Moving On

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.

Moving On

I Eated It

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.

I Eated It

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

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!

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

December 9, 1987

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.

December 9, 1987

Tomato Soup and Grilled Cheese

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.

Tomato Soup and Grilled Cheese

49 Seconds: How Do You Define Success?

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.

49 Seconds: How Do You Define Success?

Long May You Run

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...

Long May You Run