Better Days Ahead

Pardon My Temper Tantrum

2011-10-04T14:31:00.003-04:00

A pro runner once advised me to never open an old training log while I’m injured—especially one that describes a time when I was in the shape of my life. I don’t use training logs, but I have more than three years worth of emails and training schedules swapped with my running coach and because I apparently can’t resist self-torture, I opened up one of those emails from exactly one year ago this week.

It was seven days before the 2010 Chicago Marathon. Words jumped off the screen at me, as he reflected on the nearly flawless training cycle that brought me to that point. How much “fun” it was. How I “nailed” every workout. How I’d been so “tough.”

Seems like that was a different person, running through a different lifetime. I haven’t received an email like that since. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Hard.

So, to celebrate the anniversary of such a splendid message, I cried at the kitchen table for a couple of hours while hovering over the cancellation button for my next marathon, in Houston. The truth is, a year ago was the last time I felt any confidence in my running—and probably not coincidentally, the last time I updated this blog. To push through one more attempt at being my best and falling short doesn’t seem like a viable option right now. I’m spent, in every sense of the word.

See, in that year, I’ve spent hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars in bills not covered by my insurance trying to figure out why it feels like somebody is stabbing me in my left hip and pelvis every time I run (or cough, or sneeze, or sit too long, or stand too long…you get the point). I’ve endured excruciating treatments that left me with deep purple bruises on a weekly basis. I’ve undergone x-rays and MRIs that yielded no answers. I’ve been examined by doctors who take guesses at what is causing the pain, but can’t say for sure. I’ve been told to cross train, then to not cross train…that it’s safe to run through it, then to stop running completely. To strength train, to not strength train. Stretch, don’t stretch. Do core work, then don’t.

And now I’m done. I’m done putting on a happy face. I’m done with the positive attitude. I’m done handling this privately, maturely, or rationally. I’m done being hopeful that this will turn itself around. I’m done trying to do everything I can to find solutions. I don’t want anybody’s pity or to be told that there are worse problems in life to have or that I’m not the first runner to have a tricky injury that takes a long time to heal. I know that. I don’t need to be told any of it—and although I realize it all comes from a good place, with the best intentions, from wonderful people who are only trying to be supportive, none of it makes me feel less miserable. Grateful that anybody cares? Truly beyond grateful. But not any less angry, sad, or frustrated.

I know that running isn’t everything. My self worth certainly isn’t dependent on a great workout or a best time. But when running—and every other form of activity—is suddenly ripped away, it becomes abundantly clear that it isn’t merely a sport or a hobby, it’s actually a lifestyle. My body and mind crave the hard efforts, the exhaustion they produce, the endorphins they provide. A simple training schedule sent each Sunday provides a natural rhythm to life that’s difficult to replicate when it stops appearing altogether. I still put on workout clothes when I wake up each morning, fully aware that there are exactly zero forms of exercise that don’t require the use of muscles in my lower left quadrant.

So what’s the point of writing a whiny blog entry oozing nothing but a lot of anger and self-pity? Maybe there is no point. But I sure hope a year from now I find myself at the kitchen table reading it and laughing, realizing how far I’ve come on the long road back to good health.

10/10/10: Hot. Or Not.

2010-10-16T18:19:00.008-04:00

Today I made it down the stairs without looking like a nursing home escapee who forgot her walker, which is a step up from yesterday, when it took approximately 20 minutes to make it from my bed to the coffeemaker. My nose is an alarming shade of red, compliments of what I believe to be the worst head cold known to man. My knee? It’s sporting the kind of scrapes it hasn’t seen since the playground days, though they are camouflaged by a layer of purple bruises—because my dog turned an evening walk into a distressing game of tug-of-war, which, in my weakened state, I clearly lost.

Yesterday I noticed the second toe on my left foot is black. I have no idea why.

But what I do know is what happens to all those people who actually finish marathons as fast as they possibly can. Here I am, five days removed from the 2010 Chicago Marathon, and frankly I still want my mommy.

Truth be told, it’s the kind of bodily damage I had secretly always wondered if I’d achieve. I wanted the aftermath of a marathon to tell me this story—that’d I’d done absolutely all I could do out there, that every ounce of months of training was put to good use, that the endless time and energy my coach generously gave me was not wasted.

Mission accomplished. When I finished the race in 3:19:22, with the temperature in downtown Chicago closing in on 85 degrees, my head, feet, legs, and arms throbbed. I’m almost certain my hair, eyelashes, and teeth hurt. My first reaction was pure joy with a new best time, in less-than-ideal conditions. My second was pure panic that I’d never make it back to the hotel—a two-mile walk that may have taken me longer to complete than the 26.2 miles that came before it.

In the midst of all the physical pain, though, is a lot of happy bewilderment. I started running marathons ten years ago this fall—I completed the 2000 New York City Marathon almost exactly one hour slower than the 2010 Chicago Marathon. Ten years. One hour. I look at the finish line photo of that younger, slightly bigger, cotton-shirt-wearing version of myself and want to tell her that she didn’t just check a to-do off of some life list, that because of this sport she’ll make friends with amazing people, visit places she’d otherwise never see, learn how to deal with triumphs and disappointments with equal grace, teach kids how to lead healthy lives, and discover that most limitations in life are completely self-imposed. I also want to give her some friendly fashion advice, but I’ll save that for another time.

Prior to 10/10/10 there was a sneaky part of my brain I didn’t know about that let the rest of me off the hook when the going got tough. I’ve crossed many, many finish lines with new best times, but with a gnawing intuition that I could’ve gone faster, not really knowing why I didn’t. I felt it coming on as it got hotter and hotter throughout Sunday’s race. There were many valid reasons to cut myself some slack—or even consider not finishing, saving my hard-earned fitness for a better day—and nobody would’ve thought less of me.

But as the doubts crept in, I knew enough this time to replace them with other thoughts. I mostly had flashbacks to early morning track workouts at 7,000 feet in the weeks before the race, following my coach, Mike, around and around that damn oval despite the hurt—his way of showing me the paces I am capable of, which I otherwise wouldn’t believe. I remembered the text he sent me as I headed to the starting line that morning—something he’s had to tell me more than once in two years: “You can do more than you think you can. Don’t underestimate yourself out there.”

And so, for the final four miles, when I considered slowing to a walk several times, I repeated it in my sloppy, increasingly sweaty, sun-burned head. “You can do more than you think you can. You can do more than you think you can. You can do more than you think you can.”

Mike’s words and his confidence got me all the way to the finish, though as soon as I stopped and wobbled toward the Gatorade, the dam I had built to temporarily hold all those doubts back, broke—and they flooded my head. I was convinced I was not the kind of runner who could drop eight minutes under a hot Chicago sun, as everybody around me legitimately grumbled and cried about terrible races and many more sought wheel chairs to the medical tent. So I stumbled toward my bag, grabbed my phone, and called Mike to confirm what the time on my watch was telling me. I can only hope it made him laugh.

Post-race milkshakes with friends. It's what's for dinner.

I know my body will soon heal and catch up with my mind and my spirit, which have already moved on to dreaming about new possibilities, cautiously optimistic that one day I will pick a race that defies global warming. For now, however, I’m taking refuge on the couch, grateful for a successful weekend made so much sweeter by the time spent with some of my favorite people, the love, support, and encouragement sent by family and friends, and the knowledge that no matter how annoying it might seem, my coach is almost always right. I can do more than I think I can.

Now, who wants to walk my dog for me this week?

Boston, the Conclusion: Peace and Pink Tutus

2010-09-14T18:49:00.004-04:00

Ok, so the Boston Marathon was five months ago. In five months time a gal can see 26.2 miles in about ten gazillion different ways. Perspective changes, goes away, comes back, and changes again. This story has been altered, many, many times.

I remember the first thought I had, immediately after crossing the finish line and maybe that’s the tale I should tell. Whatever my initial impressions are—for better or worse—the first person to hear them is always my trusty coach, who oh-so-patiently endures a gamut of emotions before and after a race. When I finally qualified for Boston, at the Philly Marathon back in 2008, with an 11-minute personal best time to boot, I blurted out, “Mike, I thought I’d be faster.” I could feel his eyes rolling through the phone and I’m pretty sure I should be grateful for the 2,500 miles that separated us back then. This time, my first reaction was, “Mike! That was the most fun I’ve ever had running a marathon!”

(Editor’s Note: In the interest of full disclosure, I later questioned…more than once… “Mike, why didn’t I run faster?” The first step is recognizing the problem, right?)

Given the events of the year prior, I didn’t allow myself to ever fully believe I was running the race, until I found myself in the starting corral. Then I wondered how, exactly, I ended up there. The road to Boston was not direct, as I’ve alluded to before. It went through New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Washington, DC, back to Philadelphia, spent some time in Saylorsburg, and eventually found its way to Flagstaff, AZ, in the dead of the worst winter the town has seen in decades, apparently. I never realized I had the tenacity to keep a dream alive through all of that. But I do, and that’s good to know.

And so there I was, at the start of the 114th Boston Marathon, with my new Flagstaff friend, Anna, by my side. Smiles all around, until out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of pink. There he was. Again. Pink Tutu Man.

Pink Tutu Man is a middle-aged bald guy who sports a pink tutu, pink racing singlet, and carries a pink magic wand. He’s everywhere on the road racing circuit and I’m 99 percent certain I’ve found myself staring him down at every race I’ve entered in the past five years. While we’re roughly the same pace, the dude always beats me. And he’s not nice about it. At all. As he passes his nearby competitors, he taunts along the way, “HA! Look at you! You’re getting beat by a guy in a pink tutu!”

Seriously. Do you know what it’s like to be defeated—multiple times—by a man dressed like that?

But this was my Boston Marathon and I refused to let the man in pink steal my fun or my pace. If I’ve learned nothing else over the years, it’s to run my own race. One day my own race will end sooner than Pink Tutu Man’s.

I’m not sure what else I can say about the experience of the Boston Marathon that hasn’t already been said. It lives up to the hype, the history, and contrary to what some people say these days, it lives up to the prestige. I’d earned my spot there and there’s something magical about running against a group of people who did the same. There is respect for the distance and the race in Boston, not just from the athletes, but from the millions of people who support it as volunteers and line the course, screaming for hours on Marathon Monday. The atmosphere is extraordinary and at times, just gave me chills.

And so instead of paying too much attention to the clock or to any other costumed runners in our midst, I found myself just thoroughly enjoying the experience—a departure from any other race I’ve finished. I couldn’t help myself from actually having fun and soaking it all in. Maybe it was the oxygen-rich air (sea level might be my new favorite thing in the world), but I was happy. For the first time since I picked up my life and moved it across the country, I was running free. For exactly three hours and 27 minutes I wasn’t the new girl in town any more. I didn’t have to introduce myself to anybody or wonder if I would ever make new friends. I didn’t have to put on a happy face or feel awkward at yet another social event where I didn’t know anybody. I didn’t have to muster courage or fight fear that I’d never fit in. I didn’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing. All I had to do was run and it felt like pure peace.

I don’t know how it happened, but I’ve been at this marathon game for ten years. I now see that each race is its own chapter. I look back on my first marathon and recall some of the most exciting, friendship-and-adventure-filled, 20something, wide-eyed New York City years of my life. The Marine Corps Marathon conjures memories of turning 30, moving to Washington, DC, and starting a new job all within seven days. The Philadelphia Marathon (Part Two) came while I was wondering where to go next and knowing that temporarily living on a lake in the middle of nowhere was the best answer for the time being.

And then came Boston, when running was the one thing I could turn to during the most difficult transition of my life. The training itself was far from perfect, but the act of moving forward every day saved me from homesickness, self doubt, loneliness, and the darkness of a seemingly never-ending winter. Without it, I’m pretty sure the U-Haul would’ve done a quick u-turn back to the East Coast.

As I turned that corner onto Boylston, the finish line finally in view, it represented so much more than just the end of another race. In many ways, it marked a beginning. I crossed the line a few seconds behind Anna, but three minutes faster than ever before, feeling more like the confident, comfortable gal I’d like to believe I really am.

“Congratulations,” a fellow runner said, lingering near the fabled finish.

“Thanks,” I said, as I turned to see a bald middle-aged man in a pink tutu.

“You’re toast at Chicago,” I thought, heading to my phone, eager to once again share my first impressions and start writing the next chapter.

Boston 2010 (Part I): Mind over Matter

2010-05-02T18:16:00.004-04:00

I was the slowest girl. Always. And it never bothered me. At all.

I had shelves lined with spirit awards and participant certificates, while the majority of my friends had blue ribbons, first-place medals, records, and state titles. The one trophy I managed to bring home is still proudly on display in my childhood bedroom back in Hershey: a hard-fought seventh-place finish at a middle school Thanksgiving cross country invitational. I imagine most of the kids in Central Pennsylvania were enjoying a plate of turkey and mashed potatoes that day, but I couldn’t have been more thrilled.

Sports were never going to be my ticket to college, but it wasn’t for lack of hard work and dedication. By the time I headed off to Penn State, I had fourteen years of (year-round) competitive swimming and seven years of cross country under my belt, but not enough talent to continue in either sport. I took the usual array of deep friendships, lessons, values, work ethic, and memories that kids carry with them for the rest of their lives and, quite honestly, couldn’t have asked for greater gifts than those.

What I lacked throughout those years, besides the sheer strength and body mass most children my age were developing, was the ability to move beyond expectations. I didn’t have that instinct to believe that I could do any better than what the people around me thought I could do. I was expected to win essay contests. So I did. Lots of them. I was told early on that math wasn’t my strength, so I was happy with B’s. Besides an early knack for skiing, when it came to athletics, I was small and slow. And so I always believed I was, well, small and slow. And that was okay.

While I had a competitive streak inside me, it wasn’t often ignited in the most traditional fashion. My coach screaming from the pool deck did little to make me move any faster, but when my biology teacher promised a scoop of ice cream at lunch if I finished in the top three in the 500 freestyle, I came in a surprise second-place at the meet that night, beating a couple of stunned teammates.

I took that pre-existing condition into adulthood, as I eased my way back into jogging regularly. When I moved to New York and did my first road race—the Gridiron 5K on Super Bowl Sunday—I was content to hit 10-minute miles. The 5Ks turned into 10Ks, which turned into my first half marathon, which turned into my first New York City Marathon.

It was the encouragement of good friends, who promised blueberry pancakes after every finish line (noticing a trend here?), that kept me climbing the ladder…at a steady 10-minute-mile pace. It never occurred to me that I could run any faster than that, no matter what the distance. In my mind, I was still small and slow. Any finish time was a good one and a reason to be proud—besides, the New York City lifestyle wasn’t doing my not-as-small physique any favors.

For the next few years I happily marked fall by completing another 26.2 miles. I finished all of them in 4:17. I get points for consistency. During that time, I’d hear friends discussing loftier goals, like qualifying for the Boston Marathon. I never even dared to dream of breaking four hours. The thought of running a 3:40 qualifying time wasn’t even a fleeting notion. I knew my limit and 4:17 was it.

But the more I ran and the more friends of varying abilities I collected along the way, the more running became less of a hobby and more of a lifestyle. It evolved from an interest to more of a passion. Suddenly the determination I had always brought to excelling in other aspects of life, like my career, was trickling into my training. As I ran with the 10-minute pace group, I eyed the 9:30s. When that became too easy, I joined the 9s.

Confidence grew as I immersed myself in training and because of the help, advice, and encouragement of many more people than I could possibly name. Along with it, my running ability evolved. One day I realized that the people I routinely completed long runs with were setting (and achieving) goals like qualifying for the Boston Marathon. Making their goal my own didn’t seem like a silly consideration anymore. I just had no idea what awaited me on the road to Hopkinton.

It would be years. I would live in three different states. I would start new jobs. I would quit them. Extraordinary people would believe in me. Other people would discourage me. I’d have my heart broken. It would mend. I’d celebrate huge breakthroughs. Then I’d get hurt. I’d get better. I'd learn how to take care of myself. I’d be challenged by a new coach to do things I would have once written off as absurd and beyond me.

My life would look completely different than it did that day I finally mustered up the courage to say out loud, “I want to qualify for the Boston Marathon.”

But not once would I ever think of myself as small and slow again.

(To be continued.)

Thon On

2010-03-01T15:01:00.002-05:00

I had my running gear on late last Sunday morning, but there I sat in my family room staring out the window at what is an all-too familiar scene in Flagstaff. Snow. Wind. Cold. And a hill workout ahead of me.

I couldn’t push myself out the door, wasting lots of time on Facebook, returning e-mails that could’ve waited, watching the cable television I decided to install for the first time in my adult life (for the record, I’m not yet convinced it’s a wise investment…), lamenting the departure of a BFF who had been visiting from L.A. for the weekend…generally wallowing in lethargy, feeling less than enthusiastic about running and life in general.

I was in search of inspiration and in a very shameless, 2010 way of dealing with such a quandary, I posted my quest for motivation on my status update. Desperate times, friends, desperate times.

Then a very un-Facebook thing happened. It served a purpose. My friends came through— real ones, like people I can communicate with regularly without typing on any electronic devices (as it turns out, my phone has a nifty function that allows for voice transmission, which facilitates a custom from days of yore called a conversation. Who knew?).

A couple of these for-real friends simply posted a link and told me to click on it. I followed their directions. I wasn’t disappointed.

In front of me, a live feed from Penn State’s Bryce Jordan Center, where thousands of students, alumni, kids, and their families come together each February for the weekend-long Penn State Dance Marathon, affectionately known to most of us as Thon. And while the no sleeping, no sitting, two-day dance party is the main event, it is really the culmination of a year-long fund-raising effort by Penn State students that benefits the Four Diamonds Fund, which supports families battling pediatric cancer at the Penn State Hershey Medical Center.

It is the largest student-run philanthropy in the nation. Since 1973, it’s raised almost $70 million--$7.8 million this year alone (yes, $7.8 million during a recession. Take a moment to let that sink in…). It involves 15,000 student volunteers, 700 dancers, and an experience I am still unable to adequately put into words.

This was one of the first Thon weekends I’ve missed—a byproduct of my grand experiment of living 2,500 miles away. But I tuned into that live feed just as “Family Hour” was beginning, when the children receiving cancer treatment and their families stand before the tens of thousands of students, many of whom have been on their feet for more than 40 hours, to say the most heartfelt, emotional, meaningful “thank you” you’ll ever hear. Ever. If you’re left untouched or unmoved, I promise that you do not possess a heart.

A boy took the microphone and declared to the packed house in front of him that he didn’t come to talk about his cancer, or really any of the “bad stuff.” He preferred to talk about why he loved Thon and why he is grateful for all that is good in his life. Not more than 11 years old—most of which has been spent within the confines of a hospital, battling for his life—he could find more to be happy about and thankful for than most adults I know. Myself included.

In that moment, I started remembering where I came from, where I learned about the person I wanted to become, and what I wanted to do with my life. Being involved in Thon during such formative years was a little bit of magic. We found out, perhaps too early in life, what can happen when passionate, intelligent, energetic, dedicated, and downright fun people come together and pour themselves into every detail and logistic of a cause they wholeheartedly believe in. Every year a new group of students do as we once did: push themselves to make the effort more successful than the last, in order to make life better for people who need it. They find out along the way that when they look outside themselves—in big ways and small—not only are they making their little piece of the world a better place, but their own lives are happier and more fulfilled because of it.

It was a utopia (Thontopia?!), of course. Many of us often joke that it was a rude awakening when we were sprung from that bubble, hatched into the cruel realities of the “real world,” where so many obstacles get in the way of simply doing good. The basic lessons always stick though: do nice things for others, work hard, and be grateful. Not hard to do, but unfortunately far easy to forget in the rigors of everyday life.

I took a little personal inventory as Thon continued on my computer screen. I didn’t really enjoy what I saw, knowing that the past few months had largely been all about me: moving, shoveling, adjusting, getting sick, getting better, being injured, healing, good running, bad running, water damage, work stress. The list could go on, but only if I allowed it to. No wonder I felt lethargic—self pity takes a lot of energy.

So I headed outside for that hill workout in the snow and wind and cold, which at that point seemed largely inconsequential in the grand scheme. I thought about how my very first “marathon” had nothing to do with running, but it—and the kids—taught me how to stand, in so many ways, even when it seemed impossible. Thon gave me four words to live by—Four Diamonds—I continually recite in my head when the day seems long: courage, wisdom, honesty, and strength.

So, yeah. Inspiration and motivation? Apparently I have all I need to last a lifetime, if I only remember it’s there. Status update not required.

It Takes Two. Really?

2009-12-26T17:10:00.005-05:00

Dear Pottery Barn,

Greetings from my new home in Flagstaff, AZ. Yep, that’s me, gleefully crossing the border into Arizona, nearing my final destination after approximately 2,500 miles of driving with my good friend, Jeff. Thank goodness he volunteered to come along—I was all set to do it alone. That would’ve been a long haul.

Why Flagstaff? There are a few reasons, none of which are terribly earth shattering. It’s there, it’s beautiful, the people seem nice, and I think I can eventually make a happy life for myself for a while…or maybe forever. Who knows? But you see, Pottery Barn, I’ve gotten this question a lot. In my estimation, 93.4 percent of the time, it has been immediately followed in rapid-fire succession with: Is there a boyfriend there? Are you moving for a job?

The answer to both those queries is a definitive “no.” For the record, I make a decent living as a freelance writer, which I can do anywhere I please. And, sadly, most folks just don’t know what to do with that. Why the heck would a single lady move the whole way across the country to some mountain town, where she knows next to nobody, for no other reason than to give it a try?

Because I can and I want to. And if both those things are true, then I don’t see any rational reason to wait until there’s a man or a job or a ready-made group of friends to legitimize the decision. I could either spend the rest of my life on the East Coast wondering what it would be like to live out west, or I could live out west and find out. Doesn’t seem like rocket science to me.

I’m not a bitter woman. I haven’t watched too many episodes of Sex and the City. OK, that’s probably a lie. I have, but I promise I’m not jaded. I’ve had good relationships, none of which turned out to be Prince Charming. Maybe he’s out there. But I’m not going to sit around waiting for him to show up so I can get on with the rest of my life. I’d miss out on a lot of fun if I did.

As such, I’ve learned to do all sorts of things myself. All by myself. Like, I figured out which new SUV to buy, then I hitched a U-Haul trailer to it. With my own two hands. I drove it home and backed it into a garage. Have you ever backed a trailer into a garage—or even just a parking space—Pottery Barn? It’s not easy. I loaded that trailer up with furniture and boxes that weighed a lot more than I do. Alone. And when a blizzard dumped 2-feet of snow on Flagstaff within 48 hours of moving in, I shoveled it. Numerous times. I have forged on with my Boston Marathon training schedule, despite not making friends with the 7,000 new feet of altitude in my life. A few days after the blizzard, I completed my first long run, battling ice, snow, 30 MPH headwinds, and more than a couple of hills. I admit, I was dangerously close to tears during the first mile, wondering why I had willingly made my life so difficult in so many ways. It all seemed like it was finally too much to handle all by myself. But then I hit the halfway point, turned around, and felt the wind at my back. It would be OK. I even figured out how to install new toilet seats later that day, after I lugged a coffee table up a flight of stairs.

Here’s the thing, though, Pottery Barn. I was really excited when my new desk showed up, right on time, with your logo emblazoned on four boxes, each bigger than myself. UPS dropped them off on my driveway. I shoved them into my garage and let them sit there for a few days, trying to decide how, exactly, I’d be able to get that new desk into my new house. Had I reached the final stop on my lifelong independent streak? I thought I had. Those boxes weren’t just big, they were also really heavy. And, honestly, I’ve started feeling a little exhausted.

Then one night, I mustered the energy and I spent the better part of the evening wrestling everything out of the boxes and into my new office. A few new bumps and bruises later, I was almost finished. Until the directions you included slipped out of the last box. And there it was: “It takes TWO to assemble this furniture,” the piece of paper declared, followed by a nice graphic of a couple of folks putting my desk together.

I wondered who that other person was in the picture. Maybe it was somebody I hadn’t met yet. My new best friend? The man of my dreams? A friendly neighbor? The possibilities were endless, but the truth remained: whoever that nice, helpful person was, he wasn’t going to show up that night…or maybe even in the next six months. Inspired to write my way to fame and fortune on that desk (or at least make enough to pay the rent), I hoisted the top of it to its rightful place and finished the job that I had started.

Please don’t misunderstand, Pottery Barn. I have the best friends and family a girl could ever ask for—they make it impossible to ever feel true loneliness. It’s just that 99 percent of them don’t happen to live within 3,000 miles of my house. But they send me endless love and support no matter where I go or what whacky thing I decide to try next. It’s precisely where my strength and courage comes from, of course.

Alas, this world is designed for two, Pottery Barn, and I know that it’s not your fault. I agree that when the stars align, life is usually more fun that way. Maybe one day I’ll be lucky enough to find that guy in the picture. He looks kind. And stronger than me. In the meantime, maybe you could include an addendum or disclaimer to those instructions, for those of us who find ourselves alone every now and then. It only takes one person to put that desk together. One with determination, a healthy sense of humor, and a certain amount of confidence that she’ll look back on this time in her life and know it is precisely when she was finally convinced, without a doubt, that she is capable of anything.

Thanks, Pottery Barn.

Sincerely,

Erin S.

Go West (Part V): Into Thin Air

2009-12-08T13:19:00.006-05:00

“Too often…I would hear men boast of the miles covered that day, rarely of what they had seen.” –Louis L’Amour

I don’t think my eyes were capable of opening wide enough to take it all in. I had never seen anything so beautiful and foreboding all at the same time. Intimidating. Inviting. Awe-inspiring.

I wasn’t even 10 years old, in the back of a white rental car my father was driving somewhere toward Park City, UT, my face practically glued to the window.

“Dad, are we skiing on those mountains?!” I asked, not at all sure whether I wanted the answer to be yes or no.

His blue eyes smiled back at me in the rearview mirror.

“Yes, we are,” he said, matter-of-factly, with a hint of eagerness to share his love of the mountain west with his uninitiated daughter.

I had so many questions, yet had nothing to say. I just kept staring out that window, trying to comprehend how my skis—not even long enough to put on the roof rack—were going to get me down such steep, powder-covered slopes. My East Coast skills and sensibilities were clearly of no use here.

At the top of our first run, I stood close by my dad, the tips of those tiny skis hanging over the edge of the trail. We stood there in silence for a minute or two, surveying a landscape beneath us that was beyond anything my young self had ever imagined.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it? Take it all in. Appreciate it,” he said. “And don’t be afraid. You can do this.”

With his quiet confidence, and a gentle nudge, I was on my way.

***

Anybody could try to throw out a bunch of words to describe running on Waterline Road. But they’d just be a bunch of words. No meaning. No context. No emotion. No regard to what it really is: an experience; and my guess is that it can often be a personal one, depending on what kind of day you’re having.

We stood at the bottom of the trail on Friday morning, once again feeding off the enthusiasm of our coaches, who have probably logged hundreds of miles on the dirt road before us and still can’t stop raving about it. We’d climb to 9,000 or so feet, depending on how far each of us went. On a clear day, you can see the Painted Desert. The thick Aspen groves, the views of Flagstaff below, the steep, rocky cliffs dotted with huge Ponderosa pines…all of it encapsulated in a solitary morning ascent, twisting up the side of the mountain.

It was the only run all week that I found myself alone, with a few people so far ahead, I couldn’t keep them in view, and some who were far enough behind, that I never heard their chatter. I had it all to myself, this ridiculous scene. It was as if somebody was kind and generous enough to let me in on a big, special secret—the type that you feel honored to keep.

Maybe it was the ever-thinning air, but my mind felt free to wander all over the place that morning, opening up to all sorts of possibilities. My surroundings were daring me to make decisions and be brave. Stagnation was not an option. I had to keep moving forward, keep climbing as far as my body would allow, so I could see it all.

There are times when life’s options suddenly become clear—and it usually happens during those rare moments when the noise in your mind is quiet and all you can hear is what your heart is telling you. These are the moments that can’t be forced—you have to be lucky enough to recognize them and simply listen.

There was nothing about that week or that run up Waterline that felt comfortable to me. Perhaps the physical challenges wreaked some havoc with my perceptions, but nothing I experienced in those six days that made Flagstaff seem like home. Nonetheless, as I neared the end of the first half of that morning’s run, something told me quite clearly that I’d be back.

For many years there had been valid reasons to push away a dream and an instinct to move west. Those valid reasons were beginning to diminish—the one still weighing heavily though was a desire to stay close to my grandfather for as long as possible. What I didn’t know on that Friday morning was in just few weeks time, he would unexpectedly be gone.

I discovered that when all those reasons no longer exist, all that’s left are excuses. Most of those excuses just boil down to nothing but fear, anxiety, and insecurity. Moving by myself, far away from everything I know and everybody I love would be scary. Perhaps one of the most frightening things I’d ever do. Moving back to New York, where everybody and everything was comfortable and familiar, would be the easy choice. Somewhere deep down I knew that it was time to take a risk, make myself uncomfortable, and stop being afraid of making a mistake.

I turned around to head back down Waterline Road, to find Mike and Vince running up behind me.

“Keep looking left all the way down,” Mike urged, as they continued on. “Enjoy that view. Take it in.”

“And don’t be afraid,” I thought, as I started my descent. “You can do this.”

With a quiet confidence--and a few gentle nudges--I was on my way.

Go West (Part IV): Pines and Peaks

2009-11-12T15:20:00.010-05:00

“Traveling…forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things—air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky—all things tending toward the eternal, or what we imagine of it.” –Cesare Pavese

When I decided I would head to Flagstaff for the Run S.M.A.R.T. Project Retreat, I didn’t know anybody else who had committed to it—a departure for somebody who has spent a decade worth of summers on vacation with 20 best college friends, in a massive house, on a beach, with unlimited, familiar amounts of laughter and antics. Would I make friends? Will I die of an asthma attack (or sheer embarrassment) at 7,000 feet on some random trail in the woods? Will I be too slow? What if nobody wants to run with me?

For a split second, I had all the anxieties of my 8-year-old self going to my first sleep-away swim camp. I also remembered that even back then I always managed to find somebody to eat lunch with.

So I registered. It was early spring—my focus squarely on Boston, my fitness at its peak, my confidence soaring. The thought of spending a week in a place that seemed a little magical and mystical to me, exploring the trails where the fastest runners in the world train, and having the opportunity to share the experience with a group of new people sounded like a fine way to jolt me out of my routine.

It was pre-injury. Pre-Boston Marathon deferment. Pre-disappointment. Pre-aggravation with all-things running. The week before I headed west, my hamstring relapsed into a painful state and was trying desperately to drag my spirit down with it. Thankfully, my head is by far my strongest asset and my saving grace (except, of course, when it’s really not…). Besides, what’s a little leg pain when you’re preoccupied with gasping for limited amounts of oxygen anyway?

We walked into the Embassy Suites lobby and were warmly welcomed to Flagstaff by my coach, Mike, who has lived there for about three years. Any trepidation I was harboring by that point vanished—the mark of a great coach is often an infectious enthusiasm at just the right time, and I won the jackpot when I signed on with Mike more than a year ago. His love of Flagstaff, of running, of fun, and of people made it impossible to be anything but eager for what the week held. And the fact that e-mails, phone calls, and texts had been our sole sources of connection for so long made the time together there even more meaningful.

On our first early morning run in Buffalo Park, I got my chance to meet the peaks and the pines, looming in front of us as the group embarked on its first jaunt. Finally, I understood what all the Flagstaff fuss was about—I was completely distracted by the surroundings, the cool, fresh morning air, and the opportunity to run with others, after a year of training nearly 100 percent by myself.

It marked the beginning of a week’s worth of breathtaking morning runs that gave us just a small taste of the endless trails to explore. It was the kind of training that never required a watch to keep track of pace or mileage—the altitude giving permission to run easy, the beauty and the company giving reason to simply savor each moment. The early hours gave way to leisurely breakfasts, which eased into afternoon sessions with a few of the best and brightest in the sport, generously sharing their time and expertise in everything from nutrition and fueling to injury prevention, recovery, and the art and science behind fitness and performance. There was gait analysis and track drills, an afternoon dip in a cold Sedona creek, and a “recovery day” of hiking at the Grand Canyon.

It was part vacation, part running camp. There was a lot to learn, more to observe, plenty to absorb. Lessons learned? Yes, plenty. A few in unexpected places:

Lesson 1: Choose wisely. When you enter a university cafeteria for lunch, give yourself one extra minute to really think through your options. Be cautious. And never, ever consume a tuna fish sandwich.

Lesson 2: Live and learn. So, you opted for the tuna fish. Fine. Now you’ll be throwing it up (and much more) all night long. If the running and altitude haven’t already caused dehydration, your body is certainly thanking you now for pushing it right over the edge, and adding a gigantic calorie deficit and sleep deprivation to the mix. By 6 a.m., though, it’ll be time to put on a happy face and head to Sedona, where you’ll fake your way through a run, jump in a creek, and pose for a Runner’s World photo shoot, knowing full well that when that issue hits the newsstand in the spring, your only thought will be, “I’m never eating tuna again.”

Lesson 3: Be grateful. I was truly surrounded by some of the kindest people in the world that week, which I would’ve recognized under normal circumstances, however I obviously added an entirely new dimension to the experience. Does your coach bring you smoothies when you’re sick? Or take you to Starbucks as soon as you’re all better? Mine does. Do your friends stay in, eat ice cream (yep, finally had reason and opportunity to visit Dairy Queen), and watch bad reality television with you when you’re not feeling well? Mine do (thanks, KC!). I even dragged myself out of the Grand Canyon, fueled by nothing but a handful of dry Cheerios, an obscene amount of Gu2O, and the constant encouragement of two fantastic hiking buddies (thanks Sue and Everett!).

Lesson 4: Laugh it off. I mean, really, if you can get through a bout of food poisoning and still manage to have an absolutely amazing experience, you know it was worth the price of admission and much, much more. Run S.M.A.R.T. put together an extraordinary week, with just the right balance of work and play. And they were relentless in their effort of ensuring everybody was having fun. If I wasn’t laughing or smiling through most of it, I have to think it was my own fault (see Lesson 1).

Last, but certainly not least, Lesson 5: It should always be about more than running. My favorite part of this sport is the ways in which it enriches every other part of my life. Thus, the best parts of the week were when conversations turned from calorie counting, PRs, racing goals, and training gear, to something more substantial (like Death Cab for Cutie, for example ;)). With any luck at all, while running may have brought this and many other groups together, the reward is when we look around the dinner table each night and it doesn’t much matter who is gunning for Boston, or is a world champion duathlete, or an Olympic trials qualifier, or the “World’s Best Coach.” The joy isn’t in discovering who wants to break 3 hours in a marathon or has found the ultimate training shoe. It’s finding out that the woman at the end of the table is on her first vacation in 14 years, the guy sitting next to you was on life support five years ago, the man across the table once landed a plane in some random farmer’s field during a blizzard, and a few people who were once just acquaintances have evolved into cherished friends.

Clearly I learned a lot…about running, about myself, about making smart sandwich decisions, and about the people around me. What I didn’t know, however, was that I had one more discovery to make, on the most beautiful run yet.

(To be continued…)

Go West (Part III): I Don't Like Your Girlfriend

2009-09-03T19:13:00.006-04:00

“Travel at its truest is thus an ironic experience, and the best travelers…seem to be those able to hold two or three inconsistent ideas in their minds at the same time, or able to regard themselves as at once serious persons and clowns.” –Paul Fussell

What would you do if you could instantly have an hour of your life handed back to you? Would you treat it as a do-over, or simply go about your existence as if you didn’t just get 60 minutes added to it?

It’s difficult to say if that hour is truly adding anything valuable when you’re spending it within the confines of Page, AZ, save more time with good friends. Scenic? Yes. Odd? Extraordinarily (though maybe not as eccentric as Kanab, UT). Cultural mecca? Really, no. Dairy Queen? Of course not.

By crossing that Utah border into Arizona, there is yet a whole new time zone at your disposal. In that spirit, we were sure to stop by the local Safeway to stock up on a few bottles of wine, to be ceremoniously consumed in our three-bedroom apartment-style accommodations at Debbie’s Hideaway, across the street from Bashful Bob’s motel.

Perhaps there were red flags that I chose to ignore, like the fake flowers planted outside our door or the distinct feeling that I’d landed at grandma’s house, where odd collections of trinkets like Monopoly pieces and dusty old books are displayed in glass china cabinets in the family room. I rattled around our fully stocked kitchen and discovered that if we wanted to make Thanksgiving dinner, we were set. If we wanted to uncork a bottle of wine? Not so much.

At that moment, while KC and Alissa had retreated to their bedrooms to get ready for dinner, there was a knock on our door. Rick, the not-so-proud manager of Debbie’s Hideaway, was there to collect a credit card.

“You don’t happen to have a wine opener anywhere, do you?” I asked.

“You know, that’s the second time this week somebody needed one and I don’t have one,” Rick said. “But I did come up with a solution. I’ll be right back.”

I knew he wasn’t lying, because I was still in full possession of my credit card.

Rick came back with an electric drill, a pair of pliers, and a screw. He was right. He had a solution. To this day I still regret that I didn’t capture it on camera, but it suffices to say that we had two open bottles of vino ready and waiting, and nobody got hurt in the process. I’m also strongly considering packing power tools the next time I go on vacation.

I followed Rick over to his “office” (complete with metal-frame futon couch) to pay for our stay. Along the way I took the opportunity to ask if the sushi restaurant in town was good. And by “good,” I meant, “safe.” Consuming sushi in the desert seemed dubious to me.

“It is really good. And I’m a sushi snob,” he said. “I moved here from L.A.”

“Ah, so you share my concerns—the three of us are (mostly) from New York,” I responded. “How did you end up in Page from Los Angeles, anyway?”

“Did you see the motel down the block? Bashful Bob’s?” Rick said. “Bob is my dad.”

“Is he bashful?” I asked, naturally.

“Actually not at all, but he’s in his eighties and he needs help, so I moved here 13 months ago,” he said.

“So that must be a big adjustment. How do you like it?”

Rick looked at me earnestly and replied, “It’s awful. I haven’t had a date in 13 months. And it’s not like I can go around sleeping with all the guests.”

“Clearly,” I thought.

I made as graceful an exit as I could muster while Rick extended an invitation for the three of us to join him on the patio after dinner, where, he said, he and his buddy would likely be having a few beers.

So when we returned from dinner—Mexican, because the sushi joint was closed for a private party!—we tried to get into our room from the opposite side of the building. In our deliriousness, we were actually attempting to break into the wrong room. Oops. We hastily b-lined to the other door adjacent to the patio, fairly certain we went unnoticed.

I poured the wine. Into three coffee mugs. Already aware that there was no corkscrew in the kitchen, I’m not sure what part of my logic assumed there would be stemware.

We toasted to our week that was—all that we had seen, done, talked about, laughed at, and experienced. And after one mug of wine, it was time to get the party started. And by “party,” I mean “dance party.”

There was vintage Madonna, among other 80s faves, but then out of nowhere, iTunes kicked out Avril Lavigne. Funny how we’re all responsible for our own playlists, yet nobody claims the random guilty pleasure until it is too late. Music libraries—and the shuffle—never lie. Avril was passionately declaring, “Hey, you, I don’t like your girlfriend!” and for some reason it struck a nerve (really, ladies, who hasn’t felt that way at one time or another?!).

“I think you need to new one!” we sang, very badly, and very loudly, while laughing hysterically.

And then, another knock on the door, which froze us in our haphazard footsteps. We stared at each other for about 10 seconds. Then instantaneously ran to the back of one of the bedrooms, reminiscent of getting busted at a high school party, though we stopped short of escaping through the window. After about a minute of giggling uncontrollably we realized how ridiculous it was that three adult women were scared of getting in trouble. So we sent KC out to be the grown up. Alissa and I continued to hover in the back corner of the bedroom.

Guess who? Yep. Rick. Who, after about 2.5 mugs of wine, was officially being referred to as The Ricker. As long as we were dancing to 80s music, we thought we’d also pay some homage to Silver Spoons. And as you might imagine, we were so NOT getting busted. He “heard” that we were still up, so he extended that patio invitation one more time.

We took him up on it, topping off our mugs and heading out to the picnic table to join The Ricker and his buddy (whose name escapes me). After trading tales of our travels and hearing a little bit more local lore—apparently Bob’s, umm, exploits make him the complete opposite of bashful—Rick disclosed that he was a struggling actor in L.A. Not a shock. His claim to fame? Besides some disturbing, inappropriate photos of some Hollywood party gone horribly wrong, his big break came as a character on the television series Bablyon 5. I didn’t know what it was either, but I gather from the trading cards that The Ricker shared, it entailed playing some weird science-fiction creature and a lot of makeup.

If the trading cards weren’t enough of a hint, the nearly four mugs of wine and the prospect of the week-long running retreat in Flagstaff beginning the next day, made me come to the conclusion that it was time to call it a night. The Ricker was sad to say goodbye, of course. He took my hand, refused to let it go, kissed it, and declared, “You are so cute.”

Alissa couldn’t contain her laughter long enough to get us behind our closed door, as I just rolled my eyes and lamented, once again, that I have the unwelcomed ability to seemingly only attract the oddest, most desperate of men. On the upside, at least this one came with his very own trading card.

So, now we can see what can happen when you have 60 minutes handed back to you in a day.

Morning seemed to come way too fast, as it usually does following a bizarre, wine-infused late night. With an aching head and parched throat, I threw my belongings into the car and waited for my partners-in-crime to return from Starbucks so we could make a quick escape out of dodge.

After greasy breakfast and a stop at Horseshoe Bend, we were heading south on Rt. 89 to the final destination of Flagstaff. The desert started to fade behind us and the lush mountains loomed in front of us, as the car thermometer dropped from 105 degrees to 69 degrees in a matter of 10 minutes. A brand-new week was ahead and I was beyond excited to see what it would bring.

As we pulled into the Embassy Suites parking lot, the three of us broke into laughter. What to our wandering eyes should appear, just across the street from our new home-away-from-home? Dairy Queen.

It was a sign.

(To be continued…)

Go West (Part II): Mother Nature…and Dairy Queen

2009-08-13T18:55:00.009-04:00

“Vagabonding is about gaining the courage to loosen your grip on the so-called certainties of this world. Vagabonding is about refusing to exile travel to some other, seemingly more appropriate time of your life. Vagabonding is about taking control of your circumstances instead of passively waiting for them to decide your fate.” –Rolf Potts

It’s highly possible that we didn’t qualify as bona-fide vagabonds, but it was about as close as we could get in five-day’s worth of a road trip through a fraction of the southwest, lugging our bags in and out of a different motel each night, spending our days exhaustively exploring the stunning surroundings on foot.

Everywhere we went, my eyes drank in natural beauty that my mind could never put to words. A simple walk to a nondescript Mexican restaurant outside of Hurricane, UT had me staring at a backdrop of deep red bluffs and a mountain range basically sitting at the intersection of the Mojave Desert and the Colorado Plateau. As the cars zipped by us on a road that drivers made clear was not often frequented by pedestrians, I wondered if all these people saw what I saw, or have they been here so long that they don’t even see it anymore? Or perhaps, for some, it’s all they’ve ever seen?

We had inadvertently chosen some of the hottest days of the year to spend entirely outside. Despite our best efforts, morning running followed by coffee, breakfast, packing lunch for the day’s hikes, and driving to the next destination usually resulted in beginning each trek at just about noon. Brilliant. By then, temperatures were usually reaching more than 100 degrees—I’m fairly certain that we left about 95 percent of ourselves in sweat on some of the most scenic trails in Utah. I was also convinced that my water bottle was going to have to be surgically removed from my right hand in order to pass through airport security on the way home.

At Zion, we took on a trail that led to Observation Point—a round trip of 8 miles, including a steep ascent of 2,000 feet to the top of Mount Baldy, where you could see most of the attractions of the canyon and beyond. At Bryce, we fashioned a 6-mile route out of the Navajo Loop and Peekaboo Trail, through Queens Garden and up to Sunset Point. At Lake Powell, we cooled off in the water at Lone Rock, after touring Antelope Canyon, on the Navajo Reservation in Page, and visiting Horseshoe Bend, where a short hike ends on a cliff nearly 1,000 feet above the emerald-green Colorado River, just where it makes an astounding turn around yet another enormous sandstone-rock formation.

What we saw was, of course, amazing. At some points I was convinced we landed on a different planet. The mysterious hoodoos jutting straight up in the air at Bryce, the creams and pinks and reds of the sandstone cliffs against the brilliant blue skies at Zion, and the smooth, spiraling rock in the narrow slot Antelope Canyon were all equally breathtaking in surprisingly unique ways. And when I stopped to remind myself that they are all natural formations, it made them all that much more awe-inspiring. Reading a brief bit of Navajo history later on, it said that entering a place like Antelope Canyon was akin to going into a cathedral, where Native Americans could “leave with an uplifted feeling of what Mother Nature has to offer, and to be in harmony with something greater than themselves.”

Yes, that about sums it up.

When all was said and done each night—when we were finally settled in for some hard-earned sleep—I couldn’t help but think that the parts of the journey that will forever stay with me will include everything I couldn’t capture with my camera: The talks the three of us had on every trail, from silly to serious, to thought-provoking, to laughter-inducing (“Would you rather have to marry [insert name of the most horrible ex-boyfriend on the planet here] and spend the rest of your life with him, or be forced to eat four circus peanuts every day until you die?”); the spontaneous Aretha Franklin sing-a-long in the car driving out of Bryce; the rare moments of quiet when each of us seemed deep in our own heads (or, um, tagging photos on Facebook...); the daily peanut butter-and-jelly lunch breaks on the trails; my solo early morning runs, when I discovered serene parts of the world I convinced myself that nobody else has ever seen; the sweet, sweet relief of sitting in that cold stream at Zion after the hottest, sweatiest hike ever; finally finding that perfectly tart lemonade I had been fantasizing about for days; parking lot yoga; and two words that the three of us will never be able to utter again without laughing: Dairy Queen (ever notice that the one time you’re actually craving it, you can’t find one to save your life, further proving the theory that we always want what we can’t have…?).

Before it was time to head to Flagstaff and bid farewell to Alissa, we had one last night to celebrate it all, in the metropolis of Page. What happens when you combine three exhausted women, iTunes, a couple of bottles of wine, and a motel called…ready?...Debbie’s Hideaway? Yeah. Stay tuned.

(To be continued…)

Go West (Part I): Three Girls, a Prius, and a Running Retreat

2009-08-04T17:36:00.005-04:00

I was ready to lose myself. On the trails. In the mountains. Through the canyons. Running. Hiking. Walking. Swimming. Sitting. Giggling. Talking. Listening. Watching. Contemplating. Learning. Loving. I just wanted to lose myself. In all of it. In an adventure.

The plane touched down in 107-degree Las Vegas that Wednesday afternoon, and as I patiently waited for my bag to make its way back to me, the inevitable fogginess of airplane travel quickly lifted, replaced by giddy excitement for the 10 days ahead. I’d see things I never saw. I’d meet people I never knew. I’d think about things I never considered. I’d be challenged and humbled. I’d be amused and awed. I’d be tired and rejuvenated. I’d be completely grossed out by more than one hotel-room comforter.

I couldn’t wait.

Part One of this expedition was a journey across the Nevada border, into southern Utah to explore Zion, Bryce, and then northern Arizona’s Lake Powell, before two of us planted ourselves in Flagstaff for Part Two: a week-long running retreat. Alissa pulled up to the airport curb, KC and I loaded our bags into the back of the trusty Prius, and we took off down the Strip, toward the highway east. We were on our way, already engrossed in about 15 different conversations before we even hit the fountains in front of the Bellagio.

It didn’t take long until we lost track of time. Literally. Three cell phones, a watch, and the car clock couldn’t agree on a time zone. One was still on Eastern. Another on Pacific. And yet another declared Mountain. And if you’ve ever experienced a trek across the Nevada-Utah-Arizona region, you can commiserate. It took three women with a plethora of higher-education degrees among them, a Google search, and one comical call home to a confused brother back in New York to figure it out.

Not that it mattered. It seemed we really had nothing but time on our hands—the way vacation always feels in the beginning. It’s liberating, being off the clock and out of touch for a little while.

And there is something about heading west that instantly relaxes my mind and puts me at an ease I rarely achieve in my everyday eastern existence. Maybe it’s the mountains. My eyes can never get enough of them. I stare and admire and gawk and I never tire of their majesty. They make me feel so small, in every good way possible—in a way that the concrete and steel monstrosities of the city never could. I look at the peaks and want to run to the top of every one of them in search of whatever’s up there, and to look through clouds at the towns below, making up stories in my mind about what’s going on down there. Mountains give me fresh perspective and imagination and curiosity. I can’t get enough.

And so we began on our journey unaware of what it would become. What conversations would be had, what mysteries we'd solve, which sites would be seen, what characters we’d encounter, which stories we’d tell when it was all over, and which ones would remain our little secrets.

It was the perfect summer excursion: Three Girls, a Prius, and a Running Retreat. Enjoy the ride.

(To be continued...)

Forward Motion

2009-07-09T19:09:00.005-04:00

Lots of writers find inspiration in personal tragedy, whether real or perceived. They are most introspective and creative when they’re in a dark place.

I’m not one of those writers. I don’t enjoy the dark. I’ll pick a sunrise over a sunset any day. When life feels wrong, I suddenly have absolutely nothing to say. Luckily for my livelihood (and, um, sanity), despite its share of challenges, life has almost always felt right, or at least how it is meant to be.

But all the thoughts and words I’ve wanted to pour out over the last few months have been locked inside my mind the way water gets stuck deep in your ear after a day of swimming. You feel it in there and it’s agitating. No matter which way you move or how hard you shake your head, it won’t come out. Every day, I sit down to write, settling myself to work in the very place that has triggered more imagination than I’ve ever known what to do with, and I’ve got nothing. It hasn’t simply been a case of writer’s block. It’s been a case of stagnation and self pity. And I’m done with it.

I started out a run yesterday on what I’ve dubbed my “comeback trail”—during the ongoing healing and rehab of my hamstring injury, it’s a place that ensures I stay on flat terrain and take it easy. And as I take my first few steps, content to keep jogging a dreadfully slow, but exceedingly safe pace, I start to finally feel a gush of emotions. And I take off at a speed that my horribly unfit body and my left leg have no business sustaining for the next 60 minutes.

The sensation of moving ahead as fast as possible feels glorious after months of feeling like I was all but standing still. I begin to realize that it has nothing to do with the act of running itself—it’s almost as if my body’s motion is on autopilot, forcefully showing my intellect that I have the ability to press forward, that nobody except me is holding me back. Rationally I know that what I am doing is wrong, that I could hurt myself all over again. But my heart pleads for a run that isn’t measured in minutes or miles. It wants one measured in faith and conviction and confidence and passion—all the parts of me that I had gradually lost along the way, so slowly that I didn’t even know they were gone.

I think about where I am and know that it’s not where I belong. I think about what’s keeping me here and come up with no answer. I think about the gifts that I’ve been given, and know with every ounce of my being that I’m not honoring them or using them for the greater good. I think about how beautiful my surroundings are and how I haven’t appreciated them in far too long. And the truth makes me angry, because that’s never been who I am. I don’t need an office or a boss or a dream job to make a difference. I don’t allow life to be dictated by fear. I don’t shy away from love or risk or adventure because I’m afraid of getting hurt.

It makes me run faster, that outrage. But with every gasp for air, I feel a stronger sense of the person I am more familiar with: she’s the one who can concoct a plan out of nothing and make a good idea work. She has purpose. She has direction and discipline and an appreciation for mischief. She loves to work hard when she believes in the work being done. Most importantly, she has a sense of humor and embraces fun. She laughs. All the time. She knows that the life she dreams of can be hers, if only she keeps moving forward.

I smile.

For the first time in a while, I know I’m running toward something, instead of away from everything. My face is caked in salt from sweat, instead of tears. I will feel a sleepiness at night that I have craved for months—the kind induced by physical exhaustion and a productive day, instead of the lethargy that is the result of ongoing procrastination and anxiety.

I relax my pace as the end of the trail nears, and my cadence slows to a walk. I turned back to look at my Comeback Trail and know that the pounding I just gave my legs may have been one big mistake. But I’ll own it and take responsibility for it.

It’s then that I realize that I don’t run because it’s a hobby. I don’t run because I’ll ever be the fastest. I don’t run to compete. I don’t run to bring home another cheap medal with a 2-cent ribbon strung through it. I don’t run for pride or ego or a certificate to hang on the refrigerator.

I run because it makes me who I am.

When it Rains...Go Dancing

2009-06-19T20:14:00.005-04:00

I used to be that girl who sat on the sidelines. At bars, weddings, parties, concerts—it didn’t matter—you were never going to catch me making a fool of myself dancing, no matter how many gin & tonics I had sipped.

Genetically speaking, there’s really no reason why I should feel comfortable cutting a rug. I don’t come from a long line of outrageously outgoing people. Nor can I find a whole lot of rhythm floating around the gene pool—musically gifted, yes, but there’s an important difference there. I enrolled in years of tap-dancing lessons as a small child. But even at age 6, the significance that I was the smallest girl in the class and I still ended up in the second row at recital time didn’t escape me. No matter, though. I loved the sound of my tiny little black shoes hitting the hard-wood floor, the pretty costumes, and the one night of the year we were allowed to wear makeup. The time we got to dance—and sing!—to Annie, dressed up as orphans on stage may have been the highlight of elementary school (I can see all women of my generation nodding their heads in unison and appreciation right now).

See, if I surrendered to DNA, I’d probably be clinically depressed and dead by age 40. And so, some time ago, I stopped paying attention to self-imposed inhibitions. Also, I seem to have acquired friends who simply don’t accept insecurity as a reason to say “no” to, um, anything. I learned the hard way that being dragged to the dance floor caused far more embarrassment than my lack of dancing skills ever could.

And thank god for that. Now, I dance. And I have long-since stopped caring what I look like when I do it. Lately, I’ve danced a lot. Because, as anybody east of the Mississippi can attest, it’s been raining for like two months. And I’ve officially been living in Saylorsburg, PA for a year now, which is approximately 365 days longer than I ever planned. And I still can’t run more than 20 minutes at a time. And I don’t know where I want to move or what to be when I grow up.

These are all valid reasons to board a flight to Vegas and meet 40 (yes, 4-0) friends for a completely ridiculous 48 hours of, well, ridiculousness. We all know the rule about Vegas, but I can divulge that for the first time in maybe forever, I left my running shoes at home. I, of course, packed my party clothes and dancing shoes. And they got quite a workout—still going strong even after being awake for more than 24 hours. It’s amazing what can happen to a gal fueled by a killer buffet. And, yes, a couple of gin & tonics, too.

A few days later, I went to Queens to celebrate Avi and Courtney’s newly minted marriage. Oh, yes, there was dancing there, too. And it was good.

Here’s the thing I’ve realized over the past couple of weeks: No matter what’s going on, it’s impossible to be mad, frustrated, or grumpy when you’ve gathered up a bunch of friends and are moving to the music, even if you have as few moves as I do. Dancing and smiling are inextricably linked. Try it without cracking a grin—I dare you. Music + movement =instant therapy…or at least temporary amnesia from whatever ails you. Also, have you ever seen what happens to a roomful of 30somethings when a DJ plays “Livin’ on a Prayer?” Mayhem.

So, at least until the sun finally shines again (literally…figuratively…), don’t be surprised if you see me cuing some music and flailing about my living room...or swaying while washing the dishes. I don’t need a trip to Vegas or a wedding anymore to get me going.

Gin & tonics, although always appreciated, are also not required.

Happy Summer

2009-05-21T11:08:00.003-04:00

Here we go again...the unofficial start of summer. In honor of the season upon us, I thought I'd share an adorable little video somebody sent my way. Who knows where all those miles in the next four months will lead you?!

Enjoy and let the fun begin!

To-Do List

2009-05-13T13:12:00.002-04:00

1. Take on an assignment for a running magazine that involves interviewing a sports psychologist about how he helps injured athletes cope.

2. After an hour-long “interview,” realize that the psychologist was basically saying that I really need to get a life.

3. Feel relief that I didn’t pay for therapy.

4. Contemplate what getting a life really means, when I live in Saylorsburg, PA.

5. Book a trip to Vegas with college friends.

6. Consider writing a training plan to prepare for the debauchery in Vegas. Start with a half a beer and vow to gradually increase volume over the next six weeks.

7. Slip into delayed-onset depression, answer the door in my pajamas for the FedEx man at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday.

8. Convince myself that cross training on a Nordic Track, circa 1987, is a fabulous idea.

9. Nearly fall off the Nordic Track, realize that I should probably work on some balancing skills, and hope that cross training doesn’t result in additional injuries.

10. Does my Achilles hurt?

11. Suddenly realize it’s been raining for about eight days straight and the wildlife outside seems to be walking two-by-two , heading directly toward the row boat on the lake.

12. Come to the conclusion that it’s time to see a doctor. Shouldn’t a strained hamstring be healed by now?

13. Fight with health insurance company.

14. Reminisce about childhood that included being the daughter of a doctor and a nurse, as well as a granddaughter of a dentist, then become enveloped by bitterness that adulthood and self-employment often result in crappy health insurance.

15. Become a new fan of universal health care.

16. Head to Philly for a night out with friends.

17. Eat my weight in guacamole and gulp down three margaritas while waiting for cheese-laden enchiladas to arrive.

18. Proceed to a bar to wash down Mexican night with a glass of wine.

19. Laugh. A lot.

20. Wake up the next morning without regret. It was part of the training plan (see #6).

21. Travel to Hershey to visit mom on Mother’s Day and go to the doctor.

22. Realize that no visit with mom should last more than 48 hours, but stay for three days anyway.

23. Eat Sorrento’s pizza, drink wine, and watch American Idol. It’s a party.

24. Buy expensive new cell phone as a personal Boston Marathon consolation prize and play with it. All. Day. Long.

25. Finally see the doctor, who says I’m well on my way to recovery. Four more weeks and it’ll be time to ease back into training (of the running variety).

26. Resist urge to kiss the doctor.

27. Wait patiently for medical bill to arrive, while contemplating if the new cell phone is more or less valuable than my left hamstring.

28. In a wave of optimism, book trip to Flagstaff for a summer Running Retreat.

29. Hope that I don’t die in Flagstaff in a desperate search for more oxygen.

30. Realize that I kind of like the life I had six weeks ago.

31. Give up trying to find a new one. It’s exhausting.

Boston Marathon 2009 (Part II)

2009-05-01T22:35:00.007-04:00

“Your living is determined not so much by what life brings to you as by the attitude you bring to life; not so much by what happens to you as by the way your mind looks at what happens.”

I took a giant step back. The way I saw it, I had woken up that morning with the same choice I wake up with every morning: be happy and grateful for what I have, or be miserable and focus on what I don’t. If a running injury was the biggest obstacle I had to face right now, I had a lot to be thankful for in the grand scheme of things.

I could spend the rest of the weekend moping about my lost opportunity, or be there to support my friends who had worked just as hard to make it to the starting line, and join the others who had nothing but fun on tap for the next 24 hours.

Was I sad? Unbelievably. Angry? Absolutely. Was it productive to dwell on it? No. Anger and sadness would do nothing to change the situation, so I found no point in hanging on too long to either.

With the option to turn back home or continue to Boston, my friends continued heading north. I don’t know why or how, but the one thing I seem to have done right in my life is to find the most amazing friends to share it with. After I finally qualified for Boston, when they told me they’d be there to watch me run, I found it overwhelming. To know that they were just as willing to make the trip to help lift my spirits was extraordinary.

Saturday night's pasta dinner at Josh's parents' house.

I started to see the bright side. Instead of a dinner of force-fed pasta, I could do a few things I hadn’t done for far too long: head to a bar, drink a beer, and eat some nachos. I could devour a delicious, ginormous black-and-white cookie for dessert. I could stay up late, hysterically laughing during an impromptu and ridiculous game of “Truth or Dare” in my hotel room (in case you’re wondering, you’re never too old for that…or a good slumber party). Instead of waking up at 4 a.m. to quiet my nerves and catch a bus to Hopkinton, I could sleep in, take a walk along Boylston Street before it was enveloped by a mass of humanity, and have a leisurely cup of coffee.

Don’t get me wrong: I would’ve traded all of that and maybe more for one injury-free left leg. But those weren’t the cards I was dealt.

We staked claim to some prime Boylston Street real estate and settled in for a day of watching, cheering, and absorbing all that is the Boston Marathon. While I felt small flashes of disappointment when I heard the thunderous boom of the start and glanced down toward the fabled finish line, I also felt acceptance that these weren’t mine to have right now. Not yet. But they will be. After all, a dream doesn’t die until you’re ready to let it go. I’m still holding on to this one—tight.

I relished the rare opportunity to watch the elite athletes finish their races—always an inspiring scene to witness. To my surprise, however, the best part of the day came as the stream of runners just like me started flowing through. We had unknowingly picked a magical place to stand. It was right at that point when the finish line was all but assured, when everything that each runner had worked toward was right there within view. The smiles came by the thousands—and they were infectious. There’s no way to adequately explain that unique mix of joy, euphoria, relief, pride, and sense of accomplishment all in one—if there were, I’m pretty sure everybody would train for marathons.

Ryan Hall airborn, cruising to his third-place finish.

But, it’s also a gamble. No finish line is ever promised. Every time we embark on a journey toward one, pouring everything we have for months or years at a time into arriving there, we take a risk that it may not work out, that we’ll get hurt, that we’ll be disappointed.

Those are chances I’m still happily willing to take. When it comes down to it, that’s just life, isn’t it?

I came home with resolve to heal, get stronger, and get back to it. I miss my weekly training schedule more than I care to admit publicly and a part of me wakes up sad each day I don't have the option to run. I realize there are big lessons I’m learning in all of this, but meanwhile there’s a bag that sits in the corner of my bedroom that I haven’t yet unpacked, filled with the shorts, singlet, and shoes I was supposed to wear in Boston.

If I wait long enough, I won’t have to pack for 2010. The journey continues…

Boston Marathon 2009 (Part I)

2009-04-23T22:54:00.002-04:00

I woke up in Boston a heap of nervous energy. I reached for the running clothes I picked out the night before, carefully choosing just the right socks, and gingerly tying the laces of my Zoom Elites.

I headed downstairs to stretch, breathe, and gather my thoughts, quieting all the “what ifs” and fears zipping around my mind. My stomach was in knots, too uneasy to choke down breakfast. I had never worked myself up into such a state for a run—not even at the starting line of my first marathon.

This was it. After all the many months of working toward my Boston Marathon goal, it all came down to this: a 20 minute jog the day before the race.

The next few minutes would tell me everything I needed to know and I was terrified of taking the first step. Either I would make it to the legendary starting line on Boston’s 113th Marathon Monday, or I’d join the mass of spectators lining the course. The outcome of the test jog would give me the answer.

I had spent the ten days after pulling my hamstring doing just about everything I could possibly do to make it better. I rested, I slept, I elevated, I iced, I walked, I stretched, I strengthened, I ate, I hydrated, I swallowed Advil, I massaged, and I repeated. Religiously. Like it was my job. I visited some of the kindest and most knowledgeable people on the planet at Wharton Performance. I thought all good thoughts. I believed that I would heal. I was confident that I would race.

So I stepped out the door on Sunday morning, into a beautiful sun-drenched day and had faith that my journey still had 26.2 miles left in it. After all of this, how could it not?

A cautious shuffle turned into a light jog. A dull ache twinged, but it was not a deal-breaking pain. Ten minutes passed and a light jog turned into a familiar, easy pace. Five minutes passed, and just like that, I had my answer.

That sudden, sharp stabbing sensation ripped through my leg. I stopped running for a few steps, denying that this was really how this was all going to end. I picked up my right leg to quicken my pace again, and as my other leg swung to do its work, the pain shot and radiated up and down the lower left side of my body.

It was over. Apparently there is more than one way to experience heartbreak at the Boston Marathon—and it needn’t involve any hills.

As I limped back to my friend Jo’s house, where I was staying, I let the tears streak down my face. I allowed myself to finally cave to all the wretched thoughts I had been suppressing for a week. I climbed the stairs and picked up my phone, encapsulating the entire experience into a text message of no more than 200 characters. I sent it to Mike, who was on a plane heading to Boston, and did the only thing I knew would sooth me: I poured myself a cup of coffee.

“I know this is not what you want to hear right now, but it’s true: Everything happens for a reason,” Jo said. “And if I were you, I’d punch me in the face right now.”

I chuckled, because she spoke the truth, and delivered it in a manner that only a closest friend could. And she would know. A world-class lacrosse player, once captain of Penn State’s soccer team, former collegiate lacrosse coach, and a marathoner to boot, I will never experience anything in athletics that she hasn’t already been through, including a game-ending hamstring injury.

“I know and I believe that too,” I said. “I just wish that shitty situations came with a label explaining what that reason is.”

As Jo headed to work, I packed up my car to check into the hotel I had reserved for myself, and all my friends and family that were en route to cheer me on at a race I was no longer running. I went to the expo to defer my race entry, dodging the scores of excited runners picking up their bib numbers and Boston Marathon memorabilia. I tried not to hate all of them. It was hard.

I retreated back to my hotel room for fear that the sight of one more royal blue and yellow, unicorn-bearing jacket might finally make me vomit. I sat alone for a while, aimlessly staring out the window at the planes coming in and out of Logan. I started thinking a lot, about everything. And I came to a few important realizations.

To be continued…

Highs and Lows

2009-04-12T17:52:00.004-04:00

Last Sunday I had the race of my life. Today, I spent Easter downing Advil and taking an ice bath.

A lot happened in between.

Let me back up. Last Sunday I had a goofy grin on my face for most of the day, feeling quite pleased with myself. After five months, I had conquered that nasty winter without the use of a treadmill, a left Achilles injury, a right hamstring injury, a nutrition makeover, and more mileage than I had ever run in my life.

Earlier that morning when I stepped to the Cherry Blossom 10 Miler starting line on a stunning spring day in Washington, DC, I had absolutely no idea what I could do. I just didn’t know where I stood.

Relaxed, calm, and totally controlled, I found out 1:12:57 later: a personal best time of almost 5 minutes. No worse for the ware, no “I’m going to die” moments, no twinges of pain, no post-race soreness—I had clearly made it to spring in the shape of my life.

No matter what you’ve put your time and effort toward, those are the days you dream of—when it all pays off and everything finally comes together better than you could’ve predicted. It’s like you’ve been working on one of those 10,000-piece puzzles for five months and then finally figure out how to finish it in five-minute’s time. And that was just how I wanted to feel heading into Boston just eight days from now.

With a plan to do some last sharpening workouts and head into a 10-day taper before the marathon, I was eager to take my rush of confidence and get back to business.
And then it snowed again. Seriously. After a couple of minutes filled with words I can’t type (my mom reads this blog, you know)…in a déjà-vu moment, my track workout was rescheduled for later in the week and I settled for doing a couple of easy runs in the winter gear I thought I was finished wearing for a while.

But not more than 24-hours after the last snowflake hit the ground, spring was back, it was 60 lovely degrees, and I was headed to the local high school track for one last chance to remind my legs that they can go fast. On deck, after a 20 minute warm-up: Just 5x1000 with 200 meter recovery between each, with permission to kill the last two faster than the previous three, if I had it in me.

I hit the first two right on target. I was feeling sluggish and my legs were kind of tight, but no acute pain, so I went for the third. As I rounded the curve a neared the 800-meter mark, I was abruptly stopped by that familiar searing, shooting pain in the hamstring. Sadly, it was not the previously troublesome right hamstring. No, apparently my left one also wanted to have its very own pity party.

First I denied it and tried to jog it out. That didn’t work. I stretched lightly. That didn’t work. Reluctantly, I headed home, trying to make the responsible decision in the final days before the marathon. Plus, I was convinced that it was nothing more than a little twinge that would go away in a day after some rest.

It’s been four days now and there’s still significant pain. A test run yesterday resulted in a 2-mile shuffle that hurt from start to finish. So I’m pulling out all the stops. Bring on the Advil. Bring on the ice baths. Bring on the miracle cure. I’ve got eight days to kick this thing and get myself to Hopkinton in one piece. Thankfully, though my tendons may have other plans, I am still confident that it’ll all come together just as it should. I refuse to believe the ending to this story is anything but happy.

But after I cross the finish line in Boston, I’m totally shopping for new hamstrings.

Heal Thyself, Part II

2009-04-04T17:32:00.003-04:00

I love coffee. I love it so much that I can’t remember the last time I went for 24 hours without it. The best part about my love of coffee is that although I need it every day, I don’t desire that much of it. Just a cup or two in the morning and my fix is done.

Coffee isn’t so bad for you, as it turns out. And some studies have shown that it may have some health benefits as well. However, when you drink it at the same time you’re eating nutritious breakfast and taking your multivitamin, it manages to suck the life out of all the good nutrients you’re trying to intake to jumpstart the day. It messes with iron absorption—something that female distance runners already have enough problems with—and is a diuretic. In short, it flushes all the good stuff out of your system.

As I mentioned, my friend Christine—holistic health counselor extraordinaire, triathlete, and all-around amazing woman—has come to my nutritional rescue many times in the past couple of years. The best part about Chris is that she delivers advice and suggestions without any sense of judgment about bad habits—and almost always makes me laugh in the process. She’s managed to remove 95 percent of any refined sugar, white flour, and a lot of gluten from my diet, without me missing any of it.

Naturally, as I thought about my eating habits and what they meant in terms of aiding my body’s recovery from the marathon-training beating I was giving it, I knew Christine would have some wise words.

“I would never tell you to stop drinking coffee—I drink it too,” she said. “But here’s the trick—drink it separate from your meals. Timing is key here—try to space it an hour or so before or after eating.”

Sounded easy enough, and it has been for the most part. But speaking of all those nutrients, I really wanted to know what kinds I should be focusing on. Obviously my tendonitis was a signal of a lot of inflammation. I thought that eating the right food was a better answer in the long-term than popping Advil every four-to-six hours for six weeks. For starters, I needed to be more diligent about taking in the necessary carbs and protein within 30 minutes of completing runs of more than 6 miles. That alone would start to improve my recovery time.

Aside from that, I do most of my own cooking at home, so changing things up with different ingredients and recipes wouldn’t be difficult.

Christine suggested that I add some healthy fats to lubricate joints and muscles, including fish, avocados, olive oil, and nuts. To reduce inflammation and promote healing, antioxidants are key. I can officially proclaim to be a new fan of pomegranate and acai juice, on top of the blueberry obsession I’ve always had.

“These are the colors in your fruits and veggies—make sure you’re eating a rainbow of these foods every day,” she said. “Mostly try to add citrus, leafy greens, and orange and yellow veggies.”

Do you know what else has antioxidants? Dark chocolate. So the day that I decided to make whole wheat banana bread (with flax seeds, for good measure), I also tossed in some dark chocolate chips to the recipe. Mmmm…I was going to freeze half of it, but I confess I ate almost the entire loaf myself. Yikes.

So, six weeks later, I’ve stuck to all the advice that the Holistic Guru has offered. I have followed the training schedule that Mike has diligently and patiently written, altered, and written again (and again) depending on how I’m feeling on any given day. I’ve taken his words of encouragement to heart and kept that ever-important positive attitude. I have spent a lot of time icing my leg and getting to bed early, even when I wanted to do neither of those things.

I’ve done all that I can do. And I am happy to say that it has all worked. The shooting pains in my right leg are gone, my energy level is increasing. The normal marathon-training soreness persists and some days are better than others, but in two weeks when I’m at the starting line in Boston, I’ll find peace in knowing that, without a doubt, I did everything in my power to prepare.

And no matter what the outcome, I’m eternally grateful for the unyielding support along the way.

Heal Thyself, Part I

2009-03-29T14:43:00.002-04:00

It was the week I got back from my California adventure, running an easy eight miles on the rolling hills surrounding the lake, when it happened. A dull ache in my right hamstring that had been nagging for a few days suddenly turned into a sharp, searing pain shooting through the back of my knee. In one random stride, I was stopped in my tracks.

I’ve been injured before and have made all those mistakes we know not to make, but do anyway—like stubbornly running through the pain in some lame attempt to stick to a training schedule. When you give so much time and energy in pursuit of a goal, it sometimes takes even more discipline to give it a rest and realize that the time-out contributes just as much to achieving those goals. Luckily, I have people.

After a phone call with Mike, which ended with a mandate to skip the next day’s speed workout and a few pleas to keep smiling, I decided to wipe the worried look off my face and think about ways to speed the healing process. Yes, I know—classic control-freak tendencies coming out. I couldn’t help but wonder what I could do to feel as though I had some power over my own recovery.

First of all, Mike encouraged me to think about what might have led me to this place. What had I done in the days or weeks prior that may have contributed to the breakdown?

“Often it’s what we do outside of training that sabotages our running—it’s not the running itself that leads to injury or illness,” he has reminded me, several times.

That was no mystery to me. After I had returned from California, I had an unusually heavy workload. Good news for my bank account, but it wreaked a little havoc on my sleep. Between the work and the sleep deprivation, I didn’t pay much attention to what I was eating—which is to say, that I was not eating enough of anything, or at the right time.

It was a perfect recipe for disaster during the time that we were also holding weekly mileage at up to 65 miles per week. Training at that intensity means that the body needs adequate sleep and the right nutrients to constantly repair itself. If it doesn’t have the resources it needs to properly recover, it will simply stop working.

The lesson in this? There are many, but a key point is that when life becomes hectic outside of training (and, unless you’re a professional athlete, whose doesn’t?!), I’m better served by tweaking the training schedule, in order to remain healthy. Sacrificing some miles is a better answer than forcing them in just to feed my ego. I’d rather be running less than sitting on the couch covered in ice packs.

With this part figured out, I still had a fantastic case of tendonitis to deal with and just six weeks left until the Boston Marathon. My OCD wasn’t done with me yet. So, I fired off an e-mail to my good friend Christine—a.k.a. the Holistic Guru—to find out what I should be eating in order to promote healing.

As usual, she had some sage advice.

To be continued…

Running=Play=Joy

2009-03-03T14:12:00.009-05:00

I’ve been in a funk. I confess that I used to think that Seasonal Affective Disorder was a load of crap. People honestly want to blame the weather for their woes? Really? Well, let me tell you. Spend one harsh winter training for a marathon by yourself in the Pocono Mountains and you, too, will become a believer.

Fortunately, I’m not one to wallow. The endless inches of ice and snow, the gray skies, the wind-chill factor, and the general feeling of isolation were starting to bring me down. I was struggling with the simplest work assignments. And Mother Nature had interfered with one too many of my workouts. So, two e-mails and a plane ticket later, I was on my way to visit friends in Southern California; a bag of running gear and my laptop in tow.

My California adventure began in “the O.C.” with the O’Briens—friends who I love dearly and can never get enough of. With a new house I hadn’t yet seen and a new son I hadn’t yet met, it was the perfect opportunity to visit. And thankfully they didn’t seem to mind that I invited myself. Yes, I have good friends.

I could write a lot about how nice it felt to head outside in shorts and a tank top, instead of the usual three layers of winter gear. I could talk about how I couldn’t help but feel unadulterated bliss in the California sun on that first morning, looping around suburbia for six easy miles. I could recount the 16-mile, hamstring-burning adventure on the fire roads that twisted up and down and up and down the canyon hills.

But what I really cherished were my afternoon runs with Finn.

Finn is all of 22 months old. Did you know that kids don’t even have patellas at that age? No joke. He’s got no knee caps yet--well, technically they’re there, they just haven’t ossified yet. But, I’m telling you that the boy can run. And he loves it.

Finn, who hasn’t been slowed down in the wake of taking on “big brother” status, lives the life of an elite, professional runner. He wakes up early, has a healthy breakfast of plain yogurt, cheerios, and “nanas!” before he hits the playroom for his morning session of tricycle riding, sprinting around the playground, and climbing on the jungle-gym play set. After a few hours, he heads in for lunch, downs some milk, water, and almond-butter sandwich on whole wheat bread, and takes a nap.

And then the afternoon running session begins. Finn was kind enough to invite me to join him, preventing me from becoming too lazy after my own training was long over for the day. Once sprung from his stroller, Finn takes my hand and takes off, squealing with joy, pulling me along for the journey.

His face? Glowing with an enormous smile. There is nothing in the world the boy would rather be doing than moving forward as fast as he’s able. He views running as freedom and fun. He doesn’t worry about pace, time, mileage, form. He stops for water when he’s thirsty. He looks at the scenery along the way, especially enamored with anything resembling the shape of a circle (“Kirkle!” ). He says hi to other people passing by. He doesn’t know what tired is or that what he’s doing is hard work. When he meets a hill, he charges at it, screaming, “Up, up, up, up, up!!!!!”

Running in Finn’s world is simply play. And after more than a mile of running hand-in-hand in his world, I started to think of it that way too. What can I say? It was infectious. And I suspect that on April 20th in Boston, I will hear that enthusiastic little voice in my head as I tackle Heartbreak Hill: Up, up, up, up, up!!!!

Yes, thanks to the little guy, it wasn’t just the California weather that started reinvigorating my attitude and perspective.

Let's Talk About the Weather

2009-01-27T19:29:00.008-05:00

The snow is falling. Again. It will be followed by a coating of a quarter-inch of ice. Again. And the temperature on a good day this week will hit a high of 25 degrees.

I'm not sure that this winter could be any crueler.

The other day I delighted in an afternoon that brought just enough sun that I could run in only one pair of tights, instead of two. I shed my usual third top layer and traded in my fleece hat for a head band to keep my ears covered. There was nothing frozen falling from the sky. It was liberating. It was also short-lived.

I don't mean to whine or complain--there is nothing anybody can do about the weather and nobody is forcing me to train for the Boston Marathon--but I think my core body temperature has been hovering somewhere around "really cold" since early November.

The view from my window

I was thinking about all of this the other day during an easy run. I planned a nice little out-and-back jaunt on a course I use on days I don't feel like dealing with a lot of hills. As I plodded along, trying to share a road narrowed by ice and snow accumulation with a plethora of school buses, I started convincing myself that I was getting acclimated to the difficulty of it all: the constant shivering, the loss of motivation, the ability to cut myself some slack when conditions are unsafe to get out there. Oh, and the addition of shoveling as cross-training.

"I'm getting tough," I thought. Well, I've always been on the tough side. Tougher, perhaps?

After a few miles, it was time to turn around. So I did. And it hit me like a slap in the face: a headwind that just ripped right through all those layers like I hadn't taken the additional 30 minutes out of my morning to put them all on.

My tougher self trudged on, realizing that the remaining miles would be anything but easy. While I've developed a "suck-it-up-and-deal" training (and life) philosophy, it didn't stop me from noticing that I hadn't even felt the tailwind for the first half of the run. No doubt it was there, easing my effort.

So, I made a silent promise to myself to take note and savor those times in my life when the wind is at my back, helping me along, allowing me time to gather strength. It's when things seem well that I can let my gratitude wane, perhaps taking the good times a little too much for granted.

Because, let's face it: These days you just never know when you're going to turn around and be forced to fight a nasty headwind.

Wishes, Predictions, and Resolutions

2009-01-06T20:54:00.008-05:00

There have been few New Years in recent history that I haven't at least partially rung in with my BFF Aimee. Aimee has a magnificent way of creating and perpetuating traditions like no other, which only fractionally explains why she has approximately 10 bazillion friends and is one of the best moms in the world, too.

One such ritual Aimee has upheld for herself and the lucky few who find themselves snuggled up on her couch watching football on any given New Year's Day, is to take a few minutes to write down one wish, one prediction, and one resolution for the year ahead. She hands out envelopes, and after you seal up your thoughts, she files them away until the following year. No sharing required--just a little letter to yourself. Inevitably I always forget about it, but then that plain white, self-addressed envelope, with the words "Do not open until December 31st" written on the back mysteriously appears like clockwork amid the rush of holiday greetings.

I confess, I couldn't wait until December 31st this year to rip mine open. I could hardly contain my curiosity about where my mind was at this time last year. I knew I was not feeling much like my sunny disposition self--all sorts of things had just gotten way out of hand in 2007 and I was ready to make some drastic changes, though even without opening the envelope, I was 100 percent sure I hadn't predicted that I'd take up residence in Nowhere, PA, no matter how out of whack life had become.

My prediction? That I'd register for Ironman Lake Placid. The reality? I focused solely on running all year and couldn't be happier with the way that decision panned out. My wish? Well, honestly, who doesn't wish for happiness and health for yourself, friends, and family? The funny thing about wishes is that I can keep wishing them over and over again with the same amount of hope that they'll come true. My resolution? To dial down my OCD tendencies in just about every aspect of life--work, volunteering, training--and to spend more time with my friends and family. Mission accomplished. Except in training...I've made peace with the fact that I'll always be kind of compulsive about that.

I suppose it is fitting then that on this December 31st, I ended the year with a 5K run in Bethlehem, PA, with my good friends Michelle and Suzanne. I had a grand total of 8 miles on tap for the day and thought it would be fun to throw the 5K race in the middle of it. We braved the 10-degree temperatures, 30-MPH wind gusts, and swirling snow squalls and were each rewarded with our own box of Peeps for registering (yes, those marshmallow chicks coated in yellow sugar, commonly found in grocery stores around Easter time--bet you didn't know those are made in Bethlehem!). When I got back from tacking on two miles after the race, we discovered that somehow I managed to win my age group, and hence I was given a medal from a human-sized Peep. I could only surmise that most women aged 30 to 39 have the brain cells that I lack, and alas had good sense to stay home that day.

Later, we met up with with Aimee and her family in an absolutely frigid downtown Bethlehem to see the insanity that is the Peep being dropped at midnight. We didn't stick around until midnight, but we did see the plastic Peep suspended from a crane near City Hall. We were underwhelmed. It was plastic, about 25 lbs., and best described as a glorified rubber ducky. We retreated to a local bar within 30 minutes.

In the midst of such hype, we didn't have the time--or maybe it was a lack of inclination--this year to record our wishes, predictions, or resolutions for 2009. Perhaps we all just needed a break from forecasting what our lives might be, in favor of simply leading the lives we have as well as we can for each of the next 365 days ahead.

Truth be told, I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland this year anyway--the part where she reaches a fork in the road and asks the Cheshire Cat which way she should go.

"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," the cat says.

"I don't much care where," Alice responds.

"Then," the Cheshire Cat says, "it doesn't matter which way you go."

"As long as I get somewhere, " Alice adds.

"Oh, you're sure to do that," the cat says, "if you only walk long enough."

Happy, healthy new year to you--may it be just what you've imagined and a little bit of what you never could have.

Problems or Opportunities?

2008-12-17T20:26:00.005-05:00

From the age of about 8 through 18, my summer always kicked off the same way. My swim teammates and I piled into our parents' station wagons and left for two weeks of swim camp at Mercersburg Academy. The next 14 days were spent mostly in the pool, or thinking about the next swim practice that day, or attending dry-land strength training sessions, or hearing coaches critique our technique from daily video tape sessions, or staying up as late as we could keep our eyes open talking about the cute boys in our lane, or eating (and eating and eating and eating some more).

In retrospect, the schedule seems grueling. I couldn't even guess how much yardage we logged in a week, but in reality, most of us couldn't get enough. The camp was founded and directed by John Trembley, the head swim coach at the University of Tennessee and one of the most generous, kind, positive (he named his dog Happy, for crying out loud), amazing coaches I've ever encountered. No matter what a camper's ability level--and trust me when I say I was never swimming in the fastest lane--JT seemed to give everybody the same time and attention, and evoke a plethora of laughter in the process.

It was rare that JT ever got angry, but that's not to say that we didn't fully realize that he meant business. After all, he has coached many Olympians, some of whom would randomly meander onto the pool deck in the middle of practice or drop by the dining hall for lunch.

There weren't many rules at camp besides the obvious, like boys and girls stay in their respective dorms, etc. However, of those rules that were strictly enforced were the following:

1. Every morning, when loudly and obnoxiously awoken by a coach pounding on your door at some ridiculously early hour, everybody began the day by saying (or muttering, which is usually all we could muster): "It's a beautiful day and it's great to be alive!"

2. Abide by the philosophy that there are no problems, only opportunities. As soon as camp began, nobody was allowed to utter the word "problem" without buying a lot of very public grief from JT and some extra sets at practice for yourself and your lane mates.

At the time, we didn't appreciate it. When a weird bug flew in my ear on the way to an afternoon practice and was buzzing around in there, I couldn't help but think, "This is a problem." So I went to one of the coaches and started by saying, "I have a prob...." before I was abruptly cut off. At that point it felt like a bat was flying around in my head and I was convinced that my circumstance couldn't possibly have an upside. But I did my best to rally.

"There is a bug flying around in my ear," I said flatly, careful not to revert to the "p" word.

Off I went to the infirmary, escorted there by the cutest coach in the bunch. And so at the awkward age of 14, I began a lifetime of finding opportunities in life's challenges.

It's not terribly easy to find those opportunities. Lord knows that there are plenty of things to be worried about these days. This struck me recently, because a lot of my friends are dealing with legitimate life issues right now: unemployment, seriously ill children, personal health matters. Lately it seems like so many e-mails or phone calls come with bad news. What is the opportunity in having a helpless child face the possibility of a heart transplant? That, I don't know, but it is because of JT that I spend a lot of time trying to figure it out myself.

So, as the holiday season is in full swing and a new year is about to begin, I pass on the gift that JT gave to me so many years ago. Even the most cynical among us can benefit, if you give it your best shot--believe me, I know. Do yourself a favor and honestly find the opportunities in your problems--see what happens when you eliminate the word entirely from your vocabulary. And don't forget that each morning that you open your eyes, it's a beautiful day and it's great to be alive.

Dumb Luck

2008-11-25T23:14:00.004-05:00

A couple of days before I left for the Philadelphia Marathon, my mom sent me a card. The outside of it was a black-and-white photo of a little girl, climbing up a rock, with a wide smile as she teetered to gain her balance at the top. It said, “We cannot direct the wind, but we can adjust our sails.”

How apropos, in so many ways. With blustery cold weather clinging to the East Coast, I knew I was facing a frigid marathon experience. I also knew that if I’ve learned nothing else during the last six months, I have finely tuned my ability to adjust my sails.

So, I did it. I qualified for the Boston Marathon on Sunday by finishing the Philadelphia Marathon in 3:30:45. That was 10 minutes faster than the qualifying time and 11 minutes faster than my previous best marathon time.

It was perhaps the best race weekend of my life. Much like the 29 weeks of training that led me there, it was as near-perfect as a marathon experience can be. Was it luck? I have to believe it was more than that. I have to believe that when you work so hard for so long with a laser-like focus on your dreams, surround yourself with family and friends who care and genuinely support you, and have 100 percent trust in the person who is patiently, intelligently, and positively guiding you toward your goals, that the “luck” is really just the result of all the ingredients you’ve carefully, painstakingly mixed together.

Some might say that it was “lucky” that I never was sick or injured throughout my training, which began in mid-May. I see it a different way. I don’t think it was “luck” that changed my eating habits for the better or taught me how to listen to my body, so that I didn’t push through the little twinges and sniffles that could’ve blown up into full-fledged health problems. I don’t think it’s chance that I learned how to deal with real pain during track workouts, or taught my legs exactly what marathon pace feels like week after week on long runs that were continually besieged by horrible weather conditions. It wasn’t good fortune that led me to go to bed early or plan ahead to fit in a 60+-mile training week with my work and travel schedule, all while still being a good friend, daughter, and journalist. It wasn't a fluke that I maintained a positive attitude, even when a workout didn't go according to plan or my legs felt heavy and sluggish.

So you’ll forgive me when I confess that as I approached the starting area in the pre-dawn hours of Sunday, I felt a lump in my throat. Quite frankly, it shocked me. I have, after all, run eight marathons now and have never been emotional about any of them. But as soon as I saw some volunteers hoisting the finish line onto the scaffolding as I approached the Art Museum, my eyes welled up. I knew that the next time I saw it, it wouldn’t be just a finish line – it would mark a new beginning in my running life.

The previous 24 hours were the most relaxed I’ve ever had before a race. I spent more time laughing with my friends about ridiculous things than I did thinking about the 26.2 miles ahead of me. Michelle and Suzanne took such good care of me, from driving to Philly to braving the freezing temperatures on race morning to scream at me, I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done without them. Our dinner on Saturday night with KC and Josh was not only delicious, but it was low key and fun, which was just what I needed. My final chat with Mike left me feeling inspired and upbeat, as well as calm and confident. And that Penn State win over Michigan State? Despite the Arctic temperatures, that clearly left me California dreamin’ :).

The race itself may be anticlimactic as far as good stories go. It went almost exactly as I had planned. I dressed in layers, which I shed as my body warmed up. I did exactly what I had practiced over and over and over again in training: starting out at 8 minute per mile pace and never going faster than 7:45. The only hitches thrown into the equation were icy water stops that doubled as ice-skating rinks, mile markers that were completely off in the first 6 miles or so, and a severe aversion to taking my second gel later in the marathon. Yes, I ran my best time fueled by nothing more than one gel at mile 9 and water every 3 to 5 miles. I knew I’d pay the price for that, and I did. But I didn’t feel the pain and fatigue in earnest until about mile 24, when I knew it was just a matter of gutting it out, which I had much experience doing over the past six months.

The second half of the marathon was by far my favorite. I had such amazing support—I felt as though I was just being handed off from friend to friend all the way through to the finish line, starting with Suzanne and Michelle at the halfway point, Megan at 14, Sarah at mile 19, KC at mile 20, Josh at mile 24, catching Nathan at mile 25, and crossing the finish line with him. And while I could feel the hurt you’d expect after mile 21, I can’t say I ever experienced anything unbearable, like last year. I was happy to see the finish line and knew that I didn’t have much left in me, but in retrospect it was by far the strongest I’ve ever felt throughout an entire marathon. There’s more in the tank to explore, and that’s the exciting lesson this race taught me.

So while I have no idea how life will unfold otherwise between now and April, I do know that it will include another marathon training cycle—this time, for the Boston Marathon. I go into that knowing that I’m capable of more than I ever realized and that if I do it right, there won't be any surprises on race day. After all, when you know how to work hard and adjust your sails, luck is always on your side.

When the Work is Done

2008-11-16T16:46:00.002-05:00

It's a strange feeling when you reach the point in a long journey that there's nothing left to do. After weeks or months or even years of focus, there always comes that juncture in whatever endeavor you've embarked upon when it's time to trust in the work you've done, have faith, and leave the rest up to fate.

The final seven days before a marathon always bring myriad emotions and it usually leaves a little too much time to think. All those hours that are usually filled with running, stretching, core work, ice baths, cross training, eating, sleeping, ingesting fluids, grocery shopping, doing yet another load of laundry, and preparing to start the entire cycle all over again are replaced by hours of thinking about if you did all those things the right way, and if they will finally put you within reach of the goals that have remained elusive for what seems like an eternity.

My head seems to be quiet this time around, though. I'm oddly at peace with the fact that there's nothing left to do. I am sentimental and nostalgic for the road that led me here--certainly my life was in a different place when I took that first step, 27 weeks ago. And every mile in between has been one enormous learning experience. But that's why I love running--it never fails to teach you a thing or two about yourself and the people around you. And clearly I'll never forget this time that I somehow found myself living in the Pocono Mountains, far from the city life I am accustomed to, attacking the hills on the endless country roads with only a pasture full of cows to keep me company along the way.

The work is done, so now it's time to trust, have faith, rest, and rejuvenate. Here's hoping for a happy Philadelphia Marathon finish line that leads to a brand-new starting line...and the next big adventure.

Better Days Ahead

2008-11-05T10:12:00.003-05:00

"If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.

It's the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen; by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the very first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different; that their voice could be that difference.

It's the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Latino, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled - Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been a collection of Red States and Blue States: we are, and always will be, the United States of America.

It's the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so many to be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day."

-- President-elect Barack Obama

Has Anybody Seen Fall Weather and My Pace?

2008-10-28T18:23:00.004-04:00

Once upon a time, in a strange little hamlet in Northeastern Pennsylvania...

I wake up this morning, look out the window after hearing the rain pounding on the house all night long, and see that it's snowing. I truly believe that I'm still asleep, because, you know, it's October and it doesn't snow in October. I rub my eyes, look out the window again, and realize it is indeed snowing. And sleeting. And pouring rain.

I turn on the TV, at the exact moment the local weather guy is saying (a wee bit too enthusiastically), "There are wind gusts of up to 50 MPH out there, knocking down trees and power lines."

"Awesome," I think, as I'm digging around in the abyss of my running clothes, trying to find anything remotely warm. Waterproof would be a bonus, but alas, I don't own anything that fancy.

It is my peak week of marathon training. Skipping today's speed workout isn't an option.So I head out and get some very odd looks from the locals, who are peering out their windows from their kitchen tables...warm, dry, and sipping hot coffee. I am insanely jealous.

After warming up and doing some strides, I begin to turn into a human popsicle. So I figure I need to just get it over with. I am fantasizing about dry clothes as the wind is making the icy precipitation fall horizontally, as well as making me feel as though I'm running in place. I can no longer feel my feet, legs, arms, or face. I'm pretty sure my ears and nose fell off during the second and third strides. So I just take off.

The purpose of this workout is to hit two miles at 7:45 pace, then switch gears to a 7:00 for the third mile. After a four-minute recovery, repeat it, then warm down. Success of the workout is defined as sticking to the paces -- going faster is not better.

Mile 1 -- 7:15 (oops. conscious effort to slow down....)
Mile 2 -- 7:29 (better but still not great, so I think for a second about not picking it up for the 3rd mile in favor of trying to find the elusive 7:45, but then I think that I shouldn't, so I try to pick it up as the wind nearly blows me right into a cornfield...)
Mile 3 -- 7:15

4 min. recovery -- uhhhh...shivering...must start running again...freezing...thinking about running slower...

Mile 1 -- 7:21
Mile 2 -- 7:31 (I honestly thought this one would be right at 7:45. I even had to stop for a few seconds to fend off a random dog. I was wrong.)
Mile 3 -- 7:12

I cut the warm down a few minutes short. I figured that because I'm violently shaking at this point, it might behoove me to get out of the elements as quickly as possible.

So, here I am a hours later, wrapped in several layers of fleece ala the little kid in "A Christmas Story" (when he's so bundled up that he can't put his arms down), drinking and eating anything hot. And the only thought that keeps popping into my head is that this is a frightening sneak preview of what training for Boston is going to be like all winter long. Ohmygod. Where is the treadmill fairy? Serious thoughts going on about my next relocation...

And that is the tale of a workout gone awry. Stay tuned to find out if the girl ever finds her pace and lives happily ever after.

On the Right Track

2008-10-10T20:39:00.002-04:00

Every couple of weeks I find myself staring down that large oval in a local park--the white lane lines, the orange rubbery surface, the grassy green football field in the middle, and the silver metal bleachers lining each side.

It's on that track there where I doubt myself most. Ironically, it is also where, week after week, I prove to myself that I am a different person--a different runner--than I was just six months ago.

When I arrive, I slowly start jogging around the surrounding neighborhoods to warm up, gingerly weaving my way up and down the steep side streets of Bangor, PA, where my father grew up. I can't help but think about him on those days. My route, after all, takes me right past the cemetery where he rests, past the headstone that marks his grave, where I said goodbye to him nearly 21 years ago.

But it's never sadness that overwhelms me when I'm making my way back to the track. It's a renewed sense of the discipline, strength, and courage he infused in me so long ago. I enter the gates ready to give it my best shot, shuffling through one more mile to get my legs ready, and a few short strides to prep them for the workout ahead.

And then I take a deep breath through my nose, let it out through my mouth, and hit "start" on my watch. I take off. My heart begins racing as fast as my legs, the sweat inevitably pours, my breathing is deep and loud and labored. It is uncomfortable. And I know that it will only get more difficult from here. My internal voice--that alter ego who is constantly questioning why?--starts telling me to quit, that it hurts, that it's not worth it.

I tell her to shut up.

There is work to be done here and it's hard, lonely work. Everybody has that voice, I know, that whispers that it's okay to let yourself off the hook. Everybody faces that choice of whether to listen to it or forge ahead, confident that you won't come face-to-face with the disappointment and regret that is sure to follow giving up.

And I take off again. Seven times I run 1000 meters, consistently hitting my target time, recovering for 200 meters between each interval, fending off that annoying girl inside who relentlessly begs me to stop.

As I round that last curve, head for that last straightaway, and hit that last finish line, I've completed a task that an hour earlier seemed nearly impossible. I am relieved. I am also exhausted, thirsty, hungry, smelly, and sore. However, more than anything, I am happy. It's the kind of happiness reserved for when you have achieved something that didn't come easily, but in your heart you knew all along was worth the struggle.

With many more miles and trials ahead, I know it's not the last time that kind of joy will be mine.

Dress Rehearsal

2008-09-24T20:13:00.004-04:00

My office is getting a little chilly and shooing the squirrels away is becoming an increasingly time consuming part of the day. I suppose this is what happens when your workspace is a large porch overlooking a lake in the Northeast. The temperature drops and the furry creatures become a bit more aggressive about storing up for the winter. It could be worse--I could be stuck in a battleship-gray cubicle, with no fresh air, politely encouraging the office "annoying guy" to scurry off.

I'll take the squirrels and the scenery.

That little nip in the air, after all, is the harbinger of all things good in life: cozy sweaters, college football, beautiful changing leaves, and the thick of marathon training.

Indeed, the Philadelphia Marathon is just eight weeks away, so it seemed like a prime time to get a tune-up race under my belt as a gauge for what to expect in November. I chose the Philadelphia Distance Run half marathon, mostly because Philly is such a quick and easy trip from where I'm living and the race course, in part, mirrors the marathon course. I also coerced my running buddy Avi to join me--because, really, what's a race weekend without Avi?!

I had some serious flashbacks to last November, almost as soon as I arrived in downtown Philly on Saturday afternoon. I left that marathon last year with a host of mixed emotions--happy to come away with a best time, beyond grateful for my friends who came to support me, but disappointed that qualifying for the Boston Marathon remained elusive by such a slim margin.

I haven't raced much since then, and, in fact, those few races that I entered in the spring just added up to some slow base miles. So, Sunday's half marathon was the first time I was testing myself. I couldn't wait to find out what I could do out there--I truly had no idea what to expect.

What I did know, however, is that I had nothing to fear. I've put in endless focus, hard work, miles, positive energy, and sweat into my training over the last 19 weeks. I arrived at the starting line with no particular goal other than to run a smart race, learn some lessons to apply to the marathon, and leave with a personal best half marathon time. I had nothing but confidence that all those goals were within reach.

When the gun went off I made that typical mistake of letting adrenaline carry me a bit too far. Having missed the first few mile markers, I wasn't sure how fast I was going, but I was fairly certain I was going too fast. When I hit the first 5K mark, my hunch was correct, so I tried to relax a little bit and back off the pace, though I wasn't sure what that pace should really be. That's when it comes in handy to be in touch with perceived effort. After many track workouts, threshold runs, and sub-threshold training runs, I knew what it should feel like, even if I couldn't translate it into numbers, so I went with it.

As I cleared the 10 mile mark and headed into number 11, I was hurting--it was time to pay the price for going out too fast. Luckily, with only a couple of miles to go, I was able to talk myself into hurting for a while longer. I hung on for dear life, crossing the finish line with a new best time by a little more than six minutes: 1:36.42.

When I return to Philadelphia in November, I'm relieved that I'll be doing so with happy memories instead of mixed ones. I'm ready. Bring it on.

In the meantime, I'll add squirrel chasing to my training schedule. It's gotta be good for shaving a few seconds off my time.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

2008-09-04T21:09:00.009-04:00

The guy climbed a ladder and stuck his head in the attic through a small opening in the closet.

"Yeah, there's something living up there. It's burrowing tunnels through the insulation," he declared.

Awesome.

The relative quiet of a Saylor's Lake night has been not-so-temporarily interrupted this summer by at least one uninvited guest, who has set up camp overhead. The scratching, clicking, and clacking of tiny paws scurrying around in the middle of the night added one more "first" to a never-ending list of things I never fathomed I'd have to deal with, all compiled in the short three months I've been living here. Did I mention it came just days after I spent an afternoon saving a little bird whose teeny leg was stuck in her nest?

The man set up some cage traps outside the house, where he guessed the critters were coming from, placing peanuts inside them as bate. Then he handed me his card, identifying himself as a "licensed wildlife pest control and trapper."

"Muskrat, mink, fox, coon, skunk, opossum, coyote, beaver, ground hogs, and squirrels," it said.

As he loaded his supplies into the back of his pick-up truck, he instructed me to check those traps a few times a day and call him if anything was caught.

Sure enough, a two days later, a lazy day on the lake with friends visiting from New York melted into a lazy night of plenty of food, drink, and Olympics. On the way up to the house to start dinner, I stopped underneath the porch to check the traps. One had a new resident: an opossum, who appeared to be taking an early evening snooze.

I promptly called the trap man, who was, of course, at a picnic (this area does not lack offerings of mayonnaise-laden potato salads on any given summer Saturday). He stopped on his way home to pick up his cages, as I was grilling hamburgers and hot dogs for my friends.

"Are you sure you don't want to throw him on there and call him dinner?" he inquired.

"Uhhhh...yeah...no," I said, glancing at my slightly horrified urban guests.

"Well, I don't think this is our guy," he said. "He's too big for the size of the tunnels up there. I took all the traps, though, because I'm going to the beach for a week. Call me if you want me to come back."

Approximately four weeks (and no rent) later there's still an attic housemate settling in for the winter. I swear I heard him stock-piling nuts up there the other night.

As the evenings start a little earlier every night, Labor Day has passed, and the frenzy of neighborhood kids squealing in the water has been replaced by squeaky breaks of school buses taking them to school in the mornings, I have finally caught a few moments to contemplate where my summer experiment in Pennsylvania has led me:

1. I have a new-found comfort level with wildlife. Um, see above.
2. I can run any hill, any time, without fear. Everyday.
3. I know how to cook dinner now, without cracking open a box of Cheerios. There's no Whole Foods salad bar in these parts, either.
4. I still miss tofu and sushi.
5. I really, really, really love that I get paid to sit by the water everyday and write about people, topics, and issues I believe are fascinating.
6. I found an previously undiscovered (or suppressed?) side of me that thinks I could be completely happy moving to Colorado, or Oregon, or...who knows. The West.
7. I learned that when my mother comes for a weekend visit and I haven't watered the plants to her satisfaction, she can make me feel like a rotten 13-year-old all over again. In an instant.

While I know the list could go on, the bottom line is that I am no closer to knowing what's next than I was when I rolled up the driveway in June. While that truth is starting to grow old with my restless mind, I also know that whatever this adventure was...or continues to be...I have faith that it's all unfolding as it should, for some yet-to-be discovered reason.

And on days when I have doubts--and there are plenty of those, too--I remember some wise words recently sent to me from my Running Superhero Mike, when I was second-guessing a workout gone awry--and once again, running became a metaphor for life.

"Decide whether the messages you're responding to are sent from your heart or you mind," he said. "Many times the mind speaks out of fear, self doubt, and panic. The heart, on the other hand, has the answers, but getting to them means wading through all the noise of the mind."

And sometimes a little noise in the attic, too.

Life Unplugged, Part II

2008-08-19T21:07:00.005-04:00

I pulled into the driveway and took a deep breath. After five hours of solitude in my car, I was keenly aware that the whirlwind of the next few days and weeks would mean that time was simply not going to be my own for the rest of the summer. Wallowing in the loss of my Internet access and computer--and everything that was on it--would need to take a backseat to, well, real life.

In four short days my brother was getting married and the celebration was taking place here at the lake. Like any wedding, this one came with its share of last-minute preparations, visitors, dinners, events, nerves, and a few short fuses.

But when all was said and done, late that Friday afternoon I stood before my brother, his bride, and a small group of close family and friends, in the nearby church where the Strouts have attended for generations. I did that traditional "Love is patient, love is kind" reading from the Bible, and not long afterward, Jon and Erika were pronounced husband and wife.

Then the real mayhem began.

Following the two-day celebration of the newly minted union, my cousins moved into the lake house for a week's vacation. I went from a peaceful household of one, to a spirited household of 15, including six kids. We shared 10 days of playing in the water, eating leisurely dinners, having long conversations on the porch over many bottles of wine, drinking coffee in the morning, and of course, filling the house with lots of laughter...adding yet another chapter of family memories at Saylor's Lake.

During my run on one of those mornings it dawned on me that it was the first time in years I didn't feel distracted from any of those moments. There was nothing pressing or cluttering my mind, taking me away from the rare opportunity to fully enjoy the time I was getting to spend with a group of the most important people in my life. I had to wonder why. What was different?

The only conclusion I could come to was that my world was right there and nowhere else--without the option of escaping to cyberspace, there was nothing virtual about my days. I didn't have access to e-mail or Facebook or message boards. Those in my "social network" and "community" (we used to simply call them "friends"), found a way to stay connected--they used this old-fashioned device called the phone, or they stopped by for a visit.

While I thoroughly enjoyed rediscovering the human connection, when the new computer finally arrived, I confess that it took me less than 10 minutes to fire up the wireless access. I took one look at my inbox, where hundreds of unread messages resided, and felt overwhelmed, and a little bit sad. My respite from the real life, as it exists in 2008, was over. I may be able to live in Nowhere, PA, for a while, but I couldn't completely fall off the face of the Earth, for many obvious reasons.

What I learned is that a life unplugged is rejuvenating, healthy, and a good reminder of how to give my attention to the here-and-now, instead of constantly dividing it 20 other ways and letting the virtual world constantly distract me.

Rest assured none of this is to say that I'll be dumping white wine on my home electronics again anytime soon, if I can help it.

Cheers.

Life, Unplugged -- Part I

2008-08-06T08:41:00.003-04:00

I was snuggled up at the kitchen table in Lake Placid that Sunday night three weeks ago, finally comfy in warm, dry clothes after spending more than 14 hours in the torrential rain watching Ironman.

Some wine was poured.

A glass of it ended up all over my laptop.

It died.

While the previous three glasses of vino numbed the pain--and the reality of what I had lost--until the following morning, I awoke to a personal endurance event of a very different nature. As a house full of triathletes said their goodbyes and we all went our separate ways, I was headed to the remote patch of Northeastern Pennsylvania that I am temporarily calling home, without any immediate hope of Internet access, without a connection to the world, my friends, or my work.

I was terrified.

On the five hour ride home, I began taking a mental inventory of the writing, photos, and documents that may be lost forever. I wondered how I'd go about drumming up some needed freelance projects until my new computer arrived. Afterall, I now had a laptop to pay for. What if the assignment of a lifetime was sitting in my inbox, waiting for a response? How would I access my marathon training schedule? Would my friends forget about me if I stopped returning all those Facebook messages?!

I had a few weeks to figure all of this out. And, as is always the case, the experience taught me oh-so-much more.

Falling in Love, Again

2008-07-16T13:01:00.008-04:00

This morning I put my "fast" running shoes on. I braided my hair to keep it off my neck. I gulped down some water to wash down a half of a banana. Then I headed to the next town over, where the hills aren't quite as menacing and the rolling country roads are indeed less traveled.

Over the past nine weeks, Wednesdays have become the day of the week that I meet with almost the same anxiousness and preparation that I do for long training runs on the weekends. I've spent most of the past nine Wednesdays heading to a track for workouts that make me feel like I could puke, or taking to the roads for a fartlek run. I'm never really sure what a new week will bring, but when that training schedule appears on Sunday nights, it's almost always the first day I look at.

See, as this Type-A girl with some subtle control-freak tendencies is learning to cope with a life of horrifyingly little structure this summer, my training schedule is what keeps me sane. Running has always been a stabilizing force in my life, however the combination of an uncertain future, an obsession with avenging last November's Philadelphia Marathon/Chicago Marathon debacle, and a desire to be held accountable for something (anything!) while I'm figuring out the rest of my life, have all conspired at the same time, making my marathon training this year seem like something more than just a hobby.

The side effects of my training mania have been a pleasant surprise, to be sure. Last fall I was ready to give it up forever. I had spent two years struggling with a serious plateau in my performance and finding that running was more of a chore than something I was enjoying. I'm not a professional runner, obviously, so it struck me as pointless to keep battling through a training schedule that was seemingly only adding stress to a life already way too stressful. It was frustrating that running wasn't filling the role that it always had for me--it was supposed to be the one thing I could rely on when everything else seemed like it was crumbling. Instead, it was turning on me. That made me angry and sad, so after I crossed that finish line in Philadelphia, 49 seconds too late, I walked away.

After two months of eating too many cookies, drinking too much beer, and leaving my "racing weight" a distant memory, I headed to the pool for a winter of swim practices and put my bike on the trainer in front of the television. I rode many miles in my living room and was disciplined about making it to swimming a few nights each week, but my running shoes stayed tucked away in the corner, collecting dust. I was punishing them for betraying me.

But soon, the slush of the DC winter was gone and all those spring races I had registered for months ago were coming up fast--specifically, the Lehigh Valley Half Marathon and the Cherry Blossom 10 Miler. I went through the motions for each of them, posting some personal worst times in the process. I knew it was time to make a decision, because I'm not the kind of person who is at all happy in merely participating...for me, the joy is in the hard work, in doing my absolute best, and achieving the goals I set for myself in the process.

I decided to give my old friend, running, a second chance. And, not to be dramatic, but I am in love, again...antsy on my day off each week, enveloped by that incomparable feeling of getting stronger each day, grateful that it's back in my life.

This morning, as I finished my last interval with the same fervor as my first, I couldn't help but smile. Like any true friend, running is there for me when I need it most.

Summertime. The Livin' Really is Easy

2008-06-27T13:07:00.009-04:00

Remember when summer seemed to last forever? I distinctly recall when the final bell of the school year would ring and as a mess of kids exited the building, the sense of anticipation for the months ahead to do with whatever you pleased was palpable. That's precisely how I felt when I bolted from my apartment in DC, now six weeks ago.

Really, I had every intention of finding a full-time job in New York and saving the world in my spare time, all within three months. I'm not sure how it's possible that the Fourth of July has already passed and my biggest accomplishment so far has been updating my blog exactly twice.

To be completely honest, I haven't felt so relaxed and healthy in years. I have no complaints--whatever it is that I am meant to do, wherever it leads me, it will happen in its time. I believe my job right now is to take full advantage of a situation that may never happen again: responsible for nobody but myself, living in a gorgeous home on a lake, enjoying the copious time I'm getting with my friends and family, going into the city (often) to run and play, writing to my heart's content, and training my face off for my next big race. In a way, I really do feel like a kid on summer vacation. Although I had been awake and working for hours, I actually answered the door in my pajamas at 11:30 a.m. today.

Even the pressure of triathlon training--something that tends to overwhelm me when I'm in the thick of it--was alleviated this year. There was no way to prepare properly for any races this season while I was moving--and I vowed to focus on my running this year anyway--so I turned my Tupper Lake Tinman half ironman race into a relay. I did the swim and run legs, while my teammate, Bill, completed the bike.

While the weekend was a blast, the race itself was an odd experience and I'm not sure how I'd even go about writing a race report for it if I wanted to. I had a dreadful swim--probably the worst I've done in 30 years of swimming. That's a lot of swimming, countless races, and a bold statement. But it's 100-percent true. Coming off a great winter of swim practices, I was derailed by my move and didn't take full advantage of the body of water right outside my door after I settled here. Also, my weekly running mileage is gradually building to a level I've never done before, so the motivation to also get swim workouts in during the week dwindled. Lesson learned: you can't race a swim you haven't trained for...and it also helps to stay on the course instead of zig-zagging across the lake countless times (I'm estimating I swam at least 2 miles, instead of the 1.2-mile course!).

So, as I trotted into transition, Bill was pacing, wondering where I was.

"I was getting worried!" he said.

Yeah, you and me both, buddy.

Off he went on his 56-mile ride. It was Bill's first race experience on his bike, leaving me with a few hours to kill before I had to run the half marathon. So, I met up with Josh, who was there supporting everybody, and we strolled across the street for coffee, I made a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and we cheered in our teammates who were finishing the sprint race. It was the oddest transition I've ever had. After about three hours had passed, I meandered over to my car to exchange my flip-flops for my running shoes, get my race bib, and head over to our transition area. I chatted with others waiting for their teammates and passed some time with other friends who had already finished their sprint races.

Another hour passed, the sun came out, the temperature soared, and it was my turn to wonder what had happened to Bill. He had been out there longer than I knew it should take him. I was hoping nothing bad had happened and was selfishly starting to get worried that I'd actually end up being the last runner on the course. Soon Bill showed up all in one piece, mumbling about a flat or something as I headed out onto the course for a 13-mile run.

I've never actually worried that I'd get lost in a race before, but I had to stop in the beginning to ask if I was going the right way -- on the way out, I passed the finish line, where a lot of people were now wrapping up their races. Depressing. Thankfully, the loneliness didn't last long as I took one mile at a time and saw teammates out there ahead of me on the out-and-back portions of the course. I kept the pace just comfortable in the heat--there was no need to treat it as anything but a training run. My idea of success was to get the miles in, not tax myself, and feel like I could have run farther when I was finished.

All of those goals were accomplished and I feel great about where my running is right now, as well as excited about what's to come. I didn't break any personal records (by a very long shot), but that wasn't my goal either. I feel strong and energized. More importantly, I wake up in the mornings looking forward to the day's run. This hasn't happened in years and I couldn't be more thrilled.

Speaking of which, seven miles await me out there this afternoon, so I better get moving. It's summertime and all is well.

Welcome to Rural Pennsylvania

2008-06-17T12:52:00.005-04:00

I'm not going to pretend that I don't remember where I came from--I am always going to be a Pennsylvania girl when it comes down to it. But I grew up in the decidedly suburban town of Hershey and went to college at Penn State, which is a city unto itself. After that I headed to Manhattan for a six-year stint, before I went to Washington, DC for another four years.

So here I am now, in Saylorsburg, PA. Where? Yeah, I know. It's sort of south of Stroudsburg, in the Pocono Mountains. I'm only about 75 miles from New York City, but, as "they" say, really a whole world away.

For example, the other night we had an Apocalypse Now-like thunderstorm. The lights flickered on and off, the outdoor furniture was tossed around kind of like those cows in the movie "Twister," and the lightning felt like it was going to strike me down right in my family room. As soon as it passed, I saw a man on my porch peering into the house through the sliding-glass doors, which in my previous urban life would have been cause for some degree of alarm for a single gal like myself. Here in Saylorsburg, however, it was actually just the neighbor checking in on me to make sure I was okay. Yes, they do that here. They also help you do your yard work out of the goodness of their hearts. I had no idea such humanity still existed.

But no matter where I've lived, like most runners, I've found that the absolute best way to get familiar with new surroundings is by foot. This philosophy has proven useful once again, as I've settled in here. What I've seen while running is very telling so far--a vast array of all walks of life exist here in Saylorsburg--people live in run-down huts, as well as full-on mansions, and everything in between. As far as the local culture, here's a little taste of what I've experienced so far:

1. Some folks are territorial. And really like firearms. A woman who runs a flower market in "town" (believe me when I say, I'm using that term loosely), posted a sign: "Beware of Owner: She has PMS. And a Gun." I also run by a driveway every morning displaying a sign: "No Trespassing. Violators will be Prosecuted. Or Shot." I would've taken a picture of it, but I sort of feared for my life.

2. The local Citgo station convenience store sells a Star Spangled Ice Cream line, from a company that apparently gives 10 percent of its profits to "conservative causes." Flavors include Iraqi Road, I Hate the French Vanilla, and my, um, personal favorite, Gun Nut. According to the Web site, the ice cream is "...NOT Kosher certified. It is manufactured by a small producer, so nutritional information is not available." Is it pathetic that I'm yearning to be friends with the people with the Obama sign in their yard, about a tenth of a mile away from the gas station?

3. The wildlife is unlike that of Central Park or the National Mall. I have been chased by deer while training. Twice. Forget aggressive dogs, I just want to know when exactly deer started to attack?

4. Men driving pick-up trucks don't like sharing the road with small women running. They yell things like, "Get out of the way." I view this as a healthy way to hold on to my cynicism, so that all my overly nice neighbors don't make me too soft this summer. After all, I have reputation to uphold, and a journalism career to worry about, which requires a fair amount of skepticism. I give thanks to all those guys with mullets who try to run me down in their 4x4's. Really, I do.

Everyday is an adventure. I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings...

Enjoying the View, At Last

2008-06-12T20:06:00.002-04:00

Um, I don't miss working in a cubicle. At all. Above is a tiny taste of what I look at from my new desk here in Pennsylvania, where I have to confess that my productivity level is at an all-time high and my stress level is at an all-time low. I hate to gloat, but I think I've finally figured out what peace is all about.

The short end to a long story is that I made it. For the most part, I'm all settled in here for my summer at the lake house. Those ridiculous movers finally did show up, they threw my worldly belongings in their truck, and now all those things that I thought I couldn't live without are in storage. And guess what? I'm living just fine without them.

I thought I'd be plotting my escape back to civilization by now, craving the buzz of the city and going stir-crazy from the quietness of rural Northeastern PA. So far, I haven't been bored for a second (knock on wood -- which, by the way, is not hard to find around here). I've easily transitioned into the rhythm of the country life without effort or much thought...I think the trick was just to surrender to it. Nobody is more shocked about all of this than I am.

I actually cook nutritious dinners, I visit farmer's markets, I sweep the porch, and water all the flowers. I snack on locally grown fruit. I run on the enormous hills every day, swim in the lake, and kayak to my heart's desire. And I write...a lot. It's amazing how the creativity flows when my head isn't running in a thousand other directions. I hit the pillow hard every night, contently exhausted from it all, and wake up as the sun rises every morning to start my new routine all over again.

Will it last? Who knows. It's not perfect, but it's close enough for now. And I'm a firm believer that I shouldn't try to fix something ever again that isn't broken. I made that mistake once, four years ago. And maybe that, after all, was the lesson learned.

Victory Lap, Part II

2008-06-03T16:45:00.003-04:00

So, I looked at him and shrugged.

"Sure. What do you want to know?"

"How many miles do you run every week?"

Ok, definitely not what I thought he was going to ask, though to be honest, I didn't really know what a shirtless street hockey player in front of the White House would inquire about.

"Um, it depends on what I'm training for," I said, as I made a subtle move to continue my run.

But he kept talking.

"Oh. But why would you run? It's not fun."

At this point, the guy is being borderline offensive.

"Well, why do you play hockey? That doesn't seem like very much fun either," I retorted.

"But hockey isn't hard. Running is hard. What do you do for fun?" he persisted.

I wracked my brain. Is it wrong that it has naturally filed running into the fun category?

"Triathlons?" I said, knowing that this wasn't going to be the right answer either.

He laughed.

"How about dating? Do you date?"

Ah, finally, he cuts to the chase.

"Yes, I date."

"Guys?"

"Yes, I date guys," I said.

"Do you want to date me?" he asked.

Give the him points for courage. Or maybe he's been hit in the head several times with a puck.

"Why would I want to do that?" I asked, thinking it was a fair question to pose, under the circumstances.

Clearly he wasn't prepared to answer.

"Because I'm going to be famous one day," he said...not very creatively.

"Oh really. What for?" I asked.

"I'm going to write a book about my life," he said.

"Is your life really that fascinating?"

"It might be," he said, handing over his digits, which began with a Northern Virginia area code.

"Ah, well, I'll take my chances--if it's meant to be, I'm sure I'll run into you again one day," I said.

"But I'm not the kind of person who will remember the little people, so you should call me," he said. "Or, you can give me your number and I'll call you."

"I'm moving out of DC tomorrow, but if you ever find yourself wandering through Northeastern Pennsylvania or Manhattan, perhaps our paths will cross again," I said, now not-so-subtly moving away.

"Ok, but I could have made you famous, too," he said.

"How do you know I wouldn't have made you famous instead?"

"I guess we'll never know," he said. "But with all that running you do, I doubt it."

I've run hundreds--perhaps more--miles in DC in four years, but that was the first pick-up attempt I've experienced while pounding the pavement. It reminded me of one thing that has taken me by surprise while living in Washington: how often my love of running has factored into the dating equation.

There was the Coast Guard guy who smoked cigarettes behind my back, but in an act of desperation to spend time with me one fall Saturday morning, tagged along on a 17-mile training run (the farthest he had ever gone before was 6 miles...once). There was the oh-so-attractive guy with the adorable dog, who couldn't understand why I continually chose to rise with the roosters to run before work, instead of getting drunk with him every night at the bar du jour. And then there was the Ironman, who was even more obsessed with his schedule than I.

I reminded myself that part of the reason I decided to move on is to help regain perspective and balance--something I've been lacking for far too long -- and not just on the dating scene. I guess my little street hockey guardian angel was there to hand me some of that perspective I am looking for: running is one thing that makes me happy, no matter where I am. And that's not a bad thought to have when the big moving truck is scheduled to pull up in the morning.

But as I arrived at the door of my apartment building, ending my last run as a DC resident, I began to question whether those movers will ever actually arrive.

To be continued.

Victory Lap, Part I

2008-05-29T21:06:00.003-04:00

I shouldn't be here. And while I've known that in my gut for now more than four years, I can't help but think I'm at the tail end of a breakup with the city of Washington, DC that would make good fodder for someone ridiculous like Dr. Phil.

My extended exit from the District is, of course, the moving company's fault. After frantically preparing for the big day and running all over the city saying my goodbyes to friends over too many bottles of wine, I've been sitting here for no less than three days--all of my belongings sealed in boxes, all of my furniture dismantled, all of my clothes packed away--waiting for them to show up, taunted by phone calls that keep delaying my plans.

I've never had an uneventful or easy move in all my many transient years, so I although I'm genuinely annoyed and ridiculously exhausted, I'm trying to keep my (relative) sanity intact. In the interest of full disclosure, however, I'll confess that around midnight last night I resorted to eating the last of the Ben & Jerry's in my freezer with my plastic coffee scoop, because all of my silverware is in a box...somewhere. Did I mention that I've essentially been wearing the same clothes since Sunday?

So today, Day Two of Erin's Not-So-Great-Escape from Washington, it became apparent that the big truck wasn't going to make it by my building's 6 p.m. deadline for using the freight elevator. I screamed at Tom the Moving Guy on the phone (who now picks up his line by saying, "Hi Erin..." as if we've somehow become friends through this ordeal) and then did what any self-respecting recreational endurance athlete would do: I ripped through my carefully packed car to locate my running shoes, a pair of shorts, dri-fit top, and hat so I could take one last lap through the Nation's Capital. After all, my training schedule very clearly stated "6 Miles -- Easy" today, and who am I to ignore a schedule if I don't absolutely have to?

Off I went, on a route that had become a favorite of mine over the past few years in the early mornings, before the tourist walk 3-to-8 abreast, the middle school field trips overwhelm the mall, the bike commuters ride on the sidewalk, and the cab drivers insist on nearly killing pedestrians at every intersection they choose to make a right turn on red. I thought it might evoke some nostalgia for my time here, perhaps some reflection on how my life has changed through this experience, and a bit of thought about what I'll truly miss about being here. And it did, but I suppose all of that is a posting for another time.

Not everybody has the opportunity to run past the White House, Capitol, Washington Monument, and Lincoln Memorial pretty much every day before most people wake up. To not appreciate that kind of scenery and symbolism in my backyard would be ignorant. But every time I was held up at a stoplight or inhaled bus fumes and cigarette smoke, a part of me started longing for the summer days that I'll spend in Pennsylvania with unlimited miles of country roads to myself and all the fresh air I can handle.

I turned right from 17th Street to run past the White House, where a large street hockey game was in full effect. I was startled out of my deep thoughts as one of the players skated right in front of me, stopping me dead in my tracks by holding his hockey stick in my way.

"Hey, can I ask you a question?" he said.

Maybe it was because the guy was, to be frank, pretty hot, or maybe it was because I was craving human interaction beyond Tom the Moving Guy after 48-hours of isolation in my barren apartment. But I stopped...

To be continued.

Pictures of You, Pictures of Me

2008-05-18T17:23:00.003-04:00

I'm in the midst of packing up and moving out of DC, heading north of the Mason Dixon Line and eventually back "home" to New York. In the meantime, my life has turned into a bit of chaos, as well as my apartment. I don't specialize in disarray. I am partial to order. But, my capacity to adapt continues to be finely honed during this interesting period of balancing priorities.

The first things I packed up were my photos, pictures, and books. I feel like a home without photos of good times with loved ones is just bleak, so I am really looking forward to the day that I land in a new home, so that my walls will once again display all of my favorite people, reminding me every day of the outstanding life I lead.

On the upside, packing is a great time to purge unnecessary clutter, so that when I unpack, I am truly starting anew. I hate owning superfluous stuff, so I'm challenging myself to give many belongings away instead of throwing them in a box to deal with later. So far, at least 11 big bags have gone to Good Will, with more to come.

I also took a little trip down memory lane. I have one keepsake box that sits on top of my dresser with only a small sampling of cards, letters, photos, and news clippings that have some sort of special meaning to me. The last time I went through this box was probably four years ago, when I moved to DC. I found the following "Wish for Leaders" scribbled on a piece of notebook paper. I don't know who it was from or who wrote it, but it looks like it was given to me as I was entering my senior year at Penn State. I must have found it pretty meaningful back then, and just as much so now, so I thought I'd share it.

A Wish for Leaders
I sincerely wish you will have the experience of thinking up a new idea, planning it, organizing it, and following it to completion and having it be magnificently successful. I also hope you'll go through the same process and have something "bomb out."
I wish you could know how it feels to run with all your heart and lose...horribly.
I wish that you could achieve some great good for mankind, but have nobody know about it except you.
I wish you could find something so worthwhile that you deem it worthy of investing your life.
I hope you become frustrated and challenged enough to begin to push back the very barriers of your own personal limitations.
I hope you make a stupid, unethical mistake and get caught red-handed and are big enough to say those magic words: I was wrong.
I hope you give so much of yourself that some days you wonder if it's worth it all.
I wish for you a magnificent obsession that will give you reason for living and purpose and direction in life.
I wish for you the worst kind of criticism for everything you do, because that makes you fight to achieve beyond what you normally would.
I wish for you the experience of leadership.

Moms Are the Best

2008-05-11T17:57:00.004-04:00

I was walking down Columbus Avenue this morning, on my way to meet up with some friends for brunch when I heard a woman walking ahead of me talking on her cell phone.

"Happy Mother's day!" she said.

Although I had remembered to send my mom a nice gift late last week, in the midst of traveling (a lot) this weekend for a wedding (congratulations Sonia & Ben!!!!!), the holiday itself had slipped my mind until that moment. I felt ashamed--not because my mother would care that I hadn't yet called--but because there's nobody on earth who deserves recognition more than she does.

I suspect I'm not the only one who feels that way about her mom. Moms, quite simply, are amazing human beings, for all the reasons that have been articulated many times before--Thomas Friedman, for example, does his mother much justice on the pages of the New York Times today.

Now that most of my closest friends have becomes moms themselves, I have an entirely new appreciation for the role and I absolutely swell with pride because of the women they've become in motherhood. They are dedicated, driven, tireless, and loving. But, perhaps most impressively, each one of them has kept a healthy sense of humor, even on the most challenging days.

So, Happy Mother's Day...to all the moms in my life, most especially to Michele, who brought baby number 2 into the world on Friday and Jenn, who is welcoming baby number 3 as I type. Congratulations and cheers!

'...the Pride of Her Friends.'

2008-05-05T21:17:00.008-04:00

In the self-created chaos of the past few months, there have been few moments that I've stopped to simply enjoy. I had missed that feeling -- those rare snippets in time when you don't care what's coming next and you've already forgotten what was bothering you 10 minutes ago.

As I entered the old, familiar lobby of that white colonial building on the west side of the Penn State campus on Friday, it was apparent that I was in for a weekend of happiness in its purest form. It's as if my group of closest friends have this magical power to calm, heal, and rejuvenate each other, without ever necessarily knowing their effect.

We descended on campus for a celebration of the 100th anniversary of Lion's Paw -- the organization I count myself eternally lucky to be part of, but never really sure how or why it happened, even 11 years after the fact. What I do know is that it has afforded me a group of people who quite simply are my family. Some of us grew up together, others watched us grow up, and now we find ourselves old enough to see an entirely new generation embarking on the paths we helped to pave. And for 100 years, the tradition continues.

Everybody (hopefully) has those people in their lives. The kind who can melt distance and time in an instant, because no matter what else is happening or has happened since you last talked, you come from the same roots. There is always respect and appreciation for where you're coming from and a common bond that has only gotten stronger as the years go on.

We were brought up on an old-fashioned diet of work hard, play hard. Together, we were taught to have the courage to take initiative when we see a need...to not wait to be asked, to not expect payoff for doing so. We found that honest discussion among the most diverse of us led to the ability to reason together, and in turn brought out the best in all of us.

Those aren't bad values to leave college with and perhaps we didn't even realize that they were being ingrained at the time. But I don't buy the part about never receiving payoff. I left Penn State with so much more than a degree. I left with a treasure trove of friends who I am beyond grateful for every day of my life, who established my self confidence so long ago, and continue to feed my dreams today. They listen to my plans and goals and they ask how they can help make them reality. And beyond all of this, these are the people who draw out my laughter, who know better than anybody how to have a good time. Again, I ask how I got so lucky?

Here's to 100 more years, my friends...M.I.E.R.

An Epiphany...Or Just More Rational Thinking

2008-04-23T22:33:00.004-04:00

I don't need to do a half ironman this season.

I know--nobody actually ever "needs" to do a half ironman. But many a triathlete has convinced herself that she must. I did one last year, so therefore, I believed that I must do one this year...so that the ultimate goal (yes...that goal...take the "half" out of "half ironman") might be just one step closer.

But I don't need to do a half ironman this season.

Am I capable of finishing one? Yes. Absolutely. Unlike last year, I have no doubt about that. But my brain finally put a few key pieces of information together this week:

1. My bike, which I adoringly refer to as Lucifer, is still ill-fitting, after four (FOUR!) bike fits. I think it's time to face an inevitable truth that Lucifer wasn't meant for my less-than-five-foot frame.

2. Ill-fitting bikes cause injuries. I know this to be true, because at the conclusion of the last two triathlon seasons, I've had ITB issues on my right knee and lower back pain. It's really annoying to dive into fall marathon-training season with a bum right leg. And lower back pain.

3. I don't have the money right now to replace Lucifer, therefore, Lucifer and I are in for another long triathlon season together. That means I should limit the time on my bike, which limits the ability to train for that 56-mile ride that comes right smack dab in the middle of the 1.2-mile swim and the 13.1-mile run.

4. I'm moving. Where? Ultimately New York, with a possible pit stop in Pennsylvania. When? Uh, sometime in the next six weeks, in between attending bridal showers, college reunions, weddings, building my freelance work, helping get the Race with Purpose season underway, and OH YEAH, trying to find a place to live. When, exactly, am I suppose to do those long rides anyway? Or those BRick workouts? For somebody of my speed, they can take all day.

5. The nice race director at the Tupper Lake Tinman told me I could change my entry to a relay. Because my swim coaches have beaten the crap out of us for months now, I strongly believe it'd be a crime to give up the swim portion of the race. Because I have big hopes and dreams for my next marathon in November, I don't want to give up the run either. Cue my good friend Jeff, who doesn't necessarily crave a good swim and generally hates running. But the guy truly rocks on his bike. It's like it's meant to be. Our two-person half ironman relay is born.

Sometimes life gets in the way of a good plan. Like many, many others I know, I've had a hard time accepting that, and it's difficult to let go of a goal. But I also realize that trying to jam 20 pounds of potatoes into a 10-pound sack has turned me into a cranky, tired, irritable person for approximately two years now. No more...the epiphany finally happened.

I don't need to do a half ironman this season.

Remembering the Lessons Learned

2008-04-15T17:47:00.004-04:00

Tomorrow marks the anniversary of the tragic shooting rampage at Virginia Tech University. I was going through some old e-mails and came across one that I wrote to my running team as we wrapped up that horrible week of endless news coverage at The Chronicle of Higher Education. I thought it was worth sharing.

I can't remember the last time I was so happy to see Friday. Like Michelle explained at the beginning of the week, we all have our releases and I too count running, swimming, and (sometimes) cycling among them. Unfortunately for you, you've signed on to a group that is a captive audience for my other outlet: writing. Bail now. Hit delete. I'll never know.

Most of you know that my career--the one that pays my bills--is as a reporter for a newspaper called The Chronicle of Higher Education. Busy days for us usually involve a university president getting fired, student-loan scandals, faculty members who have plagiarized, groundbreaking research, or a campus protest that got out of hand.

Obviously the week in higher education took a tragic turn on Monday morning in Blacksburg, Va. And while most of us in this newsroom have cut our teeth elsewhere, hardening us to the tragedies we often cover, this week had every journalist I work with overwhelmed with a sense of stress and sadness, and finally today, exhaustion.

Just about an hour ago, I finally finished writing the last profile of one of 33 victims. She was the captain of her high-school swim team, an environmentalist, and a person whose laugh was so genuine and loud that her professors said they could hear her coming down the hall. She had plans to travel to Zambia to start a career that would take her to the far reaches of the earth, to help those less fortunate create clean water systems. She spent her free time helping community children appreciate the outdoors and learn about science. He adviser told me that while she had the heart of an idealist, she tempered it with a healthy dose of pragmatism, never simply saying that something "should" be done, without figuring out a way to make it happen.

I wrote about a 19-year-old girl whose smile was so warm and broad, her friend told me she could put an entire room at ease without speaking a word. She didn't live long enough to declare her major, but had dreams of becoming an elementary school teacher. In the meantime she was happy playing lacrosse, baking cookies with her friends, and watching reruns of Dawson's Creek. She was killed on Monday during French class, just a few weeks shy of completing her freshman year at Virginia Tech.

So, take a look around your world this weekend and know that life is good, at least for this moment. Cliché? Yes, absolutely. But after a week of talking with those who are in such grief and despair, it's hard to ignore the fact that to care for and love your friends and family so deeply is what makes this life worth living. How many tragedies--global, national or personal--do we need to go through to finally learn?

Be generous with your compassion, be quick to forgive, be fast to laugh, and even faster to move on. Be gentle and kind...to everybody. There's not enough time to be petty. There's not enough time to be mean. There's not enough time to worry about what you can't control, or to not surround yourself with the people who encourage your dreams and support your goals--and to not choose to live your life in such a way that it's natural instinct to do the same right back.

Go to the 4-miler in the park this weekend and relish the time together. Have brunch. Eat bacon. Laugh loudly. Don't worry about the color of your singlet or the logo on your shorts. Run for the graduate student whose last phone conversation on Monday morning was with his little sister, calming her nerves and confidently saying that yes, she would finish the Boston Marathon, even though it was cold, wet, and windy--after all, they had trained together in far worse conditions in the mountains surrounding their childhood home near Penn State University.

We're all in this together, whatever "this" ends up being. So enjoy it. Every minute of it.

A Last Look at the Cherry Blossoms

2008-04-08T16:34:00.011-04:00

When I looked out the window early on Sunday morning, I didn't much like what I saw. It was still dark, but the raindrops hitting the puddles below were a strong indication that it was going to be a long, cold, wet day.

This past Sunday was the Cherry Blossom 10 Miler, which is one of DC's most popular races. It has become a favorite on my race schedule year after year--I think because it marked the "beginning" for me two years ago as a runner.

Although I had run cross country though out middle and high school and have been running marathons since 2000, the year I ran the Cherry Blossom race in 2006 was really a turning point for me in the sport. It was the first I had actually trained through the winter, and the first I had ever incorporated strength, conditioning, and speed into my routine. I went from running a 1:29 in 2005 to a 1:17 just 12 months later. I astounded even myself -- I had no idea I was even capable of it until it actually happened. And it is amazing what happens when you figure out what you're capable of.

This year, however, was no 2006. For one, it wasn't warm and sunny. It was cold and rainy. And a little windy, too. The course was new and consisted of a whole bunch of out-and-backs that started to make me dizzy. But, as it turned out, that was the least of my problems.

I was fortunate enough to run with Josh, one of my Race with Purpose teammates, who is super fast, but super injured right now, hence the reason he chose to hang with me. I had wanted to see if we could stick to about a 7:45 pace, but my legs had an entirely different plan in store. From the start, they just felt heavy and tired. I had no gusto--it was a chore to keep turning them over, mile after mile. I knew pretty soon into the race that it wasn't going to be my day, so my goal was to just turn it into a tempo run and get a good workout in if nothing else...maybe try to at least run a negative split.

Josh was excellent company throughout the race and I felt bad that although the pace was a walk in the park for him, I wasn't really holding up my end of the conversation. Heavy legs plus no coffee turns me into a lame running partner, I admit.

With about a half mile to go, Josh took off. He tried to get me to go with him, but being the stubborn witch I am (sometimes), I declined for about 2 minutes and he wisely went on without me. The rain started really coming down just as we crossed the finish line, so we hurried to brunch as quickly as we could.

Somehow in the process, I lost my coveted Nike running gloves which totally bummed me out at first, but then I realized that I have never run a good race with them, so I decided they were bad luck anyway. Yes, runners are oddly superstitious. Besides, my friend Michelle brought me a new pair of Asics gloves straight from Japan -- they are like the Five Borough gloves they give out at the New York City Marathon (of which I have multiple pairs), but they have the names of Japanese towns on the fingers instead. They are my new lucky gloves, for sure, not only because they are so very cool, but because they are from Michelle, who has always been and continues to be my running hero (injured or healthy, happy or sad, running or swimming, racing or spectating -- it doesn't matter, because she rocks :-)).

So, my splits turned out like this:

Mile 1 - 8:35
Mile 2 - 8:04
Mile 3 - 7:52
Mile 4 - 7:51
Mile 5 - 7:59
Mile 6 - 7:57
Mile 7 - 8:06
Mile 8 - 8:03
Mile 9 - 7:44
Mile 10-8:03
Finish time: 1:20

Not my best performance by a long shot, but good incentive to take a look at the training plan and figure out why it's not working. Regardless, I had a great weekend with a fun group of friends, so thanks to Michelle, Sonia, Ben, Suzanne, Christine, Josh, and Bill for making the trip down here. Maybe wine and ice cream wasn't the best pre-race meal on Saturday night, but it sure tasted good.

That's it for the Cherry Blossoms this year. Here's hoping that next year brings warmer, drier weather...and a fresher pair of legs.

Happiness Is...

2008-04-01T23:21:00.003-04:00

Kicking ass during an hour-long morning hill workout.
Having an entire day of challenging, rewarding, and well-paying work, with no fear of not being able to pay the bills.
Getting a 3,000-meter evening swim workout finished in just less than 60 minutes.
Being too warm in a light jacket on the walk home (nobody does springtime better than the states...and the District...south of the Mason-Dixon Line!).
Picking up a special Ben & Jerry's treat and savoring it completely without an iota of guilt.
Putting on my most comfy pajamas and being contently exhausted.

I had a really good day, and when you finally learn the true meaning of taking it one day at a time, there's nothing more satisfying than that.

Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2008-03-29T10:48:00.007-04:00

So, DC may have its problems, but even I love the cherry blossoms. Welcome to spring in Washington! I thought it would be fun to post a few photos of what I get to see these days when I'm out for a run or a ride. It doesn't get much more beautiful than this -- especially when we locals can get out there to enjoy it before all the tourists take over.

Stupidity on Wheels

2008-03-19T15:10:00.007-04:00

Warning, my friends: I'm about to rant.

I just returned from a five-mile hill workout, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I may have lost some speed since the Philadelphia Marathon, but I'm almost certain I've gained some strength since triathlon training began. It's a fair trade, I suppose.

On my way back down to my apartment, it started pouring rain. Apparently it's not supposed to stop until tomorrow, which is a shame because it's also 67 degrees outside. When you're battling Spring Fever and nature has made it impossible to take advantage of such a lovely temperature, it hardly seems, well, fair.

Anyway...all of this is really not the point. I was stopped at a red light a few blocks away when I saw something that struck me as absurd. In the middle of the usual busy, rainy-day traffic jamming the streets of our dear Nation's Capital, a woman was weaving in and out of the cars riding a bike. Wearing fashionable knee-high leather boots. With no helmet. Holding an umbrella over her head.

Ok, there are several things wrong with this scenario, none of which I probably need to point out, but I will anyway.

1. I'm all for people commuting on bikes and I truly don't care what they're wearing. I was just trying to set the scene with my snarky boots comment. Really, I'd take a gazillion people wearing inappropriate clothing to ride their bikes if it meant there would be no more silly SUVs polluting our world anymore.

2. However, there is never, ever any excuse for not wearing a helmet. I don't understand why anybody would get on a bike without wearing one. It's among the dumbest things anybody can do. Do I think that every state should enforce laws making people wear helmets? No. I don't believing in legislating common sense. But I have a really hard time feeling sorry for somebody who crack their skull in what should have otherwise been a minor bike accident. Helmets have saved lives...and if that doesn't strike a chord, they also save money. In fact, according to the Helmet Safety Institute, direct costs of cyclists' injuries due to not using helmets are estimated at $81-million each year. Indirect costs of cyclists' injuries due to not wearing helmets are estimated at $2.3-billion.

3. So back to this woman I saw earlier today. Really? You're going to protect yourself from the rain by trying to balance an umbrella over your head, while your steering your bike through rush-hour city traffic with one hand? I bet you're going to happy you stayed so nice and dry when you end up face down on the concrete with the paramedics assessing the extent of your head and body injuries.

I could go on and on all day here. But, really, what is so hard about putting a helmet on? I'm imagining that these people are the same ones who can't seem to exert the energy to put their seat belts on in the car either. Is it laziness? Just trying to look cool (whatever that is)? What is the issue? Can anybody help me out here? I mean, if it's a cost issue, there are nonprofit organizations all over the place that give the damn things out for free.

And don't even get me started about all the people in this city who ride their bikes on the sidewalk. I think I better just save that rant for another day.

Giving Big Isn't Always Easy

2008-03-02T19:29:00.011-05:00

I watched Oprah's Big Give last night. Me and approximately 16 million other people. Oprah told me I'd be "inspired" to give big myself. She promised America that giving big is "easy."

That's when Oprah lost me.

Making a positive difference in the life of another person doesn't have to be hard and it doesn't always have to cost money. With that, I agree. But watching 10 people handpicked by Oprah's lackeys, running around unknown cities, raising thousands of dollars during the course of just a couple of days for causes already screened by television producers, makes real philanthropy look deceivingly simple. Not to mention that corporate sponsors are, of course, going to pony up with a single phone call when they've got Oprah's platform to tout their good deeds.

In real life, philanthropy doesn't work that way. It's full of rejection and disappointment, just as often as it is filled with utter joy and fulfillment. The average charity--often run by people with deep knowledge, unrelenting passion, and pure hearts--doesn't have the most powerful woman in America backing its endeavor to do good in this world. Cold calling corporations for sponsorships and approaching donors and foundations for crucial funds is hard. Plain and simple...it takes a ridiculous amount of time, energy, and tenacity to build support for a cause, no matter how much it may help the world's neediest people.

Maybe I'm a little touchy right now. I'm part of a committee that's deciding where to invest all the donations we collected during our first season of Race with Purpose. Our team raised almost $90,000 when all was said and done, and we put that money in a separate Race with Purpose fund at a private foundation. The investment committee of five team members has been devoted since October to finding the charities most closely aligned with our mission to help under-served children lead healthy, active lives.

To be blunt, the process has been exhausting. We have been rigorous in our research to ensure that our money is going to organizations that have the best shot at being successful and using our funds to have measurable, meaningful impact on the kids they serve. We created our grant-making process from scratch, writing an application, inviting our list of 20 possible grantees, getting in touch with all of them, reading through each application, and finally narrowing our choices down to four groups, all of which we then interviewed on the phone.

During the course of this experience, it was astounding to me how many charities are out there doing so many compelling things. Our "final four" is presenting us with a difficult decision, because all of them are deserving of our support. I guess the upside is that there doesn't seem to be a "wrong" decision. In the end, there are some kids out there who will inevitably live better because of the money our team raised. There is something unbelievably satisfying about that.

I don't fault Oprah for giving this reality show a whirl. The less cynical side of me truly believes that anything that can get more people to be selfless, to care about those in need, to live for something bigger than themselves, is a fantastic idea. I hope it works and I do hope that people are moved to do more good in their communities, or at the very least reach out to a friend could use support and do what you can to help. God knows you don't have to look too far to find somebody who could benefit from your kindness and concern.

My inspiration comes from the amazing committee of Race with Purpose members who have given their time, intelligence, and work ethic to help underprivileged kids--and the organizations that are doing the real work to make it happen.

And I am continually in awe of and grateful to the organization that set me on this path to begin with: Penn State Dance Marathon (Thon), the largest student-run philanthropy in the nation. Once again this year, thousands of Penn State students dedicated themselves to helping the families of children battling cancer at the Penn State Hershey Medical Center. Those students just raised a record $6,615,318.04 for the Four Diamonds Fund last weekend, meeting the challenge with the same spirit and enthusiasm they bring to the biggest Nittany Lion football games. As our beloved JoePa says of Thon, "This is what they mean when they say, 'We are Penn State.'"

Watch this snippet on CBS from my senior year of college...and be inspired.

Running Away from Flu Season

2008-02-22T17:53:00.005-05:00

Who has the flu? Everybody, it seems. This year's strain is a particularly nasty one. I've been paranoid for a good solid month that I'm going to catch it. Every tickle in my throat or slight sniffle compels me to wash my hands (again), drink an extra glass of water, eat my veggies, and add a few more blueberries to my morning yogurt concoction.

My kitchen may soon be dubbed Antioxidants "R" Us.

But it's tricky to know when to take a day off from training in an attempt to stave off illness. Yesterday is a perfect example. I had been traveling this week and was overtired already. My throat was a little sore, I had a dull headache all day long, and just felt a bit off.

The decision I was facing: Go to swim practice, or take the day off.

Because of my traveling, I hadn't been to practice at all this week, though I had gotten some good running and cycling sessions in. The guilt of missing an entire week of swimming made it tough for me to quickly jump to the choice to skip it. Besides, there are times when a workout actually makes you feel better. Maybe this was one of those times.

With an hour left to decide, I popped a couple of Advil and took a quick hot shower (yes, I know it's weird to take a shower before working out, but sometimes it can get rid of a headache). I started to feel better, so I headed to the pool. Halfway through warm-up I knew I had made the right decision. It was a tough practice, but a good one -- I was a new woman when it was over.

It's a tricky spot to be in this time of year, when so many people around us are coughing, sneezing, and curling up in the fetal position with full body aches. My philosophy? It will never hurt to take one day off, especially if it saves you from catching something that will have you sidelined for a week or more. I was fully prepared to bag my swim if I was feeling lousy after the first set.

Listen to your body -- even if you're not training for anything or not an athlete at all, learning to recognize the signs it inevitably sends you can save a lot of grief. For me, it's time to chill out and lay low if my resting heart rate is elevated, I feel drained or unusually fatigued, I have a drop or loss of appetite, or a workout that should be easy seems hard.

When your body is fighting off an illness, you need to let it do its thing and not bother it with the nuisance of keeping your busy schedule. Take a time out. Or, as we like to say at Race with Purpose: Rest your body, or your body will rest you.

And if you do come down with the flu, my message to the world is this: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STAY HOME! Nobody wants you spreading your germs. And nobody is that important. We promise the world won’t end because you had to take some time off to get better.

This hereby officially ends my rant for today.

A Body In Motion...

2008-02-13T16:19:00.007-05:00

Happy hour in 1999 with my grandfathers: Poppop (left) and Pappap (right)

"Happy birthday, Pappap!" I exclaimed into the phone this morning.

"Erin, hello! Thank you," my grandfather responded, on this, his 93rd birthday.

"What are you doing to celebrate?" I asked.

"Well, you know. Not too much. Same old thing, though I think I may have a Rolling Rock this afternoon," he said, with a little laugh.

"I wish I could be there to have one with you," I said.

"Me too, Erin. Me too," he said.

My Pappap turned 93 years old today, which in and of itself is quite something. But beyond the number of years he's roamed the earth, what's even more extraordinary is that he starts the road to 94 with the same can-do spirit, sense of humor, and downright stubborness he's had his whole life. At 33, it's hard for me to imagine not being simply exhausted 60 years from now.

He's seen World War II, the Great Depression, the death of his only daughter's husband, the loss of his wife. He's the last of 13 brothers and sisters who is still alive. He recently moved from the only home he's ever really known into a Veteran's Home in Western Pennsylvania, where he is one of the only residents on his floor with the ability to hold a lucid conversation. For a man who's thrived on deep family connections, long-standing friendships, and a social calendar that until recently rivaled a Hollywood starlet's, his capacity to adapt is a lesson of ridiculous proportions.

He (and we) thought it was the end for him about two years ago. My mother was spending weeks on end at his house, trying to convince him that he needed to decide which retirement home he wanted to move into. One night, enough was enough. We had to call an ambulance to take him to a hospital. An infection had disabled him completely and his health declined rapidly. While he was in the hospital, plans were made to move him directly to the Veteran's Home. That morning, as he was being taken out on a stretcher, was the last time he ever saw his home of nearly 65 years.

He spent the first few months in his new surroundings complaining a lot and telling us he was just waiting to die (much to my mother's general dismay). Confined to a wheelchair, he didn't see the point in sticking around. His pride was getting the best of him -- if he couldn't move with his own two legs, he decided he just didn't want to move anymore.

Soon, he was introduced to physical therapy, though. If you're not familiar, old people generally hate physical therapy. But my Pappap soon realized that the exercises were making it possible to regain some independence. And, besides that, they just made him feel good. One day when the physical therapist was running late, Pappap took it upon himself to call him, to make sure he was still coming. The therapist was shocked...he'd never met any resident quite like my Pappap.

While my grandfather is still largely confined to the wheelchair, he doesn't talk at all about if he'll walk again, but instead talks about plans to go out for dinner when he can walk again. He recently achieved a big milestone, after nearly 18 months of training: he can get himself out of bed without any help.

The last time I went for a visit, a nurse came in to take him for his daily walk -- one of very few things he insists on. He counts each step he takes with his walker and tries to add a few each day. Pappap beamed with pride when the nurse told me that he walks the farthest of all the residents on the floor. When I'm ready to quit on a training run or in a race, there's no way I can, knowing this.

The secret to a long and happy life?

"You gotta keep moving, Erin," he's said to me, more than once. "That's all."

When I asked him on his 92nd birthday how he felt, he replied that he was just waiting "to go."

When I asked him the same question today, he said, "I'm looking forward to my 94th."

Mind, body, spirit -- I need no other proof that they are all connected. It's only when you stop moving--even briefly--that you lose perspective...no matter how old you are.

Happy birthday, Pappap! Here's to another Rolling Rock on your 94th.

And on the Fourth Day of Freelancing...

2008-02-07T12:59:00.000-05:00

...I learned that my neighbors have a dog that howls all day long.

Oh. My. God.

Tipping Scales, Making Rookie Mistakes

2008-02-04T20:38:00.000-05:00

After a tremendous week of wrapping up way too many loose ends, a bunch of bittersweet farewells, lots of good wishes, and a few too many celebratory beers, I headed to Hershey to visit my mom. This is code for: I had a big life change happen on Friday--my last day of work--so I ran home as fast as I could in the hope that my mommy could take care of me for a day or two.

And take care of me she did, of course. It was nice to be in the "Green Zone" for 48 hours, before the madness of the freelance life began in earnest this morning.

One key difference between my mother's house and my apartment is the bathroom scale. Whereas I consciously choose to never have one in my home, my mom has one in each bathroom. Save for a doctor's visit, I could go for months or years never really knowing how much I weigh.

But when I find myself in a bathroom with a scale, my curiosity always gets the best of me. And then it starts: even though I feel healthy and strong, my training is going well, my clothes fit comfortably, and my nutrition has been well in check, if the number isn't what I'm expecting, there's that small, fleeting wave of disappointment.

It's positively silly when people who are otherwise completely healthy, fixate on weight. It fluctuates up and down all day long to begin with, and for most triathletes, it doesn't tell you anything about your health or performance -- those are measured in many other ways, including most simply, how you feel. It's not to say that losing a few pounds won't make a runner or a triathlete faster -- in almost all cases it clearly will -- but there's no magic number that is going to create an athletic miracle. Hence, my distain for bathroom scales prevails.

While I was home, I weighed myself twice. The last time I had hopped on the scale and looked at the numbers, I expected it to be tragic, because it was Christmas. I had been eating mostly cookies and washing them down with beer and wine. I had taken five weeks off from all forms of exercise, following the Philly Marathon. But that number wasn't as horrible as I would've thought given the cards I had stacked against myself. You can imagine my surprise yesterday, then, following a good four weeks of triathlon training, when the scale told me that I had gained anywhere from six to eight pounds.

Six to eight pounds? Really? On a less-than-five-foot frame, I feel like these superfluous pounds must be hiding somewhere I just can't see. I've convince myself that it must be muscle mass. Because I have enormous biceps. (Does sarcasm translate in the blog world?)

After I talked myself out of throwing that damn scale out the window, I downed another cup of coffee and sat myself in front of the computer. It was time to begin my new freelance life -- all +8 pounds of me. Monday is typically my day off of training, so I decided to quickly check my e-mail before taking a shower and getting dressed.

As a work-from-home veteran, I should have known not to fall victim to that rookie mistake. Never, ever turn the computer on while you're still wearing your pajamas. You can bet your day's pay that by lunchtime, you'll still be wearing them. And around 12:30 p.m. there I was, writing, answering e-mails, and pathetically wearing my favorite flannel PJ bottoms while sipping a now-cold cup of coffee.

People often ask me why I train for marathons and triathlons. Until the day comes again that I'm forced to go to an office every morning, I can add, "Because a morning workout forces me to take a shower and get dressed before noon everyday" to the list.

And, of course, because as long as I'm training, I'll never own a bathroom scale.

Balancing Act

2008-01-29T16:24:00.000-05:00

In just three days I'll officially be a freelance writer. Again. In preparation for yet another round of life changes (do they ever really end?), I've been trying to remember all the mistakes I made the last time I tried my hand at the independent life.

A good friend who knows me all too well suggested not long ago that I reserve February to be a "Lady of Leisure." She threw down an ultimate challenge: Don't take any new work, don't schedule any meetings, don't set an agenda. Just be. For four weeks. See how it goes when your mind actually has a chance to find some peace.

So, next week I'm meeting with an editor to go over assignments I've already accepted, I'm helping to throw a Race with Purpose fund-raising party in New York, which will double as a time to kick-start our marketing plan on Saturday and meet with our Team Grant Advisory Committee after a 20K race in Connecticut on Sunday. Somehow in the course of scheduling time with friends in Pennsylvania mid-month, I was persuaded to be a guest speaker at a Penn State journalism class.

Have I mentioned what my triathlon training schedule looks like yet?

All of this is not to say that I'm not going to enjoy most--if not all--of it. But it is to say that I have learned that I am just no "Lady of Leisure." I'd love to be that lady. But I don't know how. I think I'm scared of not having any plans or something.

What exactly causes somebody to be such a complete spaz? If you have any theories, please, let me know.

Honoring Mandy

2008-01-20T16:43:00.000-05:00

There's a certain sibling-like love that I'll always share with the kids I grew up with on my swim team. We all started swimming together as toddlers, practically, and although we're now all spread out across the country and around the world, they are as important to me today as they were in every other stage of my life. We may not be in touch with each other nearly enough, but most of us think of each other often, I know, and remember fondly the 14-plus years that we shared nearly every part of our lives -- in and out of the pool.

Amanda Kundrat -- who we always affectionately called Mandy -- was at the center, always, of the group, from the time she was old enough to swim from one end of the pool the other. Her older sister Carrie and I were the same age and the best of friends. Mandy was the perennial little sister. She had a gregarious giggle, infectious smile, wide-open spirit, and what seemed like natural ability to succeed at whatever she chose to do. She was wise, as well as a decorated, powerful, and strong athlete, not only in swimming, but tennis, too -- as dedicated to her training and health as she was to having a lot of fun. It was easy to be around Mandy, but harder to be around her and not find yourself laughing, or getting into some kind of mischief.

Five years ago -- January 21, 2003 -- Mandy died of complications while waiting for a heart transplant. She was 25 and was in the middle of earning her doctorate in communications at Penn State University. Her focus and passion were healthcare, with special emphasis on organ and blood donation. To honor her young, accomplished life, her friends have organized a blood drive in State College, PA each year since Mandy died.

This year the hope is that more people will donate blood in Mandy's honor, no matter where they live. Because I'm unable give blood myself, I'm hoping that I'm doing a small part to help the cause by asking anybody reading this to donate sometime this week if you can. I know that Carrie and her mom Joanne, as well as the rest of Mandy's friends and family would love to know that her hard work and her spirit lives on as more people stop to think about the importance of organ and blood donation this week.

For more details about the blood drive, a Web site has been created to spread the word -- if you donate this week, please post a note there to let the Kundrat family know. Also, if you're not in a position to give blood, monetary donations are being accepted at Redcross.org and checks can be sent to: Graduate Forum (attention Mary Haman), 234 Sparks Building, University Park, PA 16802. If you're in State College and wish to volunteer at the drive, which is on Friday, January 25, contact Hillary Jones at hillaryannjones@gmail.com.

Rest in peace, Mandy.

Well-Fed, Cozy, Sleepy

2008-01-17T21:30:00.000-05:00

It snowed, sleeted, and rained all day in Washington, DC. It was cold and nasty -- actually the perfect conditions for snuggling up at home in flannel pajamas and a favorite old sweatshirt, while eating hot soup.

That's exactly the scenario I fantasized about all day. I woke up early to get a frigid 5-mile run in, before I had to rush into the office to close a story, update the blog multiple times (not this one, obviously...the one I write at work), and report another article for the daily report. By 3 p.m., when I finally had time to get some lunch in between all the editing, the white, fluffy flakes had morphed into an icy, torrential downpour. Brrr.

By 4 p.m. I started audibly whining about going to swim practice. The mere thought of jumping into the water had me shivering in my cubicle. I made three phone calls to the YMCA to make sure they weren't closing early -- it was the one time in the past four years that there was remotely bad weather and it actually stayed open. I felt like a kid who went to bed expecting a snow day and awoke to no white stuff at all.

Thanks to the tough love of my good friend, coworker, and fellow triathlete Kelly, we made it to practice. And, as usual, once I got myself in the pool, it wasn't so bad. My thoughts had turned pretty quickly to the leftover chicken enchilada waiting for me at home. Getting through the last half...a somewhat tedious set of 300s that included a lot of backstroke...I began visualizing myself eating the enchilada, in my flannel pajamas and my favorite old sweatshirt.

And now here I am. Home at last. Flannel pajamas? Check. Favorite old sweatshirt? Check. Chicken enchilada? It's in my belly.

Well-fed, cozy, sleepy. Finally.

Maybe There's a Pot of Gold, Too...

2008-01-09T14:29:00.001-05:00

A rainbow this morning over Penn State's Beaver Stadium (from the Centre Daily Times)

I saw this on the Web site of State College's hometown newspaper and couldn't resist. Is there a voucher for a National Championship at the end of this rainbow?

Um, Has Anybody Seen My Goggles?

2008-01-08T12:43:00.000-05:00

I'm trying to get my triathlon groove back. Let me just say that I always find it far easier to get back into marathon-training mode, but the thought of the next few months of tri-training has me a little flustered. Maybe it's all the gear involved. It all takes a lot of thought and preparation and planning, unlike running, which only requires some key pieces of clothing, a road, and a good pair of shoes.

This morning I woke up late, but was still determined to get a 50-minute run in before work. If I don't establish a routine now, before the requirement of showing up at an office everyday is over, it will be degrees more difficult to motivate when that big part of my schedule is dropped from the equation.

So, off I went, running up Massachusetts Avenue. Let me just say that I realize I'm not fat, but for those of you who understand the difference between "racing weight" and, uh, your "other weight," you'll appreciate how I felt this morning. It was like hauling another me up the hill. And that wasn't very encouraging.

But I soldiered on and made it to the National Cathedral before heading back down good-old Mass. Ave. to get ready for work.

As I rushed to get dressed, now pushing the acceptable limit of lateness at our office--which, truth be told, is already quite generous--I remembered that swim practice begins again tonight.

Now, it's been so long since I last went to swim practice that I couldn't remember where I had thrown my swim suit, cap, and goggles so that I could pack them up for tonight. I mean, really? It's been so long that I can't find my gear...in a ONE BEDROOM APARTMENT!? Yeah, this is going to be fun tonight, I can already tell.

So, after discovering my swim suit in the bottom of a drawer and a cap in what I call my "bag of triathlon crap," I still couldn't find my favorite pair of goggles. They are missing. So I tossed a back-up pair that I found in the "bag of triathlon crap" into my backpack and scurried out the door.

I made it to work with negative minutes to spare.

If practice tonight requires even a fraction of the effort that it took to prepare for it, I realize that I'm in big trouble.

Moving On

2008-01-06T15:10:00.000-05:00

Did you ever have one of those moments when you felt like you were taking a leap off of a tall building and not quite sure if anybody was going to be there to catch you in the end?

On Friday I quit my job. I'm feeling an interesting combination of adrenaline, relief, and fear. And yesterday it was all compounded with a nice headache, compliments of a celebration of my career decision the night before.

The truth is, I've been restless for a while, but not courageous enough to do much about it except complain a lot to the people around me. I'm the first to admit that talking about a difficult situation is only helpful for about a minute. You can talk about anything forever (and I almost did), but until you're ready to take action, it's a waste of time. Yours and everybody else's, too.

I battled with this decision. There's something ingrained in my personality that makes it excruciating to quit or walk away from anything, especially a challenge (see my Chicago Marathon experience for a vivid example). And perhaps that's why I've lasted four years as a reporter here. I love writing. I love being a journalist. I think that the topics I covered will always be important. But there was something missing in the environment I put myself in--it was never inspiring to me, it rarely brought out the best in me, and perhaps that's why it didn't work.

Wasn't it Mark Twain who said something like: "Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great."

I never felt like I could be great here, as much as I tried. And believe me when I say, I tried.

But we'll leave at that. I'll look ahead, instead of dwelling on what is now my past and take some valuable lessons learned in this experience with me.

If nothing else, I'm acutely aware of what has made me happy in the midst of the madness. It was the ridiculous amount of time I put into the first year of Race with Purpose. The chance to combine my passion for health, fitness, and philanthropy has proven to be the perfect recipe for happiness. Perhaps now that I hope to have the time to focus more heavily on it, the exhaustion will be less. Or at least of a different kind--the kind that leaves you feeling contently tired, knowing you've worked hard with people who share your passion and values, to do some kind of good in the world, however small it might be.

I have vowed that 2008 will be a better year. Certainly there were many highlights in 2007, but the majority of those 365 days were a struggle. That's a lot of energy, to struggle so much. No more. It's just not my style.

So, I look ahead knowing that I have a pretty blank canvas to do with whatever I want. I will build a freelance writing career, I will do my part to help Race with Purpose grow and flourish, and, eventually, I'll move back to New York.

I feel better already.

I Eated It

2007-12-27T21:46:00.000-05:00

I've been checking out my fellow triathletes' blogs in the last few days. It seems like I'm the only one who has traded in my training schedule for holiday cookie binges and a steady liquid diet of beer at lunch, followed by wine at dinner.

I won't lie -- it's been fun...but it's probably best that that this season of gluttony comes to an end soon. Well, maybe in another couple of days. Base training can wait until next week, right?

There are still a couple of cookies left in the kitchen. They aren't going to eat themselves.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

2007-12-23T12:26:00.000-05:00

I've made it back to the nest here in Hershey. No matter how old I get, there are still times when being home in the town I grew up in, curled up on the couch in the house I grew up in, can feel like a piece of heaven on earth. Especially at Christmas.

I'm thrilled to be home, where my mother makes this time of year magical. Still. Even though her children are technicially adults (we may not act like it most of the time, but whatever), the woman still goes to the trouble of making Christmas as big deal as it was when we were little kids. I mean, she doesn't put the presents under the carefully decorated tree--which she no doubt spent an entire day perfecting--until we've gone to bed on Christmas Eve. Today there is a full agenda of baking and card writing and gift wrapping to be done. It's never ending. And it's just as I remember it for every year of my life.

It's been quite a year and I can't say I'm all that sad to see 2007 slip away into the history books. There's so much to look forward to in 2008 (more on that to come...), but right now I'm just enjoying the peace and security and tradition that is a Strout Christmas. Well, until the dysfunction sets in, probably sometime around noon on December 25th. But, what's a family holiday without a bit of dysfunction anyway?

I'm wishing everybody a joyous, healthy, and memorable holiday season. Eat cookies without guilt and toast to all the new adventures ahead. Cheers!

December 9, 1987

2007-12-09T19:22:00.000-05:00

My dad as a kid, enjoying the day at Saylor's Lake.

I remember standing in the kitchen in the late afternoon that day in December. I was 13 years old and had just spent the last several hours in the orthodontist's office, going through a painful rite of passage: getting braces. There I stood, with an aching mouth full of metal and a bag full of homework I wanted to toss in the fire place.

It was unusual that my dad had taken several days off of work that week, uncharacteristically playing Mr. Mom, carting my brother and me off to activities and appointments in between helping my mother decorate the house for Christmas.

My face was forlorn, my attitude was everything you'd expect from a cranky teen who was feeling the burn-out effects of being a year-round competitive swimmer. I begged my dad to let me skip practice that afternoon. While I was learning how to play every bit the part of a daddy's girl, there were definitely limits. For one, whining was strictly prohibited in the Strout household. The guy--though fun-loving with an insanely smart, dry sense of humor--had a strong will and his own clear sense of right and wrong. Even for his only daughter, there was rarely room for compromise. And he had a bullshit detector like nobody's business. I don't know anybody, really, who ever defeated it.

“You’re going,” he said firmly, as we stood in the kitchen. “You made a commitment, you're part of a team, and you have to stick to it.”

As I trudged out the door, defeated, I had no idea those would be his last words to me. While I was swimming, he died of a heart attack during his own daily workout in our basement.

***

This morning I woke up to a cold, rainy day and decided instead of pulling the warm covers over my head, I'd head out to meet some friends and run a 10K. I haven't run a step in the last month, but knew the combination of paying for a race and meeting people would be enough incentive to get me out the door.

I'm not big on anniversaries. Truth be told, I typically forget them or choose not to acknowledge them at all. For some reason, however, today I find it hard to believe that it's been 20 years since my dad died. It seems like that number is too big, that it's simply not possible that so much time has passed. There are days when I still feel like that moody young girl who doesn't want to go to swim practice.

I thought about my dad this morning as I started the race. The two of us biked together, skied together, he took me golfing (that one didn't stick), he came to all of my swimming and cross country meets, enthusiastically cheering and congratulating me after every race, even when I came in last (which was more often than not).

And we ran together.

I'm not sure when it started, but there came a time, obviously at a young age, when I'd jump at the opportunity to tag along on one of his jogs. He was my very first running buddy. Our house, situated on what seemed like a mountain at the time, was surrounded by long country roads. I'd follow him up the hill, out to an old barn, and back home. I look back and wonder where his incredible patience came from, now knowing full well that my pace had to be slower than slow.

To me, it seemed as though we must be running at least 100 miles. In reality, it was less than three. We'd come back into the house and drop to the floor of the family room, where there were push-ups and sit-ups to do.

My dad knew a daughter who always tried really hard but was never the fastest one on the team. Not even close. He still found a way to make me feel like it was just as important and just as much of an accomplishment to be passionate, dedicated, and committed to whatever it was I chose to do and to the people relying on me to do it. As an adult, I realize that those values are deeply instilled in my very being and I take serious heart in the fact that they came directly from him.

And along the way, he also showed me that life isn't full--just not nearly complete--unless it includes a healthy dose of fun. And so today I ran because after not running for four weeks, there was no choice but to do it for pure enjoyment. I floated through 6.2 miles, cheering for my friends on the out-and-backs, and thinking how cool it would've been if my dad had been around to do marathons and triathlons with me. That, I know, would've been fun. I crossed the finish line and much to my amazement, I had clocked a 10K best time of 46:37.

Certainly everybody has those dividing (and defining) lines of "before" and "after" in their lives. I never really thought of my dad's death as that, though I suppose it might be. I prefer to think of what he was able to give me in just 13 years: blue eyes, a strong will, an intolerance of whining, an inability to sit still, a sense of responsibility and adventure, high expectations, an exceptional capacity to overcome, an above-average appreciation for sarcasm, a deep love of genuine laughter, and fearlessness.

Oh, and the bullshit detector? I got that, too. Thanks, dad.

Tomato Soup and Grilled Cheese

2007-12-02T15:55:00.000-05:00

My apartment smells like my grandparents' house on a Sunday afternoon.

In a rare occurrence, I actually turned on my stove today (it works!) and made myself a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. As I pulled a plate and bowl from the cabinet, which happen to be hand-me-downs from my Grammy and Poppop's house, there was a familiar aroma from my childhood filling up the place. It was, of course, just my lunch cooking, but there are certain scents that just take you back in an instant.

There were those weekends--usually not during swim season--that my parents would pack us up in the station wagon and head to Bangor, PA to visit my grandparents. It was always an extra-special treat if my cousins were also going to be visiting from Connecticut. What's better than a house full of instant playmates?

Regardless of who was there, we always headed to church on Sunday mornings, just a few blocks away. When we returned, we kids would scramble up the stairs, eager to change out of our church clothes into something more suitable for wreaking havoc outside, in the basement, or in my grandfather's dental office (conveniently located in the house), while my grandmother started making lunch for the whole crew. Inevitably Sunday "supper" included soup and, if I was lucky, grilled-cheese sandwiches...one of about two things I'd actually agree to eat back then.

While I savored my lunch this afternoon, I thought how nice it'd be if I could bottle up that scent (rather than, you know, cooking more often...) and let it air when I need a nice dose of comfort and nostalgia for the days when troubles were few--and Sundays were reserved for soup, sandwiches, and family.

49 Seconds: How Do You Define Success?

2007-11-20T00:40:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure who has been looking more forward to the end of this marathon season: me or all the incredibly patient people in my life who have had to put up with me. The pacing might have been less than perfect since June, but it's over...six months later.

I'm a believer in not burying the lead (or, as we spell it in the journalism biz: the lede). I finished the Philadelphia Marathon yesterday in 3:41:48. My Boston Marathon qualifying time was 3:40:59. While my race was a personal best by 7 minutes, I missed my Boston dream by 49 seconds.

I guess there is a natural, human instinct to be disappointed with that. For some reason, I'm really not. I crossed the finish line, looked down at my watch, and instantly thought: I did everything I could. There's nothing I could have done differently.

I don't remember the last time I crossed a finish line without second guessing myself immediately. Did I eat enough? Drink enough? Did I go out too fast? Too slow? Did I let myself give up when I truthfully could've pushed harder? What mistakes did I make? Yesterday I didn't ask those questions. I couldn't come up with the answers if I tried.

I arrived in Philadelphia on Friday night. The plan was to get up early on Saturday, go for a quick run, eat breakfast, get to the expo, and then head out to the 'burbs for a friend's baby shower. Everything was going according to that grand plan until we arrived at the expo at Temple University. My friend and teammate Jennifer and I agreed it would be a quick trip, which comes as no surprise to anybody who has shared a race weekend with me. I despise expos. I hate them. I spend as little time as possible at them. Unfortunately there was a 45-minute wait in a line of anxious runners that wrapped around the arena. Admittedly I have little tolerance for these events to begin with, but it mystifies me when race organizers force runners to wait in long lines the day before their marathons. There has to be a better way.

After a little bit of panic (but not an official meltdown ;-)) about being late for the baby shower, I made it there, played baby bingo, hung out with my college girlfriends, resisted cake, opted for water over punch, and headed back to the hotel to get ready for dinner. I had about 30 minutes before it was time to go to the restaurant, so I didn't do as much resting as I generally do the day before a race. I didn't feel tired, drained, or irritable, though, which was a marked difference from the way I felt the day before the Chicago Marathon.

Dinner was a blast. Michelle made reservations for all of us at Dante & Luigi's. The food was delicious (penne vodka), but the company was exceptional. Having such a great group of friends there to support me and each other was perfect. It was relaxing and reassuring just to hang out together for a while.

And then my phone started ringing. And ringing. And ringing. And ringing. Text messages, voice mails, even a few real conversations. There are absolutely no words I can find to adequately explain how startled I was by the outpouring of well wishes I got in the days leading up to the race from my teammates, coaches, friends, and family. If there is ever a time in my life when I somehow feel alone, somebody needs to knock some sense into my head and remind me of the past week. At the risk of sounding ridiculously cheesy, I clearly felt loved!

When we got back to the hotel, I started getting ready for the next morning, until there was a knock on the door. Avi and Deana had arrived and I was beyond excited. I haven't traveled to a major race without these two for a year now. I'm not sure I know how to function without them anymore. They create an instant comfort zone. I didn't think it was possible to feel any better before the marathon than I already did, but somehow my mood only escalated when they arrived. Even after my toenail fell off around 10 p.m. You know you've found friends for life when not only will they look at something as disgusting as a toenail falling off, but they'll head out to the 24-hour drug store to get band-aids to bandage the toe up, too.

We finally went to bed around 11 p.m. and I don't think I slept more than 5 minutes all night. I never have a problem sleeping the night before a race, but I was wide awake until it was time to get up at 4:45 a.m. I jumped out of bed when the alarm went off and made a peanut butter and honey sandwich on whole-wheat bread. I drank a large bottle of diluted Gatorade, got dressed, packed up, and we headed out to the start. As soon as we got there, we found Dave and Eugene and we checked our bags and headed to the bathroom line. With only 20 minutes left until the start we shed our layers of clothing (it was in the 30s with some gusty winds--exactly my kind of running weather!) and jammed into the crowd of tens of thousands of runners. Oddly, I still wasn't feeling nervous or anxious or tired (again, a big difference from how I felt in Chicago). The start and finish were right by the art museum of Rocky fame, so instead of the usual singing of the National Anthem, they kicked the race off with the Rocky Theme and "Eye of the Tiger."

Our starting position was pretty far back, so it took almost three minutes to cross the line. The first mile was congested, but I was content to be patient and wait for a chance to speed up without weaving through a lot of people. Around mile three, it was a clear shot to get on my pace. My original plan that Adam helped me devise was to keep an 8:30 minute-per-mile pace for 15 minutes, followed by an acceleration for 5 minutes at a slightly faster pace and repeat until mile 23, then just go like hell. After about two or three rounds of this, I aborted the plan. The heart-rate monitor wasn't giving me a reading and my mile splits were too fast, so I just concentrated on adjusting my pace one mile at a time, realizing that it was important to conserve energy for later. I thought this plan would work perfectly for me--and it likely would on a different kind of course--but it started stressing me out more than calming me down, so I had to readjust.

Splits
First 3 miles averaged an 8:21 pace
Mile 4-8:23 (Jennifer catches me here and says something about feeling good, but knowing she should slow down...I tell her to be cautious about her pacing. Everybody feels good at mile 4!)
Mile 5-8:19
Mile 6-8:19 (I got to see Kurt, Sonia, Ben, Guz, Michelle, Brandon, Deana, and Avi for the first of many times here. They are AWESOME!)
Mile 7-8:20 (I took my first Gu here. Goes down just fine.)
Mile 8-8:20
Mile 9-8:02
Mile 10-8:55
Mile 11-8:07 (Took so more Gu here. I pass Jennifer. She is having a break-out day, just two weeks after running the NYC Marathon. I tell her to slow down, but she says her heart rate is low and she feels good. She is rocking the race and I wish her well...)
Mile 12-8:05
Mile 13-8:15 (Avi hops in here to pace me the rest of the race...he rocks, but more on that later! More Gu...as it turns out, it's my last Gu consumption for the race.)
Mile 14-8:27
Mile 15-8:20
Mile 16-8:38
Mile 17-8:29
Mile 18-8:20
Mile 19-8:18
Mile 20-8:41 (Walk through a water stop and my right ITB starts shooting sharp pain from the outside of my knee up through my hip. I struggled to start running again, only barely managing to shuffle until it loosens up. Ouch. Really, ouch.)
Mile 21-8:41
Mile 22-8:13
Mile 23-9:12 (Stupidly, I stop again at a water stop because Gu is now making me gag and dry heave, so I know I need to take in Gatorade. Repeat of before...the ITB has blown up. I have never felt this much pain in my life...only a 5K to go, so I gotta push through the best I can...I know my cushion for Boston is gone now, so I'm going to need to gut it out to make it.)
Mile 24-8:25
Mile 25-9:01 (All I can think about is stopping. I want the pain to end. I cannot run anymore. OUCH. For the love of god, I NEED TO STOP RIGHT NOW!)
Mile 26-8:55
And the .2 - about 2:42? (I dry heaved the whole way in. I'd love to see picture of this...dry heaving while running is not glamorous. It was the most fantastic pain I've ever felt.)

As soon as I crossed the finish line, I looked down at my watch and then realized I was going to fall over. I collapsed right into Avi. I have seen a lot of finish lines in my life...since I started swimming at age 4...and I can say with all honesty that I have never been so glad to see one as I was at that moment.

I couldn't put any pressure on my right leg without hitting the pavement face first. It turned out to be comical as a medic insisted that I get on a stretcher and be taken to the medical tent. Um, no thank you sir. I want to stumble on over to where my warm clothes are please. This guy, whose heart was certainly in the right place, wasn't taking no for an answer. Leaning on Avi, Deana, and Jennifer (who crossed the finish line right after me with a huge PR! I was so excited for her!) we made our way to the food tent. Avi helped me get food and I began to turn into a human popsicle. I was sitting on the ground with my mylar blanket around me, violently shaking to the point that a runner came up to me out of concern, wondering if he could help me find medical help. Good grief, what is up with everybody wanting me to seek medical attention?

So, we go to baggage check and they have lost my bag. I am feeling a kind of cold that gets into your very core and won't leave. To the volunteers' credit, they do everything they can to find my bag and are very attentive to the problem. Deana and Brandon help out...searching around and offering me clothes to keep me warm. Finally, about 45 minutes later, the bag is found. I put on my favorite post-race fleece and realize that I am not only starving but I'm decaffeinated, and this is never a good combination.

After a cup of coffee, and a long, hot shower we headed to brunch with the crew and I devoured everything in front of me. I start to feel a kind of satisfaction that's difficult to articulate. Here I am, sitting at a table with a bunch of friends who gave up a weekend to travel there to cheer me on and congratulate me. I ran my own "perfect" race in no small part because of the unwavering help and guidance of Avi, somebody who gives his whole heart to his team and friendships and I'm lucky enough to be on the receiving end of his incredibly generous spirit. I would not have had this race, which I am so proud of, without him. How could I not feel satisfied? How could I not feel invigorated by the experience? How could I not be inspired by the countless acts of selflessness around me all weekend? How can I not be completely psyched that I will eat pie and drink beer without an iota of guilt this week?!

How do I define success? Achieving the only personal best time I've had in a year. Rediscovering my love of this sport. Doing it with a real smile on my face, in the company of friends. Running a 3:41:48 on a beautiful course in my home state of Pennsylvania.

I wouldn't trade a second of it. Or 49.

Long May You Run

2007-11-09T21:39:00.000-05:00

For some, distance running is more than sport. It is perspective. It's clarity. It's peace. It's where we take risks and crave a kind of pain that reminds us that we're alive. Running is liberation from sadness, a bad job, unkind words, and hurtful people. It's a celebration of friendships, teammates, and a choice to not idly let our years slip by.

It teaches us discipline, dedication, and passion that filter into every other aspect of our lives.

Last weekend I traveled to New York for the ING New York City Marathon 2007 and the men's Olympic Marathon Trials. Driving into the city on Thursday afternoon, I was full of anticipation and excitement for my own runner's paradise: the culmination of the inaugural season of Race with Purpose, working out with my teammates, the rare opportunity to watch America's fastest marathoners vie for three spots on the 2008 Olympic team, and coaching our runners through their race on Marathon Sunday.

On Thursday night we gathered near the marathon finish line for a tempo run. I was genuinely happy, drinking in the chance to run among my friends as we moved through the darkness of Central Park at a speed I rarely achieve by myself, but seemed natural and comfortable in the company of my team. We laughed and celebrated and toasted our first season at a dinner on Friday night -- an evening that, deep down, I may have doubted would ever arrive a few times over the last 11 months.

In the chilly, windy, pre-dawn hours of Saturday morning, my friend and teammate Avi and I once again ran through the darkness of Central Park. We've run hundreds of miles there over the years, but as we cruised onto the West Drive, there was something undeniably different and electrifying about it. The white aluminum barricades flanked both sides of the road and American flags lined the street leading up to the finish line of the Olympic trials course.

As we rounded the full six-mile loop of the park, watching volunteers lay the timing mats, hang the mile markers, and place each Olympic hopeful's prepared fuel bottles on numbered tables, we couldn't stop marveling that in just a couple of hours, history would be made by the country's elite distance runners on the very ground we were running. There were 130 guys roughly our age (and younger) who woke up that morning ready to make a life-long, unfathomable dream come true.

As we completed our own run, we headed over to the east side just south of the Boathouse near the 72nd Transverse, where we'd stand for the duration of the race. The runners would pass by this spot at miles 6, 15, 20, and 25. I'd never seen so many people so completely in love with the sport of running gathered in one place, sprinting from one side of Central Park to the other in order to double the number of times they'd be able to see the competitors, who would make five loops to complete the distance.

Not long after the runners cleared the 10K point, an ambulance blazed toward us from 72nd Street. The barricades made it difficult for it to clear the left-hand turn north, so we rushed to move them back, to allow it to proceed.

It didn't take long for the pace car to make its way past us four more times, each time with the runners more spread out behind it than the last, flying by just inches away from where we stood, cheered, and felt incredible inspiration. As Ryan Hall made his way past mile 25 with the race in the bag, we screamed. He smiled and pumped his arm in the air, enjoying every remaining second of his 2:09 marathon that would lead him to Beijing. Then came Dathan Ritzenhein and Brian Sell to round out the team. Each of them looked as though there were wings attached to their shoes, but Hall's stride was so relaxed, his body just gliding toward the finish, his race plan executed perfectly.

I was in awe. I haven't felt so motivated to run, and run well, in years. But as everybody knows by now, the "runner's high" of the morning quickly turned into shock and sadness as the news spread of Ryan Shay's sudden death at mile 5.5. Talk about unfathomable. As it turned out, the ambulance we moved the barricades for was for Shay. How a 28-year-old elite American athlete simply dies in the middle of the race of his life is probably a question that will never be answered to full satisfaction.

Was it his enlarged heart? Another undetected heart condition? As his wife of just four months, Alicia (Craig) Shay (also an elite distance runner), said in a newspaper article, it doesn't really matter--an answer won't bring him back. What is undeniable is the mark he's left on the running community--from the elite to the recreational to everybody somewhere in between. Just one glance at the outpouring of grief, tributes, and reflection at Letsrun.com tells the story far better than I could, but his intensity, work ethic, and sheer will to conquer any obstacles in his way are pervasive.

And as 38,000 more runners toed the starting line of the New York City Marathon the following day, including 40 of my Race with Purpose teammates, that will to conquer lived on. As I ran up and down Fifth Avenue with one teammate at a time for more than 6 hours, I thought a lot about how lucky I am to be part of a sport and a community that never stops teaching me to be grateful, and even more so in times when personal stability is hard to come by and the fragility of life is amplified--grateful for the serenity and discipline it has taught me, the deep friendships it has afforded me, the health it has brought me, the refuge it has given me.

Onward to Philadelphia...

Homecoming and Happiness

2007-10-16T21:04:00.000-04:00

There are two places I've found on earth that I feel alive, in every cheesy and honest sense of the word. The first is New York. The second? State College, PA.

This year's Penn State homecoming festivities couldn't have come at a better time. After not much more than 24 hours, I felt refreshed--and even more so on Sunday morning, when I finally hit the "reset" button on my watch to erase my marathon time, as I headed out on a 13-mile run around town and campus, relishing the cool air and the old, familiar sites.

When I had made my plans many months ago to be there for the weekend, I had envisioned being fresh off my one-and-only fall marathon, ready to let loose and celebrate. That didn't turn out to be the case, but it didn't matter.

On Saturday morning I parked my car at the Nittany Lion Inn, eager to find my friends as soon as possible. I walked less than ten paces and found four of them sitting on the porch, regrouping before heading to tailgates at the stadium. It's as if we never left the place.

Maybe it's no coincidence that the places I feel most confident, comfortable, and invigorated happen to be where I am afforded the most quality time with my closest friends. What was a saying a couple of months ago about wanting Beach Week to last forever? I'm sensing a common theme here. But when you're lucky enough to have stumbled upon a posse of extraordinary people--the kind who know you inside and out and actually still love you anyway--you hang on to them as tight as you can.

So while Penn Sate football weekends have changed over the years--beer bottles comingling with baby bottles, for example--there's still nothing better than being home, with all the people who make it feel that way.

Oh, the the crushing of Wisconsin on the football field wasn't too shabby either.

We are...Penn State.

Chicago Marathon Meltdown

2007-10-08T19:57:00.000-04:00

It was about 12 months ago that I first admitted quietly, only to myself, that becoming a Boston qualifying runner was possible. It was, I believed, a pursuit worthy of the thousands of hours, fierce discipline, and hundreds of miles it was going to take to earn that distinction. The challenge ahead was one that I embraced, one that I had anticipated I'd have uncompromised focus on until October 7, 2007: The Chicago Marathon.

Anybody who knows me even just a little bit understands that discipline and focus aren't hard for me to come by. So why, then, have I allowed so many distractions tear me away from what my heart and head were set to accomplish? Is what I'm feeling right now confusion or is it regret? Is it exhaustion or is it just disappointment? Is it a bit of everything?

What happened? So many things, though none of them make perfect sense to me yet. Maybe this is one of those rare times in life that I need to let it go, and simply move forward. It's still hard to swallow that I arrived home today with my worst marathon result ever. Ever. It capped off an entire year of personal worsts, from my winter road races, to triathlon season, to the main event yesterday at the Chicago Marathon. The last time I had a race to be proud of was in November at the New York City Marathon. That seems like a gazillion years ago.

I realize that yesterday brought extraordinary circumstances. It's not everyday that a major marathon calls off the race halfway through. We all knew days in advance that the humidity level and the near 90-degree temperatures should temper expectations for whatever we were going to experience out there, but I had no idea that runners would just be dropping like flies all around us. To hear race officials demanding that runners stop and walk, that the race had been "cancelled" due to the excessive heat, was bizarre and disturbing and a relief all at once.

My day had almost come to an end at least a half dozen times before the marathon was officially canned. I started out with my pace group for the first three or four miles, but it took me no time to realize that I couldn't stay with them for the long haul. The mental and physical battles took on a life of their own, starting at mile three. My heart just sank at that point, knowing that a year's worth of work and dreams were slipping away and that I had hours left in front of me to spar with my demons.

My breathing and heart rate were never comfortable and no matter what games I played to acclimate to the conditions or try to settle myself down, nothing seemed to work. I watched Moffat, Alan, and Kurt forge ahead and I quietly dropped back without a word, obsessed with the high numbers displayed on my heart rate monitor. I slowed down, and then finally at mile 6, I had to stop. Frustrated and mad at myself and my body, the capacity to get a good breath was further complicated by the tears streaming down my face.

Adam stopped with me, chasing after the gel I had thrown in my rage. He waited there, calmly suggesting that I take my time gathering myself and just start shuffling my feet when I felt up to it. I said nothing, but just followed his instructions. We would try running for six minutes and walking for one minute. We'd walk through the water stops, too.

"Now it's just a training run, Erin," he said.

Several times I doubted out loud that I should continue. Adam asked what my mind was telling me versus what my body was saying.

"My mind is saying that I don't quit races," I said. "My body is asking me to stop."

Around mile 16 we stopped at the medical aid station. It was time to make a decision--either finish or quit, but put the issue to rest. I iced myself down for several minutes and Adam went to get me Gatorade and water. The ice felt so good and stopping for so long brought my heart rate down, finally, to an acceptable level. Continuing the run/walk plan, we pushed forward. I joked with Adam, finally feeling a bit human again, that I had hit the final stage of grief: acceptance.

Once I had put aside my own debacle, I began to be seriously concerned for our Race with Purpose runners out there. As soon as I crossed the finish line, I rushed back to our reunion area and started counting heads, checking off each teammate as they made their way back, making phone calls and leaving messages on cell phones and at hotel rooms to make sure everybody was accounted for. I think I have a sense of the fierce, protective nature of the Momma Bear when it comes to her cubs :-)--I just wanted to know that anybody wearing neon orange was doing okay. When we finally were sure that each team member had made it back healthy, albeit with some broken spirits, I just breathed an internal sigh of relief.

What I hope to remember and cherish about the last three days in Chicago are the moments before and after the race. It was, after all, Race with Purpose's first official event, and to not allow myself to enjoy the fact that we made it this far would be silly. Helping to get us to this point may have been harder than training for it.

So, what will I remember? Caprice's comedy show on Friday night, the great dinner escapade that followed, and the cozy room service dinner for four at 11 p.m. with Eugene, Deana, and Avi. Ridiculous amounts of laughter, drinking coffee and catching up with Beth on Saturday morning after our fun team run, lunch with the Casale family and Bob and Avi, watching Goonies with Deana, catching Penn State's win over Iowa, and the awesome team dinner on Saturday night, which came with the honor of congratulating this extraordinary group of people on what they have accomplished so far in the young life of the organization. Seeing everybody's easy, relaxed attitude before heading to the starting line on Sunday, sharing the corral "experience" with Moffat, Alan, Kurt, Adam, KC, Eugene, Dave, and Ryan, finding a group of people waiting with unrelenting support for each other at the finish tent, discovering that Moffat and Alan had hit that 3:40 goal time and then some, and hearing that Avi had killed the course with a 3:10 Boston qualifying race.

Oh, and the gin & tonics I consumed last night. Delicious.

But what I have found to be most overwhelming is the outpouring of voice mails, e-mails, and phone calls from my friends and family in the aftermath, checking up on me. There are no words to describe how much it means to know that so many people care. After many years of marathon running and triathlon racing, I take for granted that I'll always make it to the finish line. As we saw firsthand in Chicago, making it that far is never a given. In the end, pushing past the disappointment, I'm thankful for each step I'm able to take and for the people in my life who make it possible and so worthwhile.

So, with a little help from my friend Michelle, immediately after the race on Sunday, I signed up for the Philadelphia Marathon on November 18th.

Please start praying for a cold front.

And We're Off

2007-10-04T22:19:00.000-04:00

Well, only a few major meltdowns, a couple of minor ones, and about four very late nights at work, and the taper was over before I ever thought it started. Such is life!

The running shoes are packed up and ready to go. We are off to Chicago tomorrow morning. I'm so very much looking forward to the next few days with my friends. Some of my most favorite people in the world will all be there. What could be better than that?

Well, the only thing that might make it just a teeny bit better is the weather. I wasn't happy to find an e-mail from the fine folks at the Chicago Marathon with the subject line: Weather Advisory. It seems that the temperature is going to top out at about 86 degrees on Sunday with the humidity around 75 percent. Not ideal. Not what I ordered.

Alas, it's nothing any of us can control, try as we might.

I think Moffat said it best, in a quick e-mail this afternoon: The pressure is off. Let's just go have fun.

Couldn't agree more. And now bedtime is calling and the computer is being shutdown until I return. Time to unplug and destress.

To all of you joining me on the streets of Chicago on Sunday, I'm wishing you a rewarding, memorable, happy, and safe run. Be smart and remember to trust in your training. We've done the hard part -- the marathon is our celebration. It's our last long run of the season.

See you at the finish line.

Taper Tantrum

2007-09-30T18:22:00.000-04:00

At this time next week, it'll all be said and done in Chicago. I can't wait.

In the last week I've run the gamut of emotions, which is quite typical of a productive taper for a big race. Kudos to me for achieving the peak of agitation and irritability!

My overall balance and energy levels are highly dependent on my training schedule. When the volume suddenly decreases, my head doesn't know what to make of it. Unfortunately, some of the people around me don't quite know what to make of my mood swings either.

My blanket apologies to any innocent victims who crossed my path last week or will do so in the next seven days. Is it a coincidence that some of the closest people in my life are all out of the country or on business trips right now?

I went so far as to seriously contemplate dropping out of the race altogether last Sunday, after the sluggish Quantico experience. I set out a long time ago--before there was Race with Purpose and so many other distractions in my life--to run Chicago in 3:40, which would qualify me for the Boston Marathon. I'm a realist, though. While I never set a goal that doesn't present a high degree of challenge, I don't raise the bar so high that it's inevitably beyond my ability level.

My thought last Sunday afternoon was simple: Why am I going to do this if I already know that 3:40 isn't going to happen?

After a while, a marathon just becomes like any other race to some runners, including me. If your training gives you no reason to believe you're ready to perform at the level you are hoping for, sometimes it's best to just bail and pick another one that gives you more time to prepare.

I fired off an e-mail to Adam that simply said: "I think I'm dropping out of Chicago. I just don't see the point."

About five seconds later, my phone rang. It was time for a bit of a coach's reality check.

A long conversation boiled down to this:

1. A 3:40 is not out of the question. On a great day with perfect race execution, it will happen.
2. If I'm having a good or an okay day, it's unlikely that I'll qualify for Boston, but I will still PR, given the flat, fast course in Chicago.
3. I have to go into the race on Sunday already knowing how I will handle each scenario and stick to the plan I create for each circumstance, whether it's humidity, snow, or if I'm just not feeling it that day.
4. I have to run my own race. This is up to me, whatever plan I end up following. I can't get caught up in what my beloved teammates end up doing on race day. I have to stay inside myself and inside my own head--nobody else's.

The dangerous thing about taper time is that I lose perspective and focus on just about everything (just ask my editors at work!). The hours usually occupied by training are filled with analyzing the scenarios and overthinking the simple act of running.

In the end, spending four days in Chicago with a bunch of friends is supposed to be fun, not stressful. I remember the first weekend in July, after months of less-than-perfect training for my first half ironman at Tupper Lake. I was terrified and spent most of the time worried about how I was going to do. The moment I realized, about 20 miles into the bike ride, that I was going to do just fine, I couldn't stop smiling. I couldn't stop enjoying the experience and cherishing the fun I was having that weekend with my friends. I instantly felt this wave of relaxation wash over me.

I ran my 5 miles this morning on that National Mall, heading directly toward the steps of the Capitol building, back to the base of the Washington Monument, and up to my apartment. It was the first effortless run I've had in months. My legs felt free, my mind was clear. There's nothing more I can do but rest and enjoy whatever the next seven days bring.

I'm feeling more at ease and peaceful right now. I can't promise it'll last. Five minutes from now I could be a bundle of nervous energy again or snapping at somebody who meant no harm.

I'll just say "sorry" now and get it over with.

To be continued...

Not Very Quick at Quantico

2007-09-22T20:32:00.000-04:00

Today leaves me with two nagging questions:

1. Why can I no longer run fast?

2. Why can't Penn State ever beat Michigan?

OK, and maybe a third:

3. Are the two at all connected?

I'm not ready to ponder question No. 2. The wound is a bit too fresh, just about an hour since loss number 9 to the Wolverines. I will say, however, that one of the last times we beat them was when I was a spontaneous college student and Penn State would eventually end up in the Rose Bowl.

It was 1994 and the game that sent us to Pasadena was being played at the Big House. Just about 14 hours before kick off, my friends and I piled into my green Nissan Pathfinder and hit the road from State College, PA to Ann Arbor, in hopes that we'd find tickets when we got there. We forked over $50 each in front of the student union for our seats, which seemed like a fortune to us then. Dressed in blue & white from head to toe, we ended up in the Michigan student section, and as it became clearer that we'd be spending New Year's in California, we grew more boisterous as everybody around us began filing out the stadium.

Ah, the memories. Definitely one of those "best days of your life" kind of stories.

Anyway, today marked my last run of any consequence before Chicago. At the last minute I decided to run the Quantico Half Marathon, which turned out to be a beautiful course of minor rolling hills on the Marine base in Virginia.

After a nice string of beautiful, cooler days down here (below the Mason Dixon Line...), unfortunately the streak ended this weekend. At the start is was 78 degrees with 85 percent humidity. Will it ever end?

I definitely didn't give myself enough time to park, get my race packet, and make it to the starting line on time, so I ended up running about 2 miles before the gun went off. As the National Anthem was being sung, I was just arriving at the line, already drenched in sweat (note to self: Marines dislike it when people continue jogging during the Star Spangled Banner, no matter what the circumstances...).

Just as I hopped into the crowd, we were off. Curiously, although we were using timing chips, there was no mat to cross at the start, just the finish. Hmmm.

I made so many ridiculous mistakes today, I'm not even sure where to begin. I went out too fast. I didn't slow down after I realized I was going too fast. My first mile was allegedly around 7 minutes, which I don't believe -- I think the mile marker had to be off. My heart rate remained ridiculously elevated the entire first half of the race and I pretty much felt like I was dragging rocks with me for the duration. My breathing was pretty labored the whole time, which I chalked up to the humidity (again...is there an echo in here?).

I made it to mile six at around 47 minutes (7:50 pace), which surprised me, given how slow I felt I was going. I knew if I could maintain that pace, I'd be golden and have a nice confidence boost heading into the marathon. Unfortunately, my body wasn't agreeable to that plan and I started losing steam right around mile 9, which coincidentally marked the start of the only real hill on the course.

I began walking through water stops to give my legs and lungs recovery time, then I'd decided to do intervals to catch the people ahead. That kept me occupied for the remaining miles, but I slowed considerably during the last two, just focusing on my cadence and looking forward to calling it a day.

I finished in 1:47, about 5 minutes slower than my fastest half marathon. I am bummed. My legs aren't sore, they just wouldn't turn over. I was wearing some fantastic new Nikes (love them!), but there was no spring in my step. Maybe I'm still recovering from last week's 21-miler and fatigued from a long week at work and final Chicago preparations for the team.

As I headed out of the stadium, disappointed with myself and in deep contemplation about what October 7th is going to bring me, a woman stopped to comment on my neon-orange Race with Purpose singlet.

"I saw you a few times out there and I just wanted to asked you: What is your purpose?" she asked.

I explained how our team raises money for charities that help at-risk kids live healthy, active lives. As her two small children turned to cheer for their Marine dad who was nearing the finish line, she smiled and said, "That's amazing -- please keep up that great work."

Then, a young Marine who was marshaling the course near the parking lot congratulated me as I was about to cross the street. He asked what my time was. I responded "1:47."

"Wow. You're good," he said. "I'd probably do it in like three hours or something."

Well, if my race results weren't going to feed my ego, I guess a cute Marine would suffice.

Now it's time to taper and I'm wondering how I should go about it, given the signals my body is sending me. Tapering is a tricky time, especially when you haven't had a stellar training season. Should I divert from the team's prescribed schedule or hope that it does what it needs to do for me?

I guess I'll just figure it out as I go. And hope those better days are indeed ahead...for me and my Nittany Lions.

Margaritas Are Not a Recovery Drink

2007-09-16T19:23:00.000-04:00

Alan, Kurt, me, Moffat, and Coach Dave, charging up one of many hills on Saturday

"This is your confirmation brochure and ticket...The LaSalle Bank Chicago Marathon: October 7, 2007"

It arrived in the mail last week--my one-way ticket into the race.

With three weeks to go, this weekend's 21-mile training run was my final test. Is my goal time realistic? Is it time to readjust my expectations?

I wish I could say I have answers, but I'm no more sure of my abilities today than I was last week or the weeks before. One step at a time is all I can handle these days--I can't allow myself to look too far ahead for fear of finally losing my sanity for good--and it seems that October 7, 2007 will be no different.

If I just keep putting one foot in front of the other...eventually I'll make it to wherever it is that I'm going.

On Saturday we had our toughest training run of the season on tap. I spent the week prior to this run in a mixture of denial and slight anxiety. I was a little gun shy since the last long-run debacle and was just hoping for cooler weather and the ability to stay with my pace group for as long as possible.

The day started around 6 a.m. with two pieces of whole-wheat bread and peanut butter, washed down with two tall glasses of diluted Gatorade. Our route took us from West 165th Street over the George Washington Bridge into Jersey. We trekked the span of Henry Hudson Drive (commonly referred to as River Road), which is an 8-mile stretch that offered a total climb of 4,800+ feet and a nice 1.2-mile, 350-foot climb to the turn-around point.

There are all those numbers: 21 miles, 4,800 feet, heart rate at 170 (except when climbing or incorporating all the 5-minute acceleration intervals...then around 182 to 185), about a 9 minute overall pace, etc. etc. etc.

But the numbers don't mean much to me. I felt good. I made it up that last hill leading up to the bridge without walking, for the first time ever. I could pick up my pace for the last 2 miles, despite the fatigue. I wasn't rattled that my pace group could pick it up more than me during those last couple of miles. We all have our strengths. That isn't one of mine.

What made Saturday a success for me, as cliche as it sounds, was the people I shared the road with. We knew that a tough 21 miles were ahead of us, but our collective calm and easy chatter throughout the first half of it brought it back to me: This is why I am a part of this team. It's because I know Alan Lopez will be the quiet, steady one, leading us up the hills. It's because Moffat and I can catch up on each other's lives while we run across the GW Bridge. It's because we can continually crack the same tired joke about Alan being too loud and he'll just look down at me and roll his eyes. It's because Eugene makes me laugh, even when I'm exhausted, always reminding me that I shouldn't take things quite so seriously. And it's because we can all live vicariously through Kurt--the only one experiencing it all for the first time.

Those three hours on Saturday are the experiences I hold on to when I'm so overwhelmed with Race with Purpose "duties" that I think I can't handle one more minute of it. It's what gave me the energy to drive to Scarsdale after the run to help Adam sort all the singlets and just laugh when we figured out later that they were all mislabeled. [Ok, maybe not "Ha Ha" funny...but one more ridiculous story to add to our epic journey this year...].

What better way to top off a successful last long run and crazy orange singlet debacle than head out with good friends for Mexican and margaritas? It sounded like a fantastic idea at the time and don't get me wrong -- going out to blow off steam was exactly what I needed. What I clearly didn't need was margarita #2 and any of the following beer. However, thanks to Beth, the margarita was ordered and who was I to deny it?

As they say, a good time was had by all, but now the countdown officially begins. October 7th will be here in the blink of an eye. And while I'm not at all sure what to expect of myself that day, I do know that I'll once again share the road with a most rocking group of people. Maybe that's all I need to know right now.

And that margaritas are not a recovery drink.

Lights Out, Part II (or, It's Been Awhile...)

2007-09-07T20:41:00.000-04:00

Yes, I know I'm a bad blogger. You don't need to tell me. In the blog world, letting so much time pass between entries is a no-no. Sorry. You know, life can be just just plain busy sometimes.

Anyway, when last we met I was talking about my family reunion (post-traumatic 20-mile run). And now, I can hardly even remember it, except I do know that the lights went out.

Not long after I arrived back at the lake house, it was time to head to a restaurant named The Stroudsmoor. My grandfather used to love this place, which sits atop the mountains and has these breathtaking views from every which way, especially in the fall when all the leaves are making everything that much prettier. It's a quaint "country inn" and, to be honest, a bit of a wedding factory. Being the only granddaughter left that wasn't (isn't...) hitched, my Poppop used to not-so-subtlely suggest, "Erin, this would be a wonderful place to get married, wouldn't it?"

Umm, yeah, sure...if Prince Charming ever appears then maybe we'll consider it. But, for now, it was a fantastic place to catch up with Strouts that I hadn't seen since apparently I was a baby.

I can safely say I come from good people, though I already knew that. As we mixed and mingled over drinks at the bar, it was fun to see faces I could remember...even if I couldn't remember all of their names.

And as we made our way into the dining room, a post-20-mile-run miracle occured. Yes, it was true: an all-you-can eat buffet was mine for the taking. How lucky can a marathoner get?

These are the moments when I know that I am forever genetically linked to my Poppop, that I wasn't actually adopted as my older cousins and brother had told me more than once as a child. My eyes were so big, my pure joy written all over my face as I plowed through the salad bar and then headed straight to the entrees. There was nothing more thrilling for my Poppop than food -- good food and lots of it. I could not agree with that philosophy more.

As I sat next to my cousins, catching up on lost months and years of time while stuffing my face with a variety of chicken, fish, and beef concoctions, a storm was brewing outside. Not just a small, passing thunderstorm, as advertised on the weather forecast. This one included claps of thunder that cut through the noisy chatter of the room and bolts of lightening that seemed way too close.

A waiter passed by and joked, "I hope the lights don't go out."

He had to say it, didn't he?

All of a sudden, the power was out. That glorious buffet of food went dark, and we continued to eat by candle light in that quaint country inn. We theorized that the jokester Strouts who have long-since passed away decided to play a practical joke. Perhaps my dad and my Poppop decided this was their way of getting in on the party.

The lights stayed dark for the rest of the evening and it just added a certain charm to an already beautiful event. I'm a sucker for family events. I find it fascinating to sit in a room and know that I share such a bond with everybody in it. The old stories and photos being tossed around just give me a sense of belonging...of knowing where I came from. I find it fascinating and comforting and fun all at the same time.

The next day the sun came out in time for a family picnic at the lake. Our lake house holds some epic family history, so those who had not visited for a while were overcome with warm memories and sentimental recollections. My grandparents had a summer cottage here, and my cousins and I spent some of our happiest childhood days at Saylor's Lake, as did our parents and even our grandparents and great grandparents. Now my cousins' kids are carrying on the tradition.

Maddie -- master inner-tube balancer!

As we passed around ancient photos of the earliest generations of our family, we came across one of my Great Grammy (Daisy Mae) and her husband--who I imagine we would have also called Poppop had we known him--sitting next to the lake as a young couple, what seems like a million years ago. We found another photo of Great Grammy probably taken around the same time and it finally hit me: there she stood, this tiny woman with curly hair and a skeptical look on her face. Somebody held up the photo and looked at me and said, "Oh my gosh, I never saw it before, but you look so much like her."

Weird how that happens. As a child, I just remember my Great Grammy as the warmest, most patient woman in the world. When we were all gathered for family events, she would shoo my grandparents and all of our parents out the door and babysit a flock of her great grandchildren. We'd watch Lawrence Welk with her and she let us eat ice cream. Much like her son, my Poppop, she relished any opportunity to let us kids just be kids. I may have been young, but I have such vivid memories of her, and now I know that she gave me my curly locks and petite frame, too.

My favorite part of the Lawrence Welk show was at the end, when all the bubbles cascaded on the stage and they sang:

Good night,
Good night, until we meet again.
Adios. Au revoir. Auf Wiedersehen 'til then.
And though it's always sweet sorrow to part,
You'll know you'll always remain in my heart.
Good night, sleep tight and pleasant dreams to you.
Here's a wish and a prayer that every dream comes true.
And now 'til we meet again...
Adios, Dobranoc, Auf Wiedershen.
Goodnight!

Lights Out, Part I

2007-08-26T23:58:00.000-04:00

Just when you think the marathon training gods are shining on you, they will turn in an instant, giving you the nastiest of reality checks.

Part of me believes I deserved the kick in the gut...and I got the kind that knocks the wind right out of you. I was getting too bold. I just knew my ultimate goal in Chicago had to be within my reach.

But on Saturday, I had a bit of a scare.

Forget how long it took to finish my 20 mile run. I shouldn't have been out there in the first place. The rational part of me knows this, somewhere inside this head of mine, but my ego and my pride took over.

Ego and pride, for the record, never win.

I drove into Manhattan early on Saturday morning. I should have taken the hint when I was approaching the Lincoln Tunnel from New Jersey and the air was so thick with humidity that I couldn't see an inch of the skyline across the Hudson. But I was excited for this run, because my legs were ready and I was so very much looking forward to my reunion with my running buddies Alan and Moffat.

The GW Bride on Saturday morning -- we couldn't see the top of it on the way over!

The three of us and Adam started up the West Side with the goal of running according to my heart rate, which was not to exceed 180 for the duration of the run. Perhaps I should have given the plan the once-over when the monitor read 144 just standing there after warming up, waiting to run. It was hot, humid, smoggy, and just miserable outside.

Never one to let something silly like weather conditions get in the way of my training plans, I felt good for about the first three miles, then pretty suddenly I really didn't. When we hit the first hill, my chest hurt in a way that was, well, just not right. My breathing was all off and I felt wheezing coming on. I pushed forward. My heart rate shot up to 195. It hurt. I pushed forward, again, but slowed down. I listened to Adam calmly suggest taking "baby steps," so I did. We climbed up the hills and I simply couldn't get enough air.

I stopped and walked for a minute. Adam, Michelle, Alan, and Moffat stopped too. Those are the kind of teammates I have -- I couldn't convince them to leave me behind, although I did not want to be the one to ruin their training run. I relaxed and focused on filling my lungs for a minute, and started shuffling my feet again, up and over the overpass to the big hill up 181st Street.

And then it started again. I made it just to the top of the hill before a full-on asthma attack scared the shit out of me. Heart rate? 198. I haven't had one of these since I was probably 19 years old...at least not one like this. Wheezing? Yes, it's part of the deal when I am training hard. Feeling like I might never get a breath of air again, however, is not normal. I don't carry an inhaler (I don't like the way the medication makes me feel so jittery). Truth be told, I haven't come remotely close to needing an inhaler for decades.

Again, I stopped. Again, Alan, Moffat, and Adam stopped too. What would I do without these people? I really wanted them to go. They really wouldn't. I walked and I couldn't say anything but "go...just go." They patiently walked beside me while I played those games in my head to relax myself and eventually my breathing. I rationalized that the weather was tough, but if I just tried to breathe in through nose and out through my mouth, I'd be okay.

Soon, I was okay and began to shuffle my feet up toward the George Washington Bridge and followed Alan and Moffat right over, into New Jersey.

And for the remaining miles, the self-coaching persisted in my mind: "Just get the miles in. You'll be fine. You can walk if you need to. Just get the miles in."

Off of River Road, I stood at the top of the hill and again I stopped. I was scared to go down. I knew if I did, it meant I'd have to run back up. I stood there for nearly 5 minutes while Moffat and Alan went ahead. I shuffled down halfway and waited. And then I ran the rest of the way down and waited for them to head back up. I ran. Baby steps, baby steps, baby steps. I made it back to the water stop and we took a break before taking more baby steps the whole way up the giant hill leading back to the bridge.

I stayed with Moffat and Alan until mile 12 and then watched them power up the rest of the hill. I knew it just wasn't my day and trying to stay with them would be bad for all of us, as disappointed as I was to come to that conclusion. It was awesome to watch them run so strong in such ridiculous conditions. I was (and always am) so proud of them.

Alan and Moffat in the homestretch of the run.

At the end of the bridge, Kim, another Race with Purpose teammate, came running up behind me, looking so strong. She was having a great run and it was awesome to watch her success for a little bit. We stuck together for a few miles down the West side until it was necessary for me to take another walk break (my self-coaching gave me permission ;-)). We met up at the water stations until we made it home, back to 72nd and Riverside.

It was easy to let those stupid demons start demoralizing me for such a crappy training-run performance. I hear them. They're still there, nagging me. I'm trying to ignore them and realize that one horrible day does not preclude me from having one glorious day on October 7th. There just isn't much I could have done to make the day any better -- when you can't get a breath of air, the rest of it all seems irrelevant.

I always try really hard to shake it off immediately, because there's nothing worse than moping around your teammates, when all of them have every reason to be happy with what they've accomplished. Who wants to hang around with Debbie Downer?! The best cure for a bad training run is breakfast with people who can make you laugh hysterically, so that's what I did. Thanks to Moffat, Jennifer, Avi, Russ, and the magnificant return of Alan Gardner -- what an awesome way to end an otherwise horrendous start to the day.

Avi...by the way, since I thought up the killer post-run meal, I WIN :-).

[For those of you wondering what we just discovered to be the most perfect combination of food to refuel: A BLT, two scrambled eggs, a cup of regular coffee, and an iced coffee. Spilling the iced coffee all over yourself is optional.]

So then it was time to head back to the lake house in Pennsylvania, get cleaned up, and go to a dinner to kick off our Strout family reunion.

But then, the lights went out.

To be continued...

Drive for 4 Hours, Run for One Hour and 29 Minutes

2007-08-22T22:14:00.000-04:00

I literally went over the river and through the woods to get to last weekend's run at Rockefeller Park--a trek that began with a 4:30 a.m. wake-up call at the lake in Pennsylvania, a drive through New Jersey and over the Hudson River, and an arrival time in Sleepy Hollow, NY by 7 a.m.

Then there was the small matter of actually running the 11 miles I had traveled all that way for.

We ran fast. Too fast. It's almost like we weren't in control -- some weird force of nature stole our common sense.

Maybe it was the stunningly gorgeous weather. The cool breeze was a welcomed reprieve from the humidity we had been training in for weeks.

Maybe it was the ever-beautiful surroundings of the park that inspired us to speediness.

Or maybe we just ran too fast.

Doing core work after the run

The purpose of our run last Saturday was to keep a constant pace (not constant effort) on the plentiful (and rather big) hills throughout the course. The thing is, based on my pace group's past experiences, our pace should not have been any faster than 8:30 minutes per mile--what we refer to in the Race with Purpose marathon-training program as our Commute Pace.

We ran an average 8:05 pace instead. Why? I don't know, but it did feel good in a "I'm going to barf" kind of way.

I'm waiting to be sore. I am tired, but not sore. My left Achilles is a little tweaked, but I'm taking care of it. I'm working hard -- I'm doing the core work, the lunges, the squats, the hill workouts, the tempo runs, the recovery runs -- I'm doing it all and yet my legs aren't revolting yet. It worries me a little, like I'm missing something.

Other than feeling general fatigue (which I can't say is totally a result of marathon training, but just my hectic schedule in general), I am suspicious that I'm entering a recovery week not feeling more beaten up. Does this make me a freak? Maybe to some people, but I know there are others who know exactly what I'm saying.

Like all things in marathon training, patience is in order. Before I make it into the recovery week, I have to get through Saturday's 20-mile run. Chances are, it will produce some soreness. I'm looking forward to spending some quality time with my running buddies Moffat and Alan. The three of us haven't run together at the same time all season--in fact, the last time the three amigos embarked on a long run together, it was the start of the New York City Marathon last November.

And it's a good bet that we'll have more than 1 hour and 29 minutes to catch up.

Build, Build, Build

2007-08-17T12:42:00.000-04:00

The week after vacation is always rough. Add to it that it was the second week of our strength-building phase of marathon training, and it can quickly become a near disaster. I'm thrilled to report that I'm still alive and kicking.

So this week there have been a lot of Race with Purpose team members in pain. They are tired, sore, and many of them can't fathom taking one more step. Yet, they do. They still show up to practice and submit themselves to tempo runs in dreadful weather conditions. Heat and humidity are no friends to runners. Living in DC for the last few years, these conditions are no more welcome in my life than they were when I was living in the Northeast, but they've just become part of the deal. I guess I'm actually adjusting to the swamp life that is the South.

Tomorrow is the team's Rockefeller Run in Sleepy Hollow, NY. It's one of our favorite training sessions of the year and such a treat for those who spend most of their time running in circles in Central Park. The wooded, hard-packed trails twist through pure nature in all its glory. You can instantly forget that you're only a few miles north of New York City. It's a hilly, challenging place to run, so for those who are in pain, it won't be an easy 11 miles. But these are the workouts and the weeks of training that count when you step to the starting line of the marathon -- there's no doubt in your mind that you've done absolutely everything you can to prepare yourself for the only race that matters this season.

Pam Block sporting our new team singlet
Photo: Bob Scofield (bobscofield.com)

It's amazing to finally see our team come together and almost surreal to see them all gathered, wearing Race with Purpose singlets (in the most neon atomic orange color we could find -- there's no missing us!). I guess part of me never thought the day would come that the organization would "exist" like this. Then again, I realize that we only started out on this crazy endeavor at the end of January. It's truly remarkable to know how much you can achieve when you want it badly enough. Passion for anything, whether it's a cause, a sport, or your career can propel you to some amazing success. As for Race with Purpose...we still have a long way to go, but I am thrilled with how far we've come and excited about where we might go.

Here's to another weekend of hard work and good fun. This is what it's all about!

The Week That Was

2007-08-12T16:36:00.000-04:00

850+ miles driven.
50 miles run.
25 miles biked.
63 amazing hours spent sleeping.
Approximately 40 hours spent floating in the pool (possibly more...my fingers and toes are still slightly pruned).
A few bottles of white wine, a couple of beers, and many margaritas consumed.
At least 2 dozen Oreos dipped in chocolate icing and an unmentionable amount of ice cream devoured.
7 glorious days devoted to laughing with 15 friends.

Really, that's what summer vacation is all about. Needless to say, Beach Week once again lived up to the hype, and far exceeded the amount of fun that should be legal. My abdominal muscles are still recovering from the belly laughing that was induced multiple times a day. Yay for Beach Week! This is what life is all about: good times, amazing friends, and pure relaxation (plus I discovered the most delicious ice cream flavor I've ever tasted: "Graham Central Station"at Handel's -- all I can say is DO IT).

I haven't been so unplugged, de-stressed, or downright lazy in far too long. The most difficult decisions I had to make were whether to lounge by the pool or go to the beach...drink a beer or have a glass of wine...run outside or go to the gym (Mother Nature actually answered that one for me with the 110-degree weather)?

Why can't life always be so simple and enjoyable? Maybe it can. Maybe we can all take a cue from how we function on summer vacation and apply it to the daily grind. The key, I believe, is to surround yourself with good people who treat each other well. If you can do that, the rest will fall naturally into place.

When it became clear that the heat warnings in the area weren't going to subside any time soon, and I had an 18-mile training run on the schedule for the weekend, I made the spur-of-the-moment decision to take off early on Friday morning for cooler temperatures and some needed pace-group support in New York.

Side note: Has anybody ever driven the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel? Holy mother of God. What is that all about? A $12 toll and a 24-mile combination of bridges and tunnels leading to the Eastern Shore. Good grief!

Ok, so anyway, I left the southern tip of the Virginia Coast around 7:45 a.m. and it was already 90 degrees. I arrived at the George Washington Bridge in New York around 3:30 p.m., rolled down the window to pay the toll, and discovered that it was 59 degrees in the city. Sweet! Still wearing a tank top and shorts, however, I quickly realized my packing could've probably included some, um, fleece.

The 18-mile training run was well worth the trip (and the $50 in tolls along the way). The weather was perfect in Central Park: a slight breeze, nice sun, and it couldn't have reached much beyond 70 degrees.

The plan was for Alan Lopez (one of my pace group members) and I to run our usual 8:45 minute-per-mile pace. I had tried unsuccessfully through a texting ambush the day before to persuade him to try 8:30s instead. Being the more rational one in our group, he said no. And when I arrived, our Coach Danielle agreed. I was outnumbered and thought maybe I wasn't ready to push the pace anyway, though with the encouragement and participation of Coach Eugene, Alan, Sharon (another teammate), and I started out with the 8:30 pace group anyway with the intention of dropping back to keep our slower pace.

They say that you're never judged by your intentions, but your actions. If suffices to say that we never dropped back from the 8:30 pace group and in fact dropped them while they indulged in a pit stop after mile 11. But that wasn't even the best part of the day -- the run was actually significantly easier for me than any run of that length that I've ever done (and I've been doing this marathon training thing for nearly 8 years now). My heart rate was incredibly low, even while keeping a constant pace on the hills (according to my monitor, it never got higher than 172, which is extremely low for me and was at 160 or lower for the majority of the run). The only time I dropped back and felt somewhat fatigued was during the last 2 miles on the hills at the northern end of the park, which I can directly attribute to not eating anything during the run and only consuming one cup of Gatorade.

So, bear with me while I record some thoughts about what went well here. It'll be helpful for future reference:

1. I was more than well rested and clearly hadn't spent the week prior to the 18-miler being stressed or crazed, like I normally am.

2. I had excellent pace-group support, something that I didn't discover was so helpful until last year. I love my pace group (Moffat - come back to us soon!)!!!!

3. I am simply in better condition than I truly thought I was. I had trained in the off-season to complete the Tinman half ironman triathlon race and had started regretting that decision as this marathon-training season seemed to be very challenging to transition into, coming off of tri training. Now I realize that it was just taking a few weeks for that conditioning to translate into running faster.

4. The weather helped. To do a long run on a sub-90-degree morning was delicious.

5. My hip/pelvis/ITB remained pain-free throughout the run and I woke up this morning without any residual soreness in my legs from the run (none. zero. this is WEIRD.). Hooray for core work, stretching, and the foam roller!

So, now the question is if I can push that base 8:30 pace (what we Race with Purpose runners call our "Commute" pace) even more, given that my exertion level remained pretty low. I will use the next long run to figure that out, but I am thrilled to have had my confidence boosted a bit by this first long run. Any doubts I had harboring about my goals in Chicago are starting to subside -- I think the biggest lesson learned here is to be a little more patient with myself.

That, and to pretend that I'm at Beach Week every week...

Better than Christmas

2007-08-03T18:57:00.000-04:00

I cannot contain my excitement any longer. My favorite week of the year has just arrived--Beach Week 2007!

Let me find a way to describe the pure joy that this week brings into my life every year. For those of you who grew up with the Santa thing in December, it's a little like peering around the corner to see all the presents under the tree that magically appeared over night. Or, walking out of the office this afternoon felt an awful like that last day of school, when the final bell rang and you just knew three months of endless fun with your favorite people was ahead.

That's beach week.

My Penn State friends and I have held this tradition since graduating, now ten years ago. We reserve the first week of August each year to spend together, doing what college friends do: retell inside jokes, create new ones, drink beer, eat bacon, act ridiculous, and catch up on each other's lives. There have been karoke competitions, drunk 5K runs, trailer-trash night (the last night of beach week, when whatever is left in the fridge must be consumed and only the white-trash canned beer remains), bonfires on the beach, and every night topped with a home-cooked, sit-down, family style dinner cooked by the group (well, to be honest, I usually am on clean-up duty instead). We respect the cocktail hour and you will never find a more competitive, Type-A group of mini-golfers anywhere. Really. Anywhere. That goes for beer pong too.

There is nothing more rejuvenating and refreshing than having an annual, reliable reality check by the one group of people in this world who know you the best. We may not talk to each other nearly as much as we used to, but when we come together for this one week each year, it is like coming home to family. Nobody knows how to bring me back down to earth better than these best friends of mine. Nobody else in this world can glance in my direction for half a second and instantly know exactly what I'm thinking and start laughing uncontrollably because of it.

So, throughout the years boyfriends and girlfriends of the group have come and gone. Now there are spouses and babies and puppies, too. Our family continues to grow, and that's a good thing.

Time to pack--Beach Week is here! Beach Week is here!

Words to Live By

2007-08-01T13:24:00.000-04:00

Better days ahead.

I can't remember the very first time I heard those words, but I do know exactly who said them to me. My grandmother had a distinct way of reading the unverbalized worry on a child's face and erasing it with simple reassuring words, a warm smile, and a quick wink. Her unfailingly kind and gentle way was mixed with just the right dose of pure-Irish mischievousness that made her among the most classy, genuine, and beautiful people you'd ever hope to know.

I grew up thinking of those three words every time something got me down--although my grandmother isn't around anymore, the reassurance she left me with has come in handy more times than I would've ever expected. And now when I call my mother with whatever tale of turmoil has engulfed my attention at the moment, she chuckles and says, "Well, Erin, you know: Better days ahead."

But while I have always thought of that advice as a way to dig myself out of a funk, lately the meaning has shifted. There's something so hopeful about always thinking, no matter what, that the best of times are still to come. I smile, laugh, and savor a good day, a meaningful experience, or a special life event, and I stop, if even briefly, to think about how lucky I must be to still believe that even better days are coming my way.

So, when pondering the many catchy names I could use for this new blog, I settled on this one little phrase that can mean whatever you want it to. Right now, besides my job and training for the Chicago Marathon, my time and energy is devoted to a new organization that I'm helping to build from what (on some days) seems like scratch. It's called Race with Purpose, and the bottom line is that we train athletes of all abilities to run their best marathon, while they raise funds for charities that have a meaningful, measurable impact on helping the nation's neediest kids lead healthy, active, and productive lives. Not every child grows up lucky enough to believe that better days are ahead, so my passion has become trying to make it possible for more to learn how to make it happen for themselves by achieving a healthy lifestyle.

[Side note: If you'd like to contribute to my Race with Purpose fund-raising goal, just click here! Your contributions of all amounts are all equally appreciated and 100% tax deductible. I'll now return you to our regularly scheduled blog entry....]

I hope this space becomes a place where I can record all the ridiculous adventures that come along with starting a new group, training for whatever crazy race I've chosen next, and keeping up with the zaniness that is my friends and family.

I invite you to comment often, laugh at me much, and enjoy the journey. Welcome!