Has Anybody Seen Fall Weather and My Pace?

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.

Has Anybody Seen Fall Weather and My Pace?

On the Right Track

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.

On the Right Track

Dress Rehearsal

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.

Dress Rehearsal

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

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.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

Life Unplugged, Part II

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 II

Life, Unplugged -- Part I

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.

Life, Unplugged -- Part I

Falling in Love, Again

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.

Falling in Love, Again