It all fit on one page!

Kizmet.  Serendipity.  Destiny.  Meant to be.  Sometimes a gift comes along that you know you were meant to have.  

I don’t know if my running gave me her friendship, or if her friendship gave me running.  They are mixed together like coffee and cream, like sugar in tea--dissolving into each other, each making the other better.  She’s my best friend.  

For all of us, friendship matters in our quality of life, but I’ve never found this more true for me than in my days as a stay-at-home mom.  It can be a lonely time, because between the moments of blissed-out motherhood are unparalleled doldrums and disconnection.  So maybe it was desperation that made me do it.  When this preschool mom came to me with the idea of running a marathon, I said yes.  

My first impression of her was that she was petite (a body-type that has always greened me with envy), and that she possessed the self-assured friendliness (again, making me green) that puts a person at ease.  In contrast, I’m a strange breed of extroverted introvert, or introverted extrovert.  I love people; they cheer me up, motivate me, and give me something to look forward to...until I need to run away and hide in a hole for a few hours or days to recuperate from social exertion.  I am an extro-intro.  (I’m officially copyrighting the shortening of introverted and extroverted to intro and extro.)

She was a young mom too, staying home with her kiddos.  She had been a runner in high school.  She was smart, which was apparent from our first conversation, and she was nice.  (She’ll swear she’s not, but don’t believe her.)  Apparently I fooled her into thinking I had some mix of running nice-smartness in me too, so when she overheard me mention that I had run a few half-marathons (or maybe she saw me wear one of my race shirts), she suggested I step it up and run the whole shebang.  26.2 miles.  The distance between Marathon and Athens that killed Pheidippides when he ran it.  She ignored my “by-the-time-I’m-forty” delay tactic, and hammered the last nail in my coffin the next day by bringing in a handwritten 5-month plan, charting every run and rest day, that would make me marathon-ready.  And it all fit on one page!

How did she know I would be convinced by the optical illusion of fitting it all on one sheet of paper?  Do I look that gullible?  How could she guess that I was thirsty for the implicit offer of friendship and support during the process?  Did I look that desperate?  Maybe so.  I’m so glad.  Because by scratching out, with thick, deep pen-scratches, everyone of those 88 training runs on that itsy-bitsy piece of paper--okay, I skipped a couple--I made it to race day.  I became a marathoner.  And that offer of friendship?  She more than made good on it.

Better than good.  For every marathon I’ve run, she’s run the race too.  She’s speedier than the Road Runner, so she always finishes with enough time to spare to refuel, rest up just a bit, and yes even fit in a quick shower, before she retraces her hard-earned miles to meet me and run me in as I finish my race in a state of tearful, expletive-laden decay.  

And during training, she celebrates my strong long runs and talks me off the ledge when  a slow short run with lead-heavy legs makes me feel like a loser and a fraud.  

And when a little stress in my life makes me feel like I’m metaphorically running up a mountain, she reminds me to be grateful.  Because our uphill is the rest of the world’s downhill, and on a bad day I’ve got it better than 99.9% of the world, and people wish they had my problems.

And as my kids grow, she sees and knows them and their beauty and accomplishments, and she offers her own children to them as true, dear friends.

And when my dad was so sick we didn’t know if he would make it through the night, I knew I could call her so my kids could stay over at her house and Gene could sit with me through those hard and scary hours.  I didn’t even have to ask; I knew she was there for me to give me what I needed, damn the disruption to her schedule or routines.

And she understands that though I am often conflicted and confused, I can be trusted to act from conviction.  And she believes that writing my blog isn’t a waste of my time and reading it isn’t a waste of hers.  And she listens when I ramble, and laughs with me when I laugh at myself.  She’s patient with me as I learn how to be a better listener.  She’s present for me as I learn to live in the moment.

We’re different.  She’s fast; I’m slow.  She’s skinny; I’m not.  I cling; she relaxes.  I believe in God; she doesn’t.  None of it changes the gift I’ve gotten.  She’s my best friend, and I aspire to be worthy of being hers.  To listen as well as she does and support like she can and live with the hard-won, easy strength she emulates.

There is one thing I’m better at than she is.  I brag; she doesn’t.  You see, becoming a marathoner has taught me a lot about my own strength and capacity.  Therefore, I believe it is a virtue to celebrate my accomplishments loudly in the presence of others.  By doing so, I strip myself of the excuses that might keep me from trying harder or doing the right thing.  So today, I’m gonna finish this blog by bragging for her.  She deserves it:

3:05 marathon finishing time

10th female finisher overall

1st in her age division

That’s my best friend!

Beautwonderful

Kinda cool.  And Scher coined the perfect word for capturing the ups and downs of long distance running: ecstagony:-)

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/05/opinion/focus.html?hp

A Controlled Crash

Not everything went my way in Portland.  I ran a marathon, my third now.  I was 8.5 minutes faster than my first, and less than 5 minutes behind my best time.  Not too shabby.  Still, I didn’t run the race I wanted to run.  I took too much for granted, and my pace suffered for it. 

I am five pounds lighter than when I ran the marathon in May.  I prioritized maintaining the lighter weight, so I didn’t eat enough in the week leading up to the race.  I took for granted that a slightly lighter running weight would lead to speed (5 seconds faster per mile per pound lost, or so I’ve read).  I certainly consumed a considerable amount of simple carbs, mac ‘n cheese, more mac ‘n cheese, bread with honey, pasta, and on and on.  That was fun!  But I skipped breakfast too often.  Thanks to bad timing this month, my appetite was low and my iron was low, and I should have just eaten a bit more.  My awesome running friend and marathon weekend partner informs me that tapering and fueling correctly before a marathon results in approximately four pounds of weight gain.  See...being fatter sometimes makes you faster.

Also, I trained well here in Colorado.  Five thousand plus feet of altitude.  Plenty of elevation gain in my training runs.  Faster long runs than I’ve ever managed before; I ran my 24-miler a month ago at an average pace of 11:05.  Typically, a person can run 30-90 seconds faster per mile on race day, thanks to adrenaline and recovery from tapering.  I took for granted that running at sea level would give me a great edge.  But I didn’t add speed work or pace runs--scary stuff those.  So the 10:20 pace I maintained for the first 15 miles blew up in my face at mile 16.  

In addition to my own training complacency and fueling mishaps, I drew a hand of plain bad luck.  On the morning of my marathon, my Garmin went kaput.  Crap-o-la! It was charged, checked and double-checked, then when I went to put it on, the display was blank.  Nothing.  I tried pressing the light button, the start button, two buttons at once, holding down for 5 seconds, 10 seconds, etc, etc, etc.  Total blank.  We quizzed people in the elevator, but no suggestion helped.  I was grateful for the extra stopwatch my friend had along.  She surrendered it to me for the duration of the race, and coupled with a pace chart on my wrist, I managed to run way too fast for my own good.  I’d like to say I’d have run smarter with my Garmin.  I certainly wish I could have had the chance to try.  Thankfully, the stopwatch kept me informed along the way, but it couldn’t save me when the hill at mile 16 made me face the music.

So I went out too fast.  I planned to run a 10:30-10:40 pace for the first 13-20 miles, then amp it up if I had something left.  Instead, I blazed through the first 15 miles at a 10:18-ish pace.  I always go out too fast.  I feel fresh, fabulous, and fast.  I forget that I have 5 hours and 26.2 miles to go.  I ignore my brain and start wishing for miracles, but I didn’t get any this time around.  Instead of a miracle, I got a mountain.

There was a hill at mile 16, 1 mile long and 150 feet up.  I’ve done tougher in my training, but this time around I was depleted.  I felt light-headed, dizzy, and hollow.  The 16th mile is a scary place for a hill: too late in the race to feel strong and fresh, but way too early to attack it with my last reserves.  I chose to walk the hill.  My pace suffered for the rest of the race, and walk breaks every mile were 1-3 minutes instead of 30 seconds.  Thankfully, the gross goo I ingested at 18 helped.  Eventually.

The last and scariest challenge of my Portland marathon had everything to do with breathing.  My thin air, oxygen-deprived existence in the Mile High City couldn’t save me.  My blood sugar levels were so low by the end of the race that my emotions were leaking out of me, then flowing out of me, then pouring flood-like and torrential.  Every quarter- to half-mile, my tears would seep into my eyes and threaten to spill.  My chin would tighten and quiver.  And then my throat would close.  I truly understand now why it is called getting “choked up.”  My airway would collapse and I couldn’t get it open until I restrained my emotion.  I said to myself, “It’s okay.  Today’s not your day.  You have to let the goal go.  Let it go.  You’ll finish under 5 hours.  And you’ll keep running.”  I reminded myself that I was accomplishing a great thing, not experiencing a failure.  I would find my self-acceptance, then find a deep breath.  My best friend, who had already run herself to death in her race, came back to meet me, as she always does.  She ran me in for the last mile plus.  My first words to her were, “I’m gonna hold it together.”  And I did.

I crashed on Sunday.  Events conspired against me, my training fell a bit short, and my fueling was insufficient.  It wasn’t my fastest finish, but it was my proudest.  I call it my Sully Sullenberger moment.  He’s the pilot that landed a 747 on the Hudson, saving the lives of everyone on board.  He controlled the crash and brought ‘er in.  Me, too.  I definitely crashed, but I controlled it.  The last five miles were faster than the five before them.  I cried like a baby...after the finish line.  And now I have a really good reason to put my shoes back on.  I’m gonna tweak my training, reevaluate my fueling, and run another marathon.  And another.  And another.  Woohoo!  Shit.  :-)

I Run for the People.

This is not a Che-MLK-Gandhi kind of statement.  This is an honest, selfish, greedy statement that lacks altruism entirely.  I run to feel good, to be healthy, to eat indulgently, and to brag boorishly.  But above all, I run for the people.  If you want to meet cool people, run.  Nice people?  Run.  Inspiring people?  Run.  If you want to have complete strangers cheer you, encourage you, hand you candy corn, gummy bears, and, yes, even Vaseline to smear in unmentionable places...run.  If you want to like people again, instead of just grumble or cuss at them on the highway or in the grocery store, run.  And Portland is a great place to do this.

Portland, Oregon is a great little city.  I love the manageable scale and the temperate weather.  We had great racing conditions.  Moreover, the spirit and ethos of Portland is lovely.  The transit system includes a sizable free zone, and functions well with an honor system for payment.  Riders jump out of their seats to offer a chair to older riders, moms, etc.  And the senior ticket is labeled “Honored Citizen.”  Lovely.  Not to mention that on race day the course was packed in downtown and in neighborhoods with loads of people, families, and volunteers (4,000 of them).  For every 3 marathoners, there was a volunteer making things run smoothly.  Thank you, people of Portland!

Then there are a few people who stand out.  At mile 18, a guy stood in the drizzle to hold a sign that said, “Go, Complete Stranger, Go!”  Sir, this complete stranger thanks you.  And at mile 24, when I was holding on for dear life, a guy on the sidewalk locked eyes with me and saw the state I was in.  He took a step forward, read my name on my bib, and said, “Amanda, you look like a train right now, passing these people.  Keep going!”  I nearly wept...seriously; this is not an overstatement. 

And it gets better!  Runners are amazing people, and I met some standouts this weekend.  On the plane to Portland, my friend and I found ourselves next to a fellow marathoner.  He was flying to Portland for his first marathon, and to propose to his girlfriend.  She had started him training for the marathon, and believing he had this feat in him, and believing he had a happily-ever-after in him, too.  But the ring wasn’t ready, and he was stewing in his own juices with disappointment and nervousness.  My friend and I jumped in, intervening with a quick trip to a department store where we found a cheap stand-in ring that we left at the expo for our new friend and his unsuspecting bride-to-be.  He proposed at the finish line, she said yes, and we got a text saying she was wearing that chintzy ring around like it was the most precious thing in the world.  Yippee! 

Then on the plane ride home, we sat next to another marathoner, all three of us a bit hobbly.  He’s a doctor, so you’d think he’s a smart guy.  Well...he ran the marathon because of an agreement made in a hot tub...real smart, Doc.  Look what you got yourself into.  So this Denver doctor, whose girlfriend is an avid marathoner and a doctor in Boston, flew out to be with other doctor friends who live in Portland.  Their reunion, and uninhibited hot tub time, led to marathon finishes all around.  Four friends marked their marathon milestone by planting a row of trees (gifts from the very eco-friendly Portland Marathon) in one of their front yards.  That row of trees will memorialize their friendships, their achievements, and their balls-out insanity, all of which I hope will grow sky-high with the trees.  Well done, Docs!

I’ll give the break down of my break down (yes, it was that kind of race for me) in the next few days, but the most important thing I can say about my marathon weekend is this.  I run for the people.  For the likes of Collin and Mike, and the guy with the sign saying, “Go, Complete Stranger, Go!”  I run to have someone look me in the eye, see that I am spent, past-spent, drained and double-drained, and tell me I can when I think I can’t.  Why should he care?  He shouldn’t, but he did.  We all care about each other, because the journey is shared.  We understand each other and support each other because we know together is better than alone.  That bears repeating.  Together is better than alone.

Proportions

My head is freakishly small and my shoulders are football player wide.  My arms and thighs are thick; my eyelashes are thin.  My legs are short; my ass is large.  I’m all out of proportion.

But if you take me in at a glance you won’t notice the shortcomings.  I’ll smile, you’ll find me pleasant.  Occasionally, you might see the goofy.  Something will seem a little bit hall-of-mirrors, but you won’t quite be able to put your finger on it.  It’s nothing to worry about or waste time on.  These little flaws are forgettable.  Predictable beauty, perfect proportions--it’s just too obvious for me.  Boring.  Kind of a trap, really.  What happens when time, or babies, or accidental dismemberment steals it away?  I’d rather be a little odd, and able to hold on to my appearance in an open palm.  Why blow it’s importance  out of proportion?

Like my looks, my running is all out of proportion.  I’m unpredictably slow in shorter distances, then able to pull off (given slow training times) surprisingly respectable marathon finishes.  My fastest mile ever is only a minute faster than my mile pace for a marathon.  No pace wheel can predict my finish.  I’m surprisingly fast for someone so painfully slow.  Thankfully, this allows me to relax about my running accomplishments.

So I’m gearing up for marathon #3.  In two weeks, it will all be over.  I’m hoping for a personal best; most runners are at most every race.  But it could be hot.  It could be cold and rainy.  I could twist my ankle, or get a sick stomach, or go out too fast, or go out too slow to get the time back.  The Portland Hills fault zone could unleash its fury on us all in a massive earthquake.  A lot could happen that I can’t control, but I’m trying to not allow my worries to get blown all out of proportion. 

I’ve trained and tapered, I’ve fueled and focused.  Now, I just have to take this oddly proportioned, strangely paced, worry-wart self to the start line and let ‘er rip.  Portland Marathon, October 9, 2011.  Keep me in your thoughts, and I’ll let you know how it goes.

Welcome to the Hurt

Or "The Painful Consequences of the Insane Pastime of Long Distance Running"

1. winter training, which includes walking in the front door and being mistaken for the abominable snowman
2. summer training, which includes heat rash, sunburn, and a serious farmer’s tan (there isn’t a sunscreen I can’t sweat off)
3. a weakened immune system that invariably leads to a cold at the peak of training
4. an occasional sore throat, not evidence of a cold but of the amount of time I spend sucking air down my windpipe like a deranged Hoover
5. a general aura of stinkiness, in my hair, on my clothes, in the laundry basket (a morning shower has never been so important)
6. 4 a.m. wake-up, because I’d rather run in the dark than have the glare of the sun in my eyes
7. wearing a visor, which leaves a ridiculous tan line on my forehead and preserves for posterity the salty sweat lines and general dirty dank of my existence
8. the knee ache
9. the hamstring ache
10. the quad ache
11. the foot ache
12. the side ache
13. the head ache
14. the back and neck ache (many of these have improved as my form has slightly improved...but sometimes when I’m lying perfectly still, I still feel like I’m running)
15. the bathroom break, which produces a foul excrement worthy of being placed in a brown paper bag and left on the doorstep of Hell
16. the wall, which I pretend doesn’t exist, but inevitably kicks in when I still have 5 to 10 miles to go
17. the goo, meant to allow me to avoid the wall but only in exchange for activating my gag reflex...the stuff is nasty
18. exhaustion, the yang to the runner’s high yin, which causes mild-mannered me to curse like a sailor in the last mile of a marathon
19. the uphill to the finish line (why do they do that?)
20. the shakes, an inevitable companion to the finish line; I think it is evidence of muscular post-traumatic stress disorder
21. the post-race wobble; it looks something like the walk of a 9-month pregnant woman wobbling down a hospital hallway, baby fully engaged in the birth canal
22. walking down stairs backward for a week
23. watching my peak fitness fade in mere weeks (you gotta work it to keep it)
24. the feeling of dread which accompanies the need to find another race (damn addictive hobby!)
25. the time in between, when I miss the relentless training and well-earned ache...when I miss the hurt

I must be nuts!

My Favorite Running Mantras

mantra [mahn-truh] noun: a word or formula chanted or sung as an incantation or prayer;  chant, psalm, hymn

There is no wall.
I can.  I will.  I am.  (Thanks, Chrissy!)
It gets done by doing it.
Head up, chest up, quick turnover.
This is my race.
You’re stronger than you think you are; you can do more than you think you can. (Thanks, Jamie!)
Get ‘er dunn.
Bragging rights for life!
Thank You.

What am I missing?  Do you have an exercise mantra?