I've got the fever

...and Runner's World has a few things to say about it (ie SKIP THE RUN, YOU FOOL!)

Check out the pro's advice here:

Should You Run When You're Sick From Runner's World.com

As for me, I'm going back to bed, 8 miles in the hole.

The Illness excuse

I'm training and I'm sick--this is the most recent of my predicaments.  More likely, I'm sick because I'm training (and because the weather in Boston is dreadfully unpredictable year-round!) But let's not blame the weather. What's a girl to do?

This week, though it's supposed to be an easier one in my training cycle, I am packing in the miles. ( I missed an 8-mile run last weekend and feel subsumed with guilt. Coach said: Run it Wednesday.) Anyway, yesterday, I snuck in four miles before track--probably a bad idea--and today, on the advice of a marathoner friend ( and also because I felt "okay") I put in another 5. Five laboriously slow miles that gave me enough energy for the rest of the day.

So, now I wonder: How does illness alter training? How do I know when to "take it easy" or "take a day" without the obvious critical symptoms of joint and muscle pain. I know that I'm prone to tiredness as my miles start to build, but for every day that I don't run ( on schedule) I feel a tinge of impending doom and a voice that says: If you don't trust and follow the plan you will never make it to the finish". I will finish and I WANT to finish STRONG. It's early, yes, but that's an excuse. Besides, so much of the training is grueling that I can't just let things slide when I don't feel "on form". 

How can I listen to my body without making excuses in my training?

*Cough, Cough, Cough*

Please advise.

Beyond the Wall

When I began this blog,  I never imagined I'd run a marathon. In fact, I distinctly remember telling my dear friend V that: " I don't know why anyone would want to do that to their body!" I'm sure that she she laughed and told me just to " stick to the half" a running distance that she knows and loves, even after her first two marathons. So, I agreed (see the opening post for the story!) and consequently began this blog as an experiment to see how many people would read it and how often I could push myself to write as I tried to tackle a half-marathon. (I am in serious need of discipline, here!) 

Then, suddenly, I became a FIRST-MARATHONER (in training) and a charity runner (more on that ASAP) and this blog became the chronicle of my adventure for anyone who wants to read/ support and advise. Sometimes, I feel as though blogging is entirely self indulgent and won't matter to people other than my parents ( Hi guys, I know you read this!) and other times, I feel the weight of the running and non running world as I write and I'm suddenly embarrassed.  Last week was a rough week in training, both physically and mentally and while everything's looking up it has been really hard to write about. 

I don't like to get behind or fail or struggle. 

Nothing tragic happened last week; I'm not injured or otherwise prevented from running the great race. It was just full of little hoops and stop gaps that have left me tired and achy, scared for what's to come. After a good, hard speed workout Monday night, my coach, Brian asked about my training and I told him that I wanted to update my weekly log with nothing but the words: I hate running!  He said it was better just to record my times and move on. He also, incidentally reminded me "not to worry that Michele (my wonderful running partner) is faster".  Trust me: she is and I'm not. This seems like shaky advice, but coming from Brian, it was just what I needed.

"Marathons are hard," my coach said by way of encouragement. "They take a lot of strength, but they're not impossible. Over 400,000 people ran a marathon last year; they're not impossible."  Since training began, I've forcibly shut out the impossibility of my quest and just focused on the  progress. I am getting stronger; I can feel my endurance building and the miles getting shorter and faster. I will never be the fastest girl in the race and that's okay, I just want to be successful, to be able to note the tangible results of my labour, and last week felt like like giant mess, a total wash.

First there was a bad 10K--slow, achy, sick miserable. I was just too stressed to run and couldn't get my mind to push past or work with my body.

And then there was the NYC Marathon Lottery. 

As a  life-long student and teacher, "The Lottery" resounds in my brain, not as a chance to make a million or to be one of a million randomly selected participants in a race. Rather, I think of Shirley Jackson's  short story (of the same name) in which the members of a tiny town ritualistically stone one of their members to death each year. ( I have now succeeded in spoiling the plot and too-tightly condensing a beautifully written and highly nuanced story about the power of ritual and crowd mentality, alas.) In Jackson's story, the town sacrifices, not the weakest link, but the one with ( one might suppose) the weakest luck. Poor unsuspecting Tessie falls victim to the tradition and momentum of the crowd.

So, too, I fell victim to the NYC Marathon Lottery Gods.

In preparation for the results, I ran my terrible 6-miler and sat for two rounds of cocktails with Michele. I prayed. I drank. Still, no luck.

So, what's a girl to do? Run for Charity. I was planning to run the marathon in this spirit anyways, but now, it too is the guarantor of my spot in the race. I just got confirmation TODAY from Fred's Team and am more than proud to run in support of their efforts. But last week, while I was running poorly and feeling bad for myself, they too were uncooperative nemeses, telling me I'd been waitlisted. I had to wait  to see if there would be room for me in the race.

They had to let me in, I thought because there's no way that I can be training this hard and not be able to run a marathon.

They did. I'm in!

And now that I know it, I feel both burdened and free. I can't wait to run with a community of committed athletes and servants; I can't wait to BE ONE.

Here's to the week beyond the wall; may it be better than the last.

Nike + Ipod = :( Suggestions?

Yesterday,  after much debate, I went on a grueling run. It was hot; I was tired; my body felt like lead and I was running the Newton/Brookline hills near the end of the Boston Marathon course. All the while, my ipod pedometer (otherwise known as nike + ipod) kept telling me that I was running an 11-11:30 pace. What?! That's a full 2-2.5 minutes slower than my usual pace!  Miserable! Impossible! How am I going to run a marathon, now?

Later, I spent the night commiserating with running friends about my slowness and sudden inability to push my body up to speed. "You're biorhythms are just off today. You should sleep." Maria offered. "Are you dehydrated? Eating well?" asked my dad, a former athlete who seems to  get a kick out of having a bookworm-turned-athlete daughter. Yes and yes. I was exhausted, but not to the point where I should push the usual amount and get such altered results.

What's wrong with me?

I even curled into bed and watched a running documentary, The Spirit of the Marathon, which follows runners (famous and ordinary) in their pursuit of the 2007 Chicago Marathon. It was beautiful and inspiring (and terrifying) to see so many different runners profiled, all chasing the same dream. I worry that, like them, I'll hit a wall in the middle miles or worse, that I'll become injured in training or mid-race and be unable to finish. Still, the documentary was just the thing I needed to push me through my lagging run and into today. There are 5 long months before the marathon. I'll be fine.

As long as I stop listening to my nike + ipod, I'll be fine. I mapped yesterday's run this morning on mapmyrun.com and it came up as 9.6 miles, not 8.14.

This means:  1) I was right on pace, running a 9:37 mile.

                       2) I need a new, RELIABLE pedometer. (Suggestions, please???)

       3) Nike needs to go back to the drawing board and stop inducing failure-related heart palpitations in runners like me.

I should not be blogging right now

...I should be running instead. But I am exhausted. Last night, I did the disciplined thing, came home early from a fun night with friends (one that included delicious food and a crazy Boston car ride in which we listened to a Van Halen  cassette!) and tried to sleep to no avail only to awaken this morning cranky and disoriented and 20 minutes before the start of my group run.

Add to the list of things that make me mad: Sleeping in/ being late. Compound that list with the asinine (and yet pressing) concerns that my contacts won't go in my eyes and my ipod refuses to work and I came to this conclusion:

I don't want to run today; I want to sleep. Or, as a fellow blogger would say: Go Away! Want Sleepy!  

Half-fast, a blogger I wish I knew because I LOVE his running philosophy. created this graph charting the probability of running given a certain amount of sleep:

Given that I slept for about 5 hours last night, the chances of me running should hover in the 30 % range. And yet, I feel compelled ( at least mentally) to push myself out the door, to not put off this run and just go for it. Today's goal is only 8 miles, which in my head amounts to a 6 mile warmup (this is how long it takes me to get the sleepys/ aches/bad attitude/ kinks out) and a two mile run. Not so bad. In fact, not bad at all. These middle distances, 5-8 miles are getting easier, especially as the 10-20s loom on the calendar. But still,  the other seventy percent of me thinks that running right now is a terrible idea and wants to blog about this dilemma for a while (in hopes of solving it, I suppose) and then crawl back into bed for the next few hours--or days. 

What to do? Hit the road? Try it. And if all else fails, sleep now; run tomorrow. Thank goodness this marathon is not until November. I'm going to need a LOT of sleepy and a lot more miles before then.

Rach vz. Zumba

I am not a good dancer. In fact, I am a terrible dancer. As much as I would love to be lithe and graceful, I am a back-row-of-the-chorus-embarrassment-at-weddings-so-clumsy-that-even-my-boyfriends-don't-want-to-dance-with-me kind of girl. It's not that I lack rhythm; I just lack the je ne sais quoi that allows my body to fall in synch with it.

Yet, I keep trying. God only knows why.

Tonight, after a long hiatus of classes, my gym offered Zumba, a Latin-dance-aerobics fusion meant to whittle an unsuspecting body into tip-top shape. I had a daily run to do, but I also needed a break in routine and so I decided to go for it. After a quick three miles on the treadmill, I headed to the workout room to give Zumba a try.

It wasn't that bad. I mean, I'm clumsy as hell but I have enough years of Show Choir and failed dance auditions/salsa and swing dates (see above for significant others who gave up on me) to know how to handle my two left feet. I pushed them. I focused intently, watched the instructor's feet and my own in the mirror and I did okay. I'm better with my arms, I think; my upper body seems always to be in the right place while my feet lag behind. Even the instructor said I was getting 80 % of the steps. That's not enough for Broadway but it IS enough for a first class--or at least, it should be.

But I am a perfectionist.

If I miss a step, I get mad. If I lag behind, I get mad. If I'm tired, I get mad. You get the idea. So, apart from learning the ropes of a new fitness craze, I spent the evening confronting walls--the same ones that haunt me in my training, and admittedly, in my life.

1) How can I push on when I'm frustrated/exhausted and every inch of me wants to quit?

2) How can I be satisfied with my progress rather than burdened (constantly) by the pursuit of perfection?

Theses are the  simple, unsatisfying answers:

1) Just keep moving.

2) One step at a time.

There has to be more. If these plaguing questions were so easy to answer, I would never have carried them this far into my life. 

With regard to the first, I'm slowly realizing that quitting just isn't an option. Especially not when I've made a commitment to a goal, a cause or a person. I'm not wired to walk away. As usual, there was a critical moment tonight, somewhere between a shimmy and a meringue (the dance, not the pie) where I was ready to walk out the door. We had a water break; I wanted to go for it. But I couldn't. So, I went back and salsa-ed with the best of 'em. I sucked, but I went back. And afterwards, when I was ready to collapse in to a sweaty, sleepy heap on the floor, I ran three miles (to complete my six for the day). I wanted to know what it felt like to run--even for a little while--LONG LONG after my body caved from exhaustion. I wanted to hold out, to push hard, push through for a little bit longer because, I think, things are always better on the other side. When it comes to the end of the line, I keep telling myself two things:

"Life is all about dedication and commitment."

"Lazyness is the act of giving up before you're tired."

I was tired alright. and I'm pretty sure that the marathon will require much more, that the exhaustion/pain combo will be much worse, but I'm also pretty sure that after exhaustion will come strength. I just have to hold on until then.

Which brings me to quandary number two, otherwise known as "how not to get pissed at myself". Perfectionism is equally one of my biggest faults and greatest strengths. The desire to be and do more, to be not just a better version of myself but the best drives me to do crazy things: move to foreign countries, enter grad school, run a marathon, learn to dance. Everything I do has the potential to go very very badly or to morph me into a stronger human being. 

Each new adventure in my life is an act of hubris against myself. 

The problem is that at the start, I am equally aware that I might fail (or am failing already as was the case with dancing and running) as I am tempted by the allure of success, the idea of being the kind of person who: writes books, lives in Paris, dates diplomats*, runs marathons. And then, I am immediately infuriated by my inability to have and do all of these things NOW. (or, more precisely, YESTERDAY!) I have no patience for my two left feet or SLOW split times. I want to be talented and graceful just because I attempt it. No such luck.

I am not kind to myself. When I find that I'm failing, I have two recourses: laughter or tears and much as it pains me to admit it, I usually succumb to the latter. I am NOT a "just enjoy the journey" kind of person. I like plane rides immensely, but apart from those, I like destinations; I thrive on results. And, I find it hard to let myself grow into things. I want to just have them in hand. So, the second question remains unanswered.

Even Zumba, it seems  isn't really about fitness or learning to dance (Okay, it is a little about my abs and my desire to be a wallflower-turned-ballerina) rather, it's an agonizing quest for discipline, patience and tolerance (with myself).

I guess I have to keep showing up. (I know, I know, that's half the battle). The other battle is just with me.

Take Me Home Country Roads

This morning, I woke early to go for a run in the "Woods" of Indiana near a boarding school where I used to teach. Powered by memories of yesterday's commencement ceremony and my delight at escaping the city for the weekend to be with old friends, I set out into nature sans ipod. (Okay, I really ran sans ipod because mine is, at present, lost. But let's just say I wanted to commune with nature...)

My path for the day was old and familiar, a three mile ring of road around the campus, running past the main gate, the headmaster's house, a horse farm, some fallow fields, through a thick grove of trees beside a lake and home again. At first, I was worried that I wouldn't be able to get in the grove, that the mind body connection needed for a good run simply wasn't going to happen because I am out of my usual element and without my usual gear. Something else happened instead; I loved it--most of it.

When I first moved out to the Woods from the bustling streets of Washington DC, I found the silence deafening; I hated the lack of traffic and sound; disliked the wildlife and the wide stretches of land. It took me a week to notice the stars. And now, when I return, I find myself hungering for the quiet and the space, the trees and the stars. As I am apt to do, I must have missed the point of live out here while I was living it.

On the run today, I had to fight for a while to find my rhythm; I also hate the sound of my own footfalls on the ground--they're never fast enough. I had to push myself up one hill and over another until I came to the end of the circuit, a flat wide curve where I hit my stride again.

And then I saw a water moccasin.

At the moment I ran past I wasn't sure what kind of snake it was (my frind Beth confirmed my suspicions when I returned to her house, sweaty and a little bit frazzled.) I simply saw the big black slithering thing and thought: I bet you could kill me. I screamed for a second ( I know, like a girl) and then just kept running. I've lived in the woods before; snakes don't scare me; if I run in the opposite direction of the snake, I'll be out of it's path. End of story. I even went around the circuit again just to get the miles in and when I returned, my slithering nemesis was gone.

No harm, no foul.

I should clarify my girlyness with the confession that I am terrified of poisonous snakes. Not snakes or reptiles in general. I am, at large a great lover of scaly things but (with good reason) I've always hated/ had an overblown irrational fear of the fanged ones. In high school, at a herpetology lecture, I came nose-to-glass with a rattlesnake and passed out cold.

This time, like a champion, I just kept on running, happy to be home in the woods and to put a few miles between me and fangs.

First Ten

For a while now, I've heard that completing one's first ten-mile run is a rite of passage in runner-hood. Legend has it that somehow after the 17600th yard on the pavement you morph from an amateur or a hopeful into  a real runner, like Pinocchio, who through wishing, becomes a real boy.

I don't usually by into mythology, but this I'll support. Yesterday, I ran ten miles and it felt awesome.

In the morning, there was a part of me that feared for my knees and my lungs, feared that my body would give out long before my spirit wanted it to. But, the spirit pushed me to the finish and my body did just fine. I kept telling myself that the first six miles were a "warm-up", just long enough to get the kinks and the " I'm tired today" out of my body and run on for four more miles. It worked. Michele and I finished in just over 1:39 and ran a nice, steady pace for most of the route save the terrible Comm Ave hills (my calves and I have a newfound respect for all Boston Marathoners!) which we took a little slower, and the downhill dip just before Coolidge Corner where I scraped all the skin off of my right knee. As a sat, bleeding on the sidewalk, Michele asked:

" Do you want to keep going?" The tone in her voice was equally concerned and determined because she knew my answer would be: "Yes".

While running my first ten, I finally had time to get in a groove and to be really aware of how my body was working and feeling. I kept asking myself : Are you comfortable? breathing evenly? how's this pace? and the answers came back mostly positive: I'm fine. I'm strong. I might want to give up on this next hill/ I definitely want to give up on this hill, but I won't.

I'm not sure how the training will go from here, and frankly, I'm a little overwhelmed by the idea of pushing my self for 20 more miles after I  get all warmed up, but I guess that will come with time.  A ten mile run is just the beginning of the race for 26.2. Hopefully the end of this training cycle 26.2 miles will no longer be a ridiculous dream a dream or a battle but a confident reality, one in which I tell myself to just to keep on going because--even if I'm clumsy/ bloodied/ thirsty/ exhausted--I am running strong and feeling fine.

Gluteal Agony

I have an ass ache. There, I said it. It started post-run on late Tuesday night and then reappeared after last night's workout at the lagoon. In the late 80s and early 90s  (and every summer) women would kill for buns of steel. Well, let me tell you, they're a pain in the ass. 

So now, I need a remedy. This is the first runner's ache I've never had before, the first of may things I don't know how to take care of. Ice? elevate? That seems awkward. Stretch? Okay, how?

Please appreciate my predicament; if you ARE a runner, please help me out. My ass needs you.

Strength in Numbers

Last night at track practice, instead of a grueling interval workout, we had a night of " fun and games". in which the runners present divided into two teams  and competed to see which team could run the most miles in 40 minutes. In my running club, it seems,  there's a natural social gap based on ability-- you chat with and get to know people who run your pace and those whose footfalls fly past you are blurry shirts instead of faces, competitors instead of teammates. This gap is not due to lack of social will but rather natural skill and for me --a proud, solid member of the 8-9 minute mile club, its a thrill to run  alongside and cheer for the 6 minute mile crew. I even learned some of their names. 

The relay forced us to think beyond our own time splits to the larger effort of the team,  and to put one foot in front of the other for the good of all, not just self. At first, it was hard to think of the others; I was too busy pushing myself for myself and proving myself to the track to focus on the team. But after a while, when other, faster runners came wearily to the finish and asked me to run in their place, I felt honored.  "I got it!" I told them each time, and every time I could, I ran two laps just to give them an extra second to breathe.

This two-lap strategy may not have been the most effective as I am far from the fastest runner on the team, but it kept me motivated and made me feel as though I was contributing something to the score. 

This, I can do. I told myself. I am always ready to run for a friend and to support a team. This is what I am BEST at. 

As these thoughts pushed me to the finish over and over again, I helped my relay team to complete 78 miles--one lap at a time. 

I've been wondering for a while now what it means to be strong. Is it the capacity to exert effort and withstand pain, the mental fortitude to push onwards or the emotional resolve to never give in--even when your heart is crushed or your body's burning?

I still don't have an answer or a singular definition for strength, but part of it must be, the will to push on, to let go of the time or the miles or the runners racing by, to run for the team, for the good of the team, as fast as you can.

I/ We  ran strong and did well.

I can't wait for tomorrow.

Start spreading the news...

Holy Crap, I'm running this:

Track my progress here: http://nikeplus.nike.com/nikeplus/?l=training,1291584772.

And wish me luck on my biggest goal to date!

Dear Discipline

I have a bone--or several--to pick with you. First, I  loathe rest days--they make me restless. On the days when I don't run, my body is grateful for the break and I am happy to be able to stretch, relax and be productive in other areas of my life. The problem is, I'm not productive.

Today was not supposed to be a rest day--I had 3 miles on the calendar--but I was so unexpectedly wiped from yesterday's run that I knew I needed to take today off and get back into my rhythm tomorrow. So, today is hard partly because I feel lazy and partly because I am so anxious to run, so excited to train and eager to improve. I like what running does for my body and I love what it does for my mental focus and emotional strength. Without it as part of my day, I feel lost.

 My friend Lynn says that there's no problem in the world that can't be solved with a good 10k run--unless it takes a marathon. I think she's right and I'm starting to believe that running is good for me because it forces me to focus on what's going on in my life and to DEAL with it rather than pushing it aside, waiting for problems to go away. At the same time, while pounding into the pavement, I'm gaining distance and perspective, without actually escaping. So far in my life, running is the best ( and the cheapest) form of running away. Hopefully, on a good day, I come back with a clear head. On a bad day, it's another story, a rest day too.

Part of gaining discipline, it seems, is learning when it's okay to rest and to appreciate stillness. I've never been good at such things; I lack patience altogether, especially with myself. I hate living in the country; I hate quiet; I am a devoted student who still can't attend classes without doodling incessantly; I'm terrible at waiting in line. I have no appreciation for slow development or growth. Thus, running is problematic. Truth be told, I want to be an elite runner. I would love to cross the marathon finish in two hours flat to the resounding fanfare of media and crowds. But I never will. I'm a middle-of-the-pack long distance runner who is trying hard to train for her first two-digit run and race. Yet, I want to be able to do it tomorrow and feel lazy for not accomplishing it today. Worst of all, today, I did NOTHING to gain proximity to my goal and it makes me antsy and irritable.

In short--rest days suck. And I don't know what to do about it.

When it comes to work ethic and discipline, I am a double-sided coin. I am both devoted and driven, committed and conscientious and lazy as hell. Somewhere in college, I learned to be the queen of procrastination and have been fighting it off ever since. Like most people, these extremes of productivity are mediated by desire; the more I want and believe in something, the more I will be fully committed to success. Be it a goal, a relationship or a task, I'm "all in" for as long as it takes--no matter what. But, if I fail to engage in something , or sometimes in the early stages, if I feel resistance or doubt, I want to throw in the towel, throw up my hands and walk away. This strategy is useless-- built on fear and self-preservation. More than I want to succeed at times, I am afraid to fail. But failing to try gets you nowhere.

I've also been burned by this faulty strategy more times than I 'd like to admit. But, the few times when I've had the courage to commit, to not procrastinate, berate or worry, the outcome has been worth it.

So it goes with running. I'm all in. I just need to stay there.

I'll keep training and running because I know my heart is in it AND I can do it. I just hate being tested every time I'm asked to slow down. Surely, when my training is actually hard and my runs are actually long, I'll come to appreciate the lack of pain and frustration in stillness. I'll be so tired yet so accomplished that I will be able to rest.

For now: 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep. 

 

~from " Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost

6.14 times 4.2 will do!

Today was my first long run with my partner--my first long run with ANY partner in fact, besides a brief and painful lap with my amazingly athletic cousin Al. It was just over a 10k, but it was hard! Like any new endeavor, this run had its bumps and bruises (mental, but not physical--yet) and proved to be a worthy challenge and the start of something great.

My running partner, Michele and I met at 8:00 am and started out fast (too fast!) but strong. This morning, before blue skies reigned and the world seemed on the brink of a thunderstorm, we mutually decided that we would "just keep running" no matter what and would learn to deal with all the mugginess and precipitation that Mother Nature could throw at us. The rain never came and after a while I stopped thinking about it. I did, however, count each step, marker and mile in hopes that we would finish quicker (we didn't) but in the end, my perseverance came down to keeping us together and remembering that we only have to do today's run twice for a half and four times over for a full marathon. On a gross muggy day with little training, we're already a quarter of the way there!

 It was both strange and comforting to adjust my steps to a parnter, both distracting and motivating to know that she was there. Around the fifth mile--a tough one for me-- I felt stronger, knowing that there was someone beside me who wasn't going to kick up and leave me in the dust. We've been friends for only a week now but she and I , like most of my nearest and dearest "just clicked". Today, while pounding the pavement we discovered that we have almost the pace, same birthday, the same ipod, the same desire to teach and to help others, the same passion for travel and living abroad. We are also vastly different and quirky ( I think she would approve of this description!) she's a brilliant scientist and I nearly failed Chem. Yet we're committed to our goal and to helping each other be, run and train at her personal best.

After 6.14 miles of running (at a solid but too-fast 8:40 pace) and a two mile walk-run cool down, we celebrated our success at Ihop. (Please note: I'd run for pancakes any day! In fact, I'm considering making the shirt:)

Here's to the next 3/4, partner!

I Believe in the Run

Nearly every great thing I have ever accomplished has been marked by screen-printed cotton. First play? Got the t-shirt. Student Council Officer? Got the t-shirt. OASC? Too many t-shirts. High school/college grad? Embroidered sweatshirts marked those occasions. I have faculty shirts, concert shirts, even a t-shirt from Budapest that says something in Slovakian that I don't understand. (There's a piece of me that hopes it reads: I am a stupid American tourist, but the chances of that are slim.) And so, when I ran my first 5k a few weeks ago, I decided to mark the occasion in the usual way.

Of course, the Boston Athletic Association did send me an awesome shirt (with a unicorn!) that could have served as commemoration enough but didn't. I wanted my OWN shirt. Something to mark me for this race (and all those I hope will follow) as not just another runner but as me. I wanted a shirt that my friends and fans (okay, my parents) could recognize in a blurry crowd and one that could serve as a self-imposed uniform--when the shirt goes on, the SHOW goes on, the world falls away. It just so happened that the Niketown in Boston was running a special on personalized running shirts the weekend of my race. ( To be clear, the shirts and the personalization perk was geared toward the REAL runners who competed in the 113th Boston Marathon, not me, but I decided to capitalize on the offer.) The problem was, I wanted a shirt that said SOMETHING PERSONAL and I had nothing to say.

Sure, I could put my name on it but "Rachael" is hardly an inspiring slogan or a transformative phrase that invites my"game face". It's my name. I needed something that would define me as an athlete--the same way that a costume makes me a character or if I wear high heels to class, I mean business. By the same token, my shirt had to be authentic and original. I couldn't just grab a tee that said "Boston 2009". I didn't run the marathon and I couldn't misrepresent myself to myself OR to anyone else. (Ahh, the ethics of running three-point-two measly miles). I stared and I brainstormed. I went home. I even "slept on it". Still, no slogans came; no t-shirt either.

In a class I taught once, a class I loved, my students designed t-shirts with their mission statements on them and wore their shirts to school for a day (in lieu of uniforms!) to gauge others' reactions to their public declarations of self. That day, my t-shirt read:

"I will live with courage and compassion; I will fill my days with wonder, creativity and love. I will seek truth, teach tolerance, act with integrity and leave the world better than it was before I came."

Like Steven Covey, I believe in mission statements and in goals as guiding principles to life. I believe even more in the public declaration of those principles and the accountability that follows. For me, and for most of my students, this spring experiment was the first time we'd ever "declared ourselves" and watched the reactions of others. While I can't speak for the rest, I'll acknowledge that I was both proud and incredibly self conscious to wear my shirt--in the same way that I am proud and anxious about this blog and this new, public goal. On one hand, my  idealism drives my success, and conversely, if I fail or fall short of my goals, I am wracked with my own self-doubt and others' disappointment (or worse, their pity).

So too, I needed a racing shirt that would mark me, motivate me, and make me accountable to my goals and to my own success or failure.

Thankfully, Nike had this to offer:

 
Even if you couldn’t ever get old or ever get fat
And you never got burned out in the afternoon
And your teachers all thought you were a genius
And no one ever broke up with you
And every scholarship was a full scholarship
And you were guaranteed to start every game
And every game you played you won
And you never doubted yourself
And the money you had was exactly enough
And every day, in every way, you felt just like you wanted,
You’d still run
BELIEVE IN THE RUN.

Ultimately, my belief in MYSELF will carry me to the finish line. But believing in running (something I never, EVER, thought that I could do) and all the good that comes of it in my life is awesome as well.

If you come to see me race, now or in the future, look for the short girl with a curly pony tail, pearl earrings and a graceful stride (depending on the mile). I'll be wearing a bright blue shirt that says " I believe in the run" on the front. You'll know when I fly past you; my name is on the back. So is the fact that I am a Rockstar.

At least I feel like it for doing this :)

Brownies and Burritos are Bad

Please, please don't hate me for saying so. Really, I have no personal vendetta against either food; I love brownies--particularly as the foundation to a mountainous  fudgy sundae drenched in chocolate and caramel, coated in sprinkles and nuts and topped with several maraschino cherries. And burritos are God's gift to guacamole; a perfect excuse to eat copious amounts of the green stuff without cease or hesitation, or a spoon. They are also delicious. Neither however, are good for running. In fact, I'd venture to say that other than alcohol, they are probably the worst pre and post run foods I could think to consume. Here's the bottom line: I ate too much of both today and my run suffered because of it.

 I had planned to hit  the treadmill for a nice, easy 3.5 miler, my usual Tuesday run, but then I decided to pick up the pace a little and push myself to burn off my sugary fuel. My stomach rebelled mightily. What is this crap, Rachael? Feed me bananas! I pushed through the run but now feel drained and tired both as a result of my quick-ish pace ( a steady 8:40 mile) and my full belly. I guess tomorrow I'll have to be more conscious about food.

used to think running would free me from my food worries--from the constant battle between the good and the bad, the healthy versus the cheap and the inexcusable--or else a daily run would be an excuse to sneak in more chocolate--it is neither. Instead, running has taught me to see my body as a machine (a strong, graceful one on good days and a junkyard heap on others) and to know that food is fuel for the body and spirit. So, I try to eat that which makes me healthy and strong (and happy). While brownies fit in to the latter category ( especially during the final week of the semester) they are inefficient fuel for my brain and body and they make my stomach hurt like hell. 

I will never give them up, however. Chocolate and avocados are my not-so-secret loves. I just won't eat one (okay, three)  brownies before a run or a burrito in recovery. I'll stick to peanut butter and bananas instead and concentrate on being healthy, agile and strong.

Brownies are better for desert anyway. Or breakfast.

Here's to a better, low-sugar run tomorrow!

New Kid on the Block

I was six when I auditioned for my first Lakewood Little Theatre play. In order to prepare, I dutifully memorized a Jack Prelutsky poem entitled "Homework, Oh, Homework!" practiced singing Edelweiss loudly and proudly and prayed for the dance audition. (If you've ever seen me dance, you know that there was nothing I could do BUT pray.)

I entered the Rehearsal Hall with my talented cousin Jef and confidently attempted to keep up with the choreographer but ultimately I just tripped over myself (and several other people). So, I quit and sat--and probably cried. The tinny music from the ballet class next door rang in my ears.

It wasn't a big surprise not to see my name on the cast list.

In the years that followed, I was cast in many, many plays--as a Geisha, a Goblin, a Candy Child and a tree--always in a bit part that was nondescript and entirely un-special but for which my parents always bought tickets and brought flowers. 

Today, at my first running club workout, I felt like I was auditioning again: I had butterflies, I was clumsy, I talked too much, too fast. This time though, I didn't trip anybody and I didn't cry. On our first lap, I bolted and willed myself not to be the tiny clumsy dancer or the slowest kid on the playground. As I watched the other runners fly past me with their long legs falling on the rubber track in graceful strides, their smooth, even breathing, like a teakettle's whistle, I fell farther and farther behind. Again. Run at your own pace, I told myself. Don't burn out on the very first day.  Still, I raced against the tightness in my chest, against the tinny ballet music and the shadows of my gym teachers yelling "Faster! C'mon! faster!" as I was nearly always the last kid to finish the mile race.  I don't know how fast I actually ran--split times mean nothing to me at this point--but I ran strong and finished. 

And I made a friend today--several in fact. (It's the only way I know how to survive in a crowd.) I yakked and the listened; they laughed and I laughed and soon I wasn't alone on the track or in my pursuit of perfection. I'm the newest, slowest runner in a chorus but I've got six long months before the big show.

 I'm always ready for the spotlight. 

And I'm happy that I don't have to do this alone.

Pacing, Pals & Patience

I've  always believed in the opening score of The Wonder Years--you know, the one that musically proclaims: " I get by with a little help from my friends". In fact, I've learned over and over again that Fred Savage is right, that not only do I get by with a little help from my friends, they are my world.

Yet, I wonder if Kevin and Winnie ever tried to go running together.

Today, in the blistering midmorning heat, I set out on a short, 3 mile run with three close friends--each an athlete in his or her own right, each a strong runner, at an entirely different pace. Ten footfalls after the start of the run, the fastest among us took off around the bend and we were lucky to catch a glimpse of him later, letting us know to cross a bridge. With one friend behind me and one ahead, I found myself well-paced and well-pleased with my seasoned athlete friend (who is so cool that he already has a half-marathon shirt and so hard-core that he runs in "barefoot trainers" that mold to your feet and look a little like scuba fins, except, cooler!). We ran at a steady pace for a while, chatting and warming up, me falling in synch with his fluid motions. I was happy to match his pace and happier still to have someone to run with rather than someone--real or imaginary--to chase. A supportive friend and running partner, he was just what I needed to get through the day and feel good about our run.

Then, I fell behind.

As I stopped to fiddle with my ipod (not so much the music as the chip in my shoe, counting the steps of my workout) I watched him disappear around a wooded curve and vowed to catch him again. I raced ahead at my "breakneck" pace and still could not catch him; I watched his flipered feet and strong form disappear behind one tree after another--just a short spring out of reach. "Stop moving!" I yelled at him angrily and my ipod answered me in a buttery voice with: "Current pace, 10:30 per mile." Crap. Not only had I fallen behind my partner but I was running way below my training speed.  With no one in sight, I found myself in the middle of the pack.

I hate the middle of the pack.

I know I'm new to running and I furthermore acknowledge that MOST runners are in the middle--somewhere between the elites and the sweepers in every race--but I still hate it. When I commit to something--a job, a class, a relationship, a run, I expect excellence. Of course setbacks happen, but I can usually push through with a load roar and a modicum of grace.

Today, I wanted to kill somebody and I wanted new legs.

I love running because it makes me feel confident, strong and free. I hate it equally because I don't yet know how strong I am or how to push myself to get there. When my friends disappeared, I realized that though we're running together, we are also (and perhaps more importantly) running our own races against ourselves. What I need to do now, it seems, is figure out what my race is and what my pace is. Then I need to push hard and be patient. My feet will catch up.

I don't want to go running with friends again. Except that they remind me of things like this:

Me: Ugh, I'm so tired today.

Joe Cool: You shouldn't be; we haven't run that far.

Me: Yeah, but it's so hot outside. I'm used to running in 30 degrees in the cold--

JC: or 60 degrees in the gym.

Me: Good point. Thanks for not taking my BS.

JC: No problem. C'mon. let's go.

That and we end runs at Starbucks for water, espresso and a Sunday New York Times.

I get by a bit better because of them. 

Easy as Cake

I have never been an athlete. Okay, that’s not true.  But aside from a short and brutal stint as a rower and coxswain in college, I’ve really only associated the gym with agony and sweat with weight-loss. I was the fattest kid on the playground. I would rather read books—until now.

Last December, I made a promise to myself to run a half-marathon in 2009. What began as a late night chat in my parent’s kitchen became my present passion and goal. My friend V and I began that winter’s night not with talk of running but with cups of tea and a shared desire to globetrot—anywhere we could afford as soon as possible. V had just traveled abroad for the first time last May and her wanderlust piqued my own, so we started looking for cheap tickets to cool places: Athens, Barcelona, Paris but then she said: “Hey, why don’t we just do a half marathon?”

For a strong, athletic girl from a die-hard running family, this remark was akin to: “Let’s just bake a cake!” With the right ingredients and a little practice, V was destined to be successful. I however, needed a little more work. Even in December, I was not  and am not a total neophyte to running: two years of crew workouts followed by a wonderful but low-paying teaching job and a desperate need for my clothes to fit lead me to keep up with the sport—at least to the point where I could run six miles if I really really wanted to.

If I can run six miles, why not seven more? 

The sweetness of the challenge compelled me and I agreed to compete in Boston in the fall of 2009. Supported by family, friends and loved ones who believe both in the power of running and in me, I’ve been training hard and steadily since January 1^st.  With the half- marathon still six long months away, my goal at the moment is to “get the miles in,” to build a solid running base, a strong, healthy body, and (even more so) a strong discipline. As a writer and teacher, you’d think I had figured out this discipline thing long ago, but the truth is, commitment to a goal that requiring daily practice and patience is the hardest thing for me to do: I quit swimming lessons; I still can't play the flute; I only write essays when I have to; I am a master procrastinator and the queen of letting myself of the hook. I used to think that this gentleness was good for me (and it is to some extent) but mostly it makes me lazy and stops me from achieving the things I really want.

No more.

From now on, while my feet put in the miles, my fingers will put down the words.

Let’s see what happens, shall we?

R.