There shouldn't have been a problem.
My friends were all going to Cincinnati. I knew there was a slight chance I'd see him, but I told myself I didn't care. And if I saw him I'd just be shouty and awful anyway, so what did it matter? And my friends would be there. And Mark. Thank Goodness for Mark, I can always rely on him to be there for me, except when we're drunk after the most amazing evening ever and he kisses me and confuses me and then turns around and dates someone who is essentially a ten years younger, less dark version of me. But that's Mark. Back to Cincinnati.
I ran a marathon there. My fifth marathon. It was, by all accounts, the most excruciating experience of my running life, and I've had some bad ones. I went into it expecting to bonk but hoping I'd pull it out in spite of food poisoning. I had a handful of spaghetti and a little spinach the night before, and it was so hot I couldn't swallow the Clif Shots or Jelly Bellies I'd brought. I bonked hard. Thank Goodness for Mike and Brad, who had run the relay and paced me from miles 5-18. I nearly quit twice with Mike, about 8 times with Brad. Somehow they talked me through and I finished in 4:04. Not my slowest time, but not great. I was miserable over it when all was said and done, but when I called my sister afterward from Mike's phone I discovered I had lost my phone and had to find it. They all went on to the hash party and I went on a quest.
After half an hour of searching, getting lifted over the fence by a very large-muscled security guard (the leg cramps were excruciating), crossing the finish line again, getting kicked out of the production motorhome, borrowing a phone from the announcer's assistant and calling my phone a dozen times, getting accosted by medical personnel in the chute because I 'looked cold,' I discovered that there was in fact a lost and found. When I told the lady "It's the one with the snail on it," my phone was produced in thirty seconds, my credit card and driver's license still inside. I breathed a sigh of relief and hobbled toward the parking garage to get my rental car.
By the time I got a coffee, got the car, changed my shoes and my shirt and figured out where the party was, I had forgotten all about where I was. I hobbled down a dirt path through some tall grass and emerged in a parking lot. Brad saw me and waved and I hobbled faster, eager to thank him for getting me through the worst part of the race. He is such a good friend, he lifts me up so high. He makes my heart feel bigger and stronger and happier. And as Brad rushed toward me beaming and my heart was growing, I noticed someone else walking toward me too, all in black. And my heart wasn't just growing anymore, it was fluttering. Adrenaline shot through my body, all my hair stood up. I was angry and elated and frightened and sure of myself all at once. I thought this must be what it feels like to be a warrior and see your enemy face to face.
It was him, of course. The Black Squirrel. I wondered if I would punch him when he got close enough. I wanted to. I hoped I looked good. He'd gained weight, but it looked good on him. He looked...older. Grown up, finally. He was still the sexiest man I'd ever seen. That swagger. He smiled and I could barely see Brad anymore. "What are you doing here?" he asked incredulously.
Thank god he did because otherwise I really might have punched him.
I smiled back easily. "Running a marathon. What are you doing here?"
I don't know what he said. His mouth moved. That velvet voice came out. I couldn't think. I wondered how long it would be before I cried. He was probably thinking I was pathetic for coming. He probably didn't want me anymore, or probably had a girlfriend or something. That last thought shook me awake and finally I turned fully to Brad. Thank you, Brad. You helped me so much. Words came out of my mouth and I was looking at Brad, but every cell in my body was pointing at Him. I registered that He was standing there awkwardly watching me. I didn't want it to be awful. I told him to give me a hug. It was the most awkward, uncomfortable hug I'd ever had with anyone, maybe because my body was telling me to melt into him and kiss him, but I was resisting so hard.
Then he disappeared.
I didn't even pretend to not be looking around everywhere for him. I had no idea where he went. I was disappointed. I figured all my fears had been true and just resumed the business of post-marathon partying. I slammed a beer, figuring if I got drunk maybe I'd forget. After two days of food poisoning and a marathon I wasn't hungry. I couldn't feel my stomach, because my body was still on high alert for him. I forced myself to nibble at things.
Some things happened, but the only calories in my body were from beer and I was drunk and giggly so I didn't really notice. I was happy my friends were so wonderful and glad to be with them, but it was bittersweet, tinged by the anger of having bombed another goal race. I felt like I won at failing. We drove somewhere. There was a parking lot. He wasn't there. There were some people. He wasn't there. I leaned on Mike and Stephanie, fighting the urge to climb back into the car and curl up in the backseat and cry for my failed effort and scream away my anger at myself for wishing he hadn't walked away from me. When was I going to learn?
I met some people. They were nice. There was a hot girl I sort of knew from Boston and she and I kept eyeballing each other, pretending not to be flirting in front of her boyfriend. The boys liked me. That's always fun. It started to make me feel better. There was a dark one, maybe a little older than me, with a wolfish smile. I pretended to have met him before, one of my favorite games to play. I decided I would have him. I just wanted someone to kiss me. I wanted someone to stare at me with complete frustration and say, "You're something else," and stop time by holding me tight and kissing my mouth there in front of everyone.
Then, as suddenly as he had disappeared, there he was, drunk and tackling one of the men. I didn't know where he'd come from. Then he was talking to a girl that seemed somehow familiar to me. She touched the thyme tattoo on his arm. I was overwhelmed with jealousy. He seemed to be ignoring me. I leaned on Mark. I wished Mark would kiss me again. I wished anyone would. I wished the ground would open up and I would fall into the hole, a failure at racing. An empty woman with an empty belly who could only feel empty thinking of the long list of men who had treated her like shit. A sorry version of my real self.
It was time to go, so I went. I quickly found myself unable to slowly jog, and thankfully Mark and Stephanie were walking too. We saw the familiar girl. She was nice. We talked with her and the man who was with her. We got lost. It was hot. We saw someone else. There was a phone call. We found the end. He wasn't there either, just two guys who said everyone was way behind us. I got a beer and tried not to feel so alone.
Then the bar was full. The dark one with the wolfy smile, the one I saw at the start, he was there and I played the next move in my game, "Oh you know, I was totally mistaken. You just look so familiar. Do you have a brother?" I felt very clever, and it was working; he liked me. The beer was working too, my friends were all there and I was talking to new people and I liked them and it was wonderful. We all went upstairs, and then He appeared in the crowd, ignoring me again. I decided I would be big and ignore him right back. I gravitated to the Boston girl, a little to distance myself from my friends and a little because I just liked her company and thought she was pretty and wanted to look at her close up some more. I leaned against the booth where she was sitting and chatted with her, waiting for things to begin.
Suddenly there He was right in front of me, so close that I thought he might kiss me. He mumbled, shy and cocky at the same time. He said there was an elephant in the room. I smiled. What elephant? I see no elephants here. He said "I know I was a dick to you and I'm sorry," and a bunch of other words. The velvet of his voice was clouding my head again, but I was entertained and impressed that he was taking the time and effort to apologize. He had changed his shirt into a ridiculous neon yellow thing, and he looked so rueful and serious that it was completely comical. I think I might have laughed at him. I think I told him I appreciated the apology. He grinned at me and said we were really good at kissing and asked me if I wanted to go make out. I was dumbstruck then, wondering in a tipsy haze how he was reading my mind and curious if he'd noticed me watching his lips. I couldn't help smiling and blurted, "Kind of...?" Oh boy. I recovered quickly though. "Maybe later, if you get me drunk enough," I told him with a thin pretense that he didn't have a chance. He didn't. Did he? I still wanted to punch him. I was proud of myself for handling it all so well.
More things happened. I heard his voice behind me. I had more beer, maybe in attempt to get myself drunk enough for him, I'm not sure. I was having fun. I liked these people. I felt at home and made myself at home and made jokes and teased them and pretended to be all offended when someone made fun of my hair, which was up in the classic cinnamon buns with little flowers.
He'd appear, he'd disappear. I wandered and chatted and had fun. I talked to Boston girl a lot and then my friend with the wolfish grin just to have another guy to talk to me. "He likes you," he said. "He's not the only one," I challenged with a grin and a flutter of my eyelashes. Moments later I was talking to someone different and out of the corner of my eye I saw the Black Squirrel gesture to him and say something. He looked at me and walked away.
I must have turned red, I was so enraged. What had he said? Did I just get cock blocked by an asshole who kept me on the backburner for 8 months three years ago? I stormed into the next room. I was so livid. I whined to Mike and Stephanie about it, skipping over the cock blocking bit, because I don't like it when my friends know what's going on in that department. "I'm fine though," I said. "Fuck him. He can go to hell." I was drunk and didn't want the beer anymore.
Then he walked by, saying to someone he was going downstairs for more beer and I handed him mine. When I called his name to get his attention, my insides wrenched, I could feel the blood draining from my face and all I wanted was for him to drop the bottle and wrap his arms around me. Our eyes met for just a moment before I looked away, trying so hard to pretend it was no big deal, that the moment of familiarity was a matter of casual recognition and not a matter of intense intimacy.
I do not remember how he wound up on the bench where I was leaning. I do not remember how I wound up a breath away from him but there he was, staring at my chest and biting his lip, teasing me and telling me I smelled terrible. We were talking about something, I don't know what. Catching up, maybe. What's the news? How have you been? I told him about my company. He said the name with recognition, as if he had been watching me. I got lost in his dark eyes. His voice was making me more drunk than the booze. Everything inside me was on high alert. I had to fight not to show how pleased I was at the way he was staring at me.
Somehow--I think he ordered me to sit down--I wound up sitting next to him on the bench. I was being magnanimous, "I'm so glad things are better for you. That's really great." "Oh stop!" he said, cutting through my bullshit. "Don't be like that." "Like what?" We bickered. It was fun. I teased him. He was being honest and I liked the feeling of reality between us, a feeling I'd always desperately wanted with him long ago but could never quite find. I told him, frankly, "I really liked you." "I really liked you," was his instant comeback. I think I smiled doubtfully at him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my friends disapproving and ignored them. They'd never seen me like this with someone - it was like a bubble had formed around the two of us and we were all alone sitting next to one another on this bench, not touching, but nonetheless intertwined.
Then some older guy came in and, making a show of being funny, squeezed his way between us, interrupting our conversation. I could tell it was some kind of move to split us apart, and from the way he talked, I sensed it was for my benefit. I could have screamed. He obviously didn't know there was history between us, but still, the notion that it was any of his business was offensive to me. Still, thinking about it now, it probably looked pretty intense, and maybe he was just trying to lighten things up.
I excused myself and went downstairs to the ladies room. Maybe Black Squirrel went to get another beer. Somehow though, minutes later there he was next to me again, telling me to kiss him. "Not here," I hissed, glancing around at the crowd around us. He rose and walked four feet away to a corner that was just as public. He leaned against the wall and even though my marathon legs felt like rubber I floated to him like a piece of metal to a magnet and then our lips touched and I braced myself with a hand on his chest because, just like the first time we kissed it felt like a tornado was ripping through the room, through me, throwing everything I knew about the world into a spinning whirlwind that made no sense.
And then half a second later as my mouth opened to him and I tasted him and felt his lips and his tongue on mine time screeched to a halt in the eye of that tornado. My spinning whirlwind of a life fell to the floor and I knew what was real for me. Him. He was real. Him and me. This was a truth I'd been denying for so long: I loved this man. I had loved him since the moment he'd looked at me in a bar three years earlier with his hair still wet from rain and said "You're something else." I knew I'd follow him to the ends of the earth, that my love for him was bigger than any force in my life, that every relationship I had up to that point had been preparation for this. And more, I knew he loved me too. I didn't believe that he wanted to, and I knew that I didn't want to, but that's just the way it was. Even for me, a woman who doesn't believe in fate, it was as clear as an Alpine lake that we were meant to be together. I belonged here, in his arms, kissing and touching and murmuring to one another.
He groped at my hips, my ass, my breasts, and I hissed at him to stop. He said something. I wasn't drunk on beer anymore, but I was nearly dizzy, drunk on him. Maybe it was that I hadn't had more than a handful of solid food in three days. We bickered through the kissing. I don't remember what I said, but something made him suddenly pull back as if lightning had struck and stammered, "Did you ... were you ... in ... love ... with me?"
That was it. I was already fighting tears because of the shit day I was having and the horrible realization that I still loved him, but now I couldn't hold them back. I felt them falling down my cheeks. "Can we go outside?" I didn't want to cry in front of people.
He sprang away from me and down the steps eagerly, leaving me in his wake. Without him there to dull the pain, my legs wobbled as the feeling came back. I pointedly ignored the stares of my friends, but Stephanie asked if we could go soon. They wanted to eat. "Soon, sure." I muttered. I saw Rachel look at Eric, the only one who had seen me with the Black Squirrel before. He pressed his lips together and shook his head.
I grabbed on hard to the railing to keep myself upright as I took each stair one by one. I saw him downstairs flitting outside. He was bouncing, excited ... did he think ...? What did he think? Was he feeling like he'd won? I sure was feeling defeated.
I hobbled outside the bar and snapped at him for leaving me behind. He was giddy and ignored it. What was up with him? Why was he so happy? "You're the worst!" I shouted. "You're the worst!" he shot back, grinning. "How dare you?" I cried, "You're asking all the wrong questions!"
"Maybe I'm asking all the right questions!"
I had nothing to say. I think I told him to shut up. I think I collapsed into his chest. I might have told him I hated him. Then there was his mouth on mine and there it was ... the time standing still thing. "We were together for what, a couple months?" He asked. "That?" I scoffed, "That was not 'together.' We were never 'together.' We were were the thing that never started and never finished."
He murmured something about how good it was in spite of that and pressed me against the bricks to kiss me again. He put my hand on his cock and I could feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment and rage - we were in public, outside a bar, with people's houses across the wide street - but I wrapped my fingers around it anyway. I'd forgotten how big it was. I glanced around frantically trying to think of where we could go so I could have it inside of me.
We argued more. He wanted to fuck me. This wasn't the right time though, I was sore and stiff and my friends were trying to flag me down and get me to leave. "Take me home then," I said. "There's no room at the house where I'm staying." He growled. "I don't live here." "What? Where do you live now?" "Indianapolis. I'm crashing on someone's couch." I groaned. But then I remembered I had a perfect reason to go to Indianapolis. I told him I'd come see him, just to talk. Yeah, that's it. Just talking. Ha. My only thought was how I could have sex with him, and I knew there was no way my body could handle it on this day. And I had to fly out at six in the morning. He balked and I think I cried. He said something about never seeing me again.
I had been thinking about it for months and exploring my options, but suddenly I knew it was true so I just blurted out: "I'm leaving New York." It wasn't about him, I certainly wasn't leaving for him, and it was already half decided, but there in that moment of clarity I realized that New York was just a place I lived that took too much from me and offered very little in return.
"You are?" he asked quickly. The hint of desperation in his voice left me confused. "Where are you going?" "Cleveland." "When?" "Soon. My lease is up in a month."
He walked to the other side of the brick wall. The empty feeling overtook my chest again. It was over. He was going to send me away. It was for the best; I could see my friends in the doorway, pretending not to watch, but hovering. They wanted to leave.
"I have to go," I said. I figured I'd beat him to the punch and save some face.
He turned and leveled his dark eyes at me. "Come here."
I stared at him, frowning, fretting, and the fifteen feet between us felt like miles. I wanted to be right. I wanted to win. I wanted to walk away from him, my head held high in victory. But winning would mean walking away from him forever, and I was afraid that meant I would never have the feeling of perfect belonging again from the eye of the tornado. I wished he'd say, 'yes, come see me.' or 'let me take you somewhere now,' or even just 'please.'
"Kyle, I'm not asking," He said firmly. "Come here."
The wind was knocked out of me and every muscle between my legs clenched tight. He said my name! And what's more, he was telling me he wanted me. We'd played this game a little back when, but he hadn't ever given me an order before, not like this. In just those two words, he said he remembered what I like, and that he liked it too, and that he wanted me to belong to him.
I could barely stand, but I walked to him, my skin humming with need. My heartbeats felt like they were shaking my entire body.
"Now kiss me." I obeyed and there it was again, the eye of the storm. Every worry I had wilted away. I was whole here with him. He wanted me, and I wanted to belong to him and that was all that mattered.
His hand fumbled to push my shorts aside, which brought me back to the present; we were on a public street next to a bar. I sensed the oglers behind me. I didn't wholly care, but I laughed and pushed his hand away anyway. "I have to go!" I giggled. "Look," he said, his arms locked around my waist, "if you and I dated it would be a disaster." I wondered where he'd even gotten the idea. I certainly hadn't brought it up, and for me it wasn't even really on the table. I hadn't thought he was capable or interested in anything serious, I just wanted to take a vacation and fuck his brains out. "We'd be together for six months and then I'd do something to fuck it up and it would be over."
I thought about that. It didn't sound so bad if I got to spend the six months having sex with him. "I don't know, it kind of seems worth it..." I mused. I wondered if I was still drunk, or if I just really needed to get laid. This didn't sound like me. No, it sounded like Funny Me. Yeah, it was Funny Me coming out because I was exhausted and had just run a marathon and hadn't eaten all day and I was tired of arguing with him so there was Funny Me cracking a half joke. I laughed at it and explained, "It's not like that. It's not that big a deal for me to take a trip. I fly around all the time to cover races." I could schmooze with the people at USATF, I reasoned. I pawed at him, wanting another kiss, but too exhausted to make a valiant effort.
My friends interrupted us. They wanted to leave. Great, the car was over there, here are the keys. I turned back to him and suddenly everything was falling apart. He seemed angry and frustrated. I was so tired and needed to eat. My friends were asking me to come with them. I asked him to come too. Then what? I didn't know. He was ebbing away. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. Let's just see each other and we can talk about things then, I begged. Then he was leaving. I didn't want him to go but there he was, walking away. "Come with me," he said. "Now or never."
I wanted to go after him, but my legs wouldn't work. "I can't," I choked through the first sob.
He crossed the street and kept walking. He didn't turn back. I wanted to call after him and explain that literally, my legs would not work, but no. No ultimatums. I do not do ultimatums. I made the choice to let him go.
I gasped for air. I could feel the heat in my cheeks and I was so overwhelmed with hunger and my legs suddenly felt the weight of the 30 miles I'd put on them that day and my skin was suddenly on fire from my sunburn and my heart fell out on the sidewalk, I wasn't sure where, probably somewhere between my running shoes. I sobbed the same heaving, full-bodied sob that I had after he told me he was leaving New York.
I turned around and there was Mark to catch me. "He broke me!" I choked. "I'm so broken and it's all his fault!" I cried so hard and so long, Mark's big hands rubbing my back as he crushed me close and told me it would be alright. Relief. I was crying with relief that the hard part was over. I had made the right choice by letting him go, and I knew it.
I don't even remember what happened after. They put me in the car. Mark held me close. I was so embarrassed. They took me somewhere, to a restaurant. I buried my misery deep under a veneer of positivity. Hungry for the first time in three days, I ordered half the menu and was full after three bites, but I felt better. I felt some clarity.
With Mark's uncharacteristically tender guidance, I decided to make my offer one last time. I wrote him a note, "I meant what I said. I want to see you and spend some time and talk about things, but I need you to come to me. I need you to make the decision whether you want to make it happen." Off it went through my phone and into the ether, and I sighed with no trace of surprise when no reply had come by the end of dinner. I figured that was it.
An hour later, my phone lit up.
Showing posts with label Running. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Running. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Cleveland Marathon 5.16.10
My eyes snapped open at 4:00 am and I quietly packed my bag while eating a whole wheat bagel and a banana. I snuck out of Grandma's spare room to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. I felt good. Ready. I enjoyed the quiet ticking of the clocks, the hum of the fridge
Salty came to pick me up at about 5:30 and we headed downtown. During the drive I focused on drinking enough water--so much that after we parked I thought I would die if I didn't find a bathroom pronto! Salty led me past the port-o-potties and I whimpered, begging to stop, but she pointed at the tallest building in sight, the Key Tower, and said "just wait!" Finally we made it to a nondescript side entrance and with a short elevator ride there we were in a super fancy gym, the Key Club! One of Salty's friends had given us the secret password for elite access. I briefly met her friend E Speed and E's sister and then bee-lined to the locker room, practically bowling over a couple other runners as I cried apologies over my shoulder.
The Key Club was nice enough to provide locker service, but they were all out of space so we stashed my stuff behind the front desk and off we went! We chatted in the elevator with another friend of hers (she's popular) and then headed toward the start. Suddenly my nerves got the better of me and I had to pee again so I jogged back to the Key Club before we hurried over to the corral. We got to the crowd close to the 3:00 pace group and Salty grabbed my hand and we weaved through the crowd, most of whom made way when they saw her belly ripe with #2. We were so successful that we grew an entire line of people behind us to take advantage of her headway! Soon enough we reached the 4:15 pace group and Salty introduced me to the pacer and took a photo of us. I felt a little cheesy, like a kid with an overzealous mom on the first day of camp, but I just smiled big for the camera. It was cute how excited she was for me!
She packed my overshirt into her bag and stayed with me to run me out of the start--we had so little time it would have been hard for her to make her way out of the crowd otherwise. As the gun went off and we all ambled forward "Cleveland Rocks" started echoing off the buildings and the excitement swelled up inside me--I was here! I was home! I was about to take on my greatest personal achievement to date! I crossed the line with a big smile on my face, then Salty high-fived me and she was off. It was up to me now!
As we headed past the Science Center, the Rock Hall and Browns Stadium I just listened to the chatter of the two pace group leaders with the other members of the group. The leaders were Michael, a typical skinny runner guy and Duane, a typical big Cleveland guy with a super bitchin' blue sweatband on his head. We hung a left on East 3rd Street and I jumped into a conversation with Michael and a girl named Liz. Over the next few minutes I managed to meet and chat with several of the other runners too, Beth and Jenine and a couple other folks. Then suddenly a mile was gone. I checked my watch - 11:23! I was appalled. I looked at the pace leaders' chipper faces and wondered what the hell they were thinking. Seriously, 11:23?
Michael, who is probably the most positive person I've ever met, must have sensed the confusion because he assured us all (not just me in particular) that we would make up the time easily in the miles to come. I decided to let go and trust. I figured if I stayed with the pacers and didn't make my 4:15 goal it would be their fault. And if I ran ahead, Salty would pitch a fuss. I jumped in front of the group to hide my annoyance with our pace, but made sure to slow up if I lost track of Michael's distinctive voice that just did not stop with the chipper cheerful prattle. "How many first timers do we have today?" He asked. Lots of us let out an enthusiastic cry. "You're all getting PR's today!" I fought the urge to groan and smiled instead. I was surprised that his positive attitude didn't bother me at all - actually it was nice to have that encouraging voice over my shoulder!
Soon mile 2 was upon us and I happily ignored the clock, letting go and trusting the pacers' strategy. Instead I struck up a conversation with Jenine from Elyria, who was on her second marathon trying to beat her 4:30 time. We crossed the Hope Memorial Bridge together and I saw a sweatband in Cavs colors stretched across the head of one of the statues. The statues are so stoic that I had to laugh at the silly band. How appropriate for marathon day! Over the bridge the steel yards looked so pretty as we chatted away and then suddenly there was mile 3. And then down Abby Avenue came the second water stop. And then 4 was gone. Then 5. Then 6. I realized we were, in fact, making up our time and mowing down those miles pretty fast!
The first ten miles were full of neighborhood parties, music and conversations with the other runners in my group. At about mile 7 I was talking with Beth and we realized we were way way ahead of the pacers. "We could be bad for each other!" she said. I agreed and slowed up. She later hung back at a water stop with us and I checked in - she was okay, but I got the sense she was feeling better than 4:15. I was too, but I kept remembering what MRP had said - "The only thing you need to remember is don't run faster than a 9:30 until mile 22." I stayed with the group and we all had fun together, cheering each other on with each mile marker and alerting each other to oncoming hazards, like cars and potholes.
Before I knew it mile 8 and all the pretty neighborhoods and fun parties were gone and we came to beautiful Edgewater Park. The sun shining through the leaves lit up the trees and the grass a bright green and the smell of Lake Erie brough happy feelings from my childhood back. Home! We followed the ramp for the Shoreway and soon mile 10 was behind us. Then the lake smell was replaced with a water treatment plant and suddenly we all looked at each other and grimaced. I asked Liz, who was running the half, if she was going to break away soon. She said she didn't think so, but not long after 11 she started inching forward.
Suddenly there was a loud noise on the left side of the highway and Michael laughed and shouted at it. It was Salty's friend E, dashing along the course and shouting cheers for us all! I laughed too, and realized why E is such a character in Salty's blog. Then suddenly on the side of the highway, before I expected it, there was Salty. She looked beautiful with her big belly and her long ponytail and I was so happy to see her! I felt good and filled her in on how the first part of the race had gone. I chatted with her for a bit and then she said we should look out for Mom. I saw Mom's husband first and waved to him before I realized that Mom was on the opposite side of the road. I didn't have time to run over so I just blew her a kiss too and kept on moving. Salty stayed with me just a little longer and then was gone just as suddenly as she came. I saw Liz turn around up ahead and I cheered for her and wished her a strong finish. She waved as she turned in for the half.
Our numbers drastically reduced, we forged ahead. I nearly began skipping as we passed the Browns Stadium, then the Rock Hall and saw the big wind turbine at the Science Center. My mood was high, despite a nagging pain in my right knee. I heard Salty in my head telling me to ignore it and that's just what I did. Soon we were on the I-90 marginal road anyway, running along the outer reaches of the Cuyahoga County air field. There was a strong headwind coming off the Lake, but I rather enjoyed some relief from the hot sun. Since the course was so flat and boring the group got chatty again, revisiting each other. I checked in with Jenine - we had previously developed a plan to break away at mile 20 for a 4:10 finish but she seemed to be slowing now. Beth was still with us but looking strong. I knew she'd probably break before I did. I didn't mind. This was my race. We had a new pacer join us, whose name I never got but who was older, British, and the kind of guy you'd want to be your commanding officer if you were to go into battle. I'll call him Sarge. I liked him and kept on his heels most of the time. We passed a speaker blaring "American Girl" by Tom Petty and I had to laugh because the song had been inexplicably stuck in my head for two weeks prior. Michael piped back up with his cheerful chirping. "You guys give me so much energy! There's nowhere i'd rather be on a Sunday morning! Just think-soon this headwind will be at our backs!" They kept mentioning the wind as if it was bad. I liked the wind. It felt good in the hot sun and it smelled like the Lake. It smelled like home.
Soon we hit mile 17 and a couple overpasses that led us to Martin Luther King. I cheered loud in the tunnels, enjoying the echoes, but nobody else seemed quite as enthused (except Michael of course). We dipped down the hill and it seemed like people started dropping back one by one. At 18 I couldn't find Jenine anymore. I followed close to Sarge and chatted with him a little. As I'd suspected he was an old marathon veteran, but to my surprise he lived in downtown Cleveland. Staring at his shoes carried me over the rough pavement and when I got a chance to look up every now and again I noticed the Ethnic Gardens Salty had told me to watch out for. I cheered as I passed Slovenia even though it was empty. Sadly there were precious few spectators along this beautiful stretch, just some kids tending the Hebrew garden and a race-sponsored speaker blaring Rock 'n Roll with a cheerful volunteer and a couple families. As we came to University Circle there was finally a pack of people on the sidelines and I passed some cheerleaders in red uniforms and wondered why they weren't cheering. I wanted to cheer at them but I couldn't find the breath. The miles were coming harder now and I started to understand MRP's sage wisdom: "respect the distance."
I found some energy after we turned around University Circle and came on those cheerleaders again. "A-W-S-O-M-E you are awesome! You, you are awesome! You, you are awesome!" I clapped along with them. "Yes I am awesome!" I thought. "Look how awesome we all are! We're going to finish a marathon!!" I wooted loud for the cheerleaders and bounced ahead of the group a bit. Then suddenly came 21 and the hill up to St. Clair.
My knee felt like someone had smashed it with a brick. The sun was too hot. I hated the uneven pavement. I fought hard to the top of the hill, knowing it was the last incline. I hated the hill. I hated St. Clair. I hated the cars driving alongside us and the ghetto of East Cleveland. I reached deep down inside me, desperate to find something positive about where I was. I waved cheerfully to some drunk dudes outside a liquor store. Michael tried to get the cars to honk at us and I tried to help but it didn't work. I ran over manholes with my bad knee and hated them. The sun was burning my shoulders and I hated it. I fell behind the group a little way and started doubting whether I could keep up with them. I opened my last Gu and started making contingency plans for a 4:20 finish. Then I thought of Empress Taitu, an Ethiopian restaurant across the street from an apartment my sister had once inhabited. I knew I wouldn't recognize the apartment but I looked for the restaurant, holding on to this slice of home--that apartment was where my sister lived when I was in college, when we first started getting close.
I passed it all without even realizing. I passed the Slovenian house. And then I moved out from behind one of the guys in our group and there was Salty in a bright red maternity tank top that made her look like a giant cherry tomato. I started crying. She could tell I was fighting hard and chirped away at me, encouraging, happy, pleased. I was finishing the Gu grumpily - I hated the Gu too, and resented it because I had lost a pack of watermelon sport beans, my favorite. The Gu leaves a gross taste in my mouth and I wanted a drink. Suddenly Salty veered right and I got my wish, hurtling through a water stop and discarding the Gu after one last valiant chomp, washing away the gross taste with sweet, fresh water.
As Salty pushed me forward, back to the pace group, my vision started fading out and in and out and in. I was digging down for all the energy I had. Then I saw Mom. I ditched the pack of runners and ran over for a quick run-by hug and kiss-it was just the fuel I needed for the last push back to the pace group! Tears came but they were excited tears. I knew I could do it now!
Salty grabbed my hand and said she'd see me at the finish. I okayed and that was that. I hit 23 and pushed in front of Michael. Then in front of Sarge. I started pushing forward, passing a couple men here and there. I heard Sarge's voice behind me: "don't go too fast!" I took it as a challenge. "Eat my dust," I thought as I pushed a touch faster. I figured now I could work whatever pace was comfortable and if I hit a wall and slowed then the group would catch up to me and pull me in. I started using 5k strategy. Mow 'em down, one by one. Find some chick in a pink shirt (the athletic equivalent of a tutu) and pass her. I passed a guy in a cape. "you're my hero," I panted. He laughed loud and I bolted ahead of him. I hit the 24 and upped my pace. I passed a few more pink shirts. I turned off at 18th street and upped my pace. I passed more guys. I like passing guys. Eat my dust, guys. There was a priest and a deacon cheering in front of a church and I got blessed with holy water! I upped my pace for the Catholics! I hit the 25. Then I saw Salty again. She freaked out and squealed with excitement when she saw how far ahead of the group I was. She started hopping in circles around me, it seemed. "4:10?" I panted. "Let's go!" she replied. She cheered for me to pass pink shirts. She yelled at other people to cheer for me. "Negative split right here!!" she shouted to her friends. Then suddenly she pointed ahead. "There it is! There's the finish! Go get it!!"
I bore down. I forced myself to give it everything I had. I was mowing down other runners left and right. "Look at her go!" I heard. "Go Ginger! Go Ginger!" "She's sprinting!" "Amazing!"
And then it came. The greatest feeling of pride I've ever had washed over me and I raised my hands high as I crossed that damn line. I threw my head back and screamed a joyful battle cry! I didn't even care about time--I had done it! I had accomplished the greatest physical and mental challenge of my life! And I'd given it the best effort I possibly could, finished strong and way ahead of my goal! I was a champion!
I cried and wheezed through the chute where I got my sweet sweet finisher's medal and grabbed some water. I had run over an orange peel at about mile 17 and all I could think about was eating oranges. I ambled to the end of the finish (no oranges) and milled around inside the corral until I saw my cherry tomato sister,
who led me around in the general direction of the Key Tower as I mumbled pleasant things through my doped-up post-race high. All the endorphins and dopamine chugging through my blood stream kept a big smile on my face.
I demanded a photograph (right), which pretty much sums up how I feel about having run this marathon.
Salty came to pick me up at about 5:30 and we headed downtown. During the drive I focused on drinking enough water--so much that after we parked I thought I would die if I didn't find a bathroom pronto! Salty led me past the port-o-potties and I whimpered, begging to stop, but she pointed at the tallest building in sight, the Key Tower, and said "just wait!" Finally we made it to a nondescript side entrance and with a short elevator ride there we were in a super fancy gym, the Key Club! One of Salty's friends had given us the secret password for elite access. I briefly met her friend E Speed and E's sister and then bee-lined to the locker room, practically bowling over a couple other runners as I cried apologies over my shoulder.
The Key Club was nice enough to provide locker service, but they were all out of space so we stashed my stuff behind the front desk and off we went! We chatted in the elevator with another friend of hers (she's popular) and then headed toward the start. Suddenly my nerves got the better of me and I had to pee again so I jogged back to the Key Club before we hurried over to the corral. We got to the crowd close to the 3:00 pace group and Salty grabbed my hand and we weaved through the crowd, most of whom made way when they saw her belly ripe with #2. We were so successful that we grew an entire line of people behind us to take advantage of her headway! Soon enough we reached the 4:15 pace group and Salty introduced me to the pacer and took a photo of us. I felt a little cheesy, like a kid with an overzealous mom on the first day of camp, but I just smiled big for the camera. It was cute how excited she was for me!
She packed my overshirt into her bag and stayed with me to run me out of the start--we had so little time it would have been hard for her to make her way out of the crowd otherwise. As the gun went off and we all ambled forward "Cleveland Rocks" started echoing off the buildings and the excitement swelled up inside me--I was here! I was home! I was about to take on my greatest personal achievement to date! I crossed the line with a big smile on my face, then Salty high-fived me and she was off. It was up to me now!
As we headed past the Science Center, the Rock Hall and Browns Stadium I just listened to the chatter of the two pace group leaders with the other members of the group. The leaders were Michael, a typical skinny runner guy and Duane, a typical big Cleveland guy with a super bitchin' blue sweatband on his head. We hung a left on East 3rd Street and I jumped into a conversation with Michael and a girl named Liz. Over the next few minutes I managed to meet and chat with several of the other runners too, Beth and Jenine and a couple other folks. Then suddenly a mile was gone. I checked my watch - 11:23! I was appalled. I looked at the pace leaders' chipper faces and wondered what the hell they were thinking. Seriously, 11:23?
Michael, who is probably the most positive person I've ever met, must have sensed the confusion because he assured us all (not just me in particular) that we would make up the time easily in the miles to come. I decided to let go and trust. I figured if I stayed with the pacers and didn't make my 4:15 goal it would be their fault. And if I ran ahead, Salty would pitch a fuss. I jumped in front of the group to hide my annoyance with our pace, but made sure to slow up if I lost track of Michael's distinctive voice that just did not stop with the chipper cheerful prattle. "How many first timers do we have today?" He asked. Lots of us let out an enthusiastic cry. "You're all getting PR's today!" I fought the urge to groan and smiled instead. I was surprised that his positive attitude didn't bother me at all - actually it was nice to have that encouraging voice over my shoulder!
The first ten miles were full of neighborhood parties, music and conversations with the other runners in my group. At about mile 7 I was talking with Beth and we realized we were way way ahead of the pacers. "We could be bad for each other!" she said. I agreed and slowed up. She later hung back at a water stop with us and I checked in - she was okay, but I got the sense she was feeling better than 4:15. I was too, but I kept remembering what MRP had said - "The only thing you need to remember is don't run faster than a 9:30 until mile 22." I stayed with the group and we all had fun together, cheering each other on with each mile marker and alerting each other to oncoming hazards, like cars and potholes.
Before I knew it mile 8 and all the pretty neighborhoods and fun parties were gone and we came to beautiful Edgewater Park. The sun shining through the leaves lit up the trees and the grass a bright green and the smell of Lake Erie brough happy feelings from my childhood back. Home! We followed the ramp for the Shoreway and soon mile 10 was behind us. Then the lake smell was replaced with a water treatment plant and suddenly we all looked at each other and grimaced. I asked Liz, who was running the half, if she was going to break away soon. She said she didn't think so, but not long after 11 she started inching forward.
Suddenly there was a loud noise on the left side of the highway and Michael laughed and shouted at it. It was Salty's friend E, dashing along the course and shouting cheers for us all! I laughed too, and realized why E is such a character in Salty's blog. Then suddenly on the side of the highway, before I expected it, there was Salty. She looked beautiful with her big belly and her long ponytail and I was so happy to see her! I felt good and filled her in on how the first part of the race had gone. I chatted with her for a bit and then she said we should look out for Mom. I saw Mom's husband first and waved to him before I realized that Mom was on the opposite side of the road. I didn't have time to run over so I just blew her a kiss too and kept on moving. Salty stayed with me just a little longer and then was gone just as suddenly as she came. I saw Liz turn around up ahead and I cheered for her and wished her a strong finish. She waved as she turned in for the half.
Our numbers drastically reduced, we forged ahead. I nearly began skipping as we passed the Browns Stadium, then the Rock Hall and saw the big wind turbine at the Science Center. My mood was high, despite a nagging pain in my right knee. I heard Salty in my head telling me to ignore it and that's just what I did. Soon we were on the I-90 marginal road anyway, running along the outer reaches of the Cuyahoga County air field. There was a strong headwind coming off the Lake, but I rather enjoyed some relief from the hot sun. Since the course was so flat and boring the group got chatty again, revisiting each other. I checked in with Jenine - we had previously developed a plan to break away at mile 20 for a 4:10 finish but she seemed to be slowing now. Beth was still with us but looking strong. I knew she'd probably break before I did. I didn't mind. This was my race. We had a new pacer join us, whose name I never got but who was older, British, and the kind of guy you'd want to be your commanding officer if you were to go into battle. I'll call him Sarge. I liked him and kept on his heels most of the time. We passed a speaker blaring "American Girl" by Tom Petty and I had to laugh because the song had been inexplicably stuck in my head for two weeks prior. Michael piped back up with his cheerful chirping. "You guys give me so much energy! There's nowhere i'd rather be on a Sunday morning! Just think-soon this headwind will be at our backs!" They kept mentioning the wind as if it was bad. I liked the wind. It felt good in the hot sun and it smelled like the Lake. It smelled like home.
Soon we hit mile 17 and a couple overpasses that led us to Martin Luther King. I cheered loud in the tunnels, enjoying the echoes, but nobody else seemed quite as enthused (except Michael of course). We dipped down the hill and it seemed like people started dropping back one by one. At 18 I couldn't find Jenine anymore. I followed close to Sarge and chatted with him a little. As I'd suspected he was an old marathon veteran, but to my surprise he lived in downtown Cleveland. Staring at his shoes carried me over the rough pavement and when I got a chance to look up every now and again I noticed the Ethnic Gardens Salty had told me to watch out for. I cheered as I passed Slovenia even though it was empty. Sadly there were precious few spectators along this beautiful stretch, just some kids tending the Hebrew garden and a race-sponsored speaker blaring Rock 'n Roll with a cheerful volunteer and a couple families. As we came to University Circle there was finally a pack of people on the sidelines and I passed some cheerleaders in red uniforms and wondered why they weren't cheering. I wanted to cheer at them but I couldn't find the breath. The miles were coming harder now and I started to understand MRP's sage wisdom: "respect the distance."
I found some energy after we turned around University Circle and came on those cheerleaders again. "A-W-S-O-M-E you are awesome! You, you are awesome! You, you are awesome!" I clapped along with them. "Yes I am awesome!" I thought. "Look how awesome we all are! We're going to finish a marathon!!" I wooted loud for the cheerleaders and bounced ahead of the group a bit. Then suddenly came 21 and the hill up to St. Clair.
My knee felt like someone had smashed it with a brick. The sun was too hot. I hated the uneven pavement. I fought hard to the top of the hill, knowing it was the last incline. I hated the hill. I hated St. Clair. I hated the cars driving alongside us and the ghetto of East Cleveland. I reached deep down inside me, desperate to find something positive about where I was. I waved cheerfully to some drunk dudes outside a liquor store. Michael tried to get the cars to honk at us and I tried to help but it didn't work. I ran over manholes with my bad knee and hated them. The sun was burning my shoulders and I hated it. I fell behind the group a little way and started doubting whether I could keep up with them. I opened my last Gu and started making contingency plans for a 4:20 finish. Then I thought of Empress Taitu, an Ethiopian restaurant across the street from an apartment my sister had once inhabited. I knew I wouldn't recognize the apartment but I looked for the restaurant, holding on to this slice of home--that apartment was where my sister lived when I was in college, when we first started getting close.
I passed it all without even realizing. I passed the Slovenian house. And then I moved out from behind one of the guys in our group and there was Salty in a bright red maternity tank top that made her look like a giant cherry tomato. I started crying. She could tell I was fighting hard and chirped away at me, encouraging, happy, pleased. I was finishing the Gu grumpily - I hated the Gu too, and resented it because I had lost a pack of watermelon sport beans, my favorite. The Gu leaves a gross taste in my mouth and I wanted a drink. Suddenly Salty veered right and I got my wish, hurtling through a water stop and discarding the Gu after one last valiant chomp, washing away the gross taste with sweet, fresh water.
As Salty pushed me forward, back to the pace group, my vision started fading out and in and out and in. I was digging down for all the energy I had. Then I saw Mom. I ditched the pack of runners and ran over for a quick run-by hug and kiss-it was just the fuel I needed for the last push back to the pace group! Tears came but they were excited tears. I knew I could do it now!
Salty grabbed my hand and said she'd see me at the finish. I okayed and that was that. I hit 23 and pushed in front of Michael. Then in front of Sarge. I started pushing forward, passing a couple men here and there. I heard Sarge's voice behind me: "don't go too fast!" I took it as a challenge. "Eat my dust," I thought as I pushed a touch faster. I figured now I could work whatever pace was comfortable and if I hit a wall and slowed then the group would catch up to me and pull me in. I started using 5k strategy. Mow 'em down, one by one. Find some chick in a pink shirt (the athletic equivalent of a tutu) and pass her. I passed a guy in a cape. "you're my hero," I panted. He laughed loud and I bolted ahead of him. I hit the 24 and upped my pace. I passed a few more pink shirts. I turned off at 18th street and upped my pace. I passed more guys. I like passing guys. Eat my dust, guys. There was a priest and a deacon cheering in front of a church and I got blessed with holy water! I upped my pace for the Catholics! I hit the 25. Then I saw Salty again. She freaked out and squealed with excitement when she saw how far ahead of the group I was. She started hopping in circles around me, it seemed. "4:10?" I panted. "Let's go!" she replied. She cheered for me to pass pink shirts. She yelled at other people to cheer for me. "Negative split right here!!" she shouted to her friends. Then suddenly she pointed ahead. "There it is! There's the finish! Go get it!!"
I bore down. I forced myself to give it everything I had. I was mowing down other runners left and right. "Look at her go!" I heard. "Go Ginger! Go Ginger!" "She's sprinting!" "Amazing!"
And then it came. The greatest feeling of pride I've ever had washed over me and I raised my hands high as I crossed that damn line. I threw my head back and screamed a joyful battle cry! I didn't even care about time--I had done it! I had accomplished the greatest physical and mental challenge of my life! And I'd given it the best effort I possibly could, finished strong and way ahead of my goal! I was a champion!
I cried and wheezed through the chute where I got my sweet sweet finisher's medal and grabbed some water. I had run over an orange peel at about mile 17 and all I could think about was eating oranges. I ambled to the end of the finish (no oranges) and milled around inside the corral until I saw my cherry tomato sister,
who led me around in the general direction of the Key Tower as I mumbled pleasant things through my doped-up post-race high. All the endorphins and dopamine chugging through my blood stream kept a big smile on my face.
I demanded a photograph (right), which pretty much sums up how I feel about having run this marathon.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Getting Excited
5 days, 11 hours, 44 minutes left.
I am ready. I am so ready. Nothing can break my will to succeed.
I know I can keep up with the 4:15:00 pace group and do it easily (well--not easily, but you know what I mean). The real question is can I keep up with the 4:00:00 pace group? Do I try?
I have butterflies roaring in my tummy. I'm eating bananas. I'm checking the course maps and elevation charts. I'm crunching splits. I'm thrilled that I get to do this. I'm so happy this is a part of my life!
I keep joking that I can't wait until it's over, but the truth is that I can't wait until it's happening! I can't wait to be out there on the course, breathing in the fresh Lake Erie air, wiping the sweat and salt from my forehead and popping jelly beans! I can't wait to see my massively pregnant sister waving from the sidelines! I can't wait to hear the bands and smell the cookouts at the cheering parties and smile for the little kids at the water stations! I can't wait to hear my mom shouting my name! And see my sweet little ginger-faced nephew at the end!
But I have to admit that there is one reason I'm really excited for it to be over...breakfast at Bob Evans. Ohhhh biscuits and honeyyyyy....!
I am ready. I am so ready. Nothing can break my will to succeed.
I know I can keep up with the 4:15:00 pace group and do it easily (well--not easily, but you know what I mean). The real question is can I keep up with the 4:00:00 pace group? Do I try?
I have butterflies roaring in my tummy. I'm eating bananas. I'm checking the course maps and elevation charts. I'm crunching splits. I'm thrilled that I get to do this. I'm so happy this is a part of my life!
I keep joking that I can't wait until it's over, but the truth is that I can't wait until it's happening! I can't wait to be out there on the course, breathing in the fresh Lake Erie air, wiping the sweat and salt from my forehead and popping jelly beans! I can't wait to see my massively pregnant sister waving from the sidelines! I can't wait to hear the bands and smell the cookouts at the cheering parties and smile for the little kids at the water stations! I can't wait to hear my mom shouting my name! And see my sweet little ginger-faced nephew at the end!
But I have to admit that there is one reason I'm really excited for it to be over...breakfast at Bob Evans. Ohhhh biscuits and honeyyyyy....!
Sunday, May 2, 2010
A letter to my sister
I just can't thank you enough for helping me train and using your resources to get me through this. Nobody has ever been so nice to me or helped me so much with anything ever. A marathon is an important goal for anyone, but for me I'm sure you know it's the biggest most important thing I've ever done in my life, and even though training is difficult for me and my lifestyle I fully intend to continue for future races.
Training has changed who I am and who I want to be. It's shaped this whole new person that I always wished and never thought I could become. I still struggle every day with feeling that I'm somehow broken or can't have a normal happy life, but becoming an athlete--not just a runner, not just someone who will run a marathon once, but a real athlete--has taught me that I am not broken, I am strong. It's irrefutable proof that my strength of will can carry me through anything, even if it's sometimes hard, even if I sometimes don't want to do it, even if other people tell me I can't or shouldn't or I'm no good. Even if I am broken and even if my life is never normal, I really can get through anything and there is no reason for me to give up hope, ever.
I thank you every time I run for giving me that gift. Every time someone tells me how great I look I thank you. Every time I sheepishly decline a drink because I have to run 15 miles the next day and someone looks at me in awe I thank you. Every time I "matter-of-factly" tell someone I'm in training I thank you. Every time I look in a mirror and see a woman I am proud and happy to be--a woman who was once hidden by fat and anger and shame--I thank you.
Whether I make it through the finish at 3:59:59 or if I break my foot and can't finish at all, coming this far is a great achievement. I'm doing it for me, but I am inspired and motivated to do it because of you. I am proud to be your sister and so excited to be following in your tracks. I love you!
Training has changed who I am and who I want to be. It's shaped this whole new person that I always wished and never thought I could become. I still struggle every day with feeling that I'm somehow broken or can't have a normal happy life, but becoming an athlete--not just a runner, not just someone who will run a marathon once, but a real athlete--has taught me that I am not broken, I am strong. It's irrefutable proof that my strength of will can carry me through anything, even if it's sometimes hard, even if I sometimes don't want to do it, even if other people tell me I can't or shouldn't or I'm no good. Even if I am broken and even if my life is never normal, I really can get through anything and there is no reason for me to give up hope, ever.
I thank you every time I run for giving me that gift. Every time someone tells me how great I look I thank you. Every time I sheepishly decline a drink because I have to run 15 miles the next day and someone looks at me in awe I thank you. Every time I "matter-of-factly" tell someone I'm in training I thank you. Every time I look in a mirror and see a woman I am proud and happy to be--a woman who was once hidden by fat and anger and shame--I thank you.
Whether I make it through the finish at 3:59:59 or if I break my foot and can't finish at all, coming this far is a great achievement. I'm doing it for me, but I am inspired and motivated to do it because of you. I am proud to be your sister and so excited to be following in your tracks. I love you!
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Kay. I'm gonna geek out on running for a minute.
In high school I raced a lot of 5Ks, or 3.1 milers. In grown-up land I've run a couple 5 milers, a small handful of 5Ks, and my longest achievement was a 10K for which I barely trained, running 10:40 splits and coming in just over an hour. My high school PR (personal record) for a 5K race was 28:26, which works out to about a 9:29 pace. So imagine my excitement a few weeks ago at the Henry Isola Classic, a 4 mile race in the Bronx, when I ran 9:27 miles and finished under 38 minutes. That was huge for me, a dozen years after my high school record!
Imagine my surprise when I glanced at my watch at the 2 mile mark of my first half marathon and saw that I was running an 8:40 pace! Imagine my surprise when I sustained this pace for another three miles!!
Imagine my surprise when I glanced at my watch at the 2 mile mark of my first half marathon and saw that I was running an 8:40 pace! Imagine my surprise when I sustained this pace for another three miles!!
My first big race.
I love dark, quiet mornings. My alarm woke me with a jolt and I was up and sliding into my clothes before the second one came a few minutes later. I tied my hair back into pigtails, my favorite way to wear it. I pulled on a long sleeve t-shirt from a race I ran with my big sister. I covered my legs with the pajama pants I wore after Katrina, when all my other clothes were too small. Now they practically fall off my hips. I coughed--a lot. So much it hurt. I tied on my well-worn shoes, silently regretting I hadn't made room in my budget for newer ones and praising myself for at least having SuperFeet to protect against Plantar fasciitis flare-ups. I slipped out the door. I always feel like I'm leaving in secret when I leave before dawn.
I had been sick for over two weeks with a terrible chest cough that racked my body, stripped my appetite, and generally made me feel like death. The day before had been spent in this miserable state, resting up as much as possible while working the usual thirteen hour day. Nonetheless, that night I laid out my new eggplant-colored running shorts, my green striped bra, my favorite white cotton t-shirt and packed my bag full of cough drops, tissues and granola bars. I ate some noodles in spite of my poor appetite and went to bed by 8:30. I was terribly nervous about being sick, knowing that nobody would be there with me if anything happened to me, but I had trained formally for 9 weeks and casually for 9 months for this. I was resolute.
Having checked the timetables, I made it to the station just in time for my train. I regretted not bringing my book as I sat there among the few people who were on their way to work early on a Sunday, trying to nibble at my granola bar. I could only take tiny nibbles; I just wasn't hungry. I tried sipping my water to get it down, but I just couldn't be bothered with it. There was a girl sitting across from me who I recognized from my neighborhood; she was wearing fancy tech running clothes and shoes that looked freshly broken in. She was lean, like you expect runners to be. She looked calm, listening to her iPod, chomping on a breakfast bar and staring off into space. I coughed deeply into a tissue, feeling plagued.
Finally we made it to Bowling Green and I bee-lined for the ferry with, I noticed, dozens of other runners who had collected onto my train. I secured a spot on the floor of the ferry terminal as close to the doors as possible. I wanted to get the show on the road. I was nervous. I was really congested. I sucked on cough drops to keep myself from coughing constantly. I tried again to eat my granola bar, successfully getting through half. I finished my water bottle.
On the ferry I tried to watch for the Statue of Liberty, but I just kept gazing at the orange haze of sunrise over Brooklyn and abstractly thinking about how thankful I am that I got out of my old life and made this new one for myself. I tried another bite of granola, but had to force it.
Once the ferry docked I felt like a horse out of the gate. I bolted from the doors straight to number pickup as soon as possible. Next I went straight to the massive line of port-o-potties. I looped my scoring tag on my shoe and pinned my number to my shirt while waiting in line (multitasking!), peed quickly, then checked my watch. It was only 7:30! It was still very cold outside and I felt like it was a little early for a warmup so I stretched a little first, then trotted off from the start line for a super-slow mile. I never used to be a warmer-upper, but my long distance runs have taught me that I always feel better after the first mile no matter how slow, and the same was true today. By the end of my warmup I could feel my muscles become more receptive to my will. I trotted back to the bag check, stashed my outer layer, then left my stuff for another port-o-potty run. From there it was just a few minutes to stretch a little more and line up.
When the gun went off I tried to stay calm, and walked to the start line since my tag wouldn't start timing me until I crossed it. Finally my section of the herd made it to the flags and off I went - a minor stitch creeping up on me almost immediately. I ran through it and suddenly found myself at the 2 mile mark, feeling great. My watch said 17:45 and I couldn't believe it. I hear my voice say out loud, "Oh AWESOME!" My brain kept repeating one word: "Sustain." I grabbed some water at the support station which slowed me considerably and I knew I couldn't sustain that pace the entire race, so I dialed it back a bit. But only just a bit--I was re-evaluating my goal of 2:10 and thinking I could try for 2 hours even.
Miles 3 and 4 were nearly on par with my supreme awesome pace, although they seemed to take forever. Mile 5 was tougher, a little bit of a no-man's land with no spectators and a really weird, desolate highway underpass. Finally I saw the water station up ahead and the crowd of spectators that lined the U-turn at the halfway point. I sipped a little water and forged on, but just after I tossed down my cup, my legs began to protest my pace. I slowed. Then I felt the stitch come on. I slowed more. I repeated the word "Sustain" over and over, but I knew there was no way...I had hit a wall.
I forced through the stitch as best I could, but by the time I got to mile 7 I knew 2 hours was probably out of the question. Not totally, but probably. I mentally changed my goal back to 2:10 and pushed through. I kept telling myself I was on the homestretch.
Mile 8 was another no-man's land, but two sweet volunteers were out in the most desolate far reaches cheering, and I couldn't help but cheer back. I really appreciated their being there. My cough was starting to wreak more havoc.
I felt good coasting through the marker for 9, but by the time I reached 9.25 several things happened. First, my inability to eat caught up with me, and I felt a distinct lack of calories. Second, my legs hit another wall. They wanted to be done. And finally, I was quickly becoming unable to breathe. For the first time ever, the thought of quitting a race entered my mind. My legs were burning. I knew I had over three miles to go. When I stumbled by the water station at about 9.5 I was a runny-nosed, wheezing, breathless, burning mess of pain. I grabbed a Gatorade, hoping the few calories in it would push me a little farther. I slowed to a trot as I sipped it all down, evaluating the situation.
Yes, I was sick. Boo fucking hoo ('scuse the language, Mom). I had watched my sister run a half-marathon sick in 80 degree New Orleans humidity. Sure, my lungs were full of phlegm, but if I could just get enough air in to cough productively, maybe I could take care of that. Yes, my legs burned, and that was my own fault for running too fast in the beginning. I had run five miles or more on no food plenty of times, why stop now? This was MY race. I didn't let anything get in the way of my training, not work, not fun, not dance, not illness, and definitely not my own self-doubt, so why should I let any of those things get in the way of finishing? There were a lot of people out there rooting for me. I'd received a ton of facebook messages and text messages that morning, and I wanted to make all those people proud of me for seeing my goal through to the end. I am Miss Adventurous, dammit. I don't quit.
Instead, I re-evaluate. So I threw out any expectation I had of a 2:10 finish and decided that I would run until the end even if it took me an extra hour. The clock said 1:33 and change when I saw the 10 mile marker up ahead and checked my watch. I told myself I had plenty of time. I could feel my pace dragging, but I cast my fate to the wind, turned my watch so I couldn't see it and forged onward. All I remember about mile 10 is that it sucked--it was slow and it burned. Somewhere around the latter part I felt faint and thought I might pass out so I dialed back the pace a little. I punched it back up a notch for mile 11. Near the end, I felt another stitch coming on, but I pushed through it and it was gone just before I closed on the 12 mile mark.
I'm not sure where I found the extra energy, but with less than a mile left to go I somehow reached far back into my muscles and employed my former high school method of finishing strong, and kicked into high gear for a sprint to the finish. I really think my final mile was 8:40 or so. I literally coasted to the finish line, barely seeing it coming--I just heard the annoying announcer guy, saw a bunch of screaming, waving people, and then suddenly it was over! I tumbled over the line with my hands over my head, instantly bursting into tears, finally able to release all the emotions that had gone into this personal victory.
A race volunteer gathered me up as I sobbed and wheezed and gulped for air. "2:10?" I choked out. "Better!" she said, "2:08! Congratulations!" I was totally shocked that I had made it under 2:10. I stumbled on toward the water table, dumping a half a cup of water into a half a cup of Gatorade. Then came the apple...this sweet girl stuck her hand out at me with the most beautiful-looking Macintosh apple I'd ever seen. I just stared at it for a minute in disbelief until she shook it. Then I grabbed it and took a bite. It was the sweetest, most delicious fruit I'd ever tasted.
I hobbled to a bench and sat down, munching slowly on the magical apple. I glanced at my watch, vaguely remembering that I pushed the button as I crossed the finish line. It said 2:02:45.
2:02:45.
It made sense. The clock was at 5 minutes by the time I crossed the start... but I could barely believe it. It was nigh unbelievable that I could possibly have finished those last three miles in 28 minutes, feeling the way I felt, having already run myself into the ground for 10 miles. I wished the race would record my splits for me. I called my mom and bubbled excitedly over the phone, wheezing and coughing and nibbling little bits off my magical apple.
So that's the story of my first half marathon. I can't wait for the next one now - I'm hoping I can find a good local one toward the middle of November, maybe?
The full marathon? That will have to wait until my work schedule slows a bit. For now I'm just worried about getting healthy and recovering my aching muscles. And my knees are telling me new shoes are definitely on the agenda.
I had been sick for over two weeks with a terrible chest cough that racked my body, stripped my appetite, and generally made me feel like death. The day before had been spent in this miserable state, resting up as much as possible while working the usual thirteen hour day. Nonetheless, that night I laid out my new eggplant-colored running shorts, my green striped bra, my favorite white cotton t-shirt and packed my bag full of cough drops, tissues and granola bars. I ate some noodles in spite of my poor appetite and went to bed by 8:30. I was terribly nervous about being sick, knowing that nobody would be there with me if anything happened to me, but I had trained formally for 9 weeks and casually for 9 months for this. I was resolute.
Having checked the timetables, I made it to the station just in time for my train. I regretted not bringing my book as I sat there among the few people who were on their way to work early on a Sunday, trying to nibble at my granola bar. I could only take tiny nibbles; I just wasn't hungry. I tried sipping my water to get it down, but I just couldn't be bothered with it. There was a girl sitting across from me who I recognized from my neighborhood; she was wearing fancy tech running clothes and shoes that looked freshly broken in. She was lean, like you expect runners to be. She looked calm, listening to her iPod, chomping on a breakfast bar and staring off into space. I coughed deeply into a tissue, feeling plagued.
Finally we made it to Bowling Green and I bee-lined for the ferry with, I noticed, dozens of other runners who had collected onto my train. I secured a spot on the floor of the ferry terminal as close to the doors as possible. I wanted to get the show on the road. I was nervous. I was really congested. I sucked on cough drops to keep myself from coughing constantly. I tried again to eat my granola bar, successfully getting through half. I finished my water bottle.
On the ferry I tried to watch for the Statue of Liberty, but I just kept gazing at the orange haze of sunrise over Brooklyn and abstractly thinking about how thankful I am that I got out of my old life and made this new one for myself. I tried another bite of granola, but had to force it.
Once the ferry docked I felt like a horse out of the gate. I bolted from the doors straight to number pickup as soon as possible. Next I went straight to the massive line of port-o-potties. I looped my scoring tag on my shoe and pinned my number to my shirt while waiting in line (multitasking!), peed quickly, then checked my watch. It was only 7:30! It was still very cold outside and I felt like it was a little early for a warmup so I stretched a little first, then trotted off from the start line for a super-slow mile. I never used to be a warmer-upper, but my long distance runs have taught me that I always feel better after the first mile no matter how slow, and the same was true today. By the end of my warmup I could feel my muscles become more receptive to my will. I trotted back to the bag check, stashed my outer layer, then left my stuff for another port-o-potty run. From there it was just a few minutes to stretch a little more and line up.
When the gun went off I tried to stay calm, and walked to the start line since my tag wouldn't start timing me until I crossed it. Finally my section of the herd made it to the flags and off I went - a minor stitch creeping up on me almost immediately. I ran through it and suddenly found myself at the 2 mile mark, feeling great. My watch said 17:45 and I couldn't believe it. I hear my voice say out loud, "Oh AWESOME!" My brain kept repeating one word: "Sustain." I grabbed some water at the support station which slowed me considerably and I knew I couldn't sustain that pace the entire race, so I dialed it back a bit. But only just a bit--I was re-evaluating my goal of 2:10 and thinking I could try for 2 hours even.
Miles 3 and 4 were nearly on par with my supreme awesome pace, although they seemed to take forever. Mile 5 was tougher, a little bit of a no-man's land with no spectators and a really weird, desolate highway underpass. Finally I saw the water station up ahead and the crowd of spectators that lined the U-turn at the halfway point. I sipped a little water and forged on, but just after I tossed down my cup, my legs began to protest my pace. I slowed. Then I felt the stitch come on. I slowed more. I repeated the word "Sustain" over and over, but I knew there was no way...I had hit a wall. I forced through the stitch as best I could, but by the time I got to mile 7 I knew 2 hours was probably out of the question. Not totally, but probably. I mentally changed my goal back to 2:10 and pushed through. I kept telling myself I was on the homestretch.
Mile 8 was another no-man's land, but two sweet volunteers were out in the most desolate far reaches cheering, and I couldn't help but cheer back. I really appreciated their being there. My cough was starting to wreak more havoc.
I felt good coasting through the marker for 9, but by the time I reached 9.25 several things happened. First, my inability to eat caught up with me, and I felt a distinct lack of calories. Second, my legs hit another wall. They wanted to be done. And finally, I was quickly becoming unable to breathe. For the first time ever, the thought of quitting a race entered my mind. My legs were burning. I knew I had over three miles to go. When I stumbled by the water station at about 9.5 I was a runny-nosed, wheezing, breathless, burning mess of pain. I grabbed a Gatorade, hoping the few calories in it would push me a little farther. I slowed to a trot as I sipped it all down, evaluating the situation.Yes, I was sick. Boo fucking hoo ('scuse the language, Mom). I had watched my sister run a half-marathon sick in 80 degree New Orleans humidity. Sure, my lungs were full of phlegm, but if I could just get enough air in to cough productively, maybe I could take care of that. Yes, my legs burned, and that was my own fault for running too fast in the beginning. I had run five miles or more on no food plenty of times, why stop now? This was MY race. I didn't let anything get in the way of my training, not work, not fun, not dance, not illness, and definitely not my own self-doubt, so why should I let any of those things get in the way of finishing? There were a lot of people out there rooting for me. I'd received a ton of facebook messages and text messages that morning, and I wanted to make all those people proud of me for seeing my goal through to the end. I am Miss Adventurous, dammit. I don't quit.
Instead, I re-evaluate. So I threw out any expectation I had of a 2:10 finish and decided that I would run until the end even if it took me an extra hour. The clock said 1:33 and change when I saw the 10 mile marker up ahead and checked my watch. I told myself I had plenty of time. I could feel my pace dragging, but I cast my fate to the wind, turned my watch so I couldn't see it and forged onward. All I remember about mile 10 is that it sucked--it was slow and it burned. Somewhere around the latter part I felt faint and thought I might pass out so I dialed back the pace a little. I punched it back up a notch for mile 11. Near the end, I felt another stitch coming on, but I pushed through it and it was gone just before I closed on the 12 mile mark.
I'm not sure where I found the extra energy, but with less than a mile left to go I somehow reached far back into my muscles and employed my former high school method of finishing strong, and kicked into high gear for a sprint to the finish. I really think my final mile was 8:40 or so. I literally coasted to the finish line, barely seeing it coming--I just heard the annoying announcer guy, saw a bunch of screaming, waving people, and then suddenly it was over! I tumbled over the line with my hands over my head, instantly bursting into tears, finally able to release all the emotions that had gone into this personal victory.
A race volunteer gathered me up as I sobbed and wheezed and gulped for air. "2:10?" I choked out. "Better!" she said, "2:08! Congratulations!" I was totally shocked that I had made it under 2:10. I stumbled on toward the water table, dumping a half a cup of water into a half a cup of Gatorade. Then came the apple...this sweet girl stuck her hand out at me with the most beautiful-looking Macintosh apple I'd ever seen. I just stared at it for a minute in disbelief until she shook it. Then I grabbed it and took a bite. It was the sweetest, most delicious fruit I'd ever tasted.
I hobbled to a bench and sat down, munching slowly on the magical apple. I glanced at my watch, vaguely remembering that I pushed the button as I crossed the finish line. It said 2:02:45.
2:02:45.
It made sense. The clock was at 5 minutes by the time I crossed the start... but I could barely believe it. It was nigh unbelievable that I could possibly have finished those last three miles in 28 minutes, feeling the way I felt, having already run myself into the ground for 10 miles. I wished the race would record my splits for me. I called my mom and bubbled excitedly over the phone, wheezing and coughing and nibbling little bits off my magical apple.
So that's the story of my first half marathon. I can't wait for the next one now - I'm hoping I can find a good local one toward the middle of November, maybe?
The full marathon? That will have to wait until my work schedule slows a bit. For now I'm just worried about getting healthy and recovering my aching muscles. And my knees are telling me new shoes are definitely on the agenda.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Without so much as a smile hovering in the moonlight.
At Queensboro Plaza, when the W train sat on the track for twenty minutes, I knew I would not have time to run in Central Park before the New York Road Runners clubhouse closed, so I went home with no real route planned. I just knew I had to get out on the road as soon as possible, so I could be safe indoors before it got too late. I ran upstairs, changed quickly, safety-pinned my keys to my shorts and was out the door in five minutes flat. The last vestiges of sunlight were barely visible, a royal blue glow crowning the treetops and brownstones.2 miles. I had to run to a place that was 2 miles away. I thought of your apartment, exactly 2 miles from mine. I shook it out of my head, trying to shake you out of my head. It was gonna be a tough workout and I didn't need any open wounds bothering me.
I coasted down my street to 7th Avenue, well-lit and full of people. On a dark night like tonight you can't be too careful, I know all too well. The population was so thick, in fact, that I thought of nothing but dodging the baby strollers and trying not to trip over dog leashes. I dashed into the street from time to time to avoid crowds, leaping back to the sidewalk to avoid oncoming traffic. I purposely avoided your street, telling myself it was only because the traffic pattern was going the wrong way. Instead I ran up 13th street to the top of the slope, where more people crowded around the benches outside the park.
I ran my sprints toward Grand Army Plaza in minutes instead of meters, laddering up: 1:00, 1:30, 2:00. I took my pulse during the rests between to make sure my heart was okay. I turned myself around toward the bottom of the park and laddered back down: 2:00, 1:30, 1:00. The last minute-long sprint was a hard one. I pushed myself, opening my stride, ramping up my intensity, forcing my muscles to push my body faster and farther. I ended with a gutteral roar of victory, my body folding in two over the concrete, one arm resting on my thigh and the other wiping sweat off my forehead. Panting, grinning from the endorphins racing through my nervous system, I lifted myself upright and threw my head back to see the light glinting off a sign that says "12th St."
I cursed and took off running, the better to get away from any reminder of your pointed absence. The drawn-out silence. The ignored email. It happened again. I know it shouldn't matter to me but it does, it stings, and within three blocks I was sobbing and wheezing and trying to catch my breath. I wasn't crying over you really. I was crying because I believe that somehow it must be my fault, and I'm angry because I blame myself in the face of the flawed logic.
I don't know what I could have done to make you disappear again, but you're gone now and I can't ask. You left me standing there, staring up at an empty tree branch, questioning the meanings and motives of all the reassuring things you said to me...and trying to figure out how I am ever going to find my way through this bizarre and slightly hellish wonderland.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Burn burn burn burn it to the wick.
My mother sometimes tries my patience, but tonight she really got me riled up in the good way. She talked to me about my intensity, told me that I can be really hard to deal with because I'm not like most people. She told me she's never surprised when she hears that another boy/girl/friend/romantic-interest has fallen off the face of my planet, because she really believes that most people just don't have the strength or drive to keep up with me. Her take is that people are fascinated by my intensity and drawn to it out of curiosity, but that in the end most of them just can't hang. And that's okay...I'd eventually lose patience with them anyway. Because I'm different. Hard to swallow, sure, but still good in my own right.
Yeah. Different. Intense. Powerful. Driven. And I challenge others to be so as well.
I feel agitated and animated. I feel poised to take on the world!
I feel like that glorious moment in the middle of a run, when it's so fucking hot out I can't stand having a watch or water bottle or clothes or even my underwear on my skin when I finally let out a battle cry and tear my shirt off to get as few molecules between me and the precious wind as possible.
I'm running hard. Shedding the layers. Making a break for the future I want. It will be mine, and as long as I stay focused nothing--NOTHING--will get in my way.
I don't need to slow down for anyone--if someone really wants to run the race with me he'll keep up. And if he doesn't no reason to shed tears over it. No reason to be disheartened. This isn't about him. It's about me.
This is my life, nobody else's. And I'm the only one who can make it worthwhile.
Yeah. Different. Intense. Powerful. Driven. And I challenge others to be so as well.
I feel agitated and animated. I feel poised to take on the world!
I feel like that glorious moment in the middle of a run, when it's so fucking hot out I can't stand having a watch or water bottle or clothes or even my underwear on my skin when I finally let out a battle cry and tear my shirt off to get as few molecules between me and the precious wind as possible.
I'm running hard. Shedding the layers. Making a break for the future I want. It will be mine, and as long as I stay focused nothing--NOTHING--will get in my way.
I don't need to slow down for anyone--if someone really wants to run the race with me he'll keep up. And if he doesn't no reason to shed tears over it. No reason to be disheartened. This isn't about him. It's about me.
This is my life, nobody else's. And I'm the only one who can make it worthwhile.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Slowin' My Roll
Welcome, new old readers, to the safe little nook of privacy in which I now write. See? I wasn't avoiding you, I was just safeguarding myself against the beady, prying eyes of toothless people from my past.Anyway.
So I chose my half marathon. It's gonna be in Staten Island (I know) on October 11. The reason I picked Staten Island (here's the part where I justify) is timing. I could have rushed and ran in Queens, but this way I've afforded myself a few more weeks of training. Since this last job worked me until I contracted the flu (they quarantined me to my apartment for three days and I almost lost my mind), I think it's okay to admit that I fell off the wagon for a few weeks there. I got back on tonight with a jaunty 5 miler that took me over hill (Cobble Hill) and dale (I think 4th Avenue qualifies, right?).
But, like I said, I came down with the flu. I showed up to work Tuesday and the President took one look at me, felt my forehead, and put me in a cab. I thought it would only last a day. I thought they were overreacting. I can't afford to not work. So the next day I showed up, did my thing, then all of a sudden at noonish I couldn't remember my name, much less what PO I was working on or where to sell short ends of film stock. I had no choice. I melted into a feverish puddle on the floor and then slithered downstairs and somehow took a subway home. All I really remember is the glorious moment when I fell into bed.
The Pres said go to a doctor. The catch-22 is that I can't really afford a doctor if I'm not working a full week. How many people reminded me this week that I don't have health insurance? How many needed to?
The long and short of it is that, between more running and a grim reminder of the fragility of my nonunion body, I am making a vested effort to slow down a little. I am staying in tonight. I have 3:10 to Yuma on Netflix and a whole binder full of menus to choose from.
That's right, it's Saturday. And I'm staying in.
And it's such a relief.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Father's Day
I'm changing a lot lately. Moving furniture, purging from my life things I don't need, getting rid of unwanted baggage and cleaning out the junk. Every time I make a change I gain momentum as if I'm dropping off excess weight during a race. At the finish line is feeling good an happy and whole again. My friends and family are cheering me on along the sidelines. I'm doing it for them. I want to be better, of course, but it's for them not for me. I would never ever want someone to have to miss me the way I miss you. I couldn't do that to them. It was a really shitty thing to do, Dad, leaving us without you like that. You really fucked up my life and I'm angry about it. It wasn't fair, you had a responsibility, if not to Mom than to us. I know you were sick, but that doesn't make it any less acceptable. I'd rather have a dad in a loony bin or jail or even just out there in the world on his own than no dad at all.
At least maybe you could have waited? Like ten or fifteen years? You could have seen me grow up...didn't you want that? I think you'd be really proud of me. I've worked hard and come a long way...but I wish you'd been there to see it, and maybe to talk me out of some of the dumber things I've done.
I miss you. I've missed you every day since the police came to our little white house and told us you were dead. And as pissed as I am about it all, I still love you. I'm trying really hard to forgive you, but first I think I have to forgive myself for all the time I've spent being angry. I need to let it go.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Stumble stumble fall
I ran today in the park. I fell. I haven't fallen in over a year!
Someone was riding her horse on the running path instead of the bridle path, which made me cut to the side kind of fast to avoid the horse. I startled the horse and it sidestepped, which startled me, and somewhere in the mix my toe caught on a tree root and I stumbled forward about ten feet before losing my balance and tumbling to the ground. I did a tuck-and-roll, like in the movies, which seems to work pretty well for me. I used to fall a lot.
I used to fall often because my knees weren't strong, so I didn't pick up my feet high enough. Combined with the gnarled root systems of the live oak trees in Audubon Park, I got pretty good at falling. Work with the gravity, not against it. Brace with the arm farthest from the ground and curl the other one into your body. Try and distribute the surface area of your body along the ground to better absorb the impact. Roll onto your back. Check for breaks, blood and bruising. If none, refuse help. "Nothing damaged but my pride!" became my cheerful mantra in response to concerns of passers-by.
Never have I been seriously hurt by a fall, other than a minor fracture of the pinky finger during high school (knock on wood). I always get up, dust myself off, laugh a bit and keep running with a big grin on my face. People always seem to be amazed by this, but really what's a few scrapes and bumps? When you're three (or four, or six...) miles away from where you're going you may as well get there as fast as you can anyway, right? Why let a little tumble take the fun out of my workout?
I have a secret.
There is always a delayed reaction.
Today I got up, dusted off, laughed and grinned, then dashed forward. About a mile later I burst into tears. This is totally normal, and it's what I expect when I fall. I couldn't breathe. I had to stop, wheezing and sobbing. I was embarrassed about falling. I was angry at the horse's stupid rider for riding on the wrong trail. I was full of adrenaline, covered in dirt, pigtails all messed up, blinded by tears, unable to breathe and then all the stupid no-good horrible emotions I've been having recently surged up through it all like a shot out of a cannon. I crouched down on the grass, hugging my knees and gasping for air and squeezing my eyes shut, trying desperately to calm down, to get the rhythm of my breathing back to normal. I was far enough off the trail that nobody stopped to bother me. It would have made it worse anyway.
It really only took a minute or two, but after that I was fine. It's just the extra adrenaline that pushes me over the edge, I think. I got back up, dusted off again, wiped the tears from my face and pushed on for another two miles. By the time I dashed through the gate in front of my building I was cheerfully humming to myself. I felt better. Cleansed.
Taking a little tumble isn't really so bad. It reminds me that I'm not invincible and that there's really no point in pretending that I am. It reminds me that difficult things happen as a matter of fact, and that I'm tough enough to come out of it okay. The uncontrollable tears remind me that it's important to deal with the resulting emotions so that I can move on.
So, today's lessons: Tuck and roll - take the bad in stride with the good. Pick myself up and keep going. Sort through my negative feelings before they catch up with me and make things worse. Don't expect horseback riders to use their own goddamn path. Track cinders and sunscreen do not taste good together.
Friday, May 8, 2009
10 good things about size 10
10- more clothing options means less money spent on stuff I'll never wear that I "had to buy" just because it fit me.9- rediscovering clothes I loved in high school. I wore them fitted then; I wear them baggy now.
8- less weight means less stress on my joints when I run! Yay!
7- increased cat calls are mostly annoying...but a little flattering. It's nice to be noticed more!
6- fitting into my shoes better. Weird since I never thought my feet were particularly fat, but true.
5- less belly, more dance.
4- people should be ashamed of themselves, but I'm definitely getting my way more during business transactions. Bonus.
3- obvious better respiratory health. I attack multiple flights of stairs like I'm Rocky.
2- fitting my butt into smaller parking spaces on the Subway.
1- when I walk by my reflection in a window I recognize myself instead of fleetingly wondering, "whose chins are those?" But seriously, at sizes 12-18 I never used to feel quite like myself. Now I finally look the way I feel on the inside! I finally look like me!
Friday, February 20, 2009
The donut, the club, the boys, the work, the ouch.
A couple weeks ago I met up with this guy Tim, who won the free donut. He was really nice and cool. It felt a little like a therapy session, since I know nothing about him, he knows a lot about me, and we talked mostly about how I can improve my life.He's in Thailand right now, I think.
Hopefully this won't be the last I see of Tim, who is nice and cool. He should come to the brunch club.
Speaking of the brunch club, the Sound Scientist, one of our charter members, has not been in a really long time. It makes me a little sad, since we were such good close friends for a while and I had hope that for once a good, close friendship that I developed would not dissolve into the distant, see-you-once-in-a-blue-moon kind of thing that is all too common here in NYC. However, some of the gals I know through dance have been coming, which is nice. And of course my sidekicks, The Starlet and The Heartwarmer, who I love. And our Pet Nineteen-Year-Old, who The Starlet adopted last summer while waiting in line for Shakespeare in the Park...she comes quite a bit. But it's a total chickfest, which sometimes gets on my nerves. I like having guy friends around.
Speaking of guy friends, there are two of them that suddenly seem to be jumping up and down trying to get my attention. Since I've been unemployed, I've had the time to indulge this a bit, but they are both testing my impatience as I wait to see a little assertiveness. Asking me to go out is fine, but it's no fun if I have to be the one making all the decisions. I hate making decisions, and I have to do it plenty enough on my own. Please tell me where to be, when to be there, and what sort of attire is expected. Dating is, like, the one time I do not want to be in control.
Speaking of things that are beyond my control, the reason I haven't written in a long time is that I've been a little depressed. Economically depressed as well as too-much-time-on-my-hands depressed. But here's the good news, President offered me a job yesterday! Praise Jesus! She might not know it (well maybe she does), but she has rescued me from certain financial ruin, or at least from the emotional devastation of having to ask my family for (more) help. I was beginning to worry that I was on the cusp of losing my grasp on this whole New York movie-making freelancer endeavor...and while the financial part would be hard, the idea of failing myself is much much harder.
Speaking of things that are hard for me to confront, I had to reign in my running a little bit, which is driving me crazy, since mentally I'm ready for an 8 miler. I have developed a mild case of Plantar fasciitis. If you can imagine having your heel sliced off with a meat slicer you can begin to understand what it feels like. Long story short, I was grossly inflating my weekly mileage, switched to a new pair of running shoes without enough arch support, all the while romping through New York for miles and miles each day wearing flat-soled Chuck Taylors with no insoles. Boom. Plantar fascitis, or as I like to call it, Chuck Taylor Syndrome. Just goes to show you should listen to Dr. Scholl and put arch supports in all your shoes. With a little Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation and a LOT more stretching I should be able to overcome the daggers in my heels pretty soon, then I'm going to own the hell out of that 8-miler. It's going to take me across the Brooklyn Bridge and back.
Monday, February 2, 2009
So nice.
I was able to leave the temp job, which was SO nice.
I've been working all week on an insert shoot for a studio movie, which has been so nice.
I interviewed for a set position on a bigger studio movie, which would be so nice.
I saw Slumdog Millionaire, which was...wow. So nice.
I spent way too much money this week, which is not so nice.
I spent all day Sunday at a superbowl party with my Football Sunday Funday pals at 1849, which was so nice.
I've been running a lot, which is so so so so so nice.
I've been a busy girl. It's been so nice.
I've been working all week on an insert shoot for a studio movie, which has been so nice.
I interviewed for a set position on a bigger studio movie, which would be so nice.
I saw Slumdog Millionaire, which was...wow. So nice.
I spent way too much money this week, which is not so nice.
I spent all day Sunday at a superbowl party with my Football Sunday Funday pals at 1849, which was so nice.
I've been running a lot, which is so so so so so nice.
I've been a busy girl. It's been so nice.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Resolute
Over the holidays I got to be closer friends with Philosophy. She's a super gal; we've had similar experiences and we just kind of get each other.Anyway, Phil is one of the few friends I've made that doesn't think I'm crazy for running. In fact, she's training for a marathon next July in San Francisco. I wanna play!
So yesterday I woke up at 5 am, a good two hours before dawn. I groggily tugged on my tights and sport bra and layers of t-shirts. I tied my shoes. I drank a glass of water. I pinned keys inside my clothes and quietly made my way downstairs. 5:30 on a Saturday...barely anyone on the street except some kids coming home from a night out and a few people unlucky enough to have to leave for work. I jogged down to Grand Army Plaza, met up with Phil, and together we trotted into the park.
It was like being in another world, just the two of us an a precious few other brave pioneers in the dark. We kept the pace light, chatting a bit. It was freezing. It was like the rest of the world didn't exist. For the first time since I lost my job I felt like everything is going to be okay. I felt like I could breathe.
At the end as we raced back out of the park, tents were being set up for the green market and the Christmas Cone lit up in all different colors. Grand Army Plaza felt like a finish line. I felt strong and happy and glad to be alive. We crossed the edge of the park and gave each other a sweaty, breathless hug.
Hopefully it was the first of many.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Legend of Miss Adventurous, Part 4 - The Real Journey Begins. On Foot.
The year was 1995. I was fourteen, going on fifteen. I was completely nonathletic and spent most of my time buried in books or notebooks. I had bangs (not cute bangs) and long, stringy brown hair (there, I said it, it's not really red) and was for the most part incapable of relating to people, including (especially?) myself and my own feelings.
At the end of Part 3, I mentioned that I started running. Somehow, the summer after 8th grade, I made up my mind that I was going to join the cross country team in high school. My sister had been a cross country and track runner, which is where I got the idea, but I'm still not entirely sure why it appealed to me, given my status as a fat, nerdy, non-shorts-wearing, gym-class avoider. I do remember why I kept doing it though.
The first day I ran for about five minutes before I got winded and had to walk. I knew that it was just about one mile down Woodiebrook road to the bridge though, and I was determined to make it that far, and to run as much as I could. I had no idea what I was doing, but I figured out that I could run a little, then walk a little, and that it was kind of fun to set little mental goals for myself. I'll run until I get to that mailbox. I'll run until I get to the telephone pole. Hell no I'm not running up this hill. I'll run down the other side. For the first time I was challenged by something outside of academics, and although this sounds kind of weird, it felt really good to do something I sucked at! This running thing was harder than it looked!
I set a goal to conquer the one mile to the bridge without walking, and within a few weeks I had done it (thank you adaptable teenage body). By the end of the summer, I could huff and puff all the way there and back without stopping once. I lost weight. I felt awesome. I loved the feeling of overcoming the little "I can't" voice in my head.
When school began, I realized that my sedentary childhood had left me with a handicap on the cross-country course. My first 5K was run in just over 31 minutes which, as a matter of fact, sucks. The next slowest runner on my team was running at about 27 minutes. Rather than getting discouraged, I continued working harder. I became the Little Engine that Could, chipping away at the elusive 10 minute mile split. I had good mentors that year--Sarah and Melanie, the two senior girls on our team, and Patrick, my coach. They saw how hard I was working and how much I was improving and they were always quick to offer advice and encouragement, even though I was the slowest runner on our team during every practice and every race. I don't know if those three people will ever really understand how much the memory of their voices cheers me on every time I try to do something really challenging.
The next year my coach wound up working at a different school. At my first race that year, I saw Patrick on the side, cheering for both us and for his new team, and when he saw me he started hooting and hollering louder than I'd ever heard him before...and with good reason! I finished that race in 26:15. I'll never forget that. It's the fastest I've ever run.
The new coach was different; he wasn't in the business of helping kids improve themselves, he was in the business of winning the conference championship and going to State. He either ignored me or treated me like I didn't belong on the team, and I can't say that my teammates were any better, as cliquey as they were. Instead of improving, my performance went downhill and hovered there. The team did go to the state championship that year. I wasn't even invited.
Still, I managed to stick around all four years. They never acknowledged it (they said my junior year didn't count because I missed two races after I flipped my car over), but I was the only one in my class who started at the beginning and finished at the end. As hurt as I was (and still am) over the lack of recognition, I'm actually kind of glad, because it proves that I did it all for myself.
And now, chasing down the elusive 10 minute mile all over again, I do it for me. Sometimes when people ask why I like to run, I say "oh, it's like meditation." That's true...but that's not really the reason I do it. I like it because it's something that does not come very easy or naturally to me. And I do it to make myself a better person inside and out.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Fresh as a daisy and smelly as a goat
Ahhh.... Runnnnnnnnning....
Sometimes I grumble about living in Prospect Lefferts Gardens. The PLG isn't exactly the bastion of sassy hipster cool that people think of when I say "I live in Brooklyn." It's super residential and I know there's some stuff on the other side of the 'hood, but in my regularly patrolled area (between the park and my apt bldg on Lincoln and the few surrounding blocks on Flatbush Ave) there is one hip little coffee shop, one (delicious) cute tex-mex restaurant, and Lime, a nightclub to which I have never been.
But I gotta say... Weekend mornings are a joy out here. Waking up, puttin' the old lime green shorts on, it is a joy knowing I pay $895 a month and live a block away from one of the best parks in New York.
Prospect also happens to be the perfect park for my purposes (!) being that it has a nice paved running track that is 3+ miles, some unpaved running trail areas, in addition to all the standard park goodies, like playgrounds and picnic areas. I especially like Auntie Hunting, which involves me running around through all the dogs between 8 and 9 in the morning, hoping to spot Aunt J or her partner Auntie R and their sweet little whippet.
Before my watch stopped, I was focusing more on the numbers of running - Check watch, look for mile markers, check watch, check watch again, okay I'll turn around in six minutes, check watch... Not any more! Now that I'm watchless (and running with abandon), I'm really taking it all in. I love maneuvering through swarms of excited dogs waving their tongues around as they chase each other at the Dog Beach, leaping onto the banks of the bridle trail to evade equestrians, and weaving in between tents at the cute little farmer's market in Grand Army Plaza. I don't know that I'm getting a great workout in or anything, but I'm definitely having more fun than I was on the clock!
I was thinking today, while bounding up the hill from the Long Meadow somewhere near the Litchfield Villa, that my weekend runs are a really great way to tap into life in the BK. I'm starting to see the same faces (and the same dogs--the dogs are wonderfully pervasive), and it's giving me a marvelous sense of connection and positivity. It really makes that mopey lonely crappy feeling vanish. I can't wait until it gets warmer... Aunt J and Auntie R told me that there's lots to do in the park in the summer.
Speaking of, Daylight Savings tonight has me in a GREAT mood! I don't give a lick about it being light in the morning; I'm just excited to be able to walk home in the afternoon sunshine! Maybe I can even start taking the train to Grand Army and walking through the park! Wooooo!
Now that I'm all smelly and sweaty (dare I say, salty too) I'm gonna hop in the shower and then off to...well, I don't know. It's all rainy out, so I won't go back to the park... But who cares? I'll find something to do--I'm in New York!
Friday, March 7, 2008
The Legend of Miss A, Part 3 - In which Miss A emerges from Fantasy Land
As I said in Part 2, a lot of my memories are really fuzzy for a few years after my dad died. I never thought about it before I wrote Part 2 either, but I'm sure that it is a psychological coping mechanism. Really, I spent much of that time in a fantasy world. I had this friend, Cari, who was going through some serious trauma too (although I didn't really know that at the time). The two of us loved to read, and we would make up stories and play them out on the playground, and eventually we started writing our own stories. At home I watched cartoons and sitcoms almost constantly. I read books. I played out stories with my My Little Ponies. I lived in fantasy 95% of the time. I was enabled by adults who praised and rewarded me for my uniqueness and chalked it all up to creativity.
My fantasy world came crashing down when I was eleven and Cari moved away...I think she grounded me in that world, and when she left it was like being shaken out of a deep sleep. I realized how isolated I was from the other kids at school. They all seemed comfortable in the real world. They were having their little first boyfriends and girlfriends and being social with each other and none of them watched cartoons or played with My Little Ponies anymore. I started writing short stories, most of them involving young adults in their late teens/early 20's. They were generally cheesy love stories. I remember one in particular was about a girl who rode horses in the circus who tried to run away with an acrobat. Her father, who spoke with a thick Mediterranean accent, saved her from making a huge mistake. I also remember knowing that the exposition was thin and the dialogue cheesy.
My mom got married when I was 13. We moved and I changed schools. Having spent the last six years in fantasy land, I had no idea how to make friends or function socially. I didn't know how to act around all the strangers at my new school, so I did nothing. I didn't talk to people, I didn't look at them. I tried to become invisible. Trouble was, I had been working far ahead of these kids at my old school and I loved learning; it was hard to be invisible and active in class at the same time. The other kids, apparently, thought I was a snob for not talking to them and they started teasing. It was merciless, and it came to a point where I was crying in my room every day. I thought it was their fault. I thought they were mean. I didn't know what I could possibly do to make things better for myself. I was thirteen and miserable.
When my mom caught wind of the whole bad situation she took mercy on me and enrolled me in the local Catholic school, which had one classroom for each grade. There were 16 kids in my entire grade! I still didn't talk much, and I still got teased, but at least they were actually on my intelligence level. There was a really great element of academic competition, and I was in the top three, battling it out against the coolest kid in the class (Matt someoneorother) and the bitchiest girl I have ever met to this day. I was discovering a little bit of who I was at school with this whole competition thing, and learning about the kind of person I could be in reality.
It was also about this time that I developed a near-desperate need to become closer with my dad's family, his six living brothers and sisters and my grandparents. This could have been a reaction to my mom's remarriage. It also could have been a reaction to learning--and for the first time, fully understanding the implications of--how he died. I began understanding that I wasn't the only person who was affected by his death, and that it wasn't my fault. It was probably around this time that my four aunts (including Aunt J) started meaning what they have come to mean to me.
I remember a particular Thanksgiving (I was fourteen, maybe?), sitting around the table at my grandparents' condo with the Aunts and Salty, and it was the first time I ever talked openly about my dad and what had happened to him. I remember the realization growing inside me that they too had experienced his death and my uncle's death, but that they hadn't stopped living. They were having relationships and families and careers and happiness and self-discovery. I no longer saw them as extensions of my dad, and instead they became my aunts, independent of him, and four strong, smart women who live their lives on their terms as much as possible. I think that might have been the first time I understood that my life wasn't ruined.
That night was a real turning point for me. Instead of pretending in my mind to be someone else, I started having ideas about who I could be and how I would get there. I started thinking about my future and goals and ideals...and I started running.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Sundays are my favorite.
Okay, this isn't really the third post today; the other two were started last week and never finished. Sorry to shatter your belief in my perfect ability to churn out blogs willy nilly. Or whatever. I've been busy speed dating and ogling the IT guy at work. And also work is actually keeping me busy, unlike the last temp assignment...you know, the one where I never ever blogged (no never)....Sunday is fast becoming my absolute favorite day of the week, and here's why:
I start by waking up at 8:00 (an hour late!). I put on my running clothes, pack some cash in my little shorts pocket and walk 1.5 blocks to Prospect Park, where I run with some serious abandon. My cheap Target stopwatch has died after surviving three years with me, through a summer in France, through Katrina, through the bad times with JH, through my move. That stopwatch did me some serious good, but now that it's gone I can't really bring myself to replace it yet. So I go to the park and run, watchless and with abandon.
After my run, I stroll merrily to K-Dog, turning heads as I go because I'm wearing running shorts and a long sleeve t-shirt in 25 degree weather. In the coffee shop, my glasses fog up and I make a little joke to the lady behind the counter. I order a large coffee with extra soy milk, my favorite. Then I wander a block away, pick up my laundry from the people who washed, dried, and folded it for me (this is one of my favorite things about New York), and head home. I get in the shower, and today it's a long, languid shower...the kind where you take enough time to shave your legs, but don't actually shave them. Then I towel up. I love lounging around in my towel, freshly showered. After a quick email check I put on my favorite outfit: a v-neck t-shirt that has been hemmed to just under the bust, a hoodie on top, and stretchy boot-cut dance pants. I put my hair up into a messy bun-thing, stuff a hip scarf, zils, and a bottle of water into my bag and head out the door.
I feel like Snow White walking through the forest on my way to the subway. My ipod is playing upbeat Motown, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and, oh shit! Someone just tried to run me over while I was crossing Flatbush! Oh well...shrug it off and keep on going. Magically, the train appears just after I arrive on the platform. I sit down for my Sunday morning read. This week it's JD Salinger's Nine Stories. As the Q train crosses the bridge, Manhattan looks resplendent in the morning sunlight. The Statue of Liberty waves hello.
After a brisk walk from 14th street to Astor Place, I arrive at the dance studio. I'm late, but never mind. Just glad to be here. From the front of the room, Mimi says hello, and I feel a little bit like she's saying "nice of you to join us, Miss A. Please take your place." I hurry with my hip scarf and funky heel-less sandals and then fall in line to body wave along with the rest of the class. For two hours I learn about my body, where this joint can bend, where that limb can extend, how to make it all move the way my brain thinks it should. I actively discover what I am, the muscle and tissue, and even the stuff that jiggles a little too much when I shimmy.
Afterward I chat a little with Mimi and with the other girls from class. This is good, that's hard, can we try this next time. One of the other girls, D, mentions coffee. I perk up. More coffee sounds great. Breakfast sounds great--I forgot to eat. It's 3:30.
More chatting, some laughing, then strolling with D and H around the Village, looking for that place I went before. Couldn't find it, so we wound up at Dunkin' Donuts! I indulged in an egg and cheese sandwich, one of my favorite favorite things. There is lots of chatting. Lots of laughing. A cute little old guy sits down next to us and tells us about a Three Stooges movie. It's great. Walking to the subway, D tells about a chance she has to put together a line (she designs lingerie) and a show and stuff, but mutters something quickly about no money and no time blah blah. And so I say this (it's paraphrased):
"You have an opportunity that may not come again. TAKE the opportunity and run with it! The money will come! The time will come...you will make them come, but only if you force yourself to do so. I know what it's like to be an artist, and to be frustrated by your needs... You need to eat. You need to pay rent. But you will, you just have to trust yourself."
(I could have cried then and there, because it was the first moment that I realized I believe that. I believe that! I believe it! I do! I have already come such a long way from that awful place I used to be!)
After that I come home and sink into my comfy, comfy bed. I snuggle down and surf the net. I watch the Simpsons. I forget to eat again, so I have a banana and a granola bar and some raw veggies. I've started to love chilled bananas.
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