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November 30, 2007
canned laughter
This morning, I was draining the office kitchen's coffeemaker of all its precious hot water to make my oatmeal, as I do every morning. I usually allocate a broad range of time to do this, which is directly related to the fact that I usually allocate a broad range of time to get to work, which is somewhat related to the fact that I usually allocate a broad range of time to get out of bed. Let's just end the causal chain there.
Regardless of when I'm depleting the coffee water for my own oatey needs, there's pretty much the same cast of characters coming through the kitchen. They're friendly, but it is odd that most of them only know me in relation to instant oatmeal, resulting in exchanges like this:
"Hey, oatmeal eater."
"Hey, fascist roundeye lawyer whore."
Now, unfortunately, of course, I did not call this woman a fascist roundeye lawyer whore. For one thing, I think she's actually a paralegal, and for another, I have no idea what her political leanings are. I am also not certain whether she will exchange money for sex as a going business concern, and I have no interest in finding out, especially if she's a fascist.
More importantly, she's actually a very nice person, at least in the context of sub-two-minute kitchen conversation. The response flashed in my head only as a bleed-through from some alternate universe where my life is, indeed, a sitcom, though hopefully a better one, i.e., with no laugh track, featuring a racially diverse cast, and not airing on CBS.
The most innocent or banal comment can trigger a scene that will just run concurrent with the one actually playing out. For example, this morning, after I was called an "oatmeal eater", which I know only sounds like some sort of bizarre racial epithet, my actual response was:
"Yeah, heh, heh. Oatmeal. Hot. Uhh... Yum."
I could have at least come back with my horrible Wilford Brimley imitation, but I didn't, because I was busy watching the other scene unfold in my head.
It's not simply a matter of trying to be funny. I really think things should play out differently. Oftentimes, I'm so disappointed by the lack of comedy or set-up in someone's response that I want to go back and reshoot... err... replay, the whole scene, with me rewriting the whole thing, kind of like watching "The War at Home", except you don't want all the characters to die excruciatingly lengthy and painful deaths.
If necessary, I would say the other person's lines, too. But then, I believe this is how people get labeled "socially incompetent" and/or "batshit crazy." I also fear that it would show a lack of solidarity with striking screenwriters. So, I just keep my mouth shut, hope she can't hear the audience in my head, and eat my oatmeal.
Mmm... oatmeal. It's good, and good for ya.
Posted by Rob at 08:51 AM | Comments (0)
November 28, 2007
and just like that...
everything changed.
One morning last week, I got up to run before work. Not a big deal. But, morning runs had long been lost between not wanting to wake to face the day and the urgency of getting to work so I could get right back out. But on that morning, I wanted to run, and I felt I could afford to take the time to do it. I wanted to feel strong again, I wanted to be better. It was just three easy miles, slow and a little difficult, in the unseasonably warm and humid November morning, with shoes I wasn't used to, and just a couple of days after a fairly fast 14. But it was a landmark, and symbolic of where I suddenly have found myself.
On Thanksgiving Day, I lined up for the five-mile Thundercloud Turkey Trot for the fourth year. It was my first timed race ever, back in 2004. That year, I finished the hilly course in 50:41. My friend ran it in 44:09, and I remember thinking I'd never be that fast.
The next year, I turned in a 45:40. Last year, 45 even.
This year, I thought, let's go for knocking another minute off. The weather was going to be cool, in the 40's, and there was something else, something new brewing in my heart. I'd run the first mile, with the long climb on MLK Blvd., in 9, and try to run 8:45's after that.
I hit the first mile at 8:57. Perfect, but I wondered about running the 8:45's. I missed the two-mile marker, but looking at my watch just past it, it vaguely registered that something was odd.
At the three-mile mark, the watch blinked 16:27 at me. I was stunned, and decided to just see if I could hold pace. I was working hard, keeping myself just under the point at which my legs would start to get heavy and burn, saving that for the last mile. I was in a new crowd of runners, up where the chatting thins out in favor of breaths and light footstrikes. I focused, and for the first time, I found the rhythm of the rolling hills down Red River. As always, I could push myself, just because. But on this day, there was something else.
For years, on runs, in races, in my life, it's just been push, because there was nothing else I could do. Push, and just try to hold on, because maybe something would come of it, though I had no idea what it might be, or if it might really ever be at all.
I worked hard, but the work was compartmentalized, which was a blessing and a curse. Running was an escape, and for that time, nothing else would really matter. But when things got tough, and I tried to put the discomfort or pain or fear in perspective, there was none, because outside of the run, there was little I looked forward to, other than my commitment to and care for the people I coach. I could push myself hard, hard enough to make the escape, but that was it.
But now, finally, there was something real - someone real - and not just some hazy, unanchored, almost foolish hope.
It's easier to run, to get through pain, easier to live, with someone in your heart, than on blind faith alone.
Mile four took eight minutes. I pushed harder. I could take ten minutes of temporary hurt. She would still be there. The last mile, with the steep climb up 11th Street, took 7:45.
All these months of not knowing my own face, catching sight of myself in the polished elevator doors as they closed on me every weekday, heavy, mouth distorted in bitterness, eyes hollow in despair... today they seem so far past that they almost seem like someone else's life.
The next day, I ran 7.1 miles in 1:02:50, at a faster pace than I ran in my fastest 10K, in October. Last night, I ran it in 1:01:07, averaging 8:34 per mile, and I could have kept going.
I could be wrong. I've been wrong before. But I've also been right before, and something else - timing, events, human foolishness - intervened. I don't know the future, but finally, I again believe there can be one, and I'd be willing to lay money on it. I for sure am willing to lay my heart on it.
It's sudden, I know. And it's all happened quickly. But there's a certainty I haven't known and felt in a very long time, that comes when I catch little glimpses, little glimmering previews, in the blue of her eyes, and in these things in my own heart.
I won't, I can't, forget that face that was reflected back at me for so long, or the emptiness, or the failures of faith, because knowing where I've been makes where I am, and where I might be going, and the appearance of her in my life, that much more miraculous.
I have a heart again, and it pumps stronger and faster than it ever did before.
Posted by Rob at 03:24 AM | Comments (0)
November 11, 2007
running the line
sorry, this is long and rambling. I wanted to talk about the race, I wanted to talk about what it meant in the context of my life right now. it doesn't quite get you or me there, but it's a start.
I made it down to San Antonio in a little over an hour. It felt good to get out of town, something I hadn't done in a while, but driving down, I felt the sense that things had changed, that I was going into this alone.
I had decided to run Sunday's half marathon in San Antonio at the last minute, just Tuesday. At first, it looked like it might turn into a field trip with some of my friends from Team Spiridon. That disintegrated quickly, which was for the best - the mileage was too soon for most of the runners.
I even suspected it was too soon for me. I knew I could cover the distance, but I also knew I wouldn't just run it easy. I wanted to break two hours. Lately, I've been passing significant landmarks - finally breaking under 55 minutes (and under 9:00 miles) in the 10K, and under 25 minutes (and under 8:00 miles) in the 5K. It was time to bust two hours open.
Running a 1:59:59 would require averaging 9:10 per mile, just 12 seconds slower than what I was able to maintain to get my 10K time four weeks ago. Last year, I ran my personal best 2:04:03 in San Antonio, just three weeks after the Chicago Marathon, and still feeling the soreness from running through 12 miles of my quadriceps cramping. Weeks after that, I averaged 9:08's for ten miles in San Antonio. I hadn't run a half marathon since San Antonio a year ago, and I hadn't run over 10K at any real pace since the marathon in February.
It was going to be interesting, and I knew it.
All through the week, it was on my mind, and I felt good about it. I decided I would break it up - I'd run the first three miles at 9:10's. I could do that for three miles, for sure. And if I did that, I could certainly keep it up for three more miles. At six, we'd see, but I really felt like I could hammer it out, just try to hold pace through the ninth mile. Then, I figured I'd make a choice, and I thought it would be that I could either hold pace, or even turn it up for three miles. I anticipated still feeling good for that last mile. I began to think of being in the 1:58-1:59 range.
I stayed with Nick and Gabby again. Gabby was the assistant to my first marathon coach, but was no less an important and loved figure to our group, the P'Dipps. After that, she coached us in a group that was more about improving our speed for shorter races. Nick, her husband, is one of the funniest people I've ever known, and Gabby's no slouch. We were at her wedding last year, and I stayed with them and their basset hounds, Frank and Dean, for those two San Antonio races last year. Melissa and Kurt were staying with them, too.
I think everyone feels good around Gabby and Nick. They're just like that. I miss them. When I've spent the night at their house, I've felt happy, and at home, and not alone. Last night, sleeping on the very comfy couch in their new house, I felt that again, something I really needed to feel lately.
With everyone else in their rooms, I pinned my number on my shirt, laid everything out for the morning, set my phone's alarm for 5:00am, and my running watch's alarm for 5:15. I laid down and watched an episode of "30 Rock" on my iPod. I discovered I really like it. I fell asleep feeling warm, and not alone.
I woke up a couple of times to go to the restroom, and wasn't disoriented at all in a new place. I remember last year, sleeping on their floor, how I would wake up through the night, anxious about the race the next day, with a bit of fear about how much it would all hurt.
I woke up again. I felt OK. I was calm. I reached to my phone to check the time, and it read, "4:59".
The human body is an amazing thing.
There was a text message, too. A friend had texted me at 4:15am, wishing me luck. I felt good, the nearness of my friends in the next room now joined by her presence.
I hope she knows how much that meant. I hope she knows how much she means. I hope she doesn't always interpret my appreciation of her - my occasional dependence on an email, a text, or her smile to punch holes to let light into my days - as something else, as me trying too hard. As much as I may need or want, I also need and want what I already have.
The ritual - breakfast immediately, two packets of instant oatmeal. Dress. Look through the race packet. Mostly paper, ads for races in San Antonio, the medium tshirt I got because they had run out of my size, and a 4 oz. packet of Mahatma Brown Rice. I was uncertain how to use the 4 oz. packet of Mahatma Brown Rice to my advantage in a half marathon, but I felt I'd know when the time came.
Melissa and Kurt left, and I left just as Gabby and Nick were getting up. They were running the 5K. Gabby's a bad ass - she ran the half last year in a little over 1:30, but she's also five months pregnant, so she was doing the 5K "Fitness Run," which is sort of like Lance Armstrong on a Big Wheel, or making Desmond Tutu secretary of your neighborhood association.
On the drive over, I'm anxious as hell. My stomach hurts with it.
I pay $10 to park at the Alamodome, near the finish, bringing this half marathon adventure up to $80, but I'm OK with that, because I doubt I'll do it when it becomes the Rock 'n Roll Marathon next year.
It's about a ten minute walk to the start line at the Alamo. It's 6:45, but I like not being concerned and an hour early for once. Despite my reputation for being late, I'm not late to races. I talk to a woman just coming here from Colorado and Alaska. She's running the half. It puts me a little at ease.
We round a corner to the start area, and wish each other luck. I don't see anyone I know. I know there are people there, but I'd had the sense we weren't in these adventures together anymore. I have no ill will about that. I deserve some of it, some of it is a matter of circumstance. It's sad, but it's been that kind of year.
And it seems right, almost, to be here alone. So many times this year, usually when I was drunk, I wanted to go out to the marathon's start line on the Congress Avenue bridge, late at night, toe the line, close my eyes, and push away. I wanted to run the marathon, alone, to be again in a place where there was only one goal, and one way to reach it, and nothing else could matter. Nothing I'd done, nothing anyone else had done, nothing anyone thought or said of me, the people come, the people gone, none of it would matter. I just needed that time, running the lines, watching them slide under my feet.
So, here, alone in San Antonio, after a week where hope and joy were rediscovered, only to be seemingly lost again, I'm finally alone at the start line, ready to make my escape, if only for a couple of hours.
I get up as close as I can to the 4:00 marathon pace group, thinking I might use them to help pace myself to the two hour half.
The sound is not very good, but still, I have to say, for a more conservative city with a strong military presence, Austin is far more respectful duing the national anthem. Here, and most places I've been, even with bad sound, the recognition sweeps back across the crown quickly, followed by near complete silence. In San Antonio, on this Veteran's Day, it was reduced to muffled background music.
We hear cannons go off. I guess that's us. The crowd shuffles forward, and by the time I fall in, I'm with the 4:15 pace group, which is OK. It's gonna be a long morning, plenty of time to catch up.
At the start line, they're playing "Stars and Stripes Forever." Rrrright... It is Veteran's Day, but this is really doing nothing for me.
I feel good. My legs are still not fresh from the hard workout Wednesday night, but they're good enough. The warmth and humidity is a concern - I already feel like it's taking a little more breathing to get the same energy output. But I'm there, and I feel solid, I have a plan, and I'm enjoying the energy of the beginning of a true distance race again.
I feel like I'm trying to fine-tune my pace, trying to gauge it by my breathing. I pass the knee-high mile one sign at 9:11. Again, the human body is an amazing thing.
Mile two comes at 9:08. I still feel like I'm breathing and working just a little too hard at this pace, and I know from experience it could be an issue. But I don't want there to be any questions today, so I stick at the pace.
The knee-high mile markers go invisible for the next couple of miles, which worries me a bit. I've still been trying to adjust to the pace, and I like to keep tabs on it.
The races in San Antonio have been funny to me. The generally sparse crowds were better this year, but coming from an unusually active and fit place like Austin, San Antonio has a different vibe. The races are a little more... quaint.
Apparently to prove this point, a motorcycle cop came cruising straight up the middle of the pack today. Usually, they'll come up the sides, using their loudspeaker or even siren to budge runners over as necessary. But, no, this guy just motored right through us. Who knows, maybe he wasn't even working the race, and didn't know about it - "They're everywhere... they're mostly skinny, all sweaty... Oh my God, he's got a Gu! Officer sticky! Repeat, officer sticky!"
This is what goes on in my brain, pretty much all the time, but especially when running. This is either a good reason or a bad one for me to run.
At mile four or so, my brain's working away, I'm still trying to find a sweet spot with my breathing, and I get a call. In my head.
"Yeah, this is Doug, down in left hamstring."
"Oh. Hey. What's up?"
"You know, just expanding and contracting... same old, same old."
"Ah, great, yeah, thanks for that. Ever hear from the guys down in the calves?"
"No, man, those guys are freaks. Between you and me and the glutes, I think they're not all that bright, really."
"Hm. Right. So, listen, I'm kinda busy right now, so like, uh... what the hell do you want?"
"Yeah, I just wanted to let you know... I'm looking at this work order, and it says we're running a half marathon again?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"Huh. Yeah, man, that's just not something we're into right now, so I'm gonna have to go ahead and send some pain signals now, and maybe, you know, just tighten it up some."
"Well, that's great man. I don't suppose I can change your OW! What the f*ck, dude?"
"Yeah, there ya go."
"Thanks, Doug, I'm hanging up now. Go f*ck yourself, OK?"
"Right back at you, as-"
Click.
Fine. I've ignored it before. It's been worse. Big freakin' deal.
Somewhere in about the fourth mile, the 4:15 pace group passes us. I'm still a bit lost on my time, but I know they are running far over their pace.
We turn a corner, and the guys in front of me are saying something about the hill. I hadn't really noticed, and I'm once again glad to be from Austin.
I finally get a mile marker at mile five, and I have 27:19 on the watch - I averaged 9:06 for the last three miles.
Somewhere here, we dip into downtown proper again, and for a brief moment, there's a flashback to Chicago, only with about 42,000 less runners, and tens of thousands less spectators. Still, I'm impressed that there's decent crowds in a couple of corners. They're a little quiet in parts, but they're San Antonio people, some of the loudest and most excited fans in the NBA. They're easily encouraged, and they respond.
The crowd gives me a short boost, but I'm struggling a bit. For some reason, I've been feeling flushed for a couple of miles, a little overheated. I've never felt this way quite this early, but I still have those three mile goals in my head, and I'm, getting through six. I start to get thoughts about what I'll do after that, though.
9:18 through mile six. I keep moving, but I can't deny what I knew to be the case earlier - the pace was slightly too fast for today, for my training right now and these conditions. My legs are burning up quick, and things are hurting earlier and a bit more than they should. Now, I think I've never wanted to quit a race so badly.
Despite a hard effort to just hold pace, I slip to a 9:26 through mile seven. A little boost, maybe from the energy gel, and I get through mile eight in 9:18. I'm still thinking I just need to get to mile nine, then... I don't know... maybe I'd miraculously feel better?
Then I just slam into what I would call a wall, if I didn't know it couldn't have been "the wall" that runners speak of. Let's go with a solid, unyielding barrier. I stop, something I haven't had to do in a half marathon in a long time. I'm a little dizzy. My chest has been achy and tired for a while, now.
I walk for about a minute or two, then try to get running again. It's fits and starts for a while. Mile nine takes me 10:36.
I'm genuinely, truly hurting, and I've pushed myself pretty long and deep into discomfort, but I realize I feel a little out of touch with the way I felt in the marathons and half marathons before. In many ways, I've been running better lately, but it's been a while since I was in a race situation, and I wonder if I'm mentally as strong as I was back in February, or last year. This is why I like to race more consistently, to keep that edge, that familiarity with my ability to handle pain and adversity.
On top of that, I'd lost a bigger sense of meaning again. I know what running means, and that it's important because of what it says about us, but in the bigger context of my life, I couldn't make the connection.
At least not personally. But I have a group of people that I'm pushing. If I quit, what would that do to my credibility, or their belief in what I'm trying to get some of them to understand about themselves? So, I keep moving.
I pick up a little bit with some gradual downhills, on the return trip along the out-and-back - 9:45 for the tenth mile.
Now I have three miles left. I know I can't do much better than ten minute miles, and that isn't going to get me there in under two hours. Tens would probably not even get me close enough to beating my personal record, and though I keep trying to push the pace back up, my body isn't responding. 10:47 for the eleventh mile.
Mandy's friend Shauna passes me and says hi. She's running it alone, too. I think she had wanted to meet up at the start and run together, but she was likely to run a good deal faster than even my 9:10 pace. As it turns out, I might have done better running with her. She looked strong and relatively pain-free, but she had a tough day in the humidity, too.
The calves are making themselves heard anytime I tried to pick up the pace, threatening to cramp. I thought about Wednesday night's hill workout, the "Figger Eights", the abomination that I had concocted and put everyone through. I curse my coach silently, but, you know, he's right there.
It's amazing, how you can have two miles left, and how much you can still want to quit. I mean, you often sort of want to quit, but I mean seriously thinking, "I've gotta stop". I try to think of it as a two-mile time trial, that grueling test of mental toughness. That doesn't help much. I want to stop. I know I can't. I think about Team Spiridon, and about our motto - "I will be proof." I didn't want people to see that motto walking, beaten.
That's just obligation, though. I still need something for me. I think of her. Something that won't be, but God, I really need something. For the moment, I'm back in that moment of hope and faith. If it were, if it could be, what would that be like? Could I keep going, knowing she was rooting for me, hoping for me, wanting it for me?
I keep going. I pick up to 10:36 through mile 12.
The last mile. A girl on a curb, half a mile out, not able to finish, an ambulance on the way.
I'm thinking of my runners again. The sense of obligation to them is partially about avoiding shame and hypocrisy, but I also think about all the times they're going to be faced with similar difficulties, and similar choices, and all the times they'll hopefully choose to keep running. Again, putting ourselves in the position to be faced with those choices, and to win those little victories, is why we run.
Three hundred meters to the turn towards the Alamodome, and I'm having to break it up, I'm running from one street sign to the next, 30-40 feet at a time. People line the last two hundred meters to the dome, and they're cheering, and I try to pick it up a bit. The calves try to cramp, so I'm lurching a bit to run faster.
The finish is great - down the loading ramp, and it opens up into the dome. I'm trying to get a sprint, and I speed up, but there's just nothing left.
Through the finish, and I'm just trying to stay up. I get my medal, and Nick, Gabby and Kurt are at the finish. Shauna's there, too.
Shauna hangs out with me. I lay down for a bit, then we get some food and multiple Alamo beers. We take pictures, talk, hang out there for about an hour, say our goodbyes, and I'm driving back to Austin.
11:47 for the last mile and a tenth, 2:07:24 overall. Two hours still taunts me, and the personal record stands. I'm OK with it, though.
I hadn't pushed myself that hard over a larger distance for a long time. I feel like it was one of my hardest races ever, which at first I chalk up to the immediacy of it, and to me being a little out of touch with it all.
But I realize that I pushed myself harder, for longer than I ever really had, even though I didn't have much of a result to show for it. Some of that is weather - I've been spoiled, with every race 10 miles or longer for the last two years being in the 40's, or colder.
I also know that mentally, I'm in a really different place than before. I'm struggling a bit with hope. I've lost faith in anything bigger in my life - a career that means something to me, a love, a real love, a right love.
The race was so much like my life right now. Right now, I feel like I'm just running a line, trying to keep moving, even though I don't think I feel any hope in what it'll all mean. But for some reason, aside from obligation, aside from wanting to set an example, aside from indulging in a fantasy, something else is keeping me running. Maybe it's just the little victories, maybe the little glimmers of hope in a race or in a life are enough to push us just a little longer.
Posted by Rob at 10:05 PM | Comments (0)