« September 2006 | Main | November 2006 »
October 26, 2006
without regret
it was 26.2 miles - surely you knew this wasn't going to be short... and why did it take so long to put up? because it took me three hours to write it...
our hearts were shiny...
i don't have the questions this time. there's the wishing, the wondering about different conditions, and about how things might have gone had i done this or that differently.
but this time, i know there wasn't much more i could have done, or much more i could have given, in the 26.2 miles, the four hours and forty-four minutes between crossing the start and finish mats in Chicago.
i did a lot more right this time around. eating the night before has often been an issue, because i would eat too late and/or too much. the hostel i was staying at was full of runners, and one of the things they did in support of the marathoners was a free spaghetti dinner at 5:00 the night before.
i was in a six-person room, three of the other bunks occupied by other rogue runners, who had arranged the stay and invited me along. i felt like the veteran runner, with my extensive history of one marathon to draw on. however, i've run far more races, and that, together with the fact that i wasn't in my early twenties, tended to set me apart. i tried to advise them on some of the finer points of race weekend preparation: no, 8:30 dinner reservations the night before are not ideal; no, you don't want to go out clubbing at 10:00pm on friday; no, walking around shopping the magnificent mile all day the day before the race is not a good idea; you might want to get your stuff together, know where your bib number is and attach it, and plan what you're going to take - tonight, not in the morning, etc.
they pretty much didn't listen, and went to eat and party and shop. ah, youth.
i was up at 5:30 sunday morning. ate a bagel and a half, which proved to be perfect, and for once, because of the better-timed dinner, things happened as i needed them to. you know, in the bathroom.
at about 6:45, we walked the three or four blocks to the start area. it was definitely cold - around the low 40's - and windy. somehow, though, the 30% chance of it not raining came through for us. i wished my young roommates good luck and met up with melissa, who had made the decision to run despite having suffered from a bad cold or flu for three or four days. i sent her off to find holly while i went to check my gear bag.
a few minutes later, i sorted through the crowds to the set of speakers where holly had said she was waiting with her husband, chris. the street at that point wasn't full yet, but i couldn't see them. i trotted up about fifty yards towards the starting line and into the thickening crowd, but still nothing.
i began to panic a little. i felt like my 20 mile and freescale marathon experiences had been harder because i'd been alone. part of my race plan this time from the beginning had been to stick with holly, whose time trial forecast a 4:05 time for her, five minutes faster than my own predicted time. this would have us running at a pace of 9:22 per mile.
i finally found them. we said goodbye to chris and kurt, and went out into the middle of the crowd to get some warmth as we waited for the start. they actually played good music, not the same old melange of overly obvious crowd pleasers that get played at every austin race, and the music was interspersed with information given in multiple languages.
holly was wearing a giant white plastic bag with holes for the arms and head, and we laughed as she continued to produce a variety of objects from under the bag.
the national anthem was sung by a famous local baseball announcer, the president of the sponsoring bank spoke, the wheelchair racers were sent off, then the horn blew at 8:00am, ending twenty-three weeks of training and beginning the race. 47,000 runners began to move.
melissa immediately began to pull away, and i was torn. i knew i couldn't keep up with her pace, but i had to keep dropping back to rejoin holly, who was being disciplined and starting slow.
i retraced the steps of my run the day before, under the millenium park pedestrian bridge, and into the tunnel and across Lower Wacker Drive, except this time, there were people everywhere, cheering, blowing whistles, waving signs, ringing bells. the runners talked excitedly among themselves, and we waved and whooped back at the crowds.
men ran to the sides of the tunnel to relieve themselves, as i had been told was the norm, and i thought about doing it myself. yeah. once again, as always, despite having timed my water consumption and gone twice at the hostel, i had to pee. but i didn't want to lose holly, so i decided to wait. surely she had to pee sometime, right?
coming out of the tunnel, a spontaneous wave of even louder cheering from runners started behind me, and swept up and around me, erupting from the north end of the tunnel and down michigan avenue.
i still had to drop back a number of times to rejoin holly, jogging in place, maneuvering side to side to let runners pass around me, standing up on the curbs. it was the right thing to do - again, holly was being disciplined and avoiding the common mistake of going out too fast, listening to fresh legs and adrenaline, and forgetting you had to do this for 26.2 miles.
we turned west. the first mile was a 10:46 - maybe a little too conservative, but not a cause for concern.
we turned south, and the sidewalks were still jammed with spectators. at times, it was like being in a stadium, with the sound echoing off of old buildings and masterpieces of architecture, and folding back on itself.
the second mile was a 10:06. we were picking up little by little. at this point, i was still holding back - i felt great. i was running like i have been for the last month or so, in a more upright position, and with a higher, more active, and quicker stride. the left hamstring was feeling a bit harsher than i'd hoped, but the discomfort was familiar and totally manageable.
west again, then north again, through the North Side, and the upscale Gold Coast neighborhood, and into a park area. 9:49, a fast 9:10, and then, just before the five-mile marker... i still really had to pee. we came up on porta potties, and i decided i'd be better off unloading some liquid. i avoided the mcdonald's syndrome, passing up the first bank of toilets with the longer lines, and was into one pretty quickly. during my brief wait, i saw a woman dropping trou and copping a squat behind a tree. well, more or less behind a tree. actually, the tree was fairly pointless.
mile five, then, was a 10:33. not bad. the wind here was biting cold, and i tried to maneuver do draft off of groups of people.
i passed a pair of sisters dressed as Thing One and Thing Two. people cheered for them, some by name, but some in a fashion showing their clear unfamiliarity with the dr. seuss classic - "Go... Blue Haired People!" and "Alright, aliens!" i asked Thing Two if she was annoyed that Thing One always got top billing. she said she was used to it from a lifetime as the kid sister.
9:26 - still good, but i began to realize that i was feeling more taxed at six miles than i should, considering the 20 looming ahead. i decided i would just try to keep my pace above 9:35 per mile, which still gave me a shot at coming in at around 4:10.
9:29. i was still working just a little too hard. we passed near an expressway, and a siren zoomed by, and i thought about danny escobedo, the man that died running the 10K a few weeks ago. i thought, "danny says run." i kept running.
up into Wrigleyville, west, then south. somehow, i missed Wrigley Field. i missed a lot of notable landmarks. i got a sense of the neighborhoods, and recognized some of the downtown buildings i had seen the day before on the architectural boat tour, but later, the most striking landmark i remembered was a best buy that was housed in what looked like a brownstone. this struck me as odd.
9:17, Lincoln Park, 9:34, 9:34, Old Town, past trattoria roma, the italian restaurant i ate at friday night, the place with the snotty guy who answered the phone and with whom i had the following exchange:
"yeah, hi, i'm at clark and division - are you located nearby?"
"oh yeah, real close."
"oh, great. i hate to ask this, but could you possibly give me directions to get there?"
"no, i can't."
"uhhh... ok. alrighty then. thanks a lot."
"goodbye."
the alternative answer was "go west two blocks, go north on wells. we're about five or six blocks up."
asshole.
9:39. clockwork. my form was still energetic, my turnover quick, the footstrikes still somewhat light, because i was picking back up quickly. a runner passed me on my left - long red-brown hair in a pony tail, beard, iPod strapped on the arm, and a massive tattoo on his right calf framing the Zig-Zag man. my friend, Fagan.
i yelled his name. repeatedly. Fagan likes his music loud. i cursed, sped up to catch him, slapped a hand on his shoulder. he was happy to see me, wanted to slow down and talk, but i told him to go on, that it just made me happy to see him. it was true.
south, south, south, the Near North Side, River North, and across the Chicago River for the fourth time, down into The Loop, back among the glorious skyscrapers designed by famous dead european guys, their bases framed by very alive crowds. some very slight inclines. 10:13, 10:02. i was suddenly having to push myself a bit just for those times.
i passed through the halfway point at 2:08:47, just a minute and two seconds shy of my best half-marathon time, set back in january. i was having a little more trouble than i should. i began to realize the pace had been a bit high for me, and i decided to let off a little to try to get the best effort i could through the entire race.
Greek Town. 10:20 for mile 14. i began to feel twinges in my quadricep muscles. they quickly became cramps, first in the right thigh, then the left. the hamstring ceased to be an issue altogether.
here's the thing. that higher, more active stride? great. fast. but having only done it for less than two months, and on no run longer than ten miles, i wasn't conditioned to do it for distance. i burned up more energy, and overused those muscles.
cramps ebb and flow to some extent when you run through them. i got what pace i could when they occasionally receded, and during one such period, i passed holly. i could only mimic her shirt and say "go holly." i knew she was in her own place, and i didn't think i'd be any help to her. i also knew she'd be passing me again. i had to use whatever i had while i had it.
10:22. then, in mile 16, the cramps began to burn more. i stopped to stretch, and moved awkwardly onto the sidewalk to prevent the muscles from completely contracting.
12:12, 11:16. Little Italy. smaller buildings, a mix of homes and shops and businesses, old streets, but still, crowds out in force, music. i drank it up - got high fives from little kids and adults, too, waved back at them.
a runner came up beside me and said he'd seen me consistently through the race. he asked how i was doing, and i told him i was fighting off some cramps. he told me it would be worth it to take a couple of minutes to stop and stretch, jump back in and, he said with a smile, "then you come catch us."
so there i was. 4:05, 4:10, 4:20 - those times weren't going to happen. the epiphanies i had reached about running in the past month, after the meltdowns and after quitting and walking off a race course for the first (and last) time, and my reunion with what running is all about, were being tested. i wanted to stop, but there was never really a question of that. i wanted to walk, wanted to let up.
but there's too often been questions in my head - did i really push as hard as i could? could i have held that pace a little longer? what if what i'm feeling isn't that bad, and i just don't know any better?
i still wanted to finish, and still wanted a time that would be an improvement over my freescale run. but my primary goal just became to push myself as far as i possibly could for the rest of the race, no matter what. no questions this time, no regrets.
i told myself just to get to the next mile marker, then i could walk. then i wouldn't. as each mile began to seem increasingly interminable, i picked street corners - just get there, then i can walk... ok, no, let's not stop yet. here's a street lined with people. they really seem to care - i can't stop here. maybe when the crowd thins out. no, not yet.
11:28. just past the 18 mile mark, it was like someone flushed my right out with clean, cool water. the pain disappeared completely, and receded significantly in my left leg, too.
this lasted for not even half a mile, but it was enough to get a 10:53 in the 19th mile.
the old Czech neighborhood of Pilsen. i was walking through the water and gatorade stops, but never for more than 10-20 feet.
Little Village. mexican dancers, dresses swirling, arms curving gracefully. a woman with styrofoam cups of what i later heard was either margaritas, or tequila. the crowds were local, and entirely enthusiastic. working class folks were out with boxes of food, sitting out in chairs to watch a bunch of people run through their neighborhood. a trio of little girls sat on a curb and chanted, "si, se puede, si se puede."
11:16. six miles left - a 10K. i looked at my watch, and knew there was little chance of a 4:30, and a danger of pushing past my 4:54 previous best. and, there was the danger of not finishing. it was strange - it seemed like an option, almost a reality, but one i just kept deferring.
11:44 into Chinatown. drums and bells and rich spicy smells, dragons dancing in high definition color in the momentary sunlight, undulating alongside us on the streets in rustles of crepe paper.
12:00. Bridgeport, running south alongside the Dan Ryan Expressway.
wall. stumbling at times now, trying to make the legs move through the misfiring muscles that were contracting whenever they pleased, as much as they pleased. my chest has a tried soreness, too, but that's ok. stop, squat to stretch. loosen the sock on my right foot that's crushing the tip of one of my toes. i stop a couple of times in the 23rd mile. 14:23.
Bronzeville, and we turn north again, back onto Michigan Avenue. three miles left. calculate time. i hate that Oprah is going to beat me again with her 4:29 in New York. it's just not right. but, i begin to see that i can beat my freescale time by 10 minutes.
i'm doing a stiff-legged parody of running now, with grunting occasionally involved. i stop a couple of more times to stretch. back into downtown. 12:37. Prairie District, the familiar sight of downtown.
i'm too slow. i can't afford to be this slow. please, please, just let the cramps fade one more time, just give me that. just past the 40K sign, 24.8 miles, 1.4 miles to go, they let up a little. i speed up. 14:11 in the 25th mile, but the reprieve in my legs continues. they're leaden, but not hurting, and i can control them. i try to recover the form i started with.
the crowds are still here, but i can hear the bigger crowds near the finish.
a sign says there's 800 meters left. i turn right on roosevelt, towards the Field Museum and Shedd Aquarium. i don't see them, though, just like i have somehow missed Soldier Field to my right.
at the moment, i am more stunned by what i see. there was no elevation map for the course, because there is no real change in elevation - it's all flat, which is why it's such a fast course. but there before me, with about 600 meters left to go in the race, is the one real hill on the whole damned course.
fuck this, i think. i'm from austin. these people don't know shit about hills. i take the hill with no change in pace. the quads remain silent.
turn left into the most beautiful 200 yards i've ever seen - straight, lined with bleachers and cheering crowds, the green banner over the finish clear, the yellow numbers of the race clock clicking away. i pick up, i'm taller again, shoulders back, hips under me, and i know my legs aren't going to let me down for this.
i turn in a great 200 meter sprint. at 100, i throw it all out, and i'm blowing past people and i hear the crowd respond, and the pain is excruciating, but it's worth it, and it's almost over, and then it is.
water, volunteers congratulating, shiny space blankets, scores of runners shawled in those shiny space blankets ahead of me, rustling like one giant silver version of the dragons in chinatown.
i'm a little delirious, i can't grasp that it's over. it had seemed like it wouldn't end. i cry. i'm freezing. i get my medal - they take the time to hang it around my neck. i cry, but no one can see it between the hat and the blanket. god, it hurt so much for so long. i love the weight of the medal around my neck. i hate my time, but i beat it, i beat pain and doubt. that is who i am today, who we all are today, and i feel the burn of it in my legs and the deadness of it in my lungs and the weight of it hanging around my neck, and i love it. i cry, and i clutch it to my chest, and there is nothing else.
Posted by Rob at 10:08 PM | Comments (15)
October 22, 2006
zero
let's go for a run.
Posted by Rob at 08:00 AM | Comments (0)
October 21, 2006
t minus one
i dreamt about the marathon last night. it was vivid and clear, but i can't remember anything about the dream. some time later, i said "no" and woke up. i got my bearings - i was in the top bunk of our room at the hostel. i looked over at saba and aida in the bunks across the room. it was dark, and without my glasses, i could only make out their shapes, but i don't think they were awake, and they didn't say anything.
i had set the alarm for 6:30, but i was cold through the night, and hadn't slept so well, so i woke instead at about 7:30. i couldn't decide what shorts to wear, not knowing for certain what i would wear for the race sunday, so there was a brief fashion show for myself in the semi-dark.
i stepped out of the hostel onto, ironically, Congress Street. my last run had been on Congress Avenue back home on Wednesday. what was supposed to be an easy four mile run that day turned into a quick run at faster than a 10K race pace. my body had felt good, my stride high and energetic, my footsteps light and quick. still, i immediately regretted indulging in speed, as my left hamstring kept shooting stabbing criticisms up to my brain.
i began to run towards michigan avenue, crossing it, past the giant bronzes of native american warriors firing their bows from horseback, bracing either side of the roadway.
i turned left, heading north on columbus. runners were everywhere. some ignored me, some made eye contact and nodded, some smiled. to my left, tents and fencing and scores of portable toilets, television trucks, and people already at work for the day on preparations.
i ran through the start line, past the art institute and millenium park, with the billowing metalwork of the pritzker pavillion, under the beautiful moebius strip-like pedestrian bridge i had seen in the 2005 marathon highlights video.
i've never been anywhere like chicago. i felt like a rube, awed by the height and beauty and sheer ambition of the architecture, even of the brutally functional trusswork of the bridges and tunnels and double-decker streets. at the same time, i was happy to be a rube, wanting to appreciate it all, wanting to let it all make me feel something. it is sad when we become accustomed to things.
i crossed the chicago river, then turned west on the walkway between the river and the universtiy of chicago's graduate school of business, back to michigan avenue, nd back south.
this time, i caught a glimpse of the cloud gate sculpture in millenium park. i turned back and up into the park, and into the plaza where the sculpture sits.
the air was crisp around me, and i felt like it was reflecting my own energy back into me. the scultpure hovered in that same air, a giant quicksilver drop of rain, of sweat, a tear, improbably smooth, captured in time and space right before impact, pressed by intertia into a perfect but organic shape, curved as you might imagine the universe is.
i approached it, walked under it, around it, and saw reflected in its polished skin, distorted, yet clear, strange and familiar as a dream, the city, and a runner.
Posted by Rob at 04:56 PM | Comments (5)
showtime again
this, from february 2005, gets recycled.
no iPod necessary tonight. i'm at the bar at halcyon, lovely cold amber bubbling in a glass before me.
tom petty's playing - an american girl. earlier, journey, separate ways.
the songs of my youth. my youth - what a weird phrase to use. few memories exist where the radio isn't playing. i remember life marked out in time with music, with rock and roll, on KLBJ, on Z-102, on cassette tapes and eventually cd's.
i'm riding high. i feel myself rushing towards the surface from the depths, like one of the bubbles in my beer, driving smoothly upwards towards the heavens.
i went to take this picture after work, a mission that has bugged me for days. my coworker felipe went with me, walked part of the way, stayed behind to make a phone call. i ran across and along the access road, free on our first clear and crisp day in weeks, running past the people and the cars mired in rush hour traffic. i ran instinctively to a point on the grassier verge, turned, brought the camera up to my eye, and there through the viewfinder was the sun, low in the sky now, backlighting a glowing brushstroke of a cloud, and there, the sign, yellow, saying simply, "showtime."
on tuesday, i was awash in emotions. maybe illness or fatigue, but a few times that day, i was overwhelmed, and i felt the warmth build up behind my eyes, before i'd push it all back. but one moment that day hit me more squarely, more firmly, as i drove up to the Runtex Store for Psychotic Running People, and saw the sign.
i had run my first half-marathon a couple of weeks ago. and as important as it was, as an accomplishment, and a catharsis, it still seemed like a part of the preparation for the freescale half-marathon.
so, i didn't understand why, as i saw the sign, but even now, thinking of it, i feel again the same warmth, the same tightening in the throat. and this time, the words on the page blur in my vision, and the ink itself begins to blur in drops on the page.
there is so much in a life, so much to feel and know and remember, but nevertheless, there are those moments and events that we single out, that resonate more deeply for us, that we know will linger.
so much of life is preparing, so often for dreams, worthwhile or misguided, that may or may not come true.
this thing, preparing for this run, is a small thing for some runners, a small thing in this life, certainly a small thing in this world, but still... so many miles. so much effort, so much wanting and needing. so much love and encouragement from so many people, lifelong friends, new friends, old loves, even strangers, even from a friend now gone. so much wanting to help, to be a part of something, so much help from people for a little girl they may never meet.
i hear all the footsteps run, all the pavement and trail underfoot, i hear all those voices, i hear my own, cursing myself, praising myself, i feel everything of the last four months, i feel the echoes of preparations and hopes of a life already long but not done, all saying steadily, confidently, now, "showtime."
Posted by Rob at 04:49 PM | Comments (2)
October 19, 2006
the list (three days left)
High 44
Low 29
Blustery NNW winds as steady early-day rain tapers to sprinkles. Flurries and possible snow showers in the afternoon/evening.
melissa pointed out that the forecast is more and more like the conditions of the freezescale marathon back in february. it's fine if the conditions are the same as that day, because we're better than we were that day.
---
some of my friends are making lists, dedicating each mile of the marathon to a different person that helped, inspired, coached, supported, or whom the mere remembrance of will provide some motivation along the way.
this is far too organized for me. i like lists, and i intend to do something similar, but i'm just committing to remembering people at various points as they come to me, or as i find them.
this is not an exhaustive list, and it's not in any order. i've left off tons of friends, just for the sake of brevity and fairness... you know who you are.
danny escobedo - mr. escobedo died a few weeks ago, running the IBM 10K. it was his first race. in the past week, i've learned more about him, and spoken to his sister-in-law and wife. he deserves a spot for who he was, because he was a runner, but also, selfish as it is of me, for the part he played in bringing me back to what running is about. the story will follow soon.
diane - because it's all her fault. sort of. ok, so i went to the wrong RunTex Store for Psychotic Running People two years ago. still... it's all her fault. incidentally, i should mention that at least one person thought RunTex is really called the RunTex Store for Psychotic Running People...
frances (evil woman with clipboard) - my first coach, along with carolyn. a fountain of positivity and tough love. i still hear my running coaches yelling things in my head every time i run, and they have far drowned out the yelling that all those asshole football coaches did years ago. i mainly hear frances threatening to do various things to me if i kept going out at too fast a pace.
janay - the first friend i made in this running adventure, on a dark and cold night almost exactly two years ago, now. a few weeks later, as i skirted and censored talking about why i didn't feel well, she reminded me she was a psychologist. her learning aside, she just always listened, and told me the truth. she was also atomic-clock perfect, and kept me reined in. any time i strayed ahead of her, tiffany and katie, i got lost. i stopped doing that.
tiffany - tiffany was able to stick with running, and with me, since she's not producing small, hairless house apes (yet). she reads my blog, and i'll get the occasional seemingly innocuous email from her. she does not seem like a candidate for understanding me, but at the very least, she knows when shit is up, and she's there. she's training, finally, for the full marathon.
katie - as much as i needed janay to keep me in check, katie always pushed me. she's fast. i remember the first time i took off at the end of a long run, and she caught me, and the sprint was on.
janie - when i jumped into her marathon training group last year, i thought she was just some random chick with enough time on her hands to coach. one of greatest gross underestimations. i can't even begin to tell you, except to say that she and gabby are the blueprints for the coach I want to be. she's still sending love and encouragement from across the face of the earth, from malawi, where she and her husband went to make a real difference. she's the example i think of when i consider having a life that matters.
gabby - when janie left, gabby continued the love and the spirit through our 5K and 10K training. one of the best memories i have of running is being with my fellow p-dipps at her wedding this year. thing i har her yelling in my head: "relax your face! smile!"
kaci - for telling me i let up too much in the middle of workouts, saving for a finish. it made me work harder.
holly - because she was there before, she's been here since, and will be there sunday.
melissa (a.k.a. "bunny") - for being my unpaid therapist and friend. sounds simple enough, but it's not.
the yard guy - back in june or july, i did one of my typical sleep-through-the-long-run saturdays, and tried to make up the run by myself later in the day. like, at noon. with no water.
at the bottom of the big hill on scenic drive (creative, but apt), in front of one of the huge beautiful houses on the lake, a landscaping crew worked. a man was hosing out a wheelbarrow. i stopped and asked if i could have just a little water in my hands. he said, "no, no, too hot. you wait." he ran inside the house and came back out with a cold bottle of water.
he was out there making a living in the heat, and i was out there doing my hobby in it, but he wanted something better for me. i knew right then i'd remember him on october 22.
morgan - always above and beyond. remembers runs, asks how they went, gives me the appropriate amount of teasing about things. and at mile 16 of freescale this year, after the failure of my energy gel handoff at mile 12, he was standing on north loop with bottles of water and, miraculously, unbidden, packets of my favorite flavor of gu. he also took pictures of me and laughed at me, but that's to be expected.
the postfontaines - the people i coach remind me constantly what running is about, and i want to do well to show them that i get it.
carolyn - for coaching, listening, teaching, and cutting me slack at times when i wanted to train but couldn't immediately afford to.
steve - for creating an environment that promotes excellence, and community, and recognizes running as another path to understanding the wonders that we and the universe are.
ruth - because she's a coach, she is rogue, and she's so damned funny.
to be continued...
Posted by Rob at 09:29 AM | Comments (1)
October 18, 2006
forecast (four days left)
today's forecast for sunday:
High - 47
Low - 34
Colder with temperatures struggling to stay in the 40s. Variable cloudiness with a chance of showers or wet snow flurries.
when your mood follows algebraic patterns, flowing upwards and downwards and seemingly sideways, at times, you get to where you can recognize patterns and trends, forecast the next change.
our little trio of marathoners were bursting with restlessness yesterday, like all the potential energy generated through training, and now being realized but restrained during the taper, really needed to go kinetic.
when the downturn came today, i didn't see it coming, but i wasn't surprised, either. melissa is afraid she's getting sick, holly got seriously nervous. and me, i bought a new phone, having launched its predecessor at a wall in a large closet at work, quickly wrapping up a... disappointing conversation about a banking snafu.
the meltdowns are well-timed. today, we get past them, get rest and take vitamins, go for a run to relieve stress, learn to use LG's exciting new CU500 Razr-ripoff, and settle in.
sunday morning, there's going to be a race in chicago, pretty much no matter what. and we're going to be there, and a horn is going to go off, and we're going to start running. left, right, left, right, left, right. it may rain, we will no doubt hurt, we have goals we want to meet, and yeah, it does mean a lot, but really, the doing of it is as simple as that.
left, right, left, right, left, right.
Posted by Rob at 09:09 AM | Comments (3)
October 17, 2006
tapering (five days to go)
emails are flying between my friends and me. no work is getting done. emotions are high. we want to be in chicago right damned now, regardless of the weather (though we update each other on the forecast twice a day). we want to be running it now.
marathoners call it "taper madness" - the wackiness that ensues during the two or three week period before a marathon when we back off the mileage and let our bodies repair and become ready. i ask melissa, a psychologist, if there's a biochemical basis for the weird psychosis. hours pass, i get more emails reminiscing about our favorite coaches, about weather, and finally, "sure. but you are asking me to think in order to formulate an intelligent answer to that. and, i just can't do that right now."
so, i'm left to my own devices. i eat a banana, and stare at the whopping third document i've reviewed today. a normal pace would have me at 60 or so. why are we all losing our minds?
simply put, running is a natural ability, but training for and running a marathon is not a natural thing to do.
we train for 23 weeks. close to a thousand miles run - 30, 40, 50, 60 miles a week. we run four or five days a week. an hour monday, an hour tuesday, a hard workout for an hour and a half on wednesday, cross training or a half hour run on thursday, over an hour on friday, long runs for hours on saturdays.
those hours are squeezed into mornings before work, appended to the end of workdays when you feel like you only have the energy to open a beer and keep the couch from floating away.
people that choose and stick with this path are not likely to say, "I can't," and the training reinforces that. on the other hand, we say it more now than ever - "I can't, gotta run." "I can't, I have a race."
we push ourselves six days a week, for 23 weeks. exertion and fatigue become constants, as does the simple act of consistently, persistently committing ourselves to creating discomfort in our bodies and pressing on anyway.
"The will to win means nothing if you haven't the will to prepare." - Juma Ikangaa, 1989 NYC Marathon winner
it's a compulsion, and if it didn't start as one, it became one along the way. every run says something about us, who we are and what we can do - not about our speed but about our will. sometimes, we're disappointed by how slow we were on a run or in a race, because we're competitive and because sometimes we lose sight of the fact that the time doesn't matter so much as how hard we pushed ourselves to get it.
one day, during a particularly hard workout on a high school
track, a kid leaned out a passing car's window, yelling some line i recognized from a movie about the day of judgment being on us, and asking, "how will ye be judged?"
the immediate response yelled back as i turned down onto the stratghtaway - "by what i do here today."
we watch the chicago marathon highlight video, and the sight of the runners and the cheering crowds shakes us. to some extent, it's adrenaline - fight or flight response positively subverted, adrenaline charges as we recognize the scenario. but we can't do anything with it right now, sitting at our desks, or at home.
we want the race, the pre-run jitters, we want to be surrounded by 40,000 other people who have made the same journey thus far, the same hegira from doubt and unchallenged limitations.
we don't know each other, we might not even like each other if we did, but almost everyone out there "gets it," and we are finishing a journey together, whether it takes us 2:10 or 6:10 to do it.
the thousands of spectators lining the course watch people go by, see the determination and pain, and to some extent, they "get it." some of them will be motivated, as i was two years ago, to make that same commitment, to see what they can make themselves do.
i think again of our head coach, steve sisson, saying that whether it's the first time you cross the finish line, or the 50th, you are not the same person that started it.
the clock, the calendar, are running too slow. my friends and i want and need sunday to get here, so we can do what we have worked so hard to do, as best as we can on that given day. we want to run, so we can cross the finish line and see who we will have become.
Posted by Rob at 10:41 AM | Comments (5)
October 16, 2006
marathon week (six days to go)
people who are or who may be tapering should not view this video
side effects may include spontaneous tear duct productivity, bouncing in chair, and a manic desire to go running down the hall at faster than marathon goal pace.
Posted by Rob at 01:21 PM | Comments (3)
October 09, 2006
out of time
time and time and time and time
there's tiny pieces of paper, blowing in the wind around me, rushing at me, then arcing away in eddies, whooshing upwards on updrafts, swirling unpredictably in the vortices, the turbulence in the flow of time that our presence creates.
i reach to grab at the scraps, to grasp specific ones, or as many as possible, and the wind curls around inside my palm, carrying the slips across the landscape of my grasp, and safely free.
i catch glimpses through the gaps between my fingers, and on one, i see her, on another, me, so many other versions, iterations, of me, better, worse, but maybe only the better ones survive in storm, right?
time plays with us. this and that happen, two provident events, connected. but then time is added in, and two are now too far apart, though so close in every other way. love exists, and it's real, saturating it all, but time has shuffled the cards. i can see it across the room, but i can't get to it.
but it's gone both ways. i've been careless with time, arrogant. expected it to wait for me, hold up the smooth running of the universe so i could find courage, ask permission, decide, do. but cowardice was never overcome, permission was never asked nor granted, decisions were not made, and life didn't get done.
the debit column is just the past, the lump of time spent. time is just this thing, just another vector of force exerted on an object. but i can't fight it. i know it's coming, but i can't see it coming. and it keeps moving, swirling around me, carrying scraps of rice paper inked with events and catastrophies, comedies and tragedies, hopes realized and dashed, loneliness and love, all resistant to my grasp, the future slipping through my fingers and into the past.
the wind is quiet.
there - there she is.
Posted by Rob at 11:56 PM | Comments (1)
October 05, 2006
postfontainism
another great run this morning - I was supposed to run a warm-up easy, then four miles at my half-marathon goal pace of 9:03 (that relates to a 4:10 full marathon).
10:27
8:32
8:53
8:27
8:35
average time over all five miles, including the slow warm-up - 8:59. for the four miles that i needed to average a 9:03, i averaged 8:37.
i think a lot of it has to be the music. it's getting me in the right frame of mind to stay focused and push myself. doing so, i also thought about the half-marathon training group i coach. they voted on a team name, and they picked my favorite, the Postfontaines.
the running is starting to make sense again, and i thought about what i wanted them to udnerstand about the name...
The people have spoken. The Tuesday Night First-Timer Half Marathon Training Group is now The Postfontaines.
So just what the hell, you may ask, is a Postfontaine?
Well, it's supposed to be (and is, dammit) a witty homage to Steve Prefontaine ("Pre"), legendary runner from the early 1970's. Swap "Post" for "Pre", and... well, you get the idea.
This morning, on my run, I was thinking about the name, about my own growing appreciation for Pre, and about the soul-searching I've been doing with my own running lately.
Please keep in mind that I'm in my "taper," the deceleration of
training in the last couple of weeks before a marathon, and people in their taper get weirdly prone to emotion, sentimentalism, and motivational speaking.
"Postmodernism" has been defined as "a movement of ideas that has replaced or is replacing modernism by countering a number of modernism's fundamental assumptions." We could, then, say that Postfontaines are followers of "Postfontainism," which, however, is more about a conscious continuation of Steve Prefontaine's fundamental values, rather than a replacement of them or contradiction of them.
I first became aware of Prefontaine in the past couple of years,
mainly seeing him quoted as saying things like "You may beat me, but you're going to have to bleed to do it," and "The best pace is a suicide pace, and today is a good day to die." He seemed cool, a rebel, a rock star, but at some point, I kind of wondered if he was blown out of proportion because of his flamboyance and early death - for all the hype, he failed to medal in Munich in 1972.
On the other hand, more people remember the name "Prefontaine" than the name "Lasse Viren", the guy that won the gold.
I've been reading more about him, and recently saw "Without Limits," one of a couple of movies made about him (not great, but worth seeing). The more I understand, the more he's become a hero for me, even though I'm not exactly fast, and might only win my age group if the groups are divided up to the exact day, hour and minute, not just years.
Pre was more about how he ran than how fast he ran. He truly believed running was an art form, not so much in the mechanics, I think, as for it being an expression of passion, and courage.
My favorite Pre quote is the one that really gets to what he was
about: "A lot of people run a race to see who's the fastest. I run to see who has the most guts, who can punish himself into an exhausting pace, and then at the end, punish himself even more."
The vast majority of us are, like me, never going to be the fastest in a race, because of our limitations. Every runner, elite or not, in every run, every race, runs with some limitations that they bring to the start line that day - natural ability, training, health, mood, level of energy and motivation, all the grazing they did at the office party that afternoon.
As runners, certainly, part of our commitment, part of our test, is to minimize our limitations, through training, diet, study, whatever. But when we actually run, wherever those limitations set a boundary, we have the opportunity to face it and see if we can break it.
So, ironically, it is the fact of our limitations, not our abilities
or results, that give every one of us the opportunity to be like
Prefontaine, and to be worthy of that same respect. In the end, it is not how fast or how far we can run that matter so much as how much we push against our own limitations, whatever or how many they may be, to be that fast or run that far.
The close runner-up for our team's name was "Team Gracias," which had a lot of support because it would reflect our shared gratitude for being able to run at all. That sentiment isn't lost, though. There's another famous Pre quote that I didn't fully appreciate at first - "To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift."
Few can be as fast as Pre, but we all have the ability to push
ourselves as hard as he did, on any given day. That is the gift we all share in running. Do not sacrifice it.
Posted by Rob at 04:30 PM | Comments (2)
October 04, 2006
envision success
so, two margaritas after a 6.2-mile run (fast again!) and coaching last night, and I was toast. so, you get more old stuff that never got on the blog.
envision success (sept. 2002)
So, homeless, jobless, near penniless, and less my most recent intense relationship, I have decided to turn my attentions to finding the girl of my dreams. Given the numbers, one should think this easy – there are just so many options. I know and my friends constantly reinforce that the keys are to be open-minded, and to just put yourself out there to be... had. As if I have not been had enough in relationships.
There is, for example, the girl working at the local coffee shop, perhaps a bit young for me, shy, coquettish smile, a bright vision through the haze of body odor poorly masked by patchouli that so many of the angst-ridden, coffee-swilling intelligentsia clientele there seem to emit. For the sake of conversation only, I will call her Celeste. Ahh, Celeste. Perhaps, tomorrow morning I’ll smile with my probably ten years of additional mature appeal as Celeste hands me my slice of rosemary apple pie and iced tea. I’ll quote Sartre or Camus, or someone else that I haven’t actually read but whose orts of wisdom are quickly and easily accessible on the Internet. She won’t be familiar with the arcane quote either, being only a freshman journalism major who hasn’t quite made it through Intro to Literature during her provisional summer school coursework.
Nevertheless, Celeste will recognize my superior age and wisdom, lower her head into a smile, and blush, and I’ll ask for her name. She’s undoubtedly as intelligent as she is cute, and I know she’s probably The One. We’ll skip together along the lake as the summer loses its burn slowly to fall, see both art-house movies and the latest Vin Diesel flick. We’ll be the cute couple everyone gravitates towards at the mix of happy hours with my balding friends, and at the keggers with her smelly young friends that we attend.
We will love and respect and be completely and utterly devoted to each other. A couple of months into our relationship, I will walk in on her and a Spanish exchange student named "Joaquin," who is actually a French exchange student named "Remy." She will cover her nakedness and look ashamedly away, as Remy/Joaquin/Euro Shit Boy tries to assure me in soothing tones that while I was like a father to her, he was like the brother that never touched her the way he did. He further validates this Oedipal bit of B.S. by reciting a line from that Spanish poet guy that had a movie made about him with the subtitles. He will get halfway through the second verse when I smite him utterly and completely across his beautiful cheekbones with the first thing I find handy, which is the tire iron from the trunk of my car, parked two blocks away.
There is always, of course, the girl in the Aveda shop at the mall.
Last September, I was there because I thought the mall was a good place to hang out on the state’s annual tax-free weekend debacle. And it is, in fact, a great place to be at that time, for families wishing to save $16 on $200 worth of seemingly pre-mutilated Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirts, and for pedophiles lacking fast and reliable Internet access.
Anyway, I walked by the store and saw her, in her black smock, a good four to five years older than that whore Celeste, her eyes locked on me, smiling in a way different and more meaningful than the usual sales representative smile. For one thing, I clearly, visibly, have no need for Aveda products or any other cosmetic assistance. My hair is long and shiny, with a natural wave, needing no anti-humectant gels or de-frizzing pomades, and generally requiring little more than my allowing it to have its own space and political beliefs. My skin is smooth and unflawed, except where there are acne, blemishes, scars, and dry patches.
Clearly, this girl was looking with interest, looking longingly, feeling the tinge of primal familiarity deep in her soul. The so-human longing that is within most of us to make that one true connection flared brightly within both of us, poles aligning, gravitation struggling to pull us into mutual orbit, into the dance of mutual attraction and union.
I hesitated, uncertain. I smiled at her, decided that was a substantial-enough first move, and went to look at the exciting new Air Jordans at Foot Locker, the ones with the red trim rather than the blue. As I tried them on with no intention of purchasing them, they made me think of her.
I went back a few weeks later with my friend, Daryl. Daryl, despite her name, is a girl. Daryl’s a close friend that constantly provides me with comfort and guidance, which includes useful nuggets of practical wisdom like, “Please do not give your child a sexually ambiguous name.” Taking a girl with me made my presence in the store plausible. The whole scenario was rendered further perfect by the fact that Daryl, also unemployed (though neither homeless nor hideously and desperately alone in life like myself), had recently decided to stop shaving her legs. I decided this threw enough ambiguity in the mix to keep my own availability a very real possibility.
We cased the joint with a couple of close passes, and then went in. My girl, she who touched my soul, and who my instincts tell me is named "Alyssa," was not there. In her place were two, not-as-helpful trolls who, though probably perfectly attractive, are as dim, lesser brown dwarf stars, drowned in the pure white light of the quasar that is Alyssa. While Daryl asked impressively realistic-sounding questions about various hair-care products, I glanced about the store, careful to neither glance furtively, nor to allow my eyes to form the narrow slits that would have revealed our true purpose.
In our debriefing, Daryl and I surmised that Alyssa may only work there on the weekends, seeking not the extra pay, but only the pleasure of bringing wrinkled, frizzy, and otherwise awkward-looking commoners some small measure of the beauty God has blessed her with. Each week, via an elaborate system of couriers and faxing, she exchanges this additional income for gift certificates to a popular Peruvian department store, which she then sends to an orphanage for girls in La Paz.
During the week, Alyssa’s time is spent in more selfish pursuits, as a leading researcher in the fight against SOID, Supine-Onset Indigestion Disorder, which did not kill her birth mother, but often caused her to have to wait an hour after eating before going to bed. Meanwhile, Alyssa’s long-distance correspondence with astrophysicist Stephen Hawking has resulted in some practical experiments that require her presence aboard the International Space Station for a few weeks a year, but I could live with that, because we would talk nightly, and the time delay in communication isn’t really as bad or awkward as some astronauts or Asimov and his nerdish cronies would have you believe.
Alyssa and I will do well - I just know it. In the first month, we’ll travel to Australia and Sierra Leone, go to concerts and basketball games, talk about the knowable and unknowable in the universe. We'll throw dinner parties in my new apartment or her loft in downtown Austin, and couples will walk away, sated from the fine wine and the cuisine Alyssa and I create, and they'll make a vow beneath the stars to have as healthy and loving a relationship as we clearly have.
She’ll wake me up in the middle of the night to ask my opinion on her application of a Fibonacci sequence to one of the components of her almost-completed, self-proving Grand Unified Field Theory. I’ll laugh at the kind of mistakes she makes when she gets all drowsy, and at how cute and childlike she looks, and then she’ll laugh, and I’ll kiss her forehead, and we’ll make gentle but passionate love (did I mention her incredible stamina and flexibility?) for two hours and eighteen minutes, before we stop because I know she needs the sleep.
Unfortunately, two months into our relationship, and just a few steps shy of completing her Unified Field Theory equation, Alyssa injects herself with a complex protein-oxidase derivative. So noble in her refusal to acquiesce to the offers and demands and death threats of the pharmaceutico-military-FDA complex, and unwilling to test the formula on a defenseless animal (even though Rob Schneider was available), she gives her own life to science, for the cause of all the people that have problems digesting when they lay down right after they eat. It is clear to me that foul play was involved, as I find evidence of tampering in her lab. It falls to me to bring the powerful men who conspired to kill her to justice, but hey, I’m not so young, and I have to move on.
Dating is so hard, it just seems overwhelming sometimes. I suppose there’s the woman I always run into at the local HEB, but while I think I have fallen in love with her and she might be The One, I’m pretty sure she’s a lawyer and a complete shrew.
Yeah, to hell with her. But who is that...
Posted by Rob at 10:24 AM | Comments (1)
October 02, 2006
how not to stop
the green, beige, and white checkered turtle-shell dome of austin's palmer auditorium is gone now. it was demolished, along with most of the rest of the structure, for a complete renovation, leaving only the interior circular crowd-moving ramps visible, as if only the rings remained where saturn once was.
probably 25 years ago, i was running my own rings around the structure, chasing another boy my age who had hit me. it seems i was a magnet for this sort of thing, because i was a little ignorant on the finer, or rather, blunter points of male posturing. i figured everybody should just be friends, an attitude that endeared me to adults, made me asexually attractive to girls, and marked me as someone who needed to be punched in the nose to lots of other boys.
i was there with my dad, for one of the gunshows he frequented back then. the shows were exciting to me not just for the auditoriums and convention centers full of military surplus and other stuff i found cool at ten years-old, but for the other kids my age that were usually running around loose like me. those trips offered a rare opportunity to interact with other kids outside of school.
on one of the laps around the building, my dad was there under a tree smoking his pipe. on the previous lap, he had asked what i was doing, and i told him. on this lap, he told the kid and me to stop, and the battle was on.
in no time, i was in a position i would be familiar with over the years - on the ground, getting fairly well pummelled. before some adult pulled him off, i remembered hearing a couple of men commenting impressedly about my dogged refusal to take my attacker's offers to let me give up.
through my life, that was something i remembered and held on to. there are certainly things i've failed at, not given a hundred percent of my will and abilities to, but when i believed something important was on the line, if nothing else, i knew i would try, and i would not quit.
yesterday, i quit.
after my first time running the IBM Uptown 10K last year, i had vowed never to run it again. the course was dull and tedious, and the weather last year was in the mid 70's, overcast, with extremely high humidity.
this year, there was a little application of peer pressure, and the need for a boost. the long summer of training for chicago was interspersed with no races to speak of, except for the july 4th marathon relay, and the experimental duathlon (5K run/30K bike/oh, look, we're running 5k again, goddammit) in august.
and lately, i had been grasping at straws to find motivation and confidence, and had lost more than i gained every time.
there was also the promise of the recently cooler weather - mornings in the 60's, with somewhat more reasonable humidity.
and then, cruel fate's coup de grace - i won a free entry to the race.
so, i concocted a master plan - i would bounce back from my recent failures, both running and otherwise. having never run a 10K in anything approaching favorable conditions, i had a conservative race plan that still had me setting a PR (personal record) by a good 3 minutes. during my previous PR, I had averaged 9:16 per mile, but that was on a hilly course, with a stop for a shoe problem, in hot and humid weather.
surely, i thought, i could run this: mile one at 9:15; miles two and three at 9:00; and the remainder at 8:45. i figured :55 seconds for the last 200 meters. for some reason, the courses for 5K's and 10K's and any metric-based distances, for that matter, are marked by the mile. i curse that tipping point in the 1970's where we got halfway to a new system, and high-centered as a society, teetering awkwardly between the ancient system dictated by the british, and the new system pushed by the british. incidentally, the british are also responsible for lengthening the marathon from 24 miles to 26.2. he who makes history apparently paces it off, as well.
friday night, i went, picked up my race packet, with the bright orange shirts people's opinions seem to be split on, and my race number - 13. that's it. two digits, presumably because of the complimentary registration, and it was 13.
packet pickup was at northcross mall, where the race would start, so I took my four mile easy run there, running the first two miles of the course, then turning back. i would try my first two miles of pace, to familiarize myself with the feel.
mile one - 8:46. thirty seconds fast. not good, but better than too slow. i pulled the speed down slightly.
mile two - 9:28... 28 seconds too slow, even with most of it being a slight downgrade.
i walked part of mile three, then ran mile four, which took me over 10 minutes.
i blew the results of the test run off. i was running at night, and it was warm and humid. i'd be better in the morning, in the coolness.
sunday morning, i crawled out of bed at 5:30, with mixed feelings about running. i got ready, turned on the local news channel as i usually did.
74 degrees, overcast, 100% humidity, 87% relative humidity.
the voices kept saying no, no, no, don't do this, but i had to.
i got to the mall, with audioslave's latest excellent album giving me a little charge, but i still had a sense of foreboding about the race.
i ran the two mile warmup with other people from rogue. i felt the left hamstring emit a slight thud of pain with every step, felt it shorten and slow my gait just a bit. it had done that friday night, and i had run through it. i could run through it.
i saw friends, and my heart was riding fast waves. some got lukewarm greeting and chatting, some got a cold shoulder (sorry, erin, you got the cold shoulder before, and the one everyone else got after).
i hooked up with my friend tiffany, one of the first people i met two years ago in the running program. we had been through a lot of battles together, and she knows me better as a runner and a person than anyone else out there. a reader of the blog, she wanted to go to breakfast afterwards to talk.
the horn blew, and i immediately said, "well, shit," and we laughed at the overwhelming positivity.
we ran the first mile together, and i was pretty happy. it was like the old days, and i felt comfortable running at that pace with her.
at the first mile, though, my watch showed 10:29, over a minute off pace. this would be difficult to make up, but i had enjoyed the time with tiffany so much, and the feel of being in the race amidst all the people, that i decided it was ok - i'd make up what i could, and still get my PR. i said goodbye to tiffany and paul, and began to move carefully, steadily ahead.
i knew mile two was mostly downhill until the last couple of hundred yards. i was careful not to push too much, and i settled into a pace just short of one that had me breathing too hard.
i was moving much faster, passing people who had mostly ensconced themselves in the paces they would be trying to stick to for the next few miles. i passed people i knew, and would chat a little in the window of time i had passing them.
i kept my pace up on the slight incline. i looked at my watch, and saw the sign ahead, and knew i was a little off. 9:16. 16 seconds slow. i was a little disappointed, but ok, i could deal with that. i just needed to pick it up a little bit more.
i felt good. i passed one woman laboring up the incline, and told her she was kicking ass. it made me feel good, to be in a race again, with people that were challenging themselves.
we turned right onto the improbably-straight mile-plus stretch down great northern. the previous marathon course and the 3M half-marathon course both run the opposite way down that stretch, and it's a psychological monster, with it's barely-perceptible grades. much in the same way motion sickness is brought on by the inconsistency between the inputs from your inner ears and your other senses, your legs can definitely sense the almost invisible inclines of great northern, inducing anything from annoyance to despair in many runners.
i kept up the pace, focusing on posture, turnover, breathing, anything but the runner-filled mile ahead of me. i felt the hamstring tweak like a pained piano string on some stretches. looking at the time, i began looking ahead a bit desperately for the three-mile marker.
i hit the marker at 9:28. i cursed, slammed my fist into my watch, and... i stopped. i just stopped.
while i don't quit many things, there is something else i've always done, at a point where neuroses collide. it turns up most noticeably in video games. if i lose a video game life before a certain level or score, or i achieve an objective sloppily (three badguys, four bullets), i start over. yes, this is quitting, but it's not, because i'll play through the night until i get do it perfectly. unfortunately, i am horrible at video games, so it takes me forever to get through games, and i try to stick to ones that reward mass destruction over accuracy.
at mile three, i felt the game, the race, was irreparably blown. there would be no PR, even if i ran the next two more difficult miles at a pace i hadn't recently shown the ability to maintain.
i stood and watched people go by. i saw tom, who i had started the freescale marathon with. i had seen him before the race, and he was trying to do the distance challenge and the marathon training by himself, because his schedule didn't allow him to join rogue again. he was walking. he didn't look happy, either. it flashed through my mind to call out to him, maybe to join him, but my mind was aflood again, with rage and the feeling that it was all lost.
i had hung so much on the race. i didn't need it as a predictor of my performance in chicago, because it doesn't relate. i just needed a win, to maybe renew my love and hope for running. more importantly, i needed a win, a story, some meaning, right now in my life. i needed to cross the finish line faster than i ever had, and there was no chance of doing it - i was only getting slower, despite my efforts.
i watched for a while, crouched at the curb, saw all the faces i'd passed pass me. a logical battle roiled in my mind - why go on? i knew i should go on, but why? running 6.2 miles was meaningless for me - i had done it days before. i just couldn't find the "why" for it. and maybe i also felt that i couldn't even have maintained the effort that had been in vain, anyway. so, i crossed the street, left the course, and walked back.
i walked, and felt the race recede behind me like the noise of the feet and the spectators, and with it the last scraps of meaning there might have been out there that day.
i walked up the home stretch to the finish, and saw people i knew finishing, others who couldn't run or had already finished cheering them on.
i realized too late what the difference was. doing poorly would have only disappointed me, further disgusted me. quitting, though, added shame. rather than the race just saying something about how well i did on a given day, it ended up saying something about who i am.
i couldn't face anyone. i slipped into the rogue area, tried to be polite to the people that asked me how my race had gone. i had to wait to tell tiffany that i couldn't make breakfast. i'll admit there are times i've been upset, and i didn't mind someone finding me, and i often even sort of want that. but that was not the case sunday, and it was hard finding a place to watch for tiffany and not be seen.
i got home, and couldn't escape it all. i opened a beer, showered, and decided i would try to get drunk enough to forget or not care. two beers deep, i fell asleep, and stayed asleep until the evening.
for once, the dreams were kind to me, and for a few moments when i woke up, i forgot. that ended quickly.
dreams are wiser than men - omaha saying
through all the years of not feeling like i was good enough at this or that, i always had the fact that i would not quit. now, i had lost even that, and it occurred to me that when i could quit a race, i was close to quitting everything. but i can't commit to it - cowardice, the knowledge of what a shitty thing it would be for the people around me, and yeah, that part of me that knows i'll just go through the cycle again, that if i just make it through alive this time, i'll feel better, i'll even be happy again, maybe, and it'll all be about forestalling the next episode.
today, i got to work, tried to quietly and politely make it clear that i wanted to be left alone, and people largely obliged.
i got emails from the half-marathoners i coach, and one from another group that i met on the rogue forum. some questions, a lot of chatting. one had run the race yesterday, and she asked how i did. i felt i had let my team down as a coach, but i didn't want to lie to her - she already saw something was up.
she said, "Sure, you can't get this race back, but that should motivate you more for the marathon. It's not going to get better unless you want it to, right?"
i read the race reports from other runners on the forum, and saw one from rhonda ("the enforcer"), an ex-collegiate tennis player, and someone with a strong competitive burn. she had a bad race, but listed four of her own "PR's" to celebrate:
PR#1-longest it has ever taken me to complete a 10K
PR#2-most water stops that I've ever had to walk through
PR#3-greatest time difference between first half of a race and second half of a race
PR#4-first race completed while entire body was cramping
another of the runners i coach explained her suggestion for our team's name - team gracias. aside from the (shared) love of mexican food and it being one of the few words in her limited bilingual vocabulary, she said she was grateful for being able to run.
i talked to my friend tricia, and she said something about my trying to force running to be something, and that doing so was ruining what it had meant to me.
"why..." - two years of this blog, and the recurring question in it is "why?" i keep thinking i find answers, or satisfying non-answers. i found so much solace in zen teachings ten years ago, learned and reinforced learning the practice of basketball. i learned that when the player is absorbed in the good or bad thing he just did in the past, or is thinking of the good or bad he's about to do, he's not playing the game, he's not present.
you run because you can, if you can. you run to see what you can do on any given day, with the body and heart you brought that day. and you run and you don't quit, even when it has you down on the ground, until you can absolutely not fight anymore. i understand that, and understood it sunday, but i also saw that there is a heart to running, and the problem is that my running has lost its heart.
Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good. If it doesn't, it is of no use.- Carlos Castaneda, The Teachings of Don Juan
maybe i've been doing too much talking to running, trying to command it, make it be what i need from it, rather than letting it be what it is and what it can be for me, rather than letting it speak to me. maybe this is what i've been doing with my life, and why the idea of shabd resonated with me so much.
i have to run five tonight. i'm loading the little iPod with music again, hoping music will move me, and my heart and body will follow. i'll listen to music, and i'll run and be quiet, and also listen to what the running has to say.
epilogue
i plotted out a five-mile route on Gmap Pedometer, one of the coolest things ever. i modified my 6.25 mile route to one right at five miles, by turning down Panther Lane. i decided it would be an appropriate homage to my coach that goes by the name "panther."
it had gotten late, after my long conversation with tricia and my errands, and i left the apartment at 7:37pm, the last greyish-blue draining from the skies to the west.
there was lots of audioslave on the shuffle, and i felt its push. past a mile, and my shoulders were back, head high, turnover quick. i could feel the slight syncopation in the rhythm of my stride, the left leg striking down just a little quicker in its more limited motion, and i worked to turn it into the rock's steadier beat.
the rippling bassline of "yesterday to tomorrow" came on around mile three:
and not like the times before,
from yesterday comes tomorrow
when life comes alive,
the past moves aside,
no regrets and no remorse.
we squeeze the blood out of life,
and say goodnight to the silver of old.
and even when wrong we're right.
far beyond the world of diamonds and gold.
i've come to realize
where happiness lies,
I want you to know I know.
near mile four, on Manchaca Boulevard, i still felt strong, but nowhere did i see a sign for Panther Lane. i kept running down Manchaca, and back home, knowing it would be close to five miles.
finally, up a long hill, then into the home stretch to my apartment, more driving beat from audioslave, and my heart beat strong, and it soared with chris cornell's voice, chanting "running from the sound of a gun."
i knew i had run at least four. i looked at my watch - 42:21. i was fine with the time, better with the feeling. i didn't know how it would translate to 26.2 miles, but the voices in my head were quiet, and, ironically with the help of music, i heard what my body and running had to tell me.
after the shower, i went back to Gmaps and carefully plotted the course I had run - 4.62 miles.
9:09 per mile.
i don't know what will happen tomorrow when i run, or the day after that, or on october 22 in chicago. but i am just going to run, and try to be thankful just for that. i will have my challenge, and i'll fight to finish it and to do as well as i can, but i will try not to fight the running itself. that's all i can do, and i think it's enough, and maybe it's everything.
Posted by Rob at 03:09 PM | Comments (2)