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.