As I continued to run, my thoughts breezed on through other topics, before eventually settling on my upcoming marathon training schedule. I've been fighting an ankle injury for months. I think that it's more or less healed at this point, but I know that I need to do more to build the strength back up. I need to do ankle exercises on a consistent basis. That kind of stuff is not my strong point though. No part of marathon training outside of the actual running is my strong point. I don't stretch enough. I don't swim enough laps. I should lift weights more often. I should do yoga more often. I should invest in compression socks to help my legs recover from long runs. I should do a lot of things. But I don't.
And as I thought these thoughts, I began to recognize the similarities between my cycle, and that of my friend. I know what I need to do. I know that doing these things will help me achieve goals that I've been unable to reach so far. Yet I continue my pattern of short-cuts and half-measures anyway. I continue with my fruitless practices even as I preach to somebody else about the absurdity of doing the same damn thing. The hypocrisy is hard to ignore.
And this pattern exists in other areas of my life as well. In college I rarely missed a good History or English Lit class. But I skipped the hard sciences on a regular basis. Regardless of the knowledge that those were needed for a diploma. When I clean my home, I inevitably stuff junk into a closet or a drawer. Pushing aside an easy task, and saving it for a tomorrow that often never comes. In my private and public life, I often choose to do just enough. Just enough to keep my head above water. Like paying nothing but the interest on an old debt, even when it is within my means to pay it all off.
Which brings me to here. To this morning. To this keyboard. In just a few days, I will begin an eleven month training schedule. A training schedule that I'm writing out right now. I will run three marathons in that span. The goals are simple. Set the bar high, yet realistic. Train hard. Train smart. Train honest. Skip nothing. Take no short cuts. And cross the Finish Line of that third marathon in under 3:10:00. Qualify for the Boston Marathon.
Half-measures won't get me there. Nor will excuses. There is no easy route. There is no pushing it off for another day. Either bridge the gap between what I preach and what I practice. Or come up short. Either, or.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Switching Gears
"know when to fold 'em" - Don Schlitz
I'm leaving for Memphis in 24 days. The trip was planned around the St. Jude Memphis Marathon on December 3. I'll be going with my girlfriend, Abby. This was to be my sixth marathon, and it will be her first. The race is still the focus of the trip, but my role in it has changed.
I've been fighting an ankle injury since September. I tried pushing through it, and it got worse. I tried resting it, and that seemed to be working, but then it flared up again. More rest is probably the answer, and that's what I'm going to do. But with less than four weeks left before the race, and considering all of the training runs that I've missed, I have to accept that I won't be ready to run 26.2 miles any time soon.
I'm going to request that my registration be switched to the half-marathon. That's a distance that I feel comfortable with, and I'm still hopeful that I can get myself in good enough shape to make that an enjoyable run. This is the second time that I've had to pull out of a marathon, and while I am disappointed, I feel like I've made my peace with it.
There is one big upside to this change in plans. I'll get to see much more of Abby's first marathon than I would have if I'd been focused on my own race. I've been watching her prepare for months. Watching the miles add up. Witnessing her excitement and her anxieties. The peaks and valleys of this experience can be gloriously high and achingly low. And I'll now be able to see the culmination of that experience in a way that I just couldn't have done as a participant.
And in that sense, I haven't lost the experience of running this race, so much as I've exchanged it for a different experience.
I'm leaving for Memphis in 24 days. The trip was planned around the St. Jude Memphis Marathon on December 3. I'll be going with my girlfriend, Abby. This was to be my sixth marathon, and it will be her first. The race is still the focus of the trip, but my role in it has changed.
I've been fighting an ankle injury since September. I tried pushing through it, and it got worse. I tried resting it, and that seemed to be working, but then it flared up again. More rest is probably the answer, and that's what I'm going to do. But with less than four weeks left before the race, and considering all of the training runs that I've missed, I have to accept that I won't be ready to run 26.2 miles any time soon.
I'm going to request that my registration be switched to the half-marathon. That's a distance that I feel comfortable with, and I'm still hopeful that I can get myself in good enough shape to make that an enjoyable run. This is the second time that I've had to pull out of a marathon, and while I am disappointed, I feel like I've made my peace with it.
There is one big upside to this change in plans. I'll get to see much more of Abby's first marathon than I would have if I'd been focused on my own race. I've been watching her prepare for months. Watching the miles add up. Witnessing her excitement and her anxieties. The peaks and valleys of this experience can be gloriously high and achingly low. And I'll now be able to see the culmination of that experience in a way that I just couldn't have done as a participant.
And in that sense, I haven't lost the experience of running this race, so much as I've exchanged it for a different experience.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Obstacles
"I just have to make sure that in my mind, I'm ready for being able to play with the pain." - Kim Clijsters
Seven weeks from tomorrow, I am going to run the Memphis Marathon. I'm not ready. I'm far from ready. I sprained my ankle last month, and every time I think it's on the mend, I have another setback. So now, I'm giving it all the rest I can.
I've run once in the last ten days, and that hurt. So I sit. I elevate. I ice. It's not good for me to sit this much. Running is much more than just exercise. It is my grip on sanity. It keeps my head clear. It brings me peace. Without it, my thoughts swirl and crash into one another. I get anxious. I become irritable.
And I look at my shoes. I look out of the window. And that just compounds the frustration. I just want to run.
I still go to the gym. I lift. I get on the elliptical. I should be swimming more.
I have seven weeks. I'm not in bad shape now. I'm just not in marathon shape. If I can get back on the road next week, then there is still hope. Hope of getting myself in a position to enjoy the race. I've already thrown the clock out of the window. This won't be my fastest marathon. But that doesn't mean that it can't be a good one. I can put in a lot of work in six weeks. If I'm healthy.
In the meantime, I sit. I elevate. I ice. I simmer. I try not to boil over.
Seven weeks from tomorrow, I am going to run the Memphis Marathon. I'm not ready. I'm far from ready. I sprained my ankle last month, and every time I think it's on the mend, I have another setback. So now, I'm giving it all the rest I can.
I've run once in the last ten days, and that hurt. So I sit. I elevate. I ice. It's not good for me to sit this much. Running is much more than just exercise. It is my grip on sanity. It keeps my head clear. It brings me peace. Without it, my thoughts swirl and crash into one another. I get anxious. I become irritable.
And I look at my shoes. I look out of the window. And that just compounds the frustration. I just want to run.
I still go to the gym. I lift. I get on the elliptical. I should be swimming more.
I have seven weeks. I'm not in bad shape now. I'm just not in marathon shape. If I can get back on the road next week, then there is still hope. Hope of getting myself in a position to enjoy the race. I've already thrown the clock out of the window. This won't be my fastest marathon. But that doesn't mean that it can't be a good one. I can put in a lot of work in six weeks. If I'm healthy.
In the meantime, I sit. I elevate. I ice. I simmer. I try not to boil over.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
A Collection of Random Thoughts From a 17 Mile Run Through Chicago on a Cool Fall Day
Standing on my front step. Looking at the light rain. Hesitant. And finally into the street. The first steps are good. Not great. But better than what I'd feared. Tightness in both upper thighs and my right calf. But nothing that I can't run with. And the left ankle feels fine for now.
East on 19th Street. Go by the old laundromat. Cross the weed choked railroad tracks. Come out onto Halsted and turn south. I feel good. Better than expected. But this is a long run, and it's dangerous to get too excited too early.
Over the drawbridge, under the Orange Line tracks, out of Pilsen, and into Bridgeport. The doors are open at Freddie's. They're not open for business yet. But this is the first time I've seen the inside of the building since the fire. It's been completely gutted. Everybody inside is wearing a tool belt. And nobody is eating pizza. But it's good to see that there is work being done.
A man mowing the lawn in the rain. I remember mowing lawns with an electric mower when I was a kid. Long orange extension cord stretched out behind me. One couple that I mowed for, seemed to always be fighting. I wonder where they are now. I wonder what they're like.
East on 35th. Run by the ballpark. Tag the statue. Rituals can be helpful. They can help you remember things that might be easily forgotten otherwise. Over the Dan Ryan. Under the Metra tracks.
Out of Bridgeport, and into Bronzeville. North on State. Through the ITT campus. Dodging students. Umbrellas in one hand. Cell phones in the other. Eyes locked on the phone.
Traffic on State Street is light, yet slow. A cruising sedan parts the waters of a giant puddle, like a canoe on a small lake. A crosswalk beeps its signals for the visually impaired. I cross the street and make a soft left back onto the sidewalk. Careful with the ankle.
East on 31st. Moving beyond the campus. Residential Bronzville. Vacant lots behind chain link fences. Old churches. Broken glass in the gutter. A lonely gas station. John J. Pershing Magnet School. The lights behind the windows of the classroom trailer seem dim. The fall weather suits the neighborhood well, and I feel comfortable and at peace as I pass through.
Onto the bridge that takes me over a dozen or so sets of of railroad tracks. Outbound trains headed for places like South Bend, Indiana and Kalamazoo, Michigan. The skyline comes into view from the bridge. The dark and misty fingers of the sky grab the tops of the buildings like a chess player resting his hands on his pieces, uncertain of his next move.
Onto the lakefront path. 31st Street Beach. An elderly man is talking to himself about the rain and the wind and the waves. And my first thought is that he's at least a little crazy. But I was contemplating the same things in my head. And he was simply giving voice to his thoughts. Is that gap so big?
The man fades into the background, and I'm left with one of Chicago's best kept secrets. The south end of the lakefront path. Bird sanctuaries filled with wildflowers. Waves crashing into the seawall. Several miles of quiet open space. The rain picked up as I ran by the Fallen Firemen and Paramedics Memorial Park.
Next to McCormick Place, I see a small group of ducks with their beaks shoved into small puddles. And I wonder what type of food there is to be found in such a spot. On the north side of Burnham Harbor, I see people fishing in the rain. They're the first people I've seen since the old man.
Around the aquarium and into the downtown stretch of lakefront. The weather keeps all but the most determined tourists at bay on a day like today. And even this stretch is free of all but a handful of people and a few dozen geese.
Ohio Street Beach. Oak Street Beach. People standing by the water. Just looking at it. That's incredibly common. Something about the massive body of water just draws the attention of people. I don't remember ever going for a run along the lakefront without seeing at least one person in that trance-like state.
North Avenue Beach. One last water fountain, before heading into Lincoln Park and turning south to go home. Empty carb packets litter the area around the fountain. Many of this city's marathoners are only twelve days from Race Day. And they will have just finished the last of their long runs.
There had been trucks scattered along the beaches. Gathering seasonal equipment, and taking it to storage until next year. And the same thing was happening in the park.
I ran through Old Town. Boutiques and restaurants. Bars and condos. A world that always feels a little foreign to me. I pass the shop windows and give a passing glance to the things that I can't imagine even wanting, much less buying. With the one exception being food. I do love food in all of its delightful variety.
The fatigue and the soreness were getting hard to ignore. It was a lazy summer, and the rust is still apparent. But there was no sign of injury. And fatigue and soreness can be beat. Besides, I wasn't settling for anything other than total exhaustion today.
I ran down Orleans, just south of Division. A stretch of road that doesn't seem to fit with any of the neighborhoods that surround it. Not Old Town to the north, or the Gold Coast to the east. Nor River North to the south, or the ruins of Cabrini to the west. Orleans from Division St. to Chicago Ave. serves as a cafeteria for many of the city's cab drivers. Indian, Pakistani, and Somalian restaurants populate this stretch of the city. A small pocket for the locals, on the outskirts of a downtown area that is geared to the tourists and suburbanites that seem to prefer the comfort and familiarity of the big chain restaurants.
I turned west, not wanting to get caught downtown. I ran by the home of the Jesse White Tumblers and a large community garden. And I turned south on Halsted, rounding the Tribune building. As I climbed my final bridge, I put my head down and locked my attention into a series of slow but steady strides. Up the hill. Over the tracks. No slacking on the pace. Crest the hill. And bring the head up to feel the rain as the downhill stretch begins.
This is the spot that tells me I'm almost home. Just a few more miles to go. My steps were slow, and my legs were heavy. But I felt good. I wasn't moving fast, but I was moving clean. There was no hitch. No pain. I was almost 15 miles in, and I was fine.
My head cleared as I moved through the West Loop and made my way back home to Pilsen. I wasn't thinking much about my surroundings anymore. I was just movement. Steady, flowing, movement.
I saw a small bird on the sidewalk near the end of the run. It wasn't moving, but it sat upright and from a distance it didn't seem hurt. But as I got closer, I could see it's right wing was sticking out at an unnatural angle. And then I got close enough to see the raindrops collecting on its cold stiff feathers. Beads of water standing on the stillness of a vacant vessel. I stepped over it and made my way home.
Nine and a half weeks 'til the Memphis Marathon. Time to move.
East on 19th Street. Go by the old laundromat. Cross the weed choked railroad tracks. Come out onto Halsted and turn south. I feel good. Better than expected. But this is a long run, and it's dangerous to get too excited too early.
Over the drawbridge, under the Orange Line tracks, out of Pilsen, and into Bridgeport. The doors are open at Freddie's. They're not open for business yet. But this is the first time I've seen the inside of the building since the fire. It's been completely gutted. Everybody inside is wearing a tool belt. And nobody is eating pizza. But it's good to see that there is work being done.
A man mowing the lawn in the rain. I remember mowing lawns with an electric mower when I was a kid. Long orange extension cord stretched out behind me. One couple that I mowed for, seemed to always be fighting. I wonder where they are now. I wonder what they're like.
East on 35th. Run by the ballpark. Tag the statue. Rituals can be helpful. They can help you remember things that might be easily forgotten otherwise. Over the Dan Ryan. Under the Metra tracks.
Out of Bridgeport, and into Bronzeville. North on State. Through the ITT campus. Dodging students. Umbrellas in one hand. Cell phones in the other. Eyes locked on the phone.
Traffic on State Street is light, yet slow. A cruising sedan parts the waters of a giant puddle, like a canoe on a small lake. A crosswalk beeps its signals for the visually impaired. I cross the street and make a soft left back onto the sidewalk. Careful with the ankle.
East on 31st. Moving beyond the campus. Residential Bronzville. Vacant lots behind chain link fences. Old churches. Broken glass in the gutter. A lonely gas station. John J. Pershing Magnet School. The lights behind the windows of the classroom trailer seem dim. The fall weather suits the neighborhood well, and I feel comfortable and at peace as I pass through.
Onto the bridge that takes me over a dozen or so sets of of railroad tracks. Outbound trains headed for places like South Bend, Indiana and Kalamazoo, Michigan. The skyline comes into view from the bridge. The dark and misty fingers of the sky grab the tops of the buildings like a chess player resting his hands on his pieces, uncertain of his next move.
Onto the lakefront path. 31st Street Beach. An elderly man is talking to himself about the rain and the wind and the waves. And my first thought is that he's at least a little crazy. But I was contemplating the same things in my head. And he was simply giving voice to his thoughts. Is that gap so big?
The man fades into the background, and I'm left with one of Chicago's best kept secrets. The south end of the lakefront path. Bird sanctuaries filled with wildflowers. Waves crashing into the seawall. Several miles of quiet open space. The rain picked up as I ran by the Fallen Firemen and Paramedics Memorial Park.
Next to McCormick Place, I see a small group of ducks with their beaks shoved into small puddles. And I wonder what type of food there is to be found in such a spot. On the north side of Burnham Harbor, I see people fishing in the rain. They're the first people I've seen since the old man.
Around the aquarium and into the downtown stretch of lakefront. The weather keeps all but the most determined tourists at bay on a day like today. And even this stretch is free of all but a handful of people and a few dozen geese.
Ohio Street Beach. Oak Street Beach. People standing by the water. Just looking at it. That's incredibly common. Something about the massive body of water just draws the attention of people. I don't remember ever going for a run along the lakefront without seeing at least one person in that trance-like state.
North Avenue Beach. One last water fountain, before heading into Lincoln Park and turning south to go home. Empty carb packets litter the area around the fountain. Many of this city's marathoners are only twelve days from Race Day. And they will have just finished the last of their long runs.
There had been trucks scattered along the beaches. Gathering seasonal equipment, and taking it to storage until next year. And the same thing was happening in the park.
I ran through Old Town. Boutiques and restaurants. Bars and condos. A world that always feels a little foreign to me. I pass the shop windows and give a passing glance to the things that I can't imagine even wanting, much less buying. With the one exception being food. I do love food in all of its delightful variety.
The fatigue and the soreness were getting hard to ignore. It was a lazy summer, and the rust is still apparent. But there was no sign of injury. And fatigue and soreness can be beat. Besides, I wasn't settling for anything other than total exhaustion today.
I ran down Orleans, just south of Division. A stretch of road that doesn't seem to fit with any of the neighborhoods that surround it. Not Old Town to the north, or the Gold Coast to the east. Nor River North to the south, or the ruins of Cabrini to the west. Orleans from Division St. to Chicago Ave. serves as a cafeteria for many of the city's cab drivers. Indian, Pakistani, and Somalian restaurants populate this stretch of the city. A small pocket for the locals, on the outskirts of a downtown area that is geared to the tourists and suburbanites that seem to prefer the comfort and familiarity of the big chain restaurants.
I turned west, not wanting to get caught downtown. I ran by the home of the Jesse White Tumblers and a large community garden. And I turned south on Halsted, rounding the Tribune building. As I climbed my final bridge, I put my head down and locked my attention into a series of slow but steady strides. Up the hill. Over the tracks. No slacking on the pace. Crest the hill. And bring the head up to feel the rain as the downhill stretch begins.
This is the spot that tells me I'm almost home. Just a few more miles to go. My steps were slow, and my legs were heavy. But I felt good. I wasn't moving fast, but I was moving clean. There was no hitch. No pain. I was almost 15 miles in, and I was fine.
My head cleared as I moved through the West Loop and made my way back home to Pilsen. I wasn't thinking much about my surroundings anymore. I was just movement. Steady, flowing, movement.
I saw a small bird on the sidewalk near the end of the run. It wasn't moving, but it sat upright and from a distance it didn't seem hurt. But as I got closer, I could see it's right wing was sticking out at an unnatural angle. And then I got close enough to see the raindrops collecting on its cold stiff feathers. Beads of water standing on the stillness of a vacant vessel. I stepped over it and made my way home.
Nine and a half weeks 'til the Memphis Marathon. Time to move.
Into The Storm
"Everyone who has run knows that its most important value is in removing tension and allowing a release from whatever other cares the day may bring." - Jimmy Carter
I got up at 6:00 this morning. I work at night, so it's rare that I'm up before 8:00 or 9:00. My dreams were strange and vivid, and maybe even somewhat relevant to the real world? I've got too much crap in my head right now. Unavoidable family stuff for the most part. Things that I am helpless to change, and equally helpless to let go of. I'm glad that my training schedule calls for a long run today. It's the only way I know to clear my head.
17 miles. That will be the longest run I've done since I ran the Cleveland Marathon in May. I feel pretty far removed from that race. But I'm slowly making my way forward. And I do have time. The race is nine weeks from Saturday. If I can get back into a good rhythm within the next few weeks, then I'll be fine. I keep reminding myself that I ran my fastest marathon just three and a half months after my slowest. And most of those gains happened in the final two months of training.
But that's looking too far down the road. Right now I just want to run. And I want to feel good doing it.
The sky outside of my window looks something like an old blanket that's been left outside for months. It may have had some color to it once upon a time, but it's just a grey mass now. Cold and heavy and wet. And the trees are not made a brighter green by the rain, the way they are in the spring. They just look tired. I imagine the lake looks restless and agitated right now. It all sounds incredibly inviting. Time to lace 'em up. Time to run.
I got up at 6:00 this morning. I work at night, so it's rare that I'm up before 8:00 or 9:00. My dreams were strange and vivid, and maybe even somewhat relevant to the real world? I've got too much crap in my head right now. Unavoidable family stuff for the most part. Things that I am helpless to change, and equally helpless to let go of. I'm glad that my training schedule calls for a long run today. It's the only way I know to clear my head.
17 miles. That will be the longest run I've done since I ran the Cleveland Marathon in May. I feel pretty far removed from that race. But I'm slowly making my way forward. And I do have time. The race is nine weeks from Saturday. If I can get back into a good rhythm within the next few weeks, then I'll be fine. I keep reminding myself that I ran my fastest marathon just three and a half months after my slowest. And most of those gains happened in the final two months of training.
But that's looking too far down the road. Right now I just want to run. And I want to feel good doing it.
The sky outside of my window looks something like an old blanket that's been left outside for months. It may have had some color to it once upon a time, but it's just a grey mass now. Cold and heavy and wet. And the trees are not made a brighter green by the rain, the way they are in the spring. They just look tired. I imagine the lake looks restless and agitated right now. It all sounds incredibly inviting. Time to lace 'em up. Time to run.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
When The Sun Comes Up
"Every morning in Africa a gazelle wakes up. It knows it must move faster than the lion or it will not survive. Every morning a lion wakes up and it knows it must move faster than the slowest gazelle or it will starve. It doesn't matter if you are the lion or the gazelle, when the sun comes up, you better be moving." - Roger Bannister
I took my new running shoes out for a spin today. They're blue, silver, and white. They look like modern, sleek versions of R2D2. They're probably the shoes that I'll wear in ten weeks when I run the St. Jude Memphis Marathon. And when I look at them, I can't help but be frustrated by the contrast between how they look and how I feel.
I feel banged up. But I'm not that far into training. At this early stage, I shouldn't feel this tight and sluggish every day. I've got a minor sprain in my left ankle that won't go away. It's not so bad that I can't run, it's just bad enough that I can't run well. I've given it plenty of rest, but it's not responding. So to hell with it. I'll run anyway.
I ran ten miles today. Not too fast. Not too slow. About 7:45 per mile. The ankle held up. But it's a little swollen now.
Other parts are more tight and sore than they should be too. But I don't see any point in listing them off. It's just difficult to get my mind in a good place, when so many things feel out of place physically. My body feels muddled, and my thoughts do too. Though I did experience a fleeting moment of clarity today.
I ran through downtown to get to the lake. It was raining. A soft and cool rain, which is always nice to run in. Tourists and suburbanites littered the Saturday morning streets. They crowded under umbrellas, they scrunched their shoulders up, and they ran from one awning to the next. All in a futile effort to avoid a few drops of water. Judging from their body language and facial expressions, you might have thought that there were cannonballs falling from the sky, rather than tiny raindrops.
And then I got to the lake and I saw other members of my tribe. Dozens of them. Wearing only shorts, shirts, and running shoes. Shoulders back, heads held up, and big dopey grins soaking up the simple joy of running in the rain. I fed off of that instantly. My body was still sore, but I didn't care. I splashed through puddles. I bounded up and down the occasional lakefront hill. I leaned into the turns. And I too had a big dopey grin to accompany my thoughts as I remembered, for a moment, why it is that I run in the first place.
I wish I could say that that lasted. That I turned some metaphorical corner, and that I'm back on track mentally if not physically. But it didn't. And I'm not.
I'm not in a panic either. I'm just going to do the one thing that I know to do. I'm going to run. And I'm going to hope that this stuff blows over. And regardless of what happens, whether I'm feeling strong or feeling hobbled, I'm going to run that marathon in ten weeks. And I'll run the best race that I have in me that day. Whatever that may be.
I took my new running shoes out for a spin today. They're blue, silver, and white. They look like modern, sleek versions of R2D2. They're probably the shoes that I'll wear in ten weeks when I run the St. Jude Memphis Marathon. And when I look at them, I can't help but be frustrated by the contrast between how they look and how I feel.
I feel banged up. But I'm not that far into training. At this early stage, I shouldn't feel this tight and sluggish every day. I've got a minor sprain in my left ankle that won't go away. It's not so bad that I can't run, it's just bad enough that I can't run well. I've given it plenty of rest, but it's not responding. So to hell with it. I'll run anyway.
I ran ten miles today. Not too fast. Not too slow. About 7:45 per mile. The ankle held up. But it's a little swollen now.
Other parts are more tight and sore than they should be too. But I don't see any point in listing them off. It's just difficult to get my mind in a good place, when so many things feel out of place physically. My body feels muddled, and my thoughts do too. Though I did experience a fleeting moment of clarity today.
I ran through downtown to get to the lake. It was raining. A soft and cool rain, which is always nice to run in. Tourists and suburbanites littered the Saturday morning streets. They crowded under umbrellas, they scrunched their shoulders up, and they ran from one awning to the next. All in a futile effort to avoid a few drops of water. Judging from their body language and facial expressions, you might have thought that there were cannonballs falling from the sky, rather than tiny raindrops.
And then I got to the lake and I saw other members of my tribe. Dozens of them. Wearing only shorts, shirts, and running shoes. Shoulders back, heads held up, and big dopey grins soaking up the simple joy of running in the rain. I fed off of that instantly. My body was still sore, but I didn't care. I splashed through puddles. I bounded up and down the occasional lakefront hill. I leaned into the turns. And I too had a big dopey grin to accompany my thoughts as I remembered, for a moment, why it is that I run in the first place.
I wish I could say that that lasted. That I turned some metaphorical corner, and that I'm back on track mentally if not physically. But it didn't. And I'm not.
I'm not in a panic either. I'm just going to do the one thing that I know to do. I'm going to run. And I'm going to hope that this stuff blows over. And regardless of what happens, whether I'm feeling strong or feeling hobbled, I'm going to run that marathon in ten weeks. And I'll run the best race that I have in me that day. Whatever that may be.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Me & My Beast
"All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique. All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story; to vomit the anguish up." - James Baldwin
I haven't done much serious running over the last four months. Which is to say that I've been running all summer, but I've done it sporadically, usually at an easy pace, and rarely for distances beyond eight or nine miles.
I had been writing a lot over the first two thirds of that stretch, but that has fizzled as well.
I feel like the two are related, though I'm at a loss to explain that feeling in a succinct manner.
After I finished the Cleveland Marathon last May, I knew that I was ready for a break. That was my third marathon in eight months, and I was physically and emotionally drained. So I reigned it in. I ran when I wanted to run, and I rested when I wanted to rest. I filled my summer with greasy food and cold beer. I indulged my social life in ways that I'm unable to do while training.
I very quickly let eight months of work fade away, and let my body go soft.
But not all of that time went to idle comfort. I spent a lot of time at this keyboard. Some of it for this blog. And some of it for other forms of writing. I dusted off an old fictional character and saw him develop and grow in ways that he never had before. And I saw a new character born as well. I worked through the early periods of gentle exploration with her. Slowly and gingerly seeking to discover who this person is. It feels like watching a bird hatch from an egg. I try to nurture it and keep it warm, while letting it emerge from its shell at it's own natural pace. A beak pecking through the shell here. A wingtip emerging there.
But after a while the writing grew stagnant. The process became sluggish and cloudy. And my head grew soft.
I've been picking both of those things back up as of late.
I'm running the Memphis Marathon in less than three months, and the miles are beginning to pile up again as I become more committed to my training. That is a relatively straight forward process at this point. I know what I need to do, it's simply a matter of doing it. There are frustrations over the degree to which I let myself go over the summer, but I know that I can put that aside. There just isn't anything useful to do with that stuff, so you set it down and walk on.
The writing process however, is far less straight forward. There are the standard problems of writing to work through. Sorting through the words that stream through the head. Trying to sort the honest thoughts and feelings from the comforting lies. Trying to figure out what fears and disappointments and regrets are lurking beneath those lies. That stuff is always a big part of the writing process. In fact, that is the very reason for writing. Writing is simply searching.
But it isn't enough to just find those truths or expose the lies. Because the discovery doesn't bring instant resolution. If anything, it breathes life into some things that are big and powerful and at times terrifying. And you find yourself sitting there with this beast, and you know that it has to find a home. It can live, sometimes it has to live, but it can't live with you alone. It'll kill you. So you want to let it out into the world.
But that's not so easy to do. The beast may belong to me. It may carry my name. But it also knows everybody that I know. And if I just set him free, there's no telling who he'll cross paths with.
I remember reading Long Day's Journey Into Night in an English class. The story itself was dripping with the tension of desperation and fear and love and suffering. But what really hit me was the story of the author himself. When I learned that Eugene O'Neill had sealed the manuscript and asked his publisher to wait until 25 years after his death to publish it, I was dumbstruck. Not only had he decided to live alone with the beast, he'd agreed to let it climb into his coffin and follow him into eternity.
Maybe that's where my connection between running and writing comes in. I haven't yet figured out what to do with my beast. I keep breathing life into him. He grows in front of my eyes. And I'm not as afraid of him as I used to be. But I know that I can't live with him forever. So for now, until I find a way to set him free, I take him running with me.
It takes a while to wear him down. He's a strong runner. But I'm stronger. He grows quiet as the miles add up. And when I get home, there is a moment of peace, I can almost believe that we could be friends. And I can sit in front of this keyboard and breath yet more life into him.
I haven't done much serious running over the last four months. Which is to say that I've been running all summer, but I've done it sporadically, usually at an easy pace, and rarely for distances beyond eight or nine miles.
I had been writing a lot over the first two thirds of that stretch, but that has fizzled as well.
I feel like the two are related, though I'm at a loss to explain that feeling in a succinct manner.
After I finished the Cleveland Marathon last May, I knew that I was ready for a break. That was my third marathon in eight months, and I was physically and emotionally drained. So I reigned it in. I ran when I wanted to run, and I rested when I wanted to rest. I filled my summer with greasy food and cold beer. I indulged my social life in ways that I'm unable to do while training.
I very quickly let eight months of work fade away, and let my body go soft.
But after a while the writing grew stagnant. The process became sluggish and cloudy. And my head grew soft.
I've been picking both of those things back up as of late.
I'm running the Memphis Marathon in less than three months, and the miles are beginning to pile up again as I become more committed to my training. That is a relatively straight forward process at this point. I know what I need to do, it's simply a matter of doing it. There are frustrations over the degree to which I let myself go over the summer, but I know that I can put that aside. There just isn't anything useful to do with that stuff, so you set it down and walk on.
The writing process however, is far less straight forward. There are the standard problems of writing to work through. Sorting through the words that stream through the head. Trying to sort the honest thoughts and feelings from the comforting lies. Trying to figure out what fears and disappointments and regrets are lurking beneath those lies. That stuff is always a big part of the writing process. In fact, that is the very reason for writing. Writing is simply searching.
But it isn't enough to just find those truths or expose the lies. Because the discovery doesn't bring instant resolution. If anything, it breathes life into some things that are big and powerful and at times terrifying. And you find yourself sitting there with this beast, and you know that it has to find a home. It can live, sometimes it has to live, but it can't live with you alone. It'll kill you. So you want to let it out into the world.
But that's not so easy to do. The beast may belong to me. It may carry my name. But it also knows everybody that I know. And if I just set him free, there's no telling who he'll cross paths with.
I remember reading Long Day's Journey Into Night in an English class. The story itself was dripping with the tension of desperation and fear and love and suffering. But what really hit me was the story of the author himself. When I learned that Eugene O'Neill had sealed the manuscript and asked his publisher to wait until 25 years after his death to publish it, I was dumbstruck. Not only had he decided to live alone with the beast, he'd agreed to let it climb into his coffin and follow him into eternity.
Maybe that's where my connection between running and writing comes in. I haven't yet figured out what to do with my beast. I keep breathing life into him. He grows in front of my eyes. And I'm not as afraid of him as I used to be. But I know that I can't live with him forever. So for now, until I find a way to set him free, I take him running with me.
It takes a while to wear him down. He's a strong runner. But I'm stronger. He grows quiet as the miles add up. And when I get home, there is a moment of peace, I can almost believe that we could be friends. And I can sit in front of this keyboard and breath yet more life into him.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Marathon #5, 6, &7 - Cleveland, Ohio - Memphis, Tennessee - Prague, Czech Republic
5, 6, & 7) Cleveland, Memphis, and Prague
I've already posted my reflections on the Cleveland Marathon, and I don't want to repeat myself. But I would like to reflect on the whole of my experience with marathons over the last few years. And I'd also like to take a moment to try to frame my thoughts on what lies ahead.
Over the last 29 months, I've run five marathons. Because of that, I am in better physical condition than I've ever been in, in my life. I just turned 37 years old, and I feel better than I did 15 years ago. I've also used long distance runs to explore the city in which I live, and the places that I visit, in a way that I never could before. Countless new angles on the world around me have opened up through my wanderings. Running has helped me gain new insights into other individual people as well. Through talking with, and running with, other runners, I have learned more about their personal struggles and the ways in which they've worked through them. And I've learned things about myself, both positive and negative, that I don't believe I could have discovered any other way.
Running marathons has been the single best thing that I've done for myself in my life. And I am awed by the idea that there is much more to come.
I am going to run my sixth marathon exactly five months from today, in Memphis. From this vantage point, its difficult to say what exactly my goals will be for that race. I'll be able to get a more clear view of that when the training gets heavy this fall. But I'm looking forward to taking everything that that experience has to offer. And I plan to shave a number of minutes from the clock in the process.
Five months after Memphis, I'll be running a marathon in Prague. A good friend of mine is moving there, and I can't wait to explore the city with him, and with that race course.
In the meantime, I'll find a few shorter races to enjoy, and I'll also have countless other runs that don't involve a clock or any planned course at all. But I'm going to keep those marathons, both past and future, with me the whole way. Because that is where the prize is kept. That is where the growth and the light live. And even though I sometimes need to rest, that is the direction in which I always want to be moving.
I've already posted my reflections on the Cleveland Marathon, and I don't want to repeat myself. But I would like to reflect on the whole of my experience with marathons over the last few years. And I'd also like to take a moment to try to frame my thoughts on what lies ahead.
Over the last 29 months, I've run five marathons. Because of that, I am in better physical condition than I've ever been in, in my life. I just turned 37 years old, and I feel better than I did 15 years ago. I've also used long distance runs to explore the city in which I live, and the places that I visit, in a way that I never could before. Countless new angles on the world around me have opened up through my wanderings. Running has helped me gain new insights into other individual people as well. Through talking with, and running with, other runners, I have learned more about their personal struggles and the ways in which they've worked through them. And I've learned things about myself, both positive and negative, that I don't believe I could have discovered any other way.
Running marathons has been the single best thing that I've done for myself in my life. And I am awed by the idea that there is much more to come.
I am going to run my sixth marathon exactly five months from today, in Memphis. From this vantage point, its difficult to say what exactly my goals will be for that race. I'll be able to get a more clear view of that when the training gets heavy this fall. But I'm looking forward to taking everything that that experience has to offer. And I plan to shave a number of minutes from the clock in the process.
Five months after Memphis, I'll be running a marathon in Prague. A good friend of mine is moving there, and I can't wait to explore the city with him, and with that race course.
In the meantime, I'll find a few shorter races to enjoy, and I'll also have countless other runs that don't involve a clock or any planned course at all. But I'm going to keep those marathons, both past and future, with me the whole way. Because that is where the prize is kept. That is where the growth and the light live. And even though I sometimes need to rest, that is the direction in which I always want to be moving.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Marathon #4 - Maui, Hawaii
4) Maui
I ran my fourth marathon in Maui on January 23, 2011. My finishing time was 4:26:28. My heart wasn't in this one. It wasn't in the preparation, and it wasn't there on race day.
I had some good races in between Berlin and Maui. I ran a 15k here in Chicago, and a half-marathon in San Antonio. I averaged 6:54 per mile in the 15k, which is the fastest pace I've ever had for any race. And one week later in San Antonio, I was able to finish the half-marathon in 1:35:03, which was also a personal best for that distance. And after I finished the race in San Antonio, I got the chance to cheer on a good friend as she ran her first full length marathon on that same course.
But as much as those races helped me put the more negative aspects of Berlin behind me, I just couldn't seem to get myself excited about running in Maui. While training, I ran more than 15 miles only twice. But I'd already registered, and bought the plane ticket, so I was going to Maui regardless.
The Maui Oceanfront Marathon is a small race. Just a few hundred participants, no full road closures after the first couple of miles, and no digital timing system. We started in a residential area, well before dawn, but we were quickly on the coast, which is where we stayed until the final mile or so.
I felt great early on. I was moving fast and enjoying the scenery. But as the miles added up, it became clear that I hadn't prepared myself properly. And aside from the general fatigue, which was settling in earlier than I would have liked, I was getting pain in my ankles and calves that I believe came from the slant in the road.
We were running around mountains, and the ground wasn't flat. The more steps I took on the uneven roadside, the more sharp the pain became. I slowed down as the pain increased, and I was fine with that. I knew before the gun went off that this probably wouldn't be my fastest race. And so I was fine with settling into an easy pace and just taking in my surroundings.
But not all of that pain was a result of running on a surface that tilted inward. Much of it stemmed from my lack of training. And I can't leave that fact out of any honest account of that race.
By the time I finished, I was hurting pretty badly. I didn't really care about the time, but given the pain, I certainly couldn't say that I enjoyed myself during the second half of that race. So once again, I found myself with some questions to answer, once everything had come to an end.
Running 26.2 miles isn't something to be taken lightly, and I'd somehow lost sight of that. There are plenty of shorter races that I can run, and enjoy, if I'm not feeling up to training for a full marathon. So I need to make sure that I'm honest with myself about how much I am willing to commit to each race that I choose. And if I'm not ready to set everything else aside for a few months, so that I can give myself over to training, then I'm not ready to run a marathon.
But after Maui, I was definitely ready to dedicate myself to several months of serious training. I'd had two straight races in which I couldn't be honestly happy about the way in which I approached them mentally and physically. And I was suddenly quite anxious to wash that sour taste out of my mouth.
My next race was going to be much closer to home. And while I always look forward to exploring new cities, I wasn't looking at the next race as a vacation. Cleveland was three and a half months away, and that was going to be a business trip.
I ran my fourth marathon in Maui on January 23, 2011. My finishing time was 4:26:28. My heart wasn't in this one. It wasn't in the preparation, and it wasn't there on race day.
I had some good races in between Berlin and Maui. I ran a 15k here in Chicago, and a half-marathon in San Antonio. I averaged 6:54 per mile in the 15k, which is the fastest pace I've ever had for any race. And one week later in San Antonio, I was able to finish the half-marathon in 1:35:03, which was also a personal best for that distance. And after I finished the race in San Antonio, I got the chance to cheer on a good friend as she ran her first full length marathon on that same course.
But as much as those races helped me put the more negative aspects of Berlin behind me, I just couldn't seem to get myself excited about running in Maui. While training, I ran more than 15 miles only twice. But I'd already registered, and bought the plane ticket, so I was going to Maui regardless.
The Maui Oceanfront Marathon is a small race. Just a few hundred participants, no full road closures after the first couple of miles, and no digital timing system. We started in a residential area, well before dawn, but we were quickly on the coast, which is where we stayed until the final mile or so.
I felt great early on. I was moving fast and enjoying the scenery. But as the miles added up, it became clear that I hadn't prepared myself properly. And aside from the general fatigue, which was settling in earlier than I would have liked, I was getting pain in my ankles and calves that I believe came from the slant in the road.
We were running around mountains, and the ground wasn't flat. The more steps I took on the uneven roadside, the more sharp the pain became. I slowed down as the pain increased, and I was fine with that. I knew before the gun went off that this probably wouldn't be my fastest race. And so I was fine with settling into an easy pace and just taking in my surroundings.
But not all of that pain was a result of running on a surface that tilted inward. Much of it stemmed from my lack of training. And I can't leave that fact out of any honest account of that race.
By the time I finished, I was hurting pretty badly. I didn't really care about the time, but given the pain, I certainly couldn't say that I enjoyed myself during the second half of that race. So once again, I found myself with some questions to answer, once everything had come to an end.
Running 26.2 miles isn't something to be taken lightly, and I'd somehow lost sight of that. There are plenty of shorter races that I can run, and enjoy, if I'm not feeling up to training for a full marathon. So I need to make sure that I'm honest with myself about how much I am willing to commit to each race that I choose. And if I'm not ready to set everything else aside for a few months, so that I can give myself over to training, then I'm not ready to run a marathon.
But after Maui, I was definitely ready to dedicate myself to several months of serious training. I'd had two straight races in which I couldn't be honestly happy about the way in which I approached them mentally and physically. And I was suddenly quite anxious to wash that sour taste out of my mouth.
My next race was going to be much closer to home. And while I always look forward to exploring new cities, I wasn't looking at the next race as a vacation. Cleveland was three and a half months away, and that was going to be a business trip.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Marathon #3 - Berlin, Germany
3) Berlin
I ran my third marathon in Berlin on September 26, 2010. My finishing time was 3:43:17. When I crossed the Finish Line, I was a physical and emotional wreck.
I got out of bed at 4:00 am on race day. The hotel was quiet and still when I left the room thirty minutes later. The race was scheduled to start at 9:00 am.
I went down to the lobby to get some coffee, and eat breakfast. I sat down at a small table near the window that looked out on the cool rain that was washing the East Berlin street, and I wrote in my notebook:
"I feel good about the race. I went for a run on Friday morning and my legs felt fresh and strong. And it felt great to run in the cool air. It's been a long, hot summer in Chicago. I've got the same picture of Kevin in my pocket that I carried in each of the first two marathons. I'll also have dad in my thoughts. He ran a 5k yesterday which included a free prostate screening among its goodie bag items. He (and of course we) is hoping that the cancer has receded and that he'll be able to avoid invasive surgery. Aside from how much I want to qualify for Boston today for myself, I'd also love for him to see me enjoy that level of success with my running. I know he'd get a lot from that."
When the first trickle of runners spread into the lobby, I packed up my things and began making my way to the Start Line in Tiergarten Park. I remembered the crowds for the Chicago Marathon, and while I had the benefit of a seeded corral this time, I also had a language barrier to work through and I was in a city that was unfamiliar to me. So rather than risk the frustration of a last minute scramble to find my corral, I decided to get an early start.
The rain had eased up when I left the hotel, so I walked for a bit. It was cold out that morning, and I found myself wishing that I'd brought some throw-away sweats from a thrift store. There were tall rectangular apartment buildings lining the streets. They were all still dark. The only noticeable sign of life was the occasional Saturday night bar patron, shuffling their way home before the daylight made Sunday morning official. I saw a train approaching, and I hopped on.
I had done everything I'd set out to do in the months leading up to the race. Everything that I did in July, August, and September revolved around this marathon. I put my social life on hold. I organized my work schedule to fit my training schedule. I followed strict dietary rules. For three months, there wasn't a half an hour that went by without me thinking about Berlin.
I felt good as I made my way through the park. The rain had picked back up though, and there wasn't any shelter to be had. So I told myself to just accept the fact that I'd be cold and wet, and to put it out of my mind and move on. Once the race got started, I'd be running hard, and I'd get warmed up, and everything would be fine.
In the meantime, I waited. I stretched. I stood under trees. I watched other runners mill around. I waited. I tried not to think about the rain that had been falling off and on for the last 24 hours. I tried to ignore the standing water in the streets and in the lawns of the park. I tried to put my cold and wet body, and my wet and heavy clothes, out of my head.
I tried all of that in vain. As 9:00 am approached, I was spending far too much time wishing that things were other than they were.
And then the starting gun went off.
We started off so fast. Seven minute miles right out of the gate. I'd never felt a starting pace like that in any race that was longer than a 10k. I was in a corral near the front and this was an all business crowd. I quickly shed my thoughts about the weather and all of the other factors that were out of my control, and I just ran. I had every intention of proving that this was were I belonged.
But in the back of my mind, I was already worried. My legs were heavy. The strong and fresh feeling that I'd had just a couple of days before, wasn't there that morning. Early on, I told myself that I'd warm up after a couple of miles. But the first few miles of the race came and went, and nothing changed. By the 10k mark, I knew in my head that I couldn't hold the pace that I was at. I knew that if I didn't slow down, I was going to crash.
I didn't slow down though. I'd put in too much work to get ready for that race. And I'd tied every bit of that preparation to the idea of qualifying for Boston. I told myself that I'd find a way to push through.
I didn't push through though. By the half way point I was already unraveling. My legs were on fire and I was slowing down. I watched other runners pass me by. First by the dozens, then by the hundreds. By the time I hit the 25k mark, it was over. I had another 17k to go, I was in a lot of pain, and Boston was out of the question.
I went through a wide range of emotions over that final ninety minutes. Initially, I was frustrated and angry, and I felt sorry for myself. And then I tried to shift my focus. I wasn't going to qualify for Boston, but I could still beat my Chicago time. I could still PR. And I reminded myself that I was still running the Berlin Marathon, and that I should be embracing that experience, because I probably wouldn't ever do it again.
But as the race wore on, the pain became more severe, and I couldn't find a way to keep my focus positive. I shuffled along, but I was desperate for it to be over.
And then, finally, it was over. I turned the last corner and I saw the Finish Line from several blocks away. My legs were stiff, but I pushed them as hard as I could. I crossed the Finish Line more than thirty minutes past the time that I'd hoped for, and my eyes filled up with tears as I accepted the Finisher's Medal. I'd given everything that I had to that race, and somehow I'd actually gotten slower.
I spent the better part of the next 24 hours feeling sorry for myself. I went through the post race motions. I ate delicious greasy food. I drank cold beer. I had ice cream for breakfast the next day. But I wasn't happy with the way things had gone. I did eventually snap out of it, and enjoy the rest of my trip. But I had a lot to reflect upon. I knew that I had a lot to take from the experience, and I knew that it was important that I do that.
Some of the problems that I encountered were out of my control. And in hindsight, I don't think that there was any scenario in which I would have qualified for Boston that day. That is a longer and more difficult process than I had recognized. However, there were things that were within my control. There were things that I could have done differently, that would have made the experience a more enjoyable one.
Most notably, I knew that I needed to change my mental approach. I can't limit my ideas of success and failure to the numbers on a clock. The clock can help me in my assessment of myself, but that's all it's there for. It's just a tool. It's not a goal in and of itself. And I knew that I needed to be more honest with myself about my ability. Even if I'd been warm and dry and had fresh legs, I wasn't physically ready to qualify for Boston. And I knew that I needed to make better decisions during the race. Had I slowed down early in the race, I would have lasted longer, finished faster, and had a more enjoyable overall experience.
So I tried to take those lessons with me, while setting everything else down and moving on. Berlin was finished, and I had more races on the horizon.
I ran my third marathon in Berlin on September 26, 2010. My finishing time was 3:43:17. When I crossed the Finish Line, I was a physical and emotional wreck.
I got out of bed at 4:00 am on race day. The hotel was quiet and still when I left the room thirty minutes later. The race was scheduled to start at 9:00 am.
I went down to the lobby to get some coffee, and eat breakfast. I sat down at a small table near the window that looked out on the cool rain that was washing the East Berlin street, and I wrote in my notebook:
"I feel good about the race. I went for a run on Friday morning and my legs felt fresh and strong. And it felt great to run in the cool air. It's been a long, hot summer in Chicago. I've got the same picture of Kevin in my pocket that I carried in each of the first two marathons. I'll also have dad in my thoughts. He ran a 5k yesterday which included a free prostate screening among its goodie bag items. He (and of course we) is hoping that the cancer has receded and that he'll be able to avoid invasive surgery. Aside from how much I want to qualify for Boston today for myself, I'd also love for him to see me enjoy that level of success with my running. I know he'd get a lot from that."
When the first trickle of runners spread into the lobby, I packed up my things and began making my way to the Start Line in Tiergarten Park. I remembered the crowds for the Chicago Marathon, and while I had the benefit of a seeded corral this time, I also had a language barrier to work through and I was in a city that was unfamiliar to me. So rather than risk the frustration of a last minute scramble to find my corral, I decided to get an early start.
The rain had eased up when I left the hotel, so I walked for a bit. It was cold out that morning, and I found myself wishing that I'd brought some throw-away sweats from a thrift store. There were tall rectangular apartment buildings lining the streets. They were all still dark. The only noticeable sign of life was the occasional Saturday night bar patron, shuffling their way home before the daylight made Sunday morning official. I saw a train approaching, and I hopped on.
I had done everything I'd set out to do in the months leading up to the race. Everything that I did in July, August, and September revolved around this marathon. I put my social life on hold. I organized my work schedule to fit my training schedule. I followed strict dietary rules. For three months, there wasn't a half an hour that went by without me thinking about Berlin.
I felt good as I made my way through the park. The rain had picked back up though, and there wasn't any shelter to be had. So I told myself to just accept the fact that I'd be cold and wet, and to put it out of my mind and move on. Once the race got started, I'd be running hard, and I'd get warmed up, and everything would be fine.
In the meantime, I waited. I stretched. I stood under trees. I watched other runners mill around. I waited. I tried not to think about the rain that had been falling off and on for the last 24 hours. I tried to ignore the standing water in the streets and in the lawns of the park. I tried to put my cold and wet body, and my wet and heavy clothes, out of my head.
I tried all of that in vain. As 9:00 am approached, I was spending far too much time wishing that things were other than they were.
And then the starting gun went off.
We started off so fast. Seven minute miles right out of the gate. I'd never felt a starting pace like that in any race that was longer than a 10k. I was in a corral near the front and this was an all business crowd. I quickly shed my thoughts about the weather and all of the other factors that were out of my control, and I just ran. I had every intention of proving that this was were I belonged.
 |
| Me in the white shirt and dark shorts. About Mile 6. |
I didn't slow down though. I'd put in too much work to get ready for that race. And I'd tied every bit of that preparation to the idea of qualifying for Boston. I told myself that I'd find a way to push through.
I didn't push through though. By the half way point I was already unraveling. My legs were on fire and I was slowing down. I watched other runners pass me by. First by the dozens, then by the hundreds. By the time I hit the 25k mark, it was over. I had another 17k to go, I was in a lot of pain, and Boston was out of the question.
I went through a wide range of emotions over that final ninety minutes. Initially, I was frustrated and angry, and I felt sorry for myself. And then I tried to shift my focus. I wasn't going to qualify for Boston, but I could still beat my Chicago time. I could still PR. And I reminded myself that I was still running the Berlin Marathon, and that I should be embracing that experience, because I probably wouldn't ever do it again.
But as the race wore on, the pain became more severe, and I couldn't find a way to keep my focus positive. I shuffled along, but I was desperate for it to be over.
And then, finally, it was over. I turned the last corner and I saw the Finish Line from several blocks away. My legs were stiff, but I pushed them as hard as I could. I crossed the Finish Line more than thirty minutes past the time that I'd hoped for, and my eyes filled up with tears as I accepted the Finisher's Medal. I'd given everything that I had to that race, and somehow I'd actually gotten slower.
I spent the better part of the next 24 hours feeling sorry for myself. I went through the post race motions. I ate delicious greasy food. I drank cold beer. I had ice cream for breakfast the next day. But I wasn't happy with the way things had gone. I did eventually snap out of it, and enjoy the rest of my trip. But I had a lot to reflect upon. I knew that I had a lot to take from the experience, and I knew that it was important that I do that.
Some of the problems that I encountered were out of my control. And in hindsight, I don't think that there was any scenario in which I would have qualified for Boston that day. That is a longer and more difficult process than I had recognized. However, there were things that were within my control. There were things that I could have done differently, that would have made the experience a more enjoyable one.
Most notably, I knew that I needed to change my mental approach. I can't limit my ideas of success and failure to the numbers on a clock. The clock can help me in my assessment of myself, but that's all it's there for. It's just a tool. It's not a goal in and of itself. And I knew that I needed to be more honest with myself about my ability. Even if I'd been warm and dry and had fresh legs, I wasn't physically ready to qualify for Boston. And I knew that I needed to make better decisions during the race. Had I slowed down early in the race, I would have lasted longer, finished faster, and had a more enjoyable overall experience.
So I tried to take those lessons with me, while setting everything else down and moving on. Berlin was finished, and I had more races on the horizon.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Marathon #3 Postponed - Minneapolis, Minnesota
2.5) Minneapolis
Going into 2010, my plan was to run two marathons. The first was slated for June 6, 2010 in Minneapolis. I made it to the race in Minneapolis. And I enjoyed the experience on the whole. But I did not run the full marathon. I ran the half-marathon, and my time was 1:41:05.
The year started off well. I had taken it pretty easy over the holidays, but by January I was back in training mode. I was building up my weekly mile totals, and I was doing more cross training. Running still dominated my training schedule, but weights and swimming became staples as well.
I was excited about Minneapolis. It wasn't the race that I saw myself qualifying for Boston with. I was going to shoot for that later in the year. But I knew that I'd be stronger and faster than I was in Chicago, and I was looking forward to using Minneapolis to assess my progress.
I was also excited because both of my sisters were coming up from Denver, and they were going to run too. I have one sister that is a couple of years older than me, and another that is thirteen years younger. Both are runners, though neither had run into double digit miles before. So they were both looking at the half-marathon.
But before any of us made it to Minneapolis, I had a detour to take. I went on a month long vacation to Southeast Asia in March. I knew that I would lose some of the cross training while I was gone. But I figured that as long as I stayed somewhat disciplined with the running, I'd be fine. I'd get back to the gym in April, with a full two months left before the race. And in the meantime, I'd use those training runs in Asia, to see places that I would've never seen otherwise.
My first stop was Hanoi. I landed at night, and I fell asleep immediately after I arrived at the hotel. But I didn't sleep long, and when I found myself wide awake well before dawn, I decided to go for my first run of the trip. It ended up being my longest run of the trip too.
I was lost within minutes.
I was initially okay with being lost. I'm pretty confident in my sense of direction, and I'd written the name and address of the hotel on a piece of paper and brought that with me, and I figured that I'd make my way back there eventually. I knew that directions might be a little tough to follow since I don't speak Vietnamese, but people can look at an address and point in a general direction, and eventually that would get me where I needed to go. In the meantime though, I was too excited to see the city to really give a damn that I didn't know where I was.
But as time went on, I became less and less confident that I was heading in the right direction. When I'd left the hotel, the city had still been sleeping. But thirty minutes later, the sun was up and so was the city. Shops opened their doors and pulled their wares onto the sidewalk, traffic erupted and filled the streets, and people were everywhere. Any landmarks that I'd noted as I left the hotel were useless at that point. And after an hour or so of running, I had to accept that I could be miles from the hotel or just a few blocks. I had no way of knowing, and with the language barrier, distance can be tougher to convey than general direction.
So I ran. I walked a little too. And I kept asking for directions, just to be sure that I wasn't running away from the hotel. I did, of course, find it eventually. And I felt quite relieved when it happened. I'd probably been out for two hours by then, so I won't pretend that I never got worried or frustrated. But even with those drawbacks, that was still one of my favorite runs ever.
That was my first, and as of now my only, trip to Asia. And for me, it was a wonderful introduction. I got pretty far off of the beaten path that morning. I ran through neighborhoods that looked nothing like the area that my hotel was in. I got out were people lived and worked. Where kids went to school. Where families interact and people lay their head at night. That's not always an easy thing to find while traveling, but the likelihood increases significantly with running.
I squeezed in a few more of those runs before leaving northern Vietnam. And after that first morning I managed to do it without getting lost.
After that I made my way over to Laos. My first stop in Laos was in Luang Prabang. It's much smaller and more peaceful than Hanoi, and my first run there was beautiful.
I once again went for a run on my first morning in my new surroundings . But I studied the map more closely this time, and I didn't take off until after the sun had come up. And even when I got out of town, it was easy to find my way. I ran on dirt roads and across wooden bridges. I ran along the rivers and I wound through the hills. I'm glad that I got the experience of that rural run in when I did, because it wasn't long after that that I got sick, and had to shelf the running for what I thought would be just a few days.
When I looked at the basket full of dried cuttlefish, I knew that I probably shouldn't eat any. And to be honest, they didn't even look appealing. It wasn't like staring at a basket of cupcakes and thinking that I should pass. It was dried cuttlefish. But I was traveling. And one of my favorite ways to tour a new place is through my taste buds. So I bought a stick of three and I took a bite. It was terrible, but I took a second bite to be sure. Then, confident that each bite would be as bad as the last, and that this would be one taste that I probably would not acquire, I tossed the rest away.
But the damage was done. There were bacteria working their way through me that my body was unfamiliar with, and therefor was poorly equipped to fight. Before the night was out, I was completely incapacitated. My body started to flush everything out, and there was little for me to do but lay in bed and wait it out.
I was able to function again within 24 hours, but I remained weak for several days, and I never let myself get too far from a restroom. On the sixth day, I decided to go for an easy run. I was in Siem Reap, Cambodia by then. I was extremely sluggish, but I couldn't be sure that that was a result of my having been sick. I was moving steadily south by then, and I had also come down in elevation, so the heat was a much bigger factor than it was before the cuttlefish. But I had managed to get in about five miles, and I'd done it without needing to find any facilities. So I definitely took that as a positive.
For the remaining two weeks of that trip, I didn't do a lot of running. I felt more or less capable, but I just didn't do it. I had gotten out of rhythm. I let the heat deter me. And then I just gave up. I told myself that I'd be fine. I'd just chalk it up as a minor setback, and get back to work as soon as I got home.
But shortly after I returned home, I was sick again. It didn't feel like the same sickness, and when I eventually went to see a doctor, he said that it didn't sound related to what I'd experienced in Asia, and that the timing was probably coincidental. But regardless of the cause, it was frustrating.
Throughout the entire month of April, I struggled. I couldn't keep food down, and I was getting weaker by the day. On one particularly rough day, I walked into work and watched as my boss' eyes widened at the sight of me. He quickly looked me up and down, took a cautionary step back, and told me that I should go home.
My lowest point came near the end of April. I tried to go for a five mile run, and I couldn't finish. For the first time since the summer of 2008, when I was just starting out, I had to run/walk a simple five mile route. I was beyond frustrated. I was filled with self-pity and despair. I was a month away from Minneapolis, and I clearly wasn't in any shape to run 26.2 miles. Most of the work that I'd been putting in for nearly two years was gone, and I was back at the start.
That was when I finally went to see the doctor. (I can be a little stubborn with that. I prefer to let my body do its own healing when possible.) We talked about my symptoms, he gave me some pills, and gradually I was able to keep my meals down. I'd lost a lot of muscle. And I was still frustrated. But I was finally able to start moving forward again, and that was an enormous relief.
But I still had to decide what to do with Minneapolis. I hadn't registered for anything yet. I never thought that I would skip the race all together, but I couldn't let go of the possibility that I could get myself through the full marathon. However, after some soul searching and a realistic assessment of my physical condition, I came to terms with the fact that even if I did finish the full marathon, I'd be miserable throughout the experience. And I run because I love to run, not to make myself miserable. So I signed up for the half-marathon, and I hit the pavement.
In the meantime, my younger sister had gotten bogged down with school work, and had decided to skip the trip. She was also going to be taking summer classes, so she would have had to fly home just hours after finishing, in order to be in class on Monday. But my older sister had been training hard to prepare herself, and I was looking forward to sharing the experience of race day with her. (I was also looking forward to sharing the experience of post-race greasy food, cold beer, concerts, and baseball games with her. And we did manage to squeeze all of that in before leaving Minnesota.)
The race itself was fun. Minneapolis is a beautiful city to run in. The course was challenging. It was reasonably flat at first (Though few courses seem truly flat when you're used to running in Chicago.), but it became quite hilly once we started running along the Mississippi River. But mostly I was just grateful to be running again.
And I was elated to have the chance to see my sister cross the Finish Line at her first half-marathon. She ran it in 2:46:39, earning every ounce of the food and beer that we put down later that afternoon. Since then, she's found other ways to embrace the spirit of the sport. This past winter, she completed a five race winter running series in Colorado. (My little sister did four of those with her.) And this coming October she'll be running another half-marathon, this time at home in Denver.
When I got back to Chicago, I had to acknowledge that I was a long way from attempting a Boston Qualifying run. The base that I'd built up was gone. And I had less than four months to change that. But I had already signed up for my next full marathon. And this one was going to be on a course that has been called the fastest course in the world. So I sat down with a pen and paper, and I made a list of all of my regular habits that have an effect on my health. And I made decisions about what would make me stronger, and what would only slow me done. If it fell in the latter category, it was gone. It it fell in the former category, I was going to do a lot of it. Clean and simple. Four months of pushing myself hard. I knew I couldn't guarantee that I'd qualify, but I felt that I could guarantee that by the time I landed in Berlin, I'd be in the best shape of my life, and ready to give it everything that I had in me.
Going into 2010, my plan was to run two marathons. The first was slated for June 6, 2010 in Minneapolis. I made it to the race in Minneapolis. And I enjoyed the experience on the whole. But I did not run the full marathon. I ran the half-marathon, and my time was 1:41:05.
The year started off well. I had taken it pretty easy over the holidays, but by January I was back in training mode. I was building up my weekly mile totals, and I was doing more cross training. Running still dominated my training schedule, but weights and swimming became staples as well.
I was excited about Minneapolis. It wasn't the race that I saw myself qualifying for Boston with. I was going to shoot for that later in the year. But I knew that I'd be stronger and faster than I was in Chicago, and I was looking forward to using Minneapolis to assess my progress.
I was also excited because both of my sisters were coming up from Denver, and they were going to run too. I have one sister that is a couple of years older than me, and another that is thirteen years younger. Both are runners, though neither had run into double digit miles before. So they were both looking at the half-marathon.
But before any of us made it to Minneapolis, I had a detour to take. I went on a month long vacation to Southeast Asia in March. I knew that I would lose some of the cross training while I was gone. But I figured that as long as I stayed somewhat disciplined with the running, I'd be fine. I'd get back to the gym in April, with a full two months left before the race. And in the meantime, I'd use those training runs in Asia, to see places that I would've never seen otherwise.
My first stop was Hanoi. I landed at night, and I fell asleep immediately after I arrived at the hotel. But I didn't sleep long, and when I found myself wide awake well before dawn, I decided to go for my first run of the trip. It ended up being my longest run of the trip too.
I was lost within minutes.
I was initially okay with being lost. I'm pretty confident in my sense of direction, and I'd written the name and address of the hotel on a piece of paper and brought that with me, and I figured that I'd make my way back there eventually. I knew that directions might be a little tough to follow since I don't speak Vietnamese, but people can look at an address and point in a general direction, and eventually that would get me where I needed to go. In the meantime though, I was too excited to see the city to really give a damn that I didn't know where I was.
But as time went on, I became less and less confident that I was heading in the right direction. When I'd left the hotel, the city had still been sleeping. But thirty minutes later, the sun was up and so was the city. Shops opened their doors and pulled their wares onto the sidewalk, traffic erupted and filled the streets, and people were everywhere. Any landmarks that I'd noted as I left the hotel were useless at that point. And after an hour or so of running, I had to accept that I could be miles from the hotel or just a few blocks. I had no way of knowing, and with the language barrier, distance can be tougher to convey than general direction.
So I ran. I walked a little too. And I kept asking for directions, just to be sure that I wasn't running away from the hotel. I did, of course, find it eventually. And I felt quite relieved when it happened. I'd probably been out for two hours by then, so I won't pretend that I never got worried or frustrated. But even with those drawbacks, that was still one of my favorite runs ever.
That was my first, and as of now my only, trip to Asia. And for me, it was a wonderful introduction. I got pretty far off of the beaten path that morning. I ran through neighborhoods that looked nothing like the area that my hotel was in. I got out were people lived and worked. Where kids went to school. Where families interact and people lay their head at night. That's not always an easy thing to find while traveling, but the likelihood increases significantly with running.
I squeezed in a few more of those runs before leaving northern Vietnam. And after that first morning I managed to do it without getting lost.
After that I made my way over to Laos. My first stop in Laos was in Luang Prabang. It's much smaller and more peaceful than Hanoi, and my first run there was beautiful.
 |
| Luang Prabang |
When I looked at the basket full of dried cuttlefish, I knew that I probably shouldn't eat any. And to be honest, they didn't even look appealing. It wasn't like staring at a basket of cupcakes and thinking that I should pass. It was dried cuttlefish. But I was traveling. And one of my favorite ways to tour a new place is through my taste buds. So I bought a stick of three and I took a bite. It was terrible, but I took a second bite to be sure. Then, confident that each bite would be as bad as the last, and that this would be one taste that I probably would not acquire, I tossed the rest away.
But the damage was done. There were bacteria working their way through me that my body was unfamiliar with, and therefor was poorly equipped to fight. Before the night was out, I was completely incapacitated. My body started to flush everything out, and there was little for me to do but lay in bed and wait it out.
I was able to function again within 24 hours, but I remained weak for several days, and I never let myself get too far from a restroom. On the sixth day, I decided to go for an easy run. I was in Siem Reap, Cambodia by then. I was extremely sluggish, but I couldn't be sure that that was a result of my having been sick. I was moving steadily south by then, and I had also come down in elevation, so the heat was a much bigger factor than it was before the cuttlefish. But I had managed to get in about five miles, and I'd done it without needing to find any facilities. So I definitely took that as a positive.
For the remaining two weeks of that trip, I didn't do a lot of running. I felt more or less capable, but I just didn't do it. I had gotten out of rhythm. I let the heat deter me. And then I just gave up. I told myself that I'd be fine. I'd just chalk it up as a minor setback, and get back to work as soon as I got home.
But shortly after I returned home, I was sick again. It didn't feel like the same sickness, and when I eventually went to see a doctor, he said that it didn't sound related to what I'd experienced in Asia, and that the timing was probably coincidental. But regardless of the cause, it was frustrating.
Throughout the entire month of April, I struggled. I couldn't keep food down, and I was getting weaker by the day. On one particularly rough day, I walked into work and watched as my boss' eyes widened at the sight of me. He quickly looked me up and down, took a cautionary step back, and told me that I should go home.
My lowest point came near the end of April. I tried to go for a five mile run, and I couldn't finish. For the first time since the summer of 2008, when I was just starting out, I had to run/walk a simple five mile route. I was beyond frustrated. I was filled with self-pity and despair. I was a month away from Minneapolis, and I clearly wasn't in any shape to run 26.2 miles. Most of the work that I'd been putting in for nearly two years was gone, and I was back at the start.
That was when I finally went to see the doctor. (I can be a little stubborn with that. I prefer to let my body do its own healing when possible.) We talked about my symptoms, he gave me some pills, and gradually I was able to keep my meals down. I'd lost a lot of muscle. And I was still frustrated. But I was finally able to start moving forward again, and that was an enormous relief.
But I still had to decide what to do with Minneapolis. I hadn't registered for anything yet. I never thought that I would skip the race all together, but I couldn't let go of the possibility that I could get myself through the full marathon. However, after some soul searching and a realistic assessment of my physical condition, I came to terms with the fact that even if I did finish the full marathon, I'd be miserable throughout the experience. And I run because I love to run, not to make myself miserable. So I signed up for the half-marathon, and I hit the pavement.
In the meantime, my younger sister had gotten bogged down with school work, and had decided to skip the trip. She was also going to be taking summer classes, so she would have had to fly home just hours after finishing, in order to be in class on Monday. But my older sister had been training hard to prepare herself, and I was looking forward to sharing the experience of race day with her. (I was also looking forward to sharing the experience of post-race greasy food, cold beer, concerts, and baseball games with her. And we did manage to squeeze all of that in before leaving Minnesota.)
The race itself was fun. Minneapolis is a beautiful city to run in. The course was challenging. It was reasonably flat at first (Though few courses seem truly flat when you're used to running in Chicago.), but it became quite hilly once we started running along the Mississippi River. But mostly I was just grateful to be running again.
And I was elated to have the chance to see my sister cross the Finish Line at her first half-marathon. She ran it in 2:46:39, earning every ounce of the food and beer that we put down later that afternoon. Since then, she's found other ways to embrace the spirit of the sport. This past winter, she completed a five race winter running series in Colorado. (My little sister did four of those with her.) And this coming October she'll be running another half-marathon, this time at home in Denver.
When I got back to Chicago, I had to acknowledge that I was a long way from attempting a Boston Qualifying run. The base that I'd built up was gone. And I had less than four months to change that. But I had already signed up for my next full marathon. And this one was going to be on a course that has been called the fastest course in the world. So I sat down with a pen and paper, and I made a list of all of my regular habits that have an effect on my health. And I made decisions about what would make me stronger, and what would only slow me done. If it fell in the latter category, it was gone. It it fell in the former category, I was going to do a lot of it. Clean and simple. Four months of pushing myself hard. I knew I couldn't guarantee that I'd qualify, but I felt that I could guarantee that by the time I landed in Berlin, I'd be in the best shape of my life, and ready to give it everything that I had in me.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Marathon #2 - Chicago, Illinois
2) Chicago
I ran my second marathon in Chicago on October 11, 2009. My finishing time was 3:41:27. It's hard to see how this one could have gone much better.
Having completed my first marathon earlier in the year, I started training for Chicago with the clear goal of getting faster. I had found something that I loved, and that I felt I was good at, and I wanted to see how far I could push it.
I had several reasons to believe that I'd finish this race much faster than the first. I had already been training for months for the first race, so I'd be building on top of a much stronger base this time around. I would also be running a flat course, as opposed to fighting the hills in Austin. And I had the advantage of being at home. Having the chance to get a good night's sleep in my own bed, after having cooked exactly what I wanted to eat, was a big comfort. I had been developing a routine for the nights before my long training runs, and I loved the idea of not having to alter that before the actual race.
I piled up the miles all summer. And as fall approached, I was was boiling over with confidence and excitement. I felt physically strong for the first time in my life, and I was anxious to get out there and give the new wheels a spin.
Race day weather was fantastic. I think it may have been around forty degrees when I walked to the el train before dawn. The course runs two blocks from my house, and it was exciting to walk down the street and watch all of the volunteers setting up the water stations in my neighborhood. That home turf feel was easy to feed off of.
Seven of my friends/coworkers were running that morning as well. I met up with most of them for a brief moment, but we soon parted ways. The crowd was massive, and I wanted to get to gear-check, and then work my way up as far as I could.
The sea of runners was something that I didn't fully appreciate until I was in it. This was only my sixth race of any distance, and the previous five totaled together wouldn't add up to a quarter of the number of people that stood on Columbus Ave that morning. All of them waiting to run.
Once the starting gun was fired, it took nearly twenty minutes for me to reach the starting line. And even when I did finally cross, the pace only picked up a little bit. We shuffled through that first couple of miles shoulder to shoulder, zigzagging through the eastern edges of downtown. It wasn't until we finally turned onto LaSalle, that I was able to find some daylight to run through.
But from there on, I didn't run into too many outright bottlenecks. I was still running with a lot of people that were moving at a slower pace than I was, and it did get tight in some spots, but I could usually find a hole to squeeze through.
By the time I reached the half way mark, the crowd had started to thin out. I'd been trying to take back the minutes that I'd lost in the early going, but my success was limited. The crowd just wasn't conducive to the fast, straight-line running that I needed in order to recapture the spent time.
The crowd was helpful in its own way though. Running among so many is quite a rush. And while I don't ever root against other runners (My battle is with myself.), it was empowering to find myself passing so many people, mile after mile. And when fatigue and pain did eventually creep up on me, I felt like I could draw on the energy of everything that was happening around me.
A big part of that energy came from the spectators. Austin had had spectators, but not like this. Locals lined the streets nine and ten deep at some points, friends and families of runners carried signs and noisemakers, and music blasted from the apartment buildings that we passed. It wasn't exactly the Super Bowl, but it was a major sporting event, and participating, rather than watching, was awesome.
When we ran south of Chinatown and started into Bridgeport, I could feel the first undeniable signs that I was breaking down. But this was the 20 mile mark. Quite a bit further along than the last time. And again, I think the location helped a lot at this point. The neighborhoods that we ran through for miles 18 through 26, were the neighborhoods that I ran through every day. That familiarity was comforting. I could look back on the runs through those streets just fifteen months earlier, when I was heaving and panting and struggling to get through a five mile run. I drew strength from the understanding that I'd come so far already. And it helped to know exactly where I was. I had no need for mile markers out here. I knew the course. I knew where the Finish Line was. And I knew what I'd need to get there.
When we turned onto Michigan Ave., I finally found the uncrowded straightaway that I'd been looking for. But there were only a couple of miles to go, and the idea of speeding up to pick up some minutes was long gone. The only thing left at that point is to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
I managed that all the way to Roosevelt, which is where we turned to run along the southern edge of Grant Park, and where we were faced with the only hill on the course. It's one block long, and it's followed by the flat two blocks that lead to Finish Line. In my mind, I envisioned a strong finishing kick, similar to the one that I'd found at the end of the Austin Marathon. But that hill wasn't having it. I was able to run through it without slowing my pace, but I'd have to be content with that. There just wasn't anything left for a kick.
Once again, I finished the race to find myself in a state of elation, peace, exhaustion, and pain. I had some muscle spasms just past the finish line that were more excruciating than any other running pains that I've felt before or since. But those did pass. And within a couple of hours, I was on my feet again.
I had knocked more than a mile per minute off of my time, and I felt invincible. The idea of qualifying for the Boston Marathon, which had been growing in my mind for some time, shot straight to the forefront of my thoughts. 2009 was coming to a close, and I had fully felt the empowering impact of running marathons. It was all beginning to feel easy. But 2010 was on the way. And I would be reminded time and again throughout that year, that nothing worth having is easy. I was about to discover the humbling impact that running marathons has to offer as well.
I ran my second marathon in Chicago on October 11, 2009. My finishing time was 3:41:27. It's hard to see how this one could have gone much better.
Having completed my first marathon earlier in the year, I started training for Chicago with the clear goal of getting faster. I had found something that I loved, and that I felt I was good at, and I wanted to see how far I could push it.
I had several reasons to believe that I'd finish this race much faster than the first. I had already been training for months for the first race, so I'd be building on top of a much stronger base this time around. I would also be running a flat course, as opposed to fighting the hills in Austin. And I had the advantage of being at home. Having the chance to get a good night's sleep in my own bed, after having cooked exactly what I wanted to eat, was a big comfort. I had been developing a routine for the nights before my long training runs, and I loved the idea of not having to alter that before the actual race.
I piled up the miles all summer. And as fall approached, I was was boiling over with confidence and excitement. I felt physically strong for the first time in my life, and I was anxious to get out there and give the new wheels a spin.
Race day weather was fantastic. I think it may have been around forty degrees when I walked to the el train before dawn. The course runs two blocks from my house, and it was exciting to walk down the street and watch all of the volunteers setting up the water stations in my neighborhood. That home turf feel was easy to feed off of.
Seven of my friends/coworkers were running that morning as well. I met up with most of them for a brief moment, but we soon parted ways. The crowd was massive, and I wanted to get to gear-check, and then work my way up as far as I could.
 |
Once the starting gun was fired, it took nearly twenty minutes for me to reach the starting line. And even when I did finally cross, the pace only picked up a little bit. We shuffled through that first couple of miles shoulder to shoulder, zigzagging through the eastern edges of downtown. It wasn't until we finally turned onto LaSalle, that I was able to find some daylight to run through.
But from there on, I didn't run into too many outright bottlenecks. I was still running with a lot of people that were moving at a slower pace than I was, and it did get tight in some spots, but I could usually find a hole to squeeze through.
By the time I reached the half way mark, the crowd had started to thin out. I'd been trying to take back the minutes that I'd lost in the early going, but my success was limited. The crowd just wasn't conducive to the fast, straight-line running that I needed in order to recapture the spent time.
The crowd was helpful in its own way though. Running among so many is quite a rush. And while I don't ever root against other runners (My battle is with myself.), it was empowering to find myself passing so many people, mile after mile. And when fatigue and pain did eventually creep up on me, I felt like I could draw on the energy of everything that was happening around me.
A big part of that energy came from the spectators. Austin had had spectators, but not like this. Locals lined the streets nine and ten deep at some points, friends and families of runners carried signs and noisemakers, and music blasted from the apartment buildings that we passed. It wasn't exactly the Super Bowl, but it was a major sporting event, and participating, rather than watching, was awesome.
When we ran south of Chinatown and started into Bridgeport, I could feel the first undeniable signs that I was breaking down. But this was the 20 mile mark. Quite a bit further along than the last time. And again, I think the location helped a lot at this point. The neighborhoods that we ran through for miles 18 through 26, were the neighborhoods that I ran through every day. That familiarity was comforting. I could look back on the runs through those streets just fifteen months earlier, when I was heaving and panting and struggling to get through a five mile run. I drew strength from the understanding that I'd come so far already. And it helped to know exactly where I was. I had no need for mile markers out here. I knew the course. I knew where the Finish Line was. And I knew what I'd need to get there.
When we turned onto Michigan Ave., I finally found the uncrowded straightaway that I'd been looking for. But there were only a couple of miles to go, and the idea of speeding up to pick up some minutes was long gone. The only thing left at that point is to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
I managed that all the way to Roosevelt, which is where we turned to run along the southern edge of Grant Park, and where we were faced with the only hill on the course. It's one block long, and it's followed by the flat two blocks that lead to Finish Line. In my mind, I envisioned a strong finishing kick, similar to the one that I'd found at the end of the Austin Marathon. But that hill wasn't having it. I was able to run through it without slowing my pace, but I'd have to be content with that. There just wasn't anything left for a kick.
Once again, I finished the race to find myself in a state of elation, peace, exhaustion, and pain. I had some muscle spasms just past the finish line that were more excruciating than any other running pains that I've felt before or since. But those did pass. And within a couple of hours, I was on my feet again.
I had knocked more than a mile per minute off of my time, and I felt invincible. The idea of qualifying for the Boston Marathon, which had been growing in my mind for some time, shot straight to the forefront of my thoughts. 2009 was coming to a close, and I had fully felt the empowering impact of running marathons. It was all beginning to feel easy. But 2010 was on the way. And I would be reminded time and again throughout that year, that nothing worth having is easy. I was about to discover the humbling impact that running marathons has to offer as well.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Marathon #1 - Austin, Texas
1) Austin
I ran my first marathon in Austin on February 15, 2009. My finishing time was 4:09:12. I had hoped to finish in under 4 hours, but there was not a trace of disappointment as I crossed that Finish Line.
I was 34 years old, and I'd just started running about eight and a half months earlier. Prior to that I'd been about thirty pounds overweight. And I'd spent most of my adolescence and adult years as a heavy drinker, smoker, and consumer of fast food. I'd been working to change my habits and improve my health for several years, but I didn't really turn that corner until I started running.
I trained in Chicago, and a lot of that training took place in the winter. I mixed in outdoor running (when the footing seemed reliable and the temperature was tolerable) with treadmill running. I joined a gym for the first time in my life, and I started doing a little bit of lifting. But for the most part I just ran.
Every mile that I ran in preparation for that race seemed to put more distance in between me and a life that I had been trying to shed for years, while bringing me closer to the life that I wanted to live. More specifically, the running and the training were helping me to become the person that I wanted to be. As I made improvements in my physical health, I could also see improvements in my mental and emotional health. The confidence and the clarity of thought that I found while running began to carry over into other aspects of my life.
There was something simple and straight forward about running and about training for that marathon. The responsibility was all mine. Friends and family could be supportive, but nobody could run for me. Either I did it or I didn't. The formula was simple as well. The more I ran, the more effort I put in, the stronger I got. And the goal was clearly defined. Marathons have a Starting Line and a Finish Line, and no shortcuts are available.
When the morning of the race finally arrived, I was reasonably confident. My friend dropped me off downtown in the predawn darkness, and I walked among the thousands of other runners. The energy and the anticipation built up as the start time got closer, until finally the gun sounded and we were off.
I was grinning like the village idiot as I took those first steps. The sheer joy of what I was doing was nearly overwhelming at that point. But as we climbed the first of what would be many hills, the giddy feeling burned off and the calming rhythm and flow of the run took over.
Within a few miles, I found a 3:50 pace group and I settled in near them. I spent most of the morning running just behind or ahead of that group. Occasionally I'd run alongside of them and pick up on some pieces of their conversation. But for the most part I ran alone.
As we ran through the Austin neighborhood of Westlake, the hills began to extract their toll. By the time I reached the halfway mark, I knew that my legs were more sore than they should be at that point. I'd used the incline feature on the treadmill as I trained, but I now know in hindsight that I had not prepared properly for such a hilly course. But I was out there, and there was nothing to be done but to keep running.
Which I did until about the 18 mile mark. That was a lonely stretch of road in a residential section of north Austin. Most of the hills were behind me at that point, but they had done their damage. As I slowed with soreness and fatigue, I watched that pace group disappear ahead of me. And as I looked around, I saw that there were no other runners or spectators within 50 yards of me. I had eight miles to go, and for the first time I started to feel pangs of anxiety and doubt.
I was now stopping to walk at every water station, but I kept moving forward and the small doubts about finishing that had started to creep in up north had disappeared. The only question was time. I knew that 4:00 was slipping away, and I knew that I could live with that. But I still wanted to finish with best time that I could muster.
Around the 23 mile mark, I saw the tall woman again. She was walking in a bit of a daze, and receiving pats on the back and words of encouragement from a group of girls that had come over to her from the water station that they were volunteering at. She didn't look good, but this was uncharted territory for me, so I really didn't know what to make of the situation. And then, perhaps a mile later, I watched her run right by me at a pretty healthy gait.
I knew that the race finished just south of the capitol building, and so when I turned onto Guadalupe and found myself staring at the north side of that building, the reality of finishing the race began to seep in. But my initial excitement at that sight was tempered for a moment. As I got closer to the massive building that I needed to run around, I saw the tall woman for the last time. She was on the ground and she had two paramedics tending to her. She was conscious, and they were helping her stretch rather than taking her off of the course, so I was still hopeful that she might get up and finish. I'd never exchanged a single word with her, but I felt like we'd run that race together and I wanted her to make it. We had less than a half mile to go, and the idea that she would get so close and come up short was heartbreaking. I jogged by her, and I never saw her again. I hope that she was able to get up and find that Finish Line.
My thoughts quickly came back to my own race as I rounded the capitol. And when I made my final turn onto Congress Ave., and I saw that Finish Line, every bit of pain and fatigue that I'd been feeling for the previous two hours disappeared. I broke into an all out sprint on that final stretch. And as soon as I crossed that line I nearly collapsed.
I was totally spent. I remember somebody putting a medal on me, and I think somebody else handed me a banana and a bottle of Gatorade. And then I just walked slowly and painfully forward. It must have taken 15 minutes for me to walk the few blocks to the meeting point that I'd arranged with my friend.
When I got there, I sprawled out on the sidewalk and closed my eyes. I'd never known the beautiful emptiness that comes from that level of exhaustion. I could feel every muscle in my body, and every breath that filled my lungs. I had no more effort to give, and nothing to give it to. I'd never felt more free in my life.
I recovered surprisingly fast. Within an hour or so, I was able to walk at a respectable pace. I showered and changed. And then I went out to celebrate with some friends. We sat on the patio of a Mexican restaurant that I'd gone to often when I lived in Austin. I devoured the biggest plate of Tex-Mex that I could find and I washed it down with several margaritas. I was feeling wonderful, and I was in no hurry for that to end.
I spent a couple more days in Austin, and then I flew home to Chicago. I couldn't have been happier with the experience that I'd just had. But before the week was out, I was starting to look forward. I knew that I could build on top of what I'd just done. I knew that I could still do better. That I could still choose to climb a lot higher. The Chicago Marathon was just over seven months away, and I was ready to get back to work.
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