Posts Tagged running

I’ve done some pretty dumb stuff in my life.  I jumped out of an airplane.  I had three children in three and a half years.  I once voted Republican.  (My GOP friends, you know I love you.)  But the race I did this past Saturday takes the cake.

My friend and I are training to run a sub 3:55 marathon in order to qualify for Boston.  We’re not certain which race we’ll run to be eligible (probably Los Angeles next March) but she suggested we participate in a 25K (15.5 mile) trail run in Malibu Canyon as an early test of our mettle.  I’m immediately suspicious of any race that takes place in August, but she assured me she’d done it years ago and the breezes that move through the pass from the ocean made it “doable” during the hottest month of the year.

Let me just say this: I hold no ill will toward my friend.

The temperature in Malibu Canyon reached 104º on Saturday.

I am not a trail runner.

I arrived before 7am to pick up my bib number for a 7:30 start.  The 50K crazies (31 miles) had already started running an hour earlier.  My friend and I stretched, hid our race T-shirts under a tree so we wouldn’t have to walk back to our cars, and wondered if the relatively cool temperatures, in the low 70s, would last.

We were required to carry at least one water bottle even though there would be aid stations along the course.  I made fun of my own polka dot, plastic Girl Scout number and threatened to get rid of it early on, since I wasn’t used to carrying anything when I run, particularly not in a race for which I’d paid $75.  Looking around at serious trail runners, with their CamelBak Hydration Packs and their Amphipod Airstretch Water Belts, I scoffed at the inanity of it all.  I told you, I’m not a trail runner.  I don’t carry Gummi Bears in a pouch when I’m doing ten miles, anywhere.

Being a mother, first and foremost, I had a plan for finishing in time to get to the second half of Bun Bun’s first soccer game of the fall season.  Currently, my friend and I run at a different pace and so she gave me her blessing to take off at the start and finish and call her later in the day.

The race director, using a megaphone, gave pre-race instructions, warned us against the terrible heat, and insisted she didn’t want to see any course records broken, lest any of us needed to be medevac-ed out of there.

At two miles, we formed a single file to navigate through a dry creek bed.  Half a mile later, we went by the old M*A*S*H set.  After that, I was looking forward to the first water and aid station as I’d already gone through half of what I was carrying with me.  There, a mere four miles into the run, I gobbled a piece of banana, drank water and a shot of cola, and re-filled the polka dot bottle.  I’d decided to keep it with me.

Shortly afterward, we started hitting one hill after another.  On Saturday, panting in the blazing sun – it had reached 90º in no time – I noticed that I was the only one doing the run-shuffle and walkers were passing me left and right.  I trudged probably another quarter mile before I realized I was being an ass and, looking at the steep (and I mean steep) terrain in front of me for what looked like another two miles, I stopped to stroll.

The further you get in a 25K deep into a canyon, the less opportunity you have to say “f**k this” and turn around.  I was committed.  Thankfully, with age comes wisdom (sometimes) and I realized that Bun Bun’s soccer game was out of the question.  There was no shade, dirt paths as steep as Everest to climb, it was nearing 100º, and I was screwed.  I was certain my daughter would rather I live to see the next soccer game.

By the time the next aid station turned up at 7.5 miles, I was wrecked, as was everyone around me.  Ice-cold sponges were squeezed over our heads, water bottles were filled, Gatorade and Goo was consumed.  It was a party no one seemed eager to leave, but the longer we stayed, the longer our ordeal would last.  On we went, hiking up giant boulders, down the other side, trying not to slip, trying not to break down and cry at every additional hill that came before us.  “Dammit, do we ever go down?!” I shouted and a woman next to me tried to explain the next few miles.  The Pacific Ocean in the near distance taunted us but provided no breeze.  The dozen or so runners I ended up pacing with throughout the race suddenly became the most important people in my life.  It was another three miles before the third and last aid station at Mile 13, I’d run out of water, and I realized these were the kind of conditions in which people die.

Obviously, I didn’t die.  But I’ve never before feared for my health in a race before Saturday.  Does anyone have an extra kidney they can give me?  I charged downhill toward Aid Station #3 with a will I’m not sure I’ll see again anytime soon.  So what if I wouldn’t be able to walk down stairs for a week?  I needed help and I needed it fast.  After stumbling over rocks to cross a creek – the woman in front of me shouted profanely in frustration – I made it to the refreshments (canapés, anyone?) and downed so many liquids, I felt nauseous.  Onward the final 2.5 miles, which included one last steep mile climb on a path about 18” wide.  I pulled over at least half a dozen times to catch my breath – none of us had run in miles – assured those who asked that I was okay, and then did my best impression of Quasimodo heading to the finish line.

The trashcans full of iced fruit drinks weren’t meant for dunking, but I dunked my head in anyway.  The volunteers standing nearby didn’t dare stop me as I poured handfuls of ice down my shirt front and back.  Like Jack our dog, I ravenously consumed whatever I was handed, which included two bottles of water, some electrolytes, and a slice of pizza.  I sat in the shade of an oleander bush to recover and take in what we’d all just put ourselves through.  After borrowing someone’s phone to call the husband, I let him know I was alive and told him I was hanging around to make sure my friend was, too.  As fire engines and ambulances arrived to aid 50K runners in distress on the trail, I told him to tell Bun Bun that I was happy she’d won her game and happier still that I’d live to see her next one.

As I said, I’ve done some really dumb things in my life.  For the sake of my children, I hope I’m finished.

On Wednesday, my friend Ann gave me a copy of Haruki Murakami’s book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.  By Friday morning, I had finished it and was contemplative.  I was also looking forward to my Saturday morning run, my Sunday morning run, and Monday, Tuesday after that, Wednesday…

I tend to get ahead of myself.

In addition to friends and family, there are two aspects of my life that saved me from an early demise.  The first was getting sober many years ago; the second, running.  I could do a separate blog on the first, but I’ve no desire and it’s not what’s on my mind today.  Running is.

Murakami is a celebrated Japanese writer who began running at age thirty-three.  What I Talk About… is a matter-of-fact chronicle, a collection of essays, about how running is as fundamental a part of his life as his work as a novelist.  It’s not a wildly compelling book.  I wouldn’t readily recommend it, unless you’re likely a runner and in need of inspiration.  I didn’t know how desperately I was until I started reading.

In the 1980s, I was able to put together one decent marathon, but from one year to the next, I was horribly inconsistent.  It wasn’t until 1991 that my running became so regular, I rarely took a day off.  It was as much of a habit as brushing my teeth in the morning, though it took longer and I generally smelled after.  Running every day, I became faster, stronger, more confident, happier.  For someone who is not naturally built for running, like my husband is, I was able to complete several marathons in the 3:30 to 3:45 range, and collect 10k medals and trophies in my age group.

There were periods of time after each of my children were born when the miles were difficult to stack up, but being married to someone who knows the importance of exercise for physical and mental health, we were always able to coordinate schedules so I could get back in shape.  It wasn’t until about four years ago that my mileage began to take what looked like a quasi-permanent hit.  But I never once believed this development would endure.  I identified myself as a runner.  Surely, that would always be the case.  Yet month by month, year by year, my weight increased, my muscles stiffened, and I was losing my running mojo.  I’d miss that magical window of time in the morning when excuses don’t exist and end up skipping a day, and then another – or I’d drag myself out the front door to put together a pitiable, flat three miles that didn’t seem to do anything other than leave me feeling soft at the end of a week.

Like Murakami, I don’t proselytize about running.  It has worked for me because of its simplicity and because I stuck with it long enough to capture its benefits, but it’s not for everyone.  In my life, though, it has rewarded me in ways I never imagined when I first saw Grete Waitz running in the rain in New York’s Central Park, competing in the city’s 1982 marathon.  I vowed then to complete that race, and did so in 1985, ’88, ’92, ’93 and ’94.  In 1992, I was invited to join a group of friends who ran together in Santa Monica (go Flying Squirrels!) and proceeded to show up every Saturday for nearly fifteen years, cultivating some of the strongest friendships I have today.  I met my husband when he joined the group in 1995.  We ran the Big Sur marathon together the day after getting engaged in Carmel.  I’ve run in other countries.  I’ve run at the beach and to the beach, in the mountains and deserts, in circles around Central Park.  I’ve run in a 24-hour relay, which involved a moonlit eight miles in Petaluma, and a midnight encounter with a skunk at San Francisco’s Presidio.  When I travel anywhere, I see the sights, if there are any, in the morning after lacing up my running shoes.  I’ve had a heart rate as low as fifty and 90/60 blood pressure.  My friend Wendy and I have solved the world’s problems ten times over while out running “Barham”.

Last Thursday morning, I was sitting with two of the teachers from my daughters’ school.  One of them turned to me, “I hear you’re a runner.”  I felt an unusual and uncomfortable moment of shame, literally dropped my head and stammered.  “Well, I run but, but I’ve fallen off a bit for different reasons.  My husband is really a runner.  He just did Boston in 3:17,” I said, trying to deflect attention away from my physique, which no one would mistake for a person serious about her mileage.  The exchange left me feeling awkward, and sad.  I went home and started reading Murakami’s book.

After finishing What I Talk About… the next day, I was reminded of my love affair with running, how something perfunctory can become as vital as breathing, how losing it in degrees has made me feel lost.  I want it back.

I’m not writing to begin a running log.  This post is writing-as-therapy.  A friend gave me a book.  It made me think.  I ran around the soccer fields this morning while Bun Bun practiced, and I’ll get up tomorrow morning before mothers everywhere are celebrated, and run up in the hills.  I’ll listen to my breathing, think about very little, and put one foot in front of the other, over and over and over.

I’ll run because I have to, because it is a part of who I am.  The next time someone wants to accuse me of being a runner, I’d like to feel guilty as charged.

…not for another Royal Wedding, but for the Big Sur Marathon.  We did it as a relay.  Nine miles for me, eleven for my friend Beth, and six for my cousin.  The teams are meant to be made up of five runners, but over the years (we’ve been at it now for fifteen), life happens and occasionally we come up short.  But don’t take the weekend away from us.  It happens in one of the most beautiful spots in the world – what I’ve seen of it, anyway – and despite almost missing some relay buses this morning and having a fight with a Highway Patrol officer after the race (because I can’t help myself, I have issues with the Highway Patrol), it was all perfect because this part of California is heaven on earth.

These were taken with my iPhone while on the course, except for the t-shirt pic.  By then, I was back at my friend’s house, playing with that goat named Hooligan. 

My cup of Jo this morning.

I’m Irish.  I explained that all last week.  I was late meeting Wendy this morning because I was busy slicing three loaves of soda bread, one for each of my daughters’ classrooms.  They’re proud to be Irish today, though I’m not sure they know what it means other than wearing green and proudly explaining their first names to people.  If you don’t know me or my children, go ahead and guess what their names are.  Hint: all three suggest locations of the Emerald Isle.  (Duh.  Goldie, Bun Bun and Miss T are not what’s on their birth certificates.)

On our journey this morning, after Libi made me feel like the most important person alive, Wendy and I spoke mostly of the impending marathon, a mere four days away.  (She’s meeting me to run the last eight miles.)  The logistics are worth training for in and of themselves.  How do I get to Dodger Stadium?  (Practice.)  Where should Beth park in Hollywood with the girls to cheer us on?  How do they get to Santa Monica from there with the street closures and then where the hell do they leave the car?  How do we get back to the car once the race is over?  How do we get Wendy back to her car?  What if I get a side ache at Mile 7?  Should I wear my contacts or my glasses?  What about shorts?  Do I get a new pair?  Ponytail or hair down?  Michigan hat or the cute, pink ESPN one?  Can’t forget sunscreen.  It’s supposed to be warmer than I’m comfortable with.  What if I get sick?  It’s been known to happen.  Clip the toenails.  Do we have enough Vaseline?  I need to get to bed by ten for the rest of the week.  What if I don’t?!  Should I start carbo loading now?  Have I ever stopped carbo loading?  Why aren’t my legs thinner with all this running I do?  Should I spray on a fake tan so the gams don’t look so white in the photos?  I should wear my contacts.  I’ll look cuter and probably younger.  The husband wants me to carry my iPhone so, with Loopt, we can keep track of each other during the route.  (He’ll be several miles ahead.)  Do I want to carry my iPhone with me?  My SPIbelt works pretty well for that.  Wendy said she’d carry it during the last part of the race.  What should I eat Saturday night?  Sunday morning?  This afternoon?  What about my left foot?  What about my right foot?  Why did I sign up for this?  How much Irish soda bread is too much?  Should I take my driver’s license with me in case I get lost?  How would that help me find my way?  Is there a compass on the iPhone?  Any chance I can beat Shia LaBeouf?  Doesn’t his name mean ‘beef’ in French?  Will I see Carey Mulligan along the way?  I can tell her how much I loved her in “An Education”.  Maybe she’d run a few miles with me.  What if the lines for the portajohns are too long at Mile 11 and I really, really have to go?  I hope that guy who always runs in a waiter’s uniform and carries a tray with a bottle on top doesn’t pass me.  Wendy mentioned someone dressed up as a tomato during the Jimmy Stewart Relay Marathon years ago.  What if he runs and passes me?  What if it takes me until Monday to finish?  Why are my thighs still touching?  I should have Beth bring Pepto Bismol for the finish.  I should’ve done more sit-ups.  I should eat a banana right now.  How much water is too much?  Why can’t runners park at Dodger Stadium?  Why do we start the race at 7:24?  I wish I was “elite”.  They start at 7:07.  Purple is my favorite color.  I wonder if I can find purple running shorts before Sunday.  What if I can’t?!  Should I run Saturday, or put my feet up?  I hope I don’t get a caffeine headache at Mile 22.  There’s a Starbucks near 26^th and San Vicente at Mile 23.  Maybe Wendy could run ahead and get me a half-caff with room.  Why did I sign up for this?!  I’m exhausted.  I don’t think I can run it.  Maybe I can.  I should.  I can eat everything I want to after the race.  What should I eat?  It’ll be like I’m high as a kite and everything will taste excellent.  I’m definitely running.  I love all the freebies they give you in your race packet.  I hope I get some of that Gator gum so I can give it to the girls.  Oh, and Power Bars.  Who buys Power Bars?  I hope I’m one of the first thousand women to finish.  I remember when my running goals were so much loftier.  I remember when I was younger.

I have to go lie down.

But first, I have to put Dorina Allen’s Stout with Beef recipe in the oven.

May you be poor in misfortune, rich in blessings, slow to make enemies, quick to make friends. But rich or poor, quick or slow, may you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.

Again, sláinte.

It was dark and rainy when I woke this morning to meet up with Wendy for our run.  I cursed her name when the alarm went off, had some coffee, laced up the Asics and drove to her house.  I would’ve run there but, were you not listening? It was dark and rainy.  We talked about our dogs because we always do.  There was chat about TBI Marco because there always is.  He’s amazing.  And then there was this:

Let me just say, yesterday I wrote of flashlights and earthquakes hours before a massive quake hit Haiti Tuesday afternoon.  And while I’m sure flashlights and batteries might be useful to Haitians right now, so too would be clean water, equipment to move large pieces of debris and a government, infrastructure and societal conditions to lift it out of the ugly distinction of being the poorest country in the Western hemisphere.  The per capita income in Haiti hovers at less than $400 per year.  And now this? Check out Unicef’s site to donate to their relief fund, or simply go to Google’s “How can I help Haiti?” page.

Prepare for segue.  All things being relative, still, is it really that big of a deal for Jim and Robert to get married after being together for over twenty years?  I could write a whole book on how I feel about the subject of gay marriage but really?  I wouldn’t read it.  I don’t have the time and I don’t care because I have secret information that I’m willing to share in a paragraph.  Ready?

Gay people are not evil.  Nor are they all, by definition of the word “gay”, happy and carefree.  They most definitely are, however, individuals – with bills to pay, jobs to find, children to raise, pants to put on one leg at a time, and hopes of falling in love.  They do not want to “convert” our children to their gay way of life.  They will tell you that no one converted them.  Come to Los Angeles.  Visit San Francisco.  Spend a week in New York.  Bask in our gayness.  At the end of the day, you and yours will be no different.  Homosexuality is not H1N1.  It is not contagious.  Jim and Robert want to get married because it may afford them a place in society less difficult than the one they are in currently.  Geez Louise, can’t we allow that and use all the money left to be spent on this issue for something better, like feeding the hungry, nursing the sick, lowering college tuition costs at Cal State Universities so that we might educate a scientist who may one day find a cure for cancer?  For chrissakes, Catholic Portugal just made gay marriage legal, becoming the sixth country in Europe to do so.

I have an answer for every argument I’ve ever heard against gay marriage but while we were running, Wendy was not arguing with me.  I’m not even sure she was listening.  The light was green and she was busy making sure the car turning the corner didn’t plow us down and kill us.  She was focusing on our lives, in that moment.  Aaah, but if more of us could do the same.

Tomorrow: the cookie recipe