Category: Running

August ’09 Was…

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For the sake of sanity I have to recap the entire summer. Summer as we think of it in terms of the calendar, not the temperature. June. July. August.
June can only be thought of as a dark and hellish tunnel. In that case, July was the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. As a result, August was not only getting out of the dark and hellish tunnel but moving as far, far away from it as possible. August was an amazing month!

August was music (loved the Avett Brothers and had a great time at Phish). August was homehome with my best boys. August was also a group of good, good books:

  • The Moviegoer by Percy Walker ~ interesting story about a man watching life go by rather than living it.
  •  Turbulent Souls: a Catholic Son’s Return to his Jewish Family by Stephen J. Dubner ~ this was fascinating.
  • The Professor and the Madman: a Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary by Simon Winchester ~ another fascinating nonfiction with great illustrations.
  • The Mutual Friend by Frederick Busch ~ a novel about Charles Dickens that I couldn’t really get into.
  • Those Tremendous Mountains: the Story of the Lewis and Clark Expedition by David Freeman Hawke ~ another nonfiction, this time about the Lewis and Clark Expedition (like the title says).
  • Wind, Sand and Stars by Antoine de Saint-Expery ~ all about war-time aviation.

For the Early Review Program:

  • Sandman Slim: a Novel by Richard Kadrey ~ absolutely crazy good book.
  • Off the Tourist Trail: 1,000 Unexpected Travel Alternatives ~ an amazing travel book! Really beautiful!
  • Finished reading Honeymoon in Tehran by Azadeh Moaveni ~ part political, part personal, this was great.

For fun:

  • My First 100 Marathons: 2,620 Miles with an Obsessed Runner by Jeff Horowitz ~ funny and informative, too!
  • Running and Being by George Sheehan ~ funny and sarcastic and informative all at once!

Running and Being

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Sheehan, George. Running and Being: the Total Experience.New York: Simon and Schuster, 1978.

I didn’t know what to think of this book when it came across my desk. Everyone knows George Sheehan is a renowned expert on distance running. Everyone also knows he isn’t exactly the friendliest of runners. What I didn’t know was how funny he would be in Running and Being. Part philosophy, part psychology, part memoir, and all about running,  Running and Being was above all else, entertaining. Amidst the advice about pace, hills, racing, losing, injuries, and accomplishments there is humor, sarcasm and wit. Even the illustrations are funny.
Here are two examples of nonrunning humor: “I was born with the dread that someone would punch me in the nose or, even worse, put his arm around me” (p 26), and “I never smoked. Buying something and then setting it on fire is incomprehensible” (p 47). Crack me up.

Despite Sheehan’s “keep away” attitude I found his advice to be warm, solid and comforting. If words could actually be all those things. I consider his expertise on the subject of putting one foot in front of another to be priceless.

This is not a Book Lust challenge book – just something I picked up because it’s reputation preceded it.

Can’t Count

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For lack of something better to say, here’s something I never posted.

I don’t want to count today’s run for anything except a cemetery visit. After kisa and I got the driveway, porches and walkways cleared of snow it seemed ridiculous to hop on an indoor treadmill. The sun was shining a brilliant blue. Not a cloud in sight. Birds darted among the bushes. 18 degrees felt like 800 after shoveling. Perfect for a graveyard run. Or so I thought.

Here are the things I have forgotten about since my last ‘coil run’ (I’m talking about the coils runners wear over their shoes to avoid slipping on ice – love them!):

  • coils “roll” on pavement
  • coils slip in fluffy snow
  • coils are perfect on icy ice

So, I tried to look for patches of ice to run on the entire time. It seems strange to say that, but it was true. The metal coils worked best when they could dig into the surface and hang on. Snow packed in between the coils and pavement just made the coils roll like springs. Running in snow was like running in very fine, very loose sand. My ankles grew sore and my calves tightened. Hell on the thighs, too.
I had completely forgotten what it was like to run outside in below freezing temps. Tears freeze halfway down the face despite feeling hot everywhere else. Snot starts to lodge itself like ice chunks. In the beginning, speaking of snot, I had a snot bubble that refused to pop. With every breath it grew and shrank like a giant bullfrog throat (crazy image, right? It’s true). It made me giggle until it started to freeze in my nose. Giggling turned to gross in a matter of seconds.
Running outside in the snow affords me the luxury in running in someone else’s footsteps for a while. Someone wearing coils like mine on shoes twice as big. For a while I could match his or her stride footstep for footstep and I fell into an easy rhythm. Then the packed snow ended and I lost my imaginary running mate. It was time for me to turn towards the cemetery.
Running up to the spot I spotted a man not wearing a coat…or a hat…or gloves. In this cold I had reason to worry. Instantly my heart began to race and panic threatened. We made eye contact, said hello and separated. Him leaving the graveyard, me going deeper into it. Remembering I had my phone with me I relaxed as the man continued to move further away.
On the way out I couldn’t believe my eyes. Mr. NoCoat was coming back. Panic was also back, so on gut instinct I bolted across the road and down a side street. I swear I watch too much crime television. I’m paranoid. Nevertheless I hated seeing the same stranger twice. Getting away from him was the only thing on my mind as I cut across another street and up onto a very public sidewalk. There I felt safe enough to slow back down to a breathable, less heart attack inducing pace.

I never did find Rick and Irene’s graves. The snow was too crusty for me to brush away. I never did see NoCoat again. I can’t count this as a real run. Emotions got the better of me. This would have been a 3.25 30 minute run had it not been for digging in the snow and trying to outrun my fear.

The Crazy One

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I’ve given up trying to figure out what constitutes sanity. What makes someone more balanced than not. Isn’t it easier to just say everyone is just a little touched these days? In light of recent events I’m certainly feeling a little undone myself. I think I am relating to Matchbox 20 (or is it Twenty?) just a little too well, “I’m not crazy, I’m just a little impaired. I know right now you don’t care.”
Last night it was the grip of insanity and the insatiable urge to talk to someone until my heart bled dry. I did not. I dreamed my conversation away.
Today it was the sight of chicken turning my stomach inside out. Covering my plate to keep my dignity. Monsters in the mall. Voices jamming up my thought process.
This afternoon I had to fight the urge to break every pencil in sight. Break them just to say I could. Laughing like I’m losing it. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I am.

Last night I stared into the darkness trying to write words on the walls of my memory, hoping to remember them come daylight. I did not. Phrases slipped away, faded with the dawn, disappeared in the sunlight. Didn’t matter. Not worth much without what went with them. Reasons.

I thought about the bugs, real and imagined. I thought about the eggs that dared to dance across my plate. The quivering of confusion as a heart lay down to die.

I have gone back to running…again. The love affair that I can’t say no to. I simply cannot refuse you. They (all three) have been modest runs: 2.5mi, 2.54mi, 2.63mi – just long enough for me to curse and carry on like the crazy one that I am. It’s in those 25 minutes that I sort it all out. Get it all out. By the time I am finished with the run I am finished with the rant. I come off the treadmill a little weary and maybe, a little wiser. But, I’m still questioning the sanity.

For a Reason

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It’s like a mantra. Things happen for a reason. Things happen for a reason. Things happen for a reason. I know this to be true. We didn’t succeed with the first few houses because they were not ours to have. Something bigger and better lay at the end of Ivy. The timing was all wrong in November. February couldn’t be more perfect. Things happen for a reason.

When my friend decided not to walk the twenty miles for Project Bread. I was not surprised, yet disappointed all the same. It took me a day to think things through. Would I walk without? Would I want to? It took me a week to bail myself out. Things happen for a reason. In reality, walking for hunger is a good cause for someone else. I am wedded to the crusade against cancer and domestic abuse. Been there, done that. Keep doing this. I decided to walk away from the Project Bread walk and find my Just Cause. 60 miles in three days. For breast cancer. This I can do. This I don’t mind doing on my own. I walk for Nor. I walk for me. This is the walk I am meant to walk.

When my friend of 35 years had a heart attack I had mixed emotions. A long history of ups and downs, goods and bads clouded my real emotion – fear. You don’t want people your own age to die. It’s not your time so it shouldn’t be theirs. Butbutbut, things happen for a reason. For the past three months I have wallowed in self indulgences. Since Thanksgiving I have been giving into temptations of every persuasion. Fat and lazy, I have become. When someone told me I looked beautiful I knew it was a lie. A sweet lie, but a lie none the less. I’m heavy. My heart failing friend woke selfish me, myself & moi up. Things happen for a reason. As soon as this house thing happens I am running back to healthy. I swear.

When a good, good friend brought up a painful memory it was hard to face it. Hard to take ownership of it and say yes, I really did do that. It’s unimaginable now, but yes, I really, really did that. Blame game. Pointing you out for no reason other than to strike out. Things happen for a reason. I’m glad you brought up the past and that awful time. I’m still struggling with what happened and more importantly, why butbutbut I’m done burying that past. I can dig it up and say I take responsibility for being so awful to you. I take all the blame for the blame game. It wasn’t you. Never was you. Sorry I said it was you. I’m seeing things better now that I’m so removed.

To Hell With It

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If only I could be in a video game...
If only I could be in a video game...

Somehow I knew this would happen. I celebrated too early. Wished well too quick. Happiness not. I ended up being wrong. To push out my anger I turned to the tread. Not to walk. To hell with that. I turned to the tread to do what I do best; to do what I have sorely missed. I turned to the tread to run. Simply run. Screaming to ‘Paint It Black’ and angry sirsy songs and songs about Stupid Mouths I pushed my tired body and seething heart to pick up the pace and pick up my feet. I’m out of shape. I’m way out of touch with what it means to really movemovemove. It hurt. I hated. I should have had something to bite down on. Bear my teeth and draw blood. Instead I looked at a purple sticker and thought about the pain. A 12 minute mile soon became 11.5 and then 11. Still slow as molasses, but able to stick with it for three measly miles 35 minutes later.

So. So, it was only three miles but I stepped off the tread feeling vindicated, feeling somewhat stronger. I still have the hate and the hurt but the run has brought back the healing.

Running Away

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How do I run while I’m on the road? This is a thought that has been bothering me for days now. I have been keeping up a schedule of running every other day (more or less), and I hate, hate, hate the thought of giving it up for a week just because I’ve been separated from Mr. G.
Option #1 is to hope and pray each hotel has it’s own G wheel for me to spin on. That would be bonus because lifting and all that other stuff will be much easier, too.
Option #2 is to get to know the neighbors while I hit their streets. I know Kisa’s not thrilled about that. How many wives have gone missing while just “out for a run”??? Okay, okay – all those wives were in their own neighborhoods, happened to be pregnant and ended up getting killed by their own husbands. I don’t fit into that scenario except for the fact anything can happen to anyone.
Option 3# is to find a running group and team up with them. Nope. I’m stubborn. I am a slow runner, plus I like the idea of doing everything by myself. No one helped me begin this journey so why change the plan now? Besides, we won’t be in one area long enough for me to “hook up” per se.
Option #4 is to scope out parks relatively close to every place we stay and opt for a quiet, no sweat 30 minute “thing.” This seems appealing because I have to admit, as I told Serious, I heard my knee talking to me after 3.8 miles last night. Not a good sign.
So what to do? What to do?

Maybe…and this isn’t an option I have considered for too long…I need a week off. My suitcase would be lighter and my schedule more open. Je ne sais pas.

Power of Privacy

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For the longest time I wanted to share my yoga practice with the blogging world. It was nice to mention moves that confounded me, brag about the small successes improvement brought me. But, somehow I have discovered I have more potential when I keep these things private. I think that is, in part, why I stopped going to group classes. The instructor’s voice calmed me, instilled confidence & control, and yet…I felt constricted, caught up. How to explain this? Certain poses create a cocoon of peace for me. Sometimes, I am so grateful for the respite that tears flow and sighs emerge. I find dare more, try more when alone. And I breathe. Often times I found myself not ready to move on from a particularly comforting pose when everyone else in the class was. Unlike other embarrassing moments in a group setting (falling over with a resounding solid thud, belching air out my azz or falling asleep during shivasana), this show of emotion, this lingering was not something I want to share. I didn’t want to hold up the class by holding a difficult pose for just that much longer (think Warrior III or half moon pose, two I have trouble with). I have more strength when I’m alone. There is power in privacy.
Oddly enough, this privacy issue has been carrying over to other parts of my life. I say I want to run with others but I won’t. I can’t. It’s too personal. It’s my time that I can’t  won’t share. I’ve run with only one other person – my sister – and she’s it. I won’t cook for anyone but family and the closer of friends. I won’t let anyone except my husband handle my Lamson & Goodnow.

So be it.

Numbers Don’t Matter

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RockingBubble

Last Saturday I spent $30 to walk with a friend around a park. 6.2 miles. Seems kind of odd when you look at it that way, but that’s the way it was. I wasn’t there to run in a race and I didn’t think of it as a charity event, even though it was both of those things. Smiley said she was walking by herself and I said that couldn’t be. I wouldn’t let it be and I didn’t. I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. It turned out to be a beautiful day to talk and walk, walk and talk. It was worth $30. Even better than we didn’t come in dead last.
Last night I got on the gerbil’s wheel and wanted to go nowhere. Not really sure what I was doing except giving in to the guilt. I couldn’t remember the last time I ran. As soon as I started to move I knew I was in trouble. Every song irritated me and I felt tired even moving 11.7 mph. This was going to suck was all I kept saying to myself. I don’t know how I know it but I always know a suck run. I recognize it long before it actually gets to me. Know those commercials about the love/hate relationships with running? I was on the other side of love with this run. It sucked.
But, here’s the beautiful thing. Despite wanting to get the fukc off and quit, despite wanting to make a mad dash to the bathroom and puke, despite my ears revolting against every song ipod could spit out, I did not quit. I did not stop. I kicked it up to a 11 mph run and for 40 long minutes I thought about counting up the demons. I determined I have more than one for every day. I listened for subliminal run songs (Rob Thomas, “I’m running but you’re getting away”). I fast forwarded through the likes of Norah Jones, Corrine Bailey Rae, Billie Holiday and Jewel. Rewound Metalica, AC/DC, Def L, Aersosmith, even Led Z. Confronted the pain of a MotherMe lost. In the end it was 3.64 miles. 3.64 miles further than I thought I could go. But, like the numbers of the walk on Saturday, they don’t matter.

Spider Woman?

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Spider

A month ago I developed a weird spot on my thigh. A nursing student took one look and said basal cell carcinoma. Freak Me. For a month I held denial’s hand and didn’t do anything about it. Nothing except stare at the spot and watch it mutate. I didn’t WebMD it, didn’t do anything. This river in Egypt ran deep. Finally I went to someone a little more professional. Someone with an actual degree and not just in training for one. She took one look and said arachnid. Whaa? Come again? Bug bite, possibly spider-ish. Maybe tick-ish. Either way I’m having a reaction to the saliva. I’m allergic to bug spit of all things.

Whatever. All I know is that Friday (after the bug appointment) I decided to hit the Gerbil cage. 45 minutes. 4.26 miles. Felt freakin’ great. My new tempo pace is 10.2. I can sing while moving that speed. Love it. Then, last night I decided to hit it again. Chicken thighs were in the smoker getting happy with the alder chips (can’t call it smoked chicken chili without the chips…) and I had the time for a sweet 20 minute run. At first I wanted to really kick it. See if I could get more than two miles in. But, my knee gently reminded me it hadn’t even been 24 hours since the 4.26…I’m supposed to “take a day” between runs, remember? Oh yeah. So, I decided to crank the incline and work on hills. Run slow…but UP-up-UP. Bottom line: 1.8 miles in 20 minutes. I’m happy with my energy. I’m in love with my knee. I’m feeling better than ever. Could it be the spider spit? Just call me spider woman!

Most Ridiculous

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wtfI’m calling the Darfur run “most ridiculous” for several reason. Where do I begin? First no sleep the night before. Tossed and turned in an unfamiliar bed, listened to drunks outside the window at 2am, worried about cracking my head on the nightstand, missed kisa…

The next morning checking in was odd. Confused by the box of cookies for sure….

But, here’s where it gets really ridiculous. Initially I was scared to run. I won’t lie. I wasn’t feeling up to it. A friend hadn’t shown, I kept thinking about the last time I tried to run anywhere (and failed), and I was dead tired. Suddenly, everything didn’t seem important enough. I didn’t feel important at all.
Then, the race began. Uphill. Within a few minutes I lost focus on the race and lost myself in a cemetery of souls. I will say this a million times to anyone who will listen. This was the most beautiful race of my life. From just a few minutes into it, I forgot I was running. The course was beyond spiritual. Beyond gorgeous. Beyond meaning. If I wasn’t staring at graves or flowers or water I was gazing up at some of the oldest trees I have ever seen. We went up crazy, slippery, gravel hills but I didn’t see them. We went down crazy pounding hills but I didn’t feel them. Instead, I craned my neck to read tombstones, did the math on who died when. How old? At times I would turn around and run sideways, even backwards to look one last time at someones angel in stone. From Amalia on I was lost in names. My husband’s secret track was all drums and I started to cry. Darfur’s genocide, the friend that didn’t show, these graves, and the trees that seem to live forever. The impact of everything finally overtook me.
Towards the end of the race a man yelled to me, “sprint it, baby!” and suddenly I was brought back to the race. Back to reality. Sprint it? What do you mean, ‘sprint it’? Where am I? How much more of the course is there? I honestly had no idea how far I had come or what was left. Suddenly I recognized the pavilion where we checked in, the gazebo right before the finish line, the flags for the end. I remembered I was in a race and the urge to really run kicked it (it meaning me…in the azz  🙂 ). I sprinted the last 30 seconds.

27:49. I’m irritated with myself. This is my best time ever, but I didn’t even try. I can tell. No red face. No coughing uncontrollably. No cramps. As far as running goes I didn’t give anything. I was too busy gawking at people’s final resting places. I was too busy communicating with trees. I was too busy remembering the dead. Darfur’s dead.
To Darfur, I gave everything.

Scammed By Schenectady

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course mapFor weeks now I have been trying to find more information on the upcoming run. Okay, I admit it. I really wanted to check out the course and scope out the hills. Yes, I’m afraid of hills. If you have knee problems then you know what going d-o-w-n hills can feel like. But, as time went on and I wasn’t finding the slightest bit of information I began to think I was being scammed. I actually started to believe I sent money in to a race/charity that didn’t exist. Despite claims that the run was sponsored by Amnesty International I couldn’t find anything on their site supporting that. I kept finding the same website that brought me to the run in the first place.

Then, just last night – two days before I am to make the trip to NY – I get a packet of information. Scammed by Schenectady not. Directions, check-in times, and that all-important course map. Of course, hills aren’t marked but at least now I know where I’m going. At first glance I thought we would be running through a cemetery. How cool would that be! I pictured Vale souls cheering me on from beyond the grave. I love the idea of ghosts and spirits by my side. I already have an angel and a few demons, why not have a whole party?

So, now my mind is at peace. I’m not thinking the worst of this run. Instead, I’m using it to free me from the crap that haunts me, the sh!t I need to leave behind. I’ll have Daoud Hari’s courage and determination to make me strong.
And just in case that doesn’t work I’m using music from BB’s Gasparilla run to kick my azz. Forget the African beat (for now). Setlist to follow…

Everything is Wrong

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moo cow

I cannot tell you how frustrating it is to misplace focus, to break a promise. I got on the tread last night, intending to do a quiet 35 minute tune-up session. Everything was wrong. Wrong from the very start. Everything. First of all, you and your Saturday night phone call. I know in my heart of hearts you are right. Three and a half hours of heart to heart and yes, you are right. I know what I need to do, thanks to you. But. But, but I don’t like it. I don’t deserve this. Yeah, yeah, yeah – Harry met Sally and the moral of the story is they couldn’t be friends. I hear ya. I still don’t like it. Last night I went beyond ThatSpace and deleted the phone number. Removing temptation. Cutting things off before they can cut me. I can’t bleed anymore. You are right.
Anyway. So, I thought of you and your words before I ran and they didn’t make me angry. I didn’t find the fire. Instead, they made me sad. I can’t run blue. So, the mood was wrong, the music was wrong, everything was wrong. For the first time ever I skipped Paint It Black and Have Fun Go Mad. I couldn’t find a rhythm I liked. Thanks to a friend I found Fleetwood and tried that. After 25 minutes I admitted defeat and decided nothing would help. I stopped cold. I couldn’t even rock the Aerosmith shirt I bought while shopping with RT. I couldn’t rock anything beyond 2.26 miles.

I’ve never stopped a run before. Not like that – not stopped cold. I’ve had plenty of other I Don’t Feel Like It moments. But, in every other instance of tired I struck a deal with myself and moi – run slower but don’t quit. Lower the incline to nothing, but don’t quit. Don’t you dare quit.

When I got off the tread and paced in front of my husband he was quick to offer kindness. Not your night. You just cooked a huge meal. You are tired. Work is tressing you out. I heard excuse after excuse and headed for the fridge. Chocolate Moo Cow for this quitter. 
Maybe another glass of whine…from a box.

African Generosity George

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African GenerosityI was going to ask everyone I knew to play the music game again. This time with a twist: give me African music for my next 5k. Darfur. The rules would be simple: stay away from South Africa, get as close to Sudan as possible, and mention nothing that would put me to sleep. No zzzzs please. I thought it would be a fun challenge & had bets going that not many people would suggest anything.
But, before I could post anything, before I could put my musical dare in print, a guy named George blew the challenge away. I mentioned my run, mentioned my music, mentioned my need and before I knew it had more music than I knew what to do with. Well, I have a plan, now. Between now and next Saturday I’ll listen to as much as I possibly can and make a mix from what moves me. George knows music.

Forgive Me

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Days End

I have been hiding behind book reviews and poetry for days on end. Two poems for every one book. Reading like a fiend seems to suit me. Sorry.
I’ve started to tell you about the weirdest things ~ Kisa murdering the ladybugs in the bathroom, the end of N&ZY, my heartbreak over a breakup, the amazing work I’ve done with MSR, the crap I’ve been handed at AIC, how homesick I am, how little I’ve run, the need to hear my music again (go where we haven’t I don’t dare), Natalie, Germany, Sin City, Taka Tak, being stood up, being letdown, sex in my city, Comic Book Tattoo, Darfur, Boston Celtics, wine, angry black man, gun to my heart, arthritis and friends too far away.

I’ve started to tell you about all these things. Yet, I can’t. Instead I tell you about what I’ve read and read and read.
Forgive me.