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March 27, 2007
on a path, and still a little lost
rough, scattered, and sketchy. in fact, it barely makes sense... consider it an exercise...
so, it's back to staring at the blank screen.
beer. beer used to help.
i hadn't gotten away from the beer. it's been a lot more under control though, even though it's become a nightly occurence. i drink and relax. i can drink a bit more, and something happens - the light changes, the notes turn downward a bit to the minor keys, my heart settles a bit, not buoyed so much with that thing, that hope thing.
i've gone from aptly named lone star to sunshine wheat, with its hopeful squeeze of orange. it still works, i can still conjure that cocktail of alcohol and regret.
stability is weird for me. is that what it is?
i love what i'm doing. the coaching is rewarding. it subverts some of those very destructive impulses into something positive. the other day, at brunch, after some people i coached had a largely successful 10K race, one guy asked why i wasn't faster, seeing how i was a coach and all.
my runners, my friends, jumped in immediately, and the warmth of that didn't escape me. but it bothered me, at the time, in the fatigue of a weekend of too much running, because the flip side of that question, of course, is, why am i a coach if i'm not fast? later, though, i realized again that i'm a damned good coach because i try to get people to see what it means to push themselves, to need to push themselves. i remember all the time the kid crying in his seventh grade classroom after everyone else has gone to lunch, swearing he'd be better, that he'd do everything better, and then everyone would see. the understanding of that need, that we all have in some way, is a big part of what i try to draw out and egg on. we all could stand to have some wins in our lives.
but still, in my life, so much has changed, and is changing. it's good, the coaching and running and getting my responsible, "grown-up" life together, but everything's taken on a life of its own, with its own momentum, and other things are still not right, and some things, important things, are being ignored. i haven't been writing. the world goes unsaved.
and then there's just the fact that the picture of stability is incomplete and a little false. everything around me appears to be stable and makes sense, in a way. there's structure and uniformity and discipline. but the same mind is still in the center of it all, an engine powered to some extent by chaos and spontaneity.
all this stability feels a little like denial. still unmedicated, i still feel the ups and downs, but now i have full-time intravenuous stimulant to keep me crashing headlong through my life. i've stayed so busy and driven that the momentum has kept me from falling down or even taking a look at where i am. i still dip, but less often, and less obviously, but sometimes the momentum of the full days isn't enough to prop me up.
but, i don't want to lose parts of myself to this new sort of imbalance. it should be healthier, but i'm not so sure it is.
i looked back over the blog the other day, at two and a half years of writing. i see a good deal of crap, and absolutely nothing well-developed, but i also see a lot of honesty flowing out of me. in a way, i miss the person that wrote a lot of those things. i had time to sit in bars and drink and write. i worked at a coffeehouse, rode my bike home through downtown a little intoxicated, immersed myself in music. i was more in touch with the wantings and longings in me.
that sounds maudlin, sounds like i was just more comfortable with being unhappy. certainly, it's the way i lived for most of my life, and there's a comfort level there. but some of the best parts of me were revealed in those wantings and longings, and in the struggle sometimes just to walk away from the continual crash and burn.
so, my life on paper, at various checkpoints on any given day, is better. but is my life any better when i'm at rest? finances are better, and i'm doing something worthwhile with the coaching. much as i love that, though, it's not enough. i haven't been writing, much less doing anything with music, and time's running out. and then, of course, there's the other thing.
no, don't think about me being disappointed, please. seriously. i don't want to be that person again. in a way, i do, oddly enough. i want to be that person that believed in love and hope so devoutly.
but i really allowed it to eat me up. she became She, and I just became a big ball of wanting her, and there really wasn't anything else to who I was for a real long time.
in some ways, i've got all this stability and sensibility in my life
now, and that's good, but sometimes when it all slows down, like
tonight, i realize there's still spaces unfilled and things undone and
i'm still not who i'm supposed to be.
maybe i drink a few beers, write a few words, and maybe i believe again. maybe someone else will end up believing, too. maybe it's the world, maybe just one person. either would be enough, but i can't have anything less.
Posted by Rob at 08:28 PM | Comments (2)
March 23, 2007
another lull
OK, so I've been bad, and haven't been writing. Something about not being able to do much at work, coaching a couple of nights a week, running another, trying to learn to bike and drown for the triathlon I stupidly declared out loud I was going to do, and running races every other weekend. OK, actually, it's been every weekend.
But I'm on a mission to get back to work with writing. Although, I'm not sure I have an audience left... Hello?
Posted by Rob at 11:54 AM | Comments (11)
March 09, 2007
ten summoner's tales
ahh... march 9th, 1993. my 24th birthday. second hellish year in law school. sting's ten summoner's tales comes out, and i'm there at tower first thing in the morning to pick it up.
mary and i drove out to the pool in lakeway, listening to it. it was a huge change from soul cages, which is still one of my favorite albums. still musically sound, but no love song as potent as "why should I cry for you," that still makes me think of driving away from airports, listening to the single, and asking the same question...
sometimes i see your face, the stars seem to lose their place. why must i think of you? why must i, why should i? why should i cry for you? why would you want me to? what would it mean to say, I loved you, in my fashion? what would be true?
i don't begrudge sting the changes in his music - it's his music. one can't say he's sold out. the changes in his career no doubt mirror the changes in his life. we're both 14 years older, he and i.
but i do wonder if the same love songs are still in us, these many years later.
Posted by Rob at 01:16 PM | Comments (1)
March 07, 2007
dragons, part two
i'm self-centered, and i love drama. there, i've said it. now i have to qualify it. i love true drama. i have the never-ending need to prove myself, and i relish any chance i get to do that.
i do not manufacture drama where there is none. i work really hard to maintain perspective on things. i try not to presume the worst in situations. i don't want to need attention at the risk of becoming tiresome or burdensome. i fear being the insufferable drama queen, or whatever the straight male counterpart to that is. this kind of drama is false, and ugly to me.
i try not to imagine drama or manufacture it, or exploit it, but i will draw it out, call attention to it where it exists, and i will create it, if i can feel that it's true and meaningful and good.
it's why i write and take pictures, trying to capture moments and to reveal beauties. i do it so someone might understand what moves and drives me and appreciate it, and relate to it. it's a way for me to create meaning, and a way for me not to be alone.
drama is why i run and race. i train, i register and pay a fee, show up at the start, and just like that, a story is in the making, one that i control, one that will reveal the weakness and the strength, the ugliness and the beauty, the despair and the hope in me.
i worried about this year's austin marathon, because i knew i wasn't physically as ready as i should be. this is the typical fear of a runner, but in my case, the evidence was clear, the causes apparent. it was different from all the races i had ever run, because for the first time, the drama, the proof, and the meaning i would run for that day weren't all i felt i had. i was happy.
so i worried, too, about whether the race would lose its meaning without that urgency and that need.
i felt just slightly detached moving through my pre-race preparation the night before, and the morning of. i drove, found parking, trotted down to the Rogue Training annex. it was full and bustling with the rustle of nerves and expectation and camraderie. i still had one task to perform, dropping off a jacket for one of the volunteers that would be at a starbucks location on congress avenue that morning, tracking runners. but i needed to feel connected. i saw my friends, gave and got pounds and hugs and daps, and saw big Tom.
Tom pulled me through this training program, whether he was there or not. despite having friends in the group, i came in late from training for and running the Chicago Marathon, and i never felt like i entirely fit in, except with Tom. if you don't feel accepted by Tom, then yes, there really is something wrong with you. we pulled each other through the long hill repeats on scenic drive, and through the "Oregon" road/track workout. he literally, physically pulled me through the 20-miler in January. when i ran two of the point-to-point workouts on my own when everyone else was already finished, he and graham happened to be the guys that were still there at the annex to take me up to the starting point to drop me off. and on one of those solo runs, he came looking for me, on a day when i had to turn off at 16 miles instead of the full 24.
earlier in the week, Tom had some nasty respiratory virus or something, so on this morning, when i saw him there in the annex, bee-lined for him and shook his hand in that warmer, less business-like, more meaningful way that we men sometimes do.
i ran off across the bridge. downtown at 6am was still lit by streetlights and stop lights, mercury-vapor glow, halogen white and red, yellow, and green LED's overwhelming any sign of dawn. still, the streets were exciting and alive with people and preparations.
i saw some of my half marathoners, some of my friends, dropped off my gear bag, and jogged up to the nearer starbucks at 6th and congress. they weren't open yet. i had hoped to just drop the jacket off with a note to one of the other volunteers asking them to run it the rest of the way down. people were gathered outside waiting for it to open. i knocked and held up the package i was delivering, only to be glared at and otherwise ignored by the girl inside.
eventually, at 6:30, they opened up, and were completely unhelpful. i saw whitney, who was coordinating a lot of the volunteer support, trying to pick up big coffee containers and load them onto a utility vehicle, despite her full back brace. i loaded some coffee, then continued running down to the other starbucks.
the people there were much cooler, even seemingly happy to be there and to help. there were only a handful of runners and spectators in the store at that point, so i got the benefit of the large, luxurious bathroom. i took full advantage, if you know what i mean. before i left, i applied the Rogue temporary tattoo to my cheek, and took off for the start.
the light was just starting to creep into the sky, grey to muted purples and indigo. i ran past volunteers putting up the fencing that would separate the half marathon finishers from the marathoners. i saw erin, and got a giant warm hug. i saw men making last-second adjustments to the banks of fireworks, and then i was there in the crowd, moving towards the start on the congress avenue bridge.
i found other Rogue runners trying to get to the 4:15 pace group, and together, we split our way through the crowd like an icebreaker. i saw Tom ahead as our progress slowed as the icepack grew denser. i got within 30 feet of him, before grinding to a dead stop.
the light in the sky was accelerating, and we were anxious, and then noises behind us - the fireworks were soaring and popping between the buildings, and minutes later, we began to move, and while the feeling was somehow slightly different, i was excited, and ready to move. i looked ahead at the thousands of people already streaming ahead of me up the hill on South Congress, and i knew and fully appreciated what i was about to do, the blank page that was before me on which to create drama and meaning.
i caught Tom near the start line. we discussed strategy on this first piece of ground, the long, almost terraced hill up Congress Avenue. i had lived halfway up the hill for a year, and run it almost daily, so i was at home. we ran conservatively, keeping our pace group leader, my friend Kate, in sight. we were passed by legitimately faster runners, and as many people who, I thought, Steve Sisson might call "bozos", who were so juiced at the start that they barreled up the hill. we would later pass many of them, and even later, watching Steve's live commentary on the broadcast of the race, i would hear that on that same stretch, he called them not "bozos", but "yahoos". either way.
i had written a race plan for the half marathoners, in which i talked about the realization i had had that the course was a dragon. i tend, for some semi-conscious reason, to think of the difficult parts of a course as dragons. this course, though, was like one dragon, and south congress was its head. charge it like an adrenaline-filled macho warrior, and you would absolutely get burnt to a crisp or bitten in half - you would surely suffer.
Tom and I kept our heads, were patient, and whacked the dragon soundly upside the head.
on our way to the top, one of the legitimately faster runners, Jamie from my half marathon group, in her regular white Boston Red Sox cap, passed us, and paused for a moment to talk to us.
Tom and i motored on, but at mile three, it was, for once, Tom who had to make a stop diving behind a tree. this was largely pointless. Tom is a 6'10", 310 lb man, and he was 10 feet from the road trying to pee behind a 10-inch-diameter tree. by this time, i already had a sense that hitting and maintaining our goal pace of 9:45 per mile was going to be a tricky task, at best, so i decided to wait.
i have no idea how much of what Tom had drank that morning or the day before, but it was surely impressive.
several minutes later, we were back on the course. we ran down barton springs road, and crowds were still out in force - we had encouraged people to walk from the start to that area, then back across the lamar pedestrian bridge parallel to the bridge we ran across the river on, then back into downtown.
the crowds moved me. we saw coach amy on her bike with her little bell, the first of many times we would see her, and we saw Tim and Kenny, who ran a coordinated campaign all morning to see all their runners at multiple points on the course.
but there were also the people we didn't know, on the bridges above us, linging the streets, thick in the corners. not just people cheering for their own, but just people, turning out for the event. with the marathon office, we had encouraged spectators to "Inspire/Be Inspired." the cheers i heard all through downtown sounded of true inspiration, and we were inspired. i appreciated so much then, but looking back on it now, it meant as much to me as the cheers of the million spectators in Chicago, because this was my city doing the cheering and showing us love.
Tom and I moved in and out of our marathon goal pace through these miles, but we were still in good shape. we turned through Republic Park - another official cheer zone, and there at mile five was the water table manned by ASHA, the amazing group that runs to raise money to fund projects in India.
the long stretch down Cesar Chavez, and we tried to fall into a rhythm. i was struggling, early. Tom saw it, and talked to me, trying to keep me easy and relaxed.
mile seven under the bridge, where the sound of the band and the cheers echoed all around us. we saw our friend Kerry, a.k.a. "Lulu" there, as we rolled into a short, steep uphill that we knew killed a lot of people, but was an old friend to us. still, i knew by then that our 4:15 goal was not in our grasp, with the speed our effort was yielding. i think Tom knew this too, but we were determined to run the best race, this race, that we could.
i was driven down the long, straight stretch down Lake Austin Boulevard by the knowledge that Holly, who I started and finished my first marathon with the previous year, who i had run in Chicago with, and who had become one of my best friends, would be there at mile eight, waiting for us.
last year, i had lost Holly and Tom, neither of whom i really knew at the beginning of the race, at mile nine. i caught back up to Holly in mile 24. she was crying slightly, in horrible pain, but still, she moved, like some sort of relentless machine. three weeks before this race, i had ridden beside her at the 3M Half Marathon for several miles as she once again moved like a machine, but a stronger, faster one, as she blew away her personal record with a smoothly sustained effort and a blistering finish.
somehow, Holly did not at first see over 500 pounds and almost 13 total feet of two sweaty men running down the street at her. we saw her and she finally saw us just as we were passing her. she cheered, and my heart grew a little lighter, and then we lobbed sweaty clothing down on her like one of the lesser-known plagues.
near mile nine, we turned north on enfield road, and climbed onto the back of the dragon, that for the next two-and-a-half miles would writhe and buck underneath us with a relentless set of rolling hills. whether to distract him or me, Tom asked what I coached on this section, and I told him we don't fight it, we just ride it. we focused on our hill-running form, and knocked the hills down one at a time, tapping fists at the top of each one.
at Windsor Road, 9.7 miles in, at the top of one of the longer hills, the half marathoners turned back towards the city, to face one tail of this dragon. i looked around, hoping to see one of the half marathoners i knew. i was sad that we diverged here. i felt all of the 24 weeks of my first coaching job pulling away there - they were now completely out of my hands, and out of my sight. i yelled hoarsely at these half marathoners i didn't know to take it home and make someone proud.
again, the crowds here were large and raucous, and right before the turn-off, i felt cool water hit my face. i looked up just to see the bottom of a white robe, and feet on a stepladder.
further down the next hill, we ran past the Tarrytown United Methodist Church, and members of the congregation were out cheering for us and handing out water and, i think, orange slices. i later found out that the white robe had belonged to someone from the church, and that i had been sprinkled with holy water, in a partially tongue-in-cheek, but supportive gesture by the church.
working in the marathon office, i learned a few things about churches and the race. three things, really. one: there were 55 churches on or very near the course, and more that were impacted by road closures. two: essentially, churches are open for business 52 weeks a year. three: churches really don't like the marathon, because we make doing business on one of those 52 days really difficult.
despite the early notice, despite personal visits by the race director and the course director, despite the patient work of christina in the marathon office and the course director to help dozens of individuals plot courses to get to church that morning, the emails and voicemails flowed in steadily, punctuated with such golden nuggets as, "i don't appreciate your race. your race is preventing me from going to church," and the now-classic, "you are destroying everything that is righteous and holy in this city."
yet, here was an affluent and powerful church, which, instead of following the negative lead of another certain affluent and powerful church (which is notorious for strong-arming zoning ordinances and even keeping a popular local restaurant from having happy hour prices (WTF!!!!???)), was out supporting the runners and the race, and telling us that they loved us, and Jesus did, too. oh, yeah, Christianity. love. imagine that. these are people who truly ask, WWJD?, and decide that J would be handing out water and giving love and support to those that celebrate the life and abilities God's given us by challenging themselves. true Christian spirit, simple humanity, or good marketing, I plan to show up at their service in the next couple of weeks, thank them, and drop what i can in the collection plate.
Tom and I churned up a couple more hills. the first took us to another official cheer point. our names were on our race number bibs, and we grew accustomed to hearing new voices call out our names, seeing how we felt, and urging us on. "Come on, Rob! You're looking strong, baby!" "Way to go, Tom! You got it, big guy!" i hate that i didn't consciously appreciate what was happening, but it helped, and all through the race, i waved and thanked the spectators the best i could. they deserved love back.
on the last mile before we turned east on 35th street, the 4:30 pace group caught us. they washed around me like a tide, their leader calling, "what do we love?!", and his congregation responding, "HILLS!"
i looked over, and Tom slid slowly sideways through the crowd towards the sidewalk. i didn't like the look of it. i asked if he was good, and he gave me an unconvincing nod.
i tend to be good on short, steep hills, and Tom usually catches back up to me, so I continued on. i crossed over Mopac, and envisioned the sight from the cars that passed below us, and how different the moment in those cars was, how different the day would be, and how differently it would be remembered.
down the other side of the overpass, turning left onto Jackson, i began to feel that we were sliding off the back of the dragon, onto the longer second tail. for the marathoners, it was now a matter of holding on, maintaining pace. at the mile 12 water stop, i walked through, taking electrolyte capsules and gel, and looked back anxiously for Tom. i didn't see him. i felt the weight of fatigue already growing in my chest, the kind that might ebb and flow, but from which glacial flow you don't entirely rebound from. i knew that Tom would likely have his chance to catch me.
a bit further down the course, i saw Lulu again, and asked if she could see Tom behind me. she couldn't.
neighborhoods. a man runs out, opens his truck doors in his driveway, cranks up some upbeat country music, and waves at us. we cheer and wave back.
we wound through those neighborhoods, then onto bull creek, then right onto hancock, which i forever associate with the long run with Janay training for our first half marathon. she talked to me there about her father's death, and where she was in her life at the time.
we turned north onto shoal creek, and passed the halfway mark. cheers in varying degrees of strength but equal degrees of conviction rose up from the runners. weeks before, Tom and Graham had dropped me off near this point, and I had run the second or third fastest half marathon of my life on the back half of the course. there was hope.
shoal creek is another friend. i remembered the first time i ran it, two years ago now, the run called "Big Fire." my mind was dipping and diving a bit now, and i remembered the morning, how impossibly early it had seemed to me then, and the accomplishment of running eight miles. i remembered the pride i felt the night before, telling friends i had to leave the party because i was running eight miles the next morning.
we crossed 2222, and i looked ahead to mr. fry's house. mr. fry, like another dad to me. his wife, pat, was a runner, and i thought there was a chance. i saw his car in the drive before i saw them all sitting out front, cheering on runners. i called out "condor," the joking nickname he once had, and it was Pat that saw me first, with some surprise. she yelled at richard, and he saw me, and though i hate how we've gotten out of touch, he looked proud, as proud as the day before a softball game years ago when he said he felt like he was throwing the ball around with his son again.
once again, i felt myself running through my life here, on this new course, new old memories enhancing and becoming inseparable from the ones being created today.
left on white rock, and i thought of Danny Escobedo, who had fallen here in his first race, steps behind his wife, to a heart attack. i had heard about him from people who knew him. i had spoken to his sister-in-law and his wife for an article yet to be finished, and i learned about an extraordinary individual, about true and visible evidence of the cliche heart-of-gold that we often memorialize people with. i wanted to stop to walk, but once again, as i had in Chicago a few weeks after his death, i heard in my head, "Danny says run," and i did.
up to what i used to call a dragon, the stretch of road called Great Northern that recurs like a nasty case of acid reflux in so many Austin races. whether you're running north on it like we did for the marathon and the IBM 10K, or south down it as you did in the previous marathon and 3M half marathon, it sucked, and sucked the will out of you with its seemingly interminable dull length and false flats, sections that elevated almost imperceptibly.
it went on, and on. the weight in my chest had increased, and breathing was difficult not because of the pace, but just the effort. the twinges in my calves, the consequence of those hills, that had started miles ago, were becoming cramps.
i realized where i was. once again, i was at the point where decisions were presented to me. on this very stretch of road once, i had quit, the only time i had ever quit a race. i had sworn i would never do it again. once again, and repeatesly from here on our, i had a chance to write my own story.
i pushed. i ran. then, in a bizarre flash of stupidity, i stopped to go to the restroom, and waited about four minutes to get into a port-a-let, when i should have just gone behind a tree. a strange, rag-tag three-piece jazz-rock band played nearby. i waited. awkward drumming, punctuated by confused discussions about what to play next. i waited.
finally, i got in, went, and moved on.
Great Northern is a dragon of some sort for almost everyone, and our supporters knew it. we couldn't figure out a way to get spectators to this portion of the course with road closures and limited parking, but in the middle of the night, Rogue angels bearing spray paint had come and written homages and encouragement on the street before us, for the entire length. there were also signs featuring Ostrich Mike, in his Businessman On an Ostrich costume, with messages like "You Can Smile."
right turn onto Foster, at the highest elevation on the course, and the crowds began to grow, rolling into one of the bigger cheer zones. later, a runner would liken some of the corners to corners in the Tour de France. crowds were deep. i was hurting. but i couldn't walk while there were crowds. one corner was growing listless and quiet. i lifted my arms at them, said, "a little help, here", and they immediately obliged. i had no shame. i ran on. Tim and Kenny were there again, and I lobbed my gel carrier at them - with only two packets left to carry, i didn't need it.
i crossed Burnet, and then, entered into what i imagined Douglas Adams meant by "the long, dark teatime of the soul." i broke. i walked. i ran as i could, but there was a lot of walking. it was just sheer fatigue, already, at mile 17. we were cheered through the small neighborhoods. residents stood out on the streets with orange slices and words of hope. old folks sat on their porches and waved. these were people who understood true drama, and appreciated and wanted to be a part of it, too.
mile 18. mile 19. still, in these neighborhoods, big crowds in the corners. a man ran out to yell to us that a kenyan had just won and "set some record." i knew a world record wasn't possible on this course. had someone done it, they'd have wasted a chance to set a record on an easier course that would have stood for decades. as it turned out, first year of a new course, yes, the winner sets a record. still, i appreciated the old guy's excitement.
mile 19.5, turn left onto North Loop, and there was Holly again. she had planned to run the last seven or eight miles with Tom and I, but i was tired, and didn't want her to be disappointed trying to push me and not getting much out of me. but it was so good to see her, it meant everything. she ran next to me, told me i was getting to the top of the long uphill with her, then she was going back for Tom. she had gotten word that he was having a hard day. i felt i had to go it alone, but i was also glad she would be with him.
she charged me up the hill, the fastest i had run in quite a while, and at the top, Morgan and Amanda waited for me on the sidewalk across the street from their house, with their daughter Madeleine in a carrier with them. my quick hello, goodbye belied what seeing them meant to me, unfortunately. last year, too, it had been Morgan that had appeared at the same spot, at mile 17 of the old course. i had missed my friend at mile 12 that was going to give me a resupply of gel, and i was completely without nutrition. Morgan was there with packets of my favorite flavor of gel, and bottles of water. he knows me, knows the kind of drama i thrive on, and as a friend, he helps steer the stories in the right direction.
mile 20, downhill, still making decisions, each a little battle between the pain in my legs, the weight in my chest that had become pain, the mild delirium, the fears and doubts, all on one side, and the desire and need to not give in, to not want to regret what i had done that day, or to regret who i had chosen to be with the sum total of those choices. i think i won more battles than i lost.
at this point, there would be no beating Oprah with a 4:29, and i struggled with the math in my head to figure out if a personal record, better than a 4:44, was possible. mathematically, it was all still possible, but only if i ran faster mile times than i had yet.
that's the toughest point for me. with the primary goals gone, can i still go? i had hit that point once, and quit a race. i know falling short before has allowed me to fall even shorter. i knew this out on the road that day, and that alone became my motivation - not to let it happen again.
miles 21, 22. run, walk, stagger, run. i see coach Ruth. we turn briefly away from downtown and the promise of the finish line. people are in their yards, calling my name, and encouraging me on. one house has a full-blown party in the front yard, with a barbecue, and motivational signs, including "running is better than masturbating." i could only think that whoever made the sign was doing something horribly, horribly wrong, or had sharp hooks for hands.
right turn onto 51st street. traffic was stopped, stretched out ahead of us. some people were exasperated. some, though, rolled down their windows and supported us. young hipsters in old Volvos cheered. yuppies in SUV's waved. a Hispanic man that would frighten my mom in the mall cranked up his stereo and gave a supportive peace sign to me.
mile 22. the miles are getting longer and slower. i'm running stiff-legged at times to keep my calves from cramping. i've hydrated enough and taken enough electrolytes to help keep the cramps at bay for stretches at a time. i've gone from the sub-10's we started with to 11:30 and 12-minute miles. right turn onto red river. more people in yards, some just leaving their jam boxes out on the sidewalk, playing "eye of the tiger."
i hear my name, and see a couple of my half marathoners, finished, and sitting in lawn chairs with a cooler of beer. chantal holds one up, and the friendly faces give me the energy to get over to the side, grab the beer from her, take a token swig, and keep it down.
23, another cheer zone. we told potential spectators that this is where runners hit the wall, where any friendly voice, anything at all, might help someone push through it. there are friendly voices in droves, signs, on both sides of the road.
a short downhill, and i use it, knowing there's the second-to-last true hill of the course on the other side. Tim and Kenny are there again. they've seen everyone else, and they've waited for Tom and me. i also know there's the long downhill through mile 24, and into the UT campus. i choose to get what i can out of it. it's not much.
running through campus now, a long, flat stretch in front of the stadium that, despite being familiar to me, always seems desolate. i wanted more crowd support from the students. it didn't happen. it was a big lull. my left quad was still trying to cramp. i walked some here. i talked to another guy that was walking, too, and we got each other to run again.
right turn onto MLK, and mile 25 is done. one more mile - it seems so easy, but i just wanted to walk. near the mile marker, i see my coach, "Panther", and like with my coach Janie the year before, it's too late, because he's already seen me. "come on, man, DON'T BE A PUSSY!" i run, determined to get all the way up this, the last true hill of the course, and i do.
five blocks to the capital, just five. still, i walk, then run, then walk. i look over at a guy next to me, and say what I'm thinking, "less than a mile, and you'd think I could run." he agrees, but says we'll get there, and to do what i can. i get to the Hashers and their beer stop, and this year, i decide that hell, it can't hurt. i throw down a wonderfully cold St. Arnold's, and keep moving.
at the Capital grounds, I can begin to hear the crowds on the other side. i try to gather myself, know that i have to get out whatever's left. i plod around the Capital, and to my eyes, it's like so many times that I ran up to its steps, then back down Congress, sprinting every other block. but to my body, it's just effort.
i emerge from the grounds across 11th street, and people are there, lining the course, growing denser down the avenue towards the finish on 4th street. i try to run, but am completely stiff-legged, lest i let my legs completely cramp up.
at 10th street, i'm lurching along, arms dangling, shoulders stooped. people are urging me on, and getting into it, as if they're trying to will me along. some of my bootcampers and half marathoners are there, i later find.
at 8th street, i try to pick it up, and am rewarded with more awkward lurching and more pain. something has it's arms around my chest, crushing me. a girl is running beside me, and someone's joined her, running with her, reminding her of how hard she trained, how hard she had already run, and how close she was. i close my eyes and listen, and try to swing my legs out faster.
at 6th street, maybe the increased blood flow, but definitely the adrenaline, kick in, and i force my legs to run a little more properly. i look to my right, and there are my parents, my mom almost doubled over, her fists clenched, yelling for me. my dad is yelling for me. later, i would remember the day he had picked me up from football practice, saw me running wind sprints, and got on me for being a baby and not running hard. not today.
i felt another charge, and i tried to get my legs to turn over faster.
one block left. then, 60 meters out, a guy starts passing me. no f*cking way. it's exactly what i needed. everything in my legs seemed to release, and i surged right back past him. i saw a girl about to cross the finish ahead of me. she wasn't looking for a race, but i needed it. targeted, locked, surged, yelled, beat her at the line.
i ran through, then doubled over... and kept going. coach carolyn was there, and caught me, with the help of a couple of other volunteers. my legs were just not even there anymore, and i just hung in their arms. i tried to refuse the wheelchair - i was absolutely not replaying that adventure - but i lost the argument. hunched over in the chair, i saw Carolyn's mittened hands in front of me, explaining that i had been taken to the hospital after a race before. i grabbed one of the mittens and held it to my face.
i was wheeled down the chute. a volunteer hung my medal around my neck and i clutched it. i talked my way out of the chair after a couple of minutes, showing i could stand and walk to where my parents were waiting over by the fence.
i would quickly learn the other stories of the day - my own half marathoners slayed the dragon, and their dragons, and were overjoyed.
Wiley Mike, the fastest in my marathon group, running his first marathon ever, was on pace for a Boston-qualifying 3:14 through mile 25. at the Capitol, he went down with completely disabling cramps. it would take him over 40 minutes to cover the half mile to the finish line, where he would spend over two hours in the medical tent on IV's, with medics pressing his legs and feet back to fight the cramping.
I finally saw Tom coming through, surrounded by his five kids, at 5:20-something, around 40 minutes slower than the year before. i tried to yell him through the finish, but he was, and still is, despondent about his race.
I was disappointed in my race, too, but I also appreciated something about what had happened out there. days later, i would write to my half marathoners, congratulating those who had success, trying to address those who didn't, or, like Heather, who couldn't even race due to injury. when i was writing, though, i also thought of Tom, and Wiley. and, i thought of myself, and what this race still meant to me, even when it no longer had to bear the weight of meaning everything to me.
so, Tom, Wiley, my friends who ran, and those who couldn't, and those who may never run at all, this is just as much for you, and me, too:
I want all of you to never have a bad race, and never have an injury. But really, I would never want you not to face those things, either, because those disappointments present us with choices, and the choices we make say everything about who we are as runners, and as people. What would Michael Jordan have been had he not spent his whole second season on the bench? Would Paula Radcliffe's story be so great had she not sat down and cried at mile 22 in the Olympics, just to come back and destroy everyone by five minutes in London a year later? Do I need to even mention Lance? To paraphrase Jesse Jackson, will disappointment make you bitter, or better? I believe in you, Heather, that you will turn it, and let it make you better.
So again, it's all about choices. I want you all to think about and appreciate the choices you've made. How many battles did we fight and win out there, in this race, at 3M, in training? How many times did we want to slow down, or stop, and didn't? Each time we wanted to let up, and were faced with a choice, the choice we made was a battle in itself, won or lost. Sometimes it was a matter of intelligence and maturity. Sometimes, slowing down, even stopping might have been the right thing to do. Sometimes, the right thing to do, or at least the brave thing to do, was to keep pressing on, maintaining pace, continuing to run, continuing to walk, continuing to move forward. I ran my worst time ever Sunday, but I won more of those battles than I thought I could, and I'm proud of that. I owe a lot of that to you guys.
I talked in the race plan about slaying the dragon that was the half marathon course, and about slaying the dragons of doubt and fear that reside in all of us. I talked about choices we would be faced with. And that's ultimately what the race was about, and what, ultimately, I hope you all got out of all these past 24 weeks.
Finisher's medals, hours, minutes, and seconds, personal records, Boston qualifiers, even Olympic qualifiers are all inadequate and oftentimes false measures of our heart, our will, and our spirit, just as money, degrees, houses, and so many of the accolades we pin our self-worth on are. As runners, and as people, we are instead best measured and defined by those choices we make. I have been watching you, and have been honored to watch you, and I am proud and even amazed by the measure of each and every one of you, as runners, and as people. Don't slack. Keep it up.
Posted by Rob at 02:08 AM | Comments (4)
March 06, 2007
dragons, part one
in the days leading up to the 2007 Austin Marathon, i'd have brief moments, only two to three times a day, when it would occur to me that oh, my god, i was supposed to run a marathon. i knew i wasn't ready, but there could be no backing out. after all, i had already gone on t.v. and talked smack about running a 4:15, or at least, at least beating Oprah.
i didn't feel the same about this race as my previous two marathons, for a lot of reasons, but one more than any other - when i was training for and running those, there wasn't much else i cared about, or felt was worthwhile in my life, aside from my friends and family. those races bore the weight of defining everything about me at the time.
but things have changed, and my life has continued to evolve. the journey begun with the marathon last year, with me deciding to take responsibility for my own happiness, just as i had to take responsibility for my own race, continued. it's been a rough year in some ways, but the new sense of freedom in my life snowballed, and picked up momentum as i continued to make choices, revelling in the fact that regardless of the outcome, i was making my own choices and owning them.
i couldn't get completely out of being a lawyer, because i couldn't get out of paying my bills, but i took on temporary contract work, and things starting stabilizing a bit. more importantly, i began coaching for Rogue last fall, and running took over that much more of my life.
at the end of december, the project i was working on was suspended, and i was unemployed again. this time, though, i was focused on coaching my half marathoners, and then 10K bootcampers, and i had become obsessed with the revamped Austin Marathon. having run Chicago in October, where you feel like a rock star for 26 miles, and the crowd noise on some streets is deafening, i knew the success of the new course would depend a lot on having spectators.
my last day was on a friday, and the next tuesday i popped into the rogue office, offered my help there, and then into the marathon office to do the same. i thought i'd have to beg my way in, but i was put to work immediately.
in the next month and a half, i worked hard, and have never been happier with "work," or my life. happy with my life... i had never really said that and meant it for any sustained period of time. i was coaching a great group of people who were challenging themselves. i was trying to help in some way with the insane logistics of putting on a marathon.
and all the time, i was in the best environment imaginable. the rogue offices, the marathon offices, david grice's raceworks office, shared with Evil, the ubiquitous voice of Austin running, all line one hall on the second floor of the small office building next to RunTex. most mornings, i was greeted by david's dog Lincoln, hanging his head over the baby gate across the office doorway. Leah's new fugee dog, Boo, would be in the rogue office, waiting to be played with. at noon every day, carolyn would emerge from her office and stand smiling expectantly, ready to go to lunch. we'd sit outside at P. Terry's, walk to Freebird's, and I rediscovered Mr. Natural.
fascinating people flowed through the halls. Fila reps, volunteers, a man in his seventies who still runs the half faster than my current goal time. john patterson, the master of the course, who has an actually enjoyable story about every conceivable thing that might come up.
and i liked the work itself. i started off proofreading, after Ruth introduced me as "Rudolph," because of my own freakish but useful ability to spot typos, but then started editing, then writing, then designing.
like everyone else in the office, i did whatever needed to be done, whether it was answering the phone or going on t.v., making deliveries or moving boxes. one day, i moved 5,000 pounds of medals, 41 45 pound boxes of marathon medals, and 60 boxes of half marathon medals, off their pallets and into a storage pod. at one point, i looked at the wall of boxes, and thought of how my own medal, and those of my friends were all in there, waiting snug in their bubble-wrap cocoons.
in the meantime, i was completing a journey with the half marathoners i had coached for six months. i had watched so many of them succeed at the 3M half marathon a few weeks earlier, but for all of them, this was the big event, and i was as excited about their races as i was my own.
so, it was not until saturday night, when my job running the visuals at the pasta dinner was done, that i finally sat, and breathed, and realized that i was done with my duties, and that i could do little more for my half marathoners at that point. finally, just a little bit late, the focus was on my own race.
i was a little worried. i knew i wasn't really ready, although i also knew that sometimes your body can surprise you. i knew i was already tired, had not run that week, and had already done too much running around that day. but i was alright with all of that, too, because looking around at the people i had worked with, answering text messages and emails from my runners about the race the next morning, i realized that for once, my own race was sharing the stage of my life with real and meaningful things, things that had shown me even more possibilities for my own life, things that, quite simply and significantly, gave me a sense of meaning and happiness that would be there even after i crossed the finish line.
Posted by Rob at 09:35 AM | Comments (4)