Tonight I spent hours sifting through pictures of my late husband for his memorial service. I would almost call the process therapeutic, weird, in a way, but yes, therapeutic.
Looking at all those pictures, waves of guilt, sadness, happiness, regret, what else? I am not even sure there are any emotions left in me to put down. I wanted this fucking shitty cancer to be gone, and now guess what? I have my wish, poof, gone, but guess what? Now what? Now, what is what I keep asking myself.
I spent 30 years with this person, some good, some shitty, I guess that is what you call marriage. I am not sure if I loved him as much as he loved me but we stayed together, we worked through our shit and here I am, now I am single. I am not sure If I feel more sadness for him or for myself because the reality is, now I am alone.
A long time ago my mother, who was a classic textbook narcissist, said to me when I was thinking of leaving Alan, "well you better make up your mind soon or one day you will be old and baggy and nobody will want you." Back then, that comment seemed almost normal because when you grow up in dysfunction junction, isn't that normal? But now here I am, I am old and baggy. I am a single 55-year-old mom. I am not sure If I feel sorrier for myself or for him and his cancer.
Going through those pictures, sad, every one of them is handsome, smiling, but the cigarette all the time. He could never quit that habit and I always just accepted it but over time I saw how much it aged him. Sad.
I guess there are stages of grief and I keep circling back to each one like a fucked up circle jerk, round and round. One minute, depressed, next minute I am onto bargaining, then finally acceptance. Although I am kidding myself with acceptance, really? Do you ever accept that your significant other is gone? I think not.
Months before he left, I was so bitter, I felt resentment, anger, pain, depression, bubbling up like a volcano. In a way, sweet relief that he was gone, now I sit in my bed, alone and think, if only he was here with me, a warm body unit, breathing, his hair, his skin, anything. I feel so alone and sad. Is this normal? I have never grieved like this before.
While he faded it was like watching the light fade on this man I once knew, a small version of this man, cancer, and morphine had reduced him to a shell of the person I used to know. I tried to talk to him but all that came back was mumbling and then sleep. His eyes started to sink in, his breath was shallower and shallower. He kept asking about his car, his keys, when is he going. I wished I would have had a better answer but all I could think of is, we are taking my car because of the snow.
When I had a day to think it over, I realized he was ready to go, that was his way. Let's get in the car and drive, let's get out of here. He asked for his cousins, I guess that is what happens when you are ready to go, you think back to people that are gone.
At first, sweet relief, now sadness and grief. I feel like I was not the best wife, friend, lover, I could have been, guilt, depression, wouldas and couldas cloud my senses. No going back, it is what it is. I just wish we had more time together but isn't that the bargaining tool that everybody wants?
Thursday, December 5, 2019
Grief
I am sitting at a lounge at the Denver Hospice waiting for my husband to die.
It's a strange thing watching someone die, there is a certain peace to it. The hospice is a calm place, especially at 3:30am. I had to take a break, so I am sitting in a lounge next to a warm fire.
It's been a while since I wrote anything, now I feel like I have so much to say. I have been in the weeds with my husband's cancer for almost a year. Small Cell, stage 4. I was able to wrap my head around it when he was first diagnosed, I did not need to read any WebMD bullshit to know what the outcome was. Sure I had some hope but I was always cautiously optimistic.
I felt sad for him and I still do but now there is a part of my brain that just wants it all to be over. Selfish? Maybe. It's just been a long ride, I am tired and he is tired and I am looking for sweet relief for both of us.
They say there are 5 stages of grief. I never really knew what those were until I googled it tonight. For a long time, all I felt was anger, I was angrier at him than anything. Smoker for 50 years, fucking cigarettes, but then the anger would follow guilt and then sadness. Such a waste of feelings when you think about it. It never feels good to walk around like a volcano ready to explode, but that's what I did these last two months.
The last 4 nights before we got here were really rough, especially the night before last when my brother in law woke me up from a dead sleep at 1am because my husband was on the floor in the living room, crawling to the patio door to get air because he was basically suffocating. Here I was, angry again. Hauling portable oxygen tanks across the room, hooking up the additional oxygenator, and telling him over and over again as I tried to lift him off the floor "In through your nose, out through your mouth." He says "Do you love me?" after I get him settled back again and I could not answer him. No, at that moment in time, all I felt was resentment. The volcano brewing again.
He did well for a while, remission for almost 4 months but then it came back again like a vengeance. I had some kind of hope, I guess, what is that stage? Oh, yes, bargaining. I asked the oncologist, so what's the next step, but I knew the answer already.
We put the oncologist on speakerphone and listened to what he had to say. What would you do, we asked? He said, go home, spend time with your family. So there is nothing else? I heard him sigh, and then say, no, not really.
What a fucked up cancer this is. Smokers cancer, that's what they call it. I fucking hate it, I hate cigarettes and when I see someone smoking I want to smack them upside their head and go what the fuck dude?
We have been together 30 years and If I had a dime for every argument I had with those cigarettes, I guess I would not be here right now. I would be on an island drinking a cocktail. But here I am. It sucks ass.
I guess that's where the danger lies, which stage of grief is that? Number two? Today we all went to talk to the social worker in a nice comfortable lounge area while my husband was sleeping soundly. His kids, his brother, myself. What did the social worker say? Oh yea, he is transitioning. I guess that is a nice way to say "dying." Before I was able to research all of this grief, I guess there was every stage in the room, denial, bargaining, anger, and finally for me, acceptance. I cried, but I also accepted what was happening. In a way, it was peace for the first time in several weeks.
I stopped and said to myself, the volcano is not working for me anymore. I need to honor my husband's life and remember him for all the positives. Let that shit go, focus on the future, move forward.
This cancer turned my world upside down, and I am ready to move forward. I never want to think about cancer anymore.
It's a strange thing watching someone die, there is a certain peace to it. The hospice is a calm place, especially at 3:30am. I had to take a break, so I am sitting in a lounge next to a warm fire.
It's been a while since I wrote anything, now I feel like I have so much to say. I have been in the weeds with my husband's cancer for almost a year. Small Cell, stage 4. I was able to wrap my head around it when he was first diagnosed, I did not need to read any WebMD bullshit to know what the outcome was. Sure I had some hope but I was always cautiously optimistic.
I felt sad for him and I still do but now there is a part of my brain that just wants it all to be over. Selfish? Maybe. It's just been a long ride, I am tired and he is tired and I am looking for sweet relief for both of us.
They say there are 5 stages of grief. I never really knew what those were until I googled it tonight. For a long time, all I felt was anger, I was angrier at him than anything. Smoker for 50 years, fucking cigarettes, but then the anger would follow guilt and then sadness. Such a waste of feelings when you think about it. It never feels good to walk around like a volcano ready to explode, but that's what I did these last two months.
The last 4 nights before we got here were really rough, especially the night before last when my brother in law woke me up from a dead sleep at 1am because my husband was on the floor in the living room, crawling to the patio door to get air because he was basically suffocating. Here I was, angry again. Hauling portable oxygen tanks across the room, hooking up the additional oxygenator, and telling him over and over again as I tried to lift him off the floor "In through your nose, out through your mouth." He says "Do you love me?" after I get him settled back again and I could not answer him. No, at that moment in time, all I felt was resentment. The volcano brewing again.
He did well for a while, remission for almost 4 months but then it came back again like a vengeance. I had some kind of hope, I guess, what is that stage? Oh, yes, bargaining. I asked the oncologist, so what's the next step, but I knew the answer already.
We put the oncologist on speakerphone and listened to what he had to say. What would you do, we asked? He said, go home, spend time with your family. So there is nothing else? I heard him sigh, and then say, no, not really.
What a fucked up cancer this is. Smokers cancer, that's what they call it. I fucking hate it, I hate cigarettes and when I see someone smoking I want to smack them upside their head and go what the fuck dude?
We have been together 30 years and If I had a dime for every argument I had with those cigarettes, I guess I would not be here right now. I would be on an island drinking a cocktail. But here I am. It sucks ass.
I guess that's where the danger lies, which stage of grief is that? Number two? Today we all went to talk to the social worker in a nice comfortable lounge area while my husband was sleeping soundly. His kids, his brother, myself. What did the social worker say? Oh yea, he is transitioning. I guess that is a nice way to say "dying." Before I was able to research all of this grief, I guess there was every stage in the room, denial, bargaining, anger, and finally for me, acceptance. I cried, but I also accepted what was happening. In a way, it was peace for the first time in several weeks.
I stopped and said to myself, the volcano is not working for me anymore. I need to honor my husband's life and remember him for all the positives. Let that shit go, focus on the future, move forward.
This cancer turned my world upside down, and I am ready to move forward. I never want to think about cancer anymore.
Friday, November 21, 2014
Dysfunction Junction...
Dysfunction Junction, a funny term I name my childhood.
Ok, it was not always dysfunction junction. It was for some time, kind of like "Leave it to Beaver." I know this sounds weird, but it was. When we lived in Queens, I remember an elementary, idealistic childhood. I remember playing in the streets with my friends, Chinese takeout on Fridays, and ballet lessons. I remember feeling safe and secure. I remember parents that seemed like all the other parents on the block we lived on, working-class folks that lived a fundamental life. No frills, hand me downs, but very happy.
Then something changed.
We moved up, like the Jefferson's, to Westchester county.
It was a very different life. The expectations changed. My parents seemed very stressed out all of the time. Money was always the topic of conversation in our house. They bit off more than they could chew; they wanted to give us a better life, but at what price? Arguments were a daily occurrence. My father drank, my mother bitched, welcome to Dysfunction Junction.
My father would come home from work and fall asleep on the couch. I always thought this was normal until I got older. I realized that he was not just "tired" from work, but in fact, he was loaded from drinking all day. My mom grew quiet; her mouth was always pursed in a perpetual state of "pissed off,' and they did not really talk to each other anymore. They were like two ships passing in the night. The communication was always one-sided, one person talking at the other or yelling at the other, the other person looking past and nodding like they were listening; there was no listening, there was no anything.
I think when my mom met my dad, she had other expectations in mind. She had this suburban, stay-at-home mom, fix dinners, and PTA meetings. What she got was broken. Buying food consisted of the day-old meat section, dented cans, and moldy bread. The house was always in a perpetual state of disaster. Nothing ever really got fixed; it got ducted taped. The roof leaked, bugs got in, mold ensued, and misery followed.
We were afraid to bring our friends over. Furniture was whatever my dad found in the trash or brought home from the job. A conference table doubled as a dining set, a cot was a makeshift bed for my sister. This was normal for us, but not for our friends. We opted out of bringing anyone over. Most of my friends were affluent, they would look at our house like we were the Adams Family, but they shook it off for some reason.
The arguments were frequent, almost nightly, and always about money and not enough of it to go around. These arguments would boil to ahead. One night my dad got so frustrated he took one of the kitchen chairs and smashed it so that it looked like a mangled up piece of pretzel on the floor. He would get so frustrated with her, my mom, that's what he did, he smashed things. Then after the boil, he would calmly go into the living room with his beer and paper in hand. Like the big pink elephant in the room, they would act like nothing happened, even though, as children, we would be scared and frightened.
My mom would cry, and then she would shut down. Who could she talk to? Her mother, my grandmother, never liked my dad. She looked down on him. What would she say? "I told you so." My mom was really alone. She would drink too. I guess if you can't beat em, join em, right? So there they would be, two bombed parents sitting on the couch night after night, ignoring each other.
The atmosphere was always oppressive to me. It was like living in a big dark cloud. Sadness, gloom. I hated it.
I remember thinking how excited I was when I turned 16. I could leave the depression; I could drive! I would venture out and not return until dark. Sometimes I would just drive around by myself, just so I did not have to sit there with them and watch them, two miserable people co-existing with each other.
My dad was not a horrible person though, he was kind, he was sensitive. He just did not know how to express his feelings; he was socially awkward, an introvert. He preferred the company of his books, music, or paper over people. My sister says I am a lot like him. I think she is right.
I have, in essence, turned into my father's mini-me.
My mother was outgoing; she was artistic. My dad never encouraged her to pursue her talents, and my mom did not have enough self-worth to say "screw you" to him and do what she wanted. So instead, she lived a life of quiet desperation.
My loyalties leaned towards my father. I am not sure why, but I think because he always confided in me. I realize now, in retrospect, I was his emotional spouse. He did not talk to my mom because my mom did not listen to him, but I was an open and eager recipient of his words. I ate them up; I loved having those words spoken to me because that was what I thought love was. I was his confidant, his favorite. I would agree with him, nod, smile; I loved that he looked to me like I was something special to him.
I resented my mother. I felt like it was all my mom's fault we lived in Dysfunction Junction. I would toss scenarios around in my head "If only she were kinder to my dad," if only "she was not such a bitch, things would be better." I blamed her for my dad's drinking, for why he was the way he was.
Years later, I realized It was a two-way street.
When my mother passed away, a friend told me that she understood why my mom ended up the way she did in the end, a sad, sad woman. She said to me, "Look at the era she grew up in; maybe she thought she had no choices." It dawned on me that perhaps this was the case. My mom did what she needed to do to exist, to survive. After a while, nothing seemed to matter to her; she simply lived, ate, dressed, and existed. There was no spark anymore; there was no joy.
I always thought that my mom could have made different choices. Why, if she was so unhappy, why did she stick around? Why not leave my dad? I think she stuck around because she was scared of the unknown. The comfort in dysfunction was all she knew. The box that she married was better than the one outside.
What would our lives had been like if she had left my dad? I don't know. Would it have been better? I look back and am grateful that I had parents, that I exist, that they decided to have me and raise me. But I also think about how unhappy they were. It makes me sad. I wish things were different now; I wish that they had moved on to other lives, even if that meant lives separate from us.
I wished there were no Dysfunction Junction to talk about, but this is what I know. This is what made me who I am. Dysfunctional? Yes, maybe, in some ways. But also a strong person, A person that can deal with drama and issues.
Ok, it was not always dysfunction junction. It was for some time, kind of like "Leave it to Beaver." I know this sounds weird, but it was. When we lived in Queens, I remember an elementary, idealistic childhood. I remember playing in the streets with my friends, Chinese takeout on Fridays, and ballet lessons. I remember feeling safe and secure. I remember parents that seemed like all the other parents on the block we lived on, working-class folks that lived a fundamental life. No frills, hand me downs, but very happy.
Then something changed.
We moved up, like the Jefferson's, to Westchester county.
It was a very different life. The expectations changed. My parents seemed very stressed out all of the time. Money was always the topic of conversation in our house. They bit off more than they could chew; they wanted to give us a better life, but at what price? Arguments were a daily occurrence. My father drank, my mother bitched, welcome to Dysfunction Junction.
My father would come home from work and fall asleep on the couch. I always thought this was normal until I got older. I realized that he was not just "tired" from work, but in fact, he was loaded from drinking all day. My mom grew quiet; her mouth was always pursed in a perpetual state of "pissed off,' and they did not really talk to each other anymore. They were like two ships passing in the night. The communication was always one-sided, one person talking at the other or yelling at the other, the other person looking past and nodding like they were listening; there was no listening, there was no anything.
I think when my mom met my dad, she had other expectations in mind. She had this suburban, stay-at-home mom, fix dinners, and PTA meetings. What she got was broken. Buying food consisted of the day-old meat section, dented cans, and moldy bread. The house was always in a perpetual state of disaster. Nothing ever really got fixed; it got ducted taped. The roof leaked, bugs got in, mold ensued, and misery followed.
We were afraid to bring our friends over. Furniture was whatever my dad found in the trash or brought home from the job. A conference table doubled as a dining set, a cot was a makeshift bed for my sister. This was normal for us, but not for our friends. We opted out of bringing anyone over. Most of my friends were affluent, they would look at our house like we were the Adams Family, but they shook it off for some reason.
The arguments were frequent, almost nightly, and always about money and not enough of it to go around. These arguments would boil to ahead. One night my dad got so frustrated he took one of the kitchen chairs and smashed it so that it looked like a mangled up piece of pretzel on the floor. He would get so frustrated with her, my mom, that's what he did, he smashed things. Then after the boil, he would calmly go into the living room with his beer and paper in hand. Like the big pink elephant in the room, they would act like nothing happened, even though, as children, we would be scared and frightened.
My mom would cry, and then she would shut down. Who could she talk to? Her mother, my grandmother, never liked my dad. She looked down on him. What would she say? "I told you so." My mom was really alone. She would drink too. I guess if you can't beat em, join em, right? So there they would be, two bombed parents sitting on the couch night after night, ignoring each other.
The atmosphere was always oppressive to me. It was like living in a big dark cloud. Sadness, gloom. I hated it.
I remember thinking how excited I was when I turned 16. I could leave the depression; I could drive! I would venture out and not return until dark. Sometimes I would just drive around by myself, just so I did not have to sit there with them and watch them, two miserable people co-existing with each other.
My dad was not a horrible person though, he was kind, he was sensitive. He just did not know how to express his feelings; he was socially awkward, an introvert. He preferred the company of his books, music, or paper over people. My sister says I am a lot like him. I think she is right.
I have, in essence, turned into my father's mini-me.
My mother was outgoing; she was artistic. My dad never encouraged her to pursue her talents, and my mom did not have enough self-worth to say "screw you" to him and do what she wanted. So instead, she lived a life of quiet desperation.
My loyalties leaned towards my father. I am not sure why, but I think because he always confided in me. I realize now, in retrospect, I was his emotional spouse. He did not talk to my mom because my mom did not listen to him, but I was an open and eager recipient of his words. I ate them up; I loved having those words spoken to me because that was what I thought love was. I was his confidant, his favorite. I would agree with him, nod, smile; I loved that he looked to me like I was something special to him.
I resented my mother. I felt like it was all my mom's fault we lived in Dysfunction Junction. I would toss scenarios around in my head "If only she were kinder to my dad," if only "she was not such a bitch, things would be better." I blamed her for my dad's drinking, for why he was the way he was.
Years later, I realized It was a two-way street.
When my mother passed away, a friend told me that she understood why my mom ended up the way she did in the end, a sad, sad woman. She said to me, "Look at the era she grew up in; maybe she thought she had no choices." It dawned on me that perhaps this was the case. My mom did what she needed to do to exist, to survive. After a while, nothing seemed to matter to her; she simply lived, ate, dressed, and existed. There was no spark anymore; there was no joy.
I always thought that my mom could have made different choices. Why, if she was so unhappy, why did she stick around? Why not leave my dad? I think she stuck around because she was scared of the unknown. The comfort in dysfunction was all she knew. The box that she married was better than the one outside.
What would our lives had been like if she had left my dad? I don't know. Would it have been better? I look back and am grateful that I had parents, that I exist, that they decided to have me and raise me. But I also think about how unhappy they were. It makes me sad. I wish things were different now; I wish that they had moved on to other lives, even if that meant lives separate from us.
I wished there were no Dysfunction Junction to talk about, but this is what I know. This is what made me who I am. Dysfunctional? Yes, maybe, in some ways. But also a strong person, A person that can deal with drama and issues.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Turning 50
Today I turned 50. I am now officially a half a century old.
I woke up, had coffee, checked email and then realized it was my birthday, so uneventful. But then after a few minutes it started to sink in... 50. I am no longer in my 40's, for some, I am even considered old, middle aged.
I am not sure why I thought that turning 50 would be kind of traumatic. It really was not so bad, as a matter of fact, after I finished my coffee I realized how good I am with turning 50. I am good with my age, I am good with myself. I am in a good place.
As this milestone was creeping up on me over the last year or so, many things started to change in my life. Most notably, I stopped caring what people thought about me. One day, I woke up and realized that nobodies opinion mattered anymore. It was liberating. I started to focus on acceptance of myself as well. Acceptance of my flaws, my weaknesses, my mistakes. All of these things made up and continue to make up who I am as a person and that person is perfectly acceptable, beautiful and fabulous.
It is weird how this kind of happens to you as you get older. You ever notice those old crazy people that just kind of blurt out whatever they want? Now I get it. It is not that they don't realize it, they just don't care. I am turning into one of those old people and you know what? I don't care either. I have decided to embrace my age for the first time in my life. I look back and I have no regrets, I look forward and I see nothing but more possibilities.
Now let's talk about running.
Running at 50. Does it feel any different? I don't think so, not yet. I have never been fast, but now I am heading into a brand new age group. This is very exciting to me and holds endless possibilities. I am not a super fast athlete by any stretch of the imagination but compared to my peers, women my age, I am a rock star.
At 50, the competition thins, the field is smaller, less crazy old women like me. In one way, I can look at this as easier to place in my age group, but another way to look at it as there are less people and far less women out there who are... like me. I am beginning to become an anomaly. A weirdo for some, a hero for others. Either description, suits me just fine.
Some women my age ask me, why do you do it? Other women smile and are amazed that I can do it. When I finished the Leadville Heavy half, and talked about it with my friends, most of them shook their heads and said "Crazy girl."
It doesn't feel crazy to me, as a matter of fact I feel like I am doing exactly what I should be doing. Running up a mountainous trail seems normal. It is exhilarating and makes me think, "Why did it take so long to do one of these races?"
I guess the reason was because I was always worried I would fail, I would not finish, I would somehow disappoint myself or others. Now that thought never crosses my mind. I know that I will always finish a race no matter what, even if that means coming in dead last. Dead last is still finishing something only a very small percentage of women can do and that feels amazing to me.
I finally signed up for speed training this year with my running group. For the last several years, I avoided signing up like the plague, so concerned about what people thought. I kept thinking, why? Why should a crazy older woman care about being fast? Will I be the only one there that is my age and will people think I am weird? Then of course the "Who gives a crap" part of my brain finally kicked in. I realized, it does not matter anymore. What matters is that I am doing something that I enjoy, that challenges me, that makes me a better runner, only for me and nobody else. Other opinions mean nothing anymore.
When I got there, low and behold, there were other crazy older women just like me! One, who was 61 and a Boston Qualifier. She ran slow, in the back, but did not care. I loved that there were others like me, others that were doing something for themselves too. Why focus on age? Why think that just because you are getting older that you should fade slowly away and forget about your goals and your dreams?
I look at myself in the mirror, I am slightly overweight, my belly hangs over my running shorts, things sag, things don't quite look as put together as they did when I was 25. I have varicose veins, I have cellulite. It is easy to compare, easy to look at myself and somehow expect that I should look different. I should look like I did when I was younger. My expectations are sometimes not realistic. Instead, I need to focus on appreciating my body for what it can still do, what I can accomplish, how strong I am. I am still running, I am still exploring, I am still challenging myself.
50? Bring it on! Who knows what I can still accomplish, the possibilities are endless. Maybe an ultra distance is in my future?
I woke up, had coffee, checked email and then realized it was my birthday, so uneventful. But then after a few minutes it started to sink in... 50. I am no longer in my 40's, for some, I am even considered old, middle aged.
I am not sure why I thought that turning 50 would be kind of traumatic. It really was not so bad, as a matter of fact, after I finished my coffee I realized how good I am with turning 50. I am good with my age, I am good with myself. I am in a good place.
As this milestone was creeping up on me over the last year or so, many things started to change in my life. Most notably, I stopped caring what people thought about me. One day, I woke up and realized that nobodies opinion mattered anymore. It was liberating. I started to focus on acceptance of myself as well. Acceptance of my flaws, my weaknesses, my mistakes. All of these things made up and continue to make up who I am as a person and that person is perfectly acceptable, beautiful and fabulous.
It is weird how this kind of happens to you as you get older. You ever notice those old crazy people that just kind of blurt out whatever they want? Now I get it. It is not that they don't realize it, they just don't care. I am turning into one of those old people and you know what? I don't care either. I have decided to embrace my age for the first time in my life. I look back and I have no regrets, I look forward and I see nothing but more possibilities.
Now let's talk about running.
Running at 50. Does it feel any different? I don't think so, not yet. I have never been fast, but now I am heading into a brand new age group. This is very exciting to me and holds endless possibilities. I am not a super fast athlete by any stretch of the imagination but compared to my peers, women my age, I am a rock star.
At 50, the competition thins, the field is smaller, less crazy old women like me. In one way, I can look at this as easier to place in my age group, but another way to look at it as there are less people and far less women out there who are... like me. I am beginning to become an anomaly. A weirdo for some, a hero for others. Either description, suits me just fine.
Some women my age ask me, why do you do it? Other women smile and are amazed that I can do it. When I finished the Leadville Heavy half, and talked about it with my friends, most of them shook their heads and said "Crazy girl."
It doesn't feel crazy to me, as a matter of fact I feel like I am doing exactly what I should be doing. Running up a mountainous trail seems normal. It is exhilarating and makes me think, "Why did it take so long to do one of these races?"
I guess the reason was because I was always worried I would fail, I would not finish, I would somehow disappoint myself or others. Now that thought never crosses my mind. I know that I will always finish a race no matter what, even if that means coming in dead last. Dead last is still finishing something only a very small percentage of women can do and that feels amazing to me.
I finally signed up for speed training this year with my running group. For the last several years, I avoided signing up like the plague, so concerned about what people thought. I kept thinking, why? Why should a crazy older woman care about being fast? Will I be the only one there that is my age and will people think I am weird? Then of course the "Who gives a crap" part of my brain finally kicked in. I realized, it does not matter anymore. What matters is that I am doing something that I enjoy, that challenges me, that makes me a better runner, only for me and nobody else. Other opinions mean nothing anymore.
When I got there, low and behold, there were other crazy older women just like me! One, who was 61 and a Boston Qualifier. She ran slow, in the back, but did not care. I loved that there were others like me, others that were doing something for themselves too. Why focus on age? Why think that just because you are getting older that you should fade slowly away and forget about your goals and your dreams?
I look at myself in the mirror, I am slightly overweight, my belly hangs over my running shorts, things sag, things don't quite look as put together as they did when I was 25. I have varicose veins, I have cellulite. It is easy to compare, easy to look at myself and somehow expect that I should look different. I should look like I did when I was younger. My expectations are sometimes not realistic. Instead, I need to focus on appreciating my body for what it can still do, what I can accomplish, how strong I am. I am still running, I am still exploring, I am still challenging myself.
50? Bring it on! Who knows what I can still accomplish, the possibilities are endless. Maybe an ultra distance is in my future?
Friday, November 7, 2014
Grief and Running
Last Sunday my mom passed away.
It was not unexpected, she was sick, she was 83, she was depressed. She gave up on life.
To be honest, I was not sure how to feel about the passing of my mother. I wanted to feel sad but my emotions did not seem to be working. I felt disconnected from it all, clinical and matter of fact. All I felt was a deep sadness for the life she chose to live for herself. A life that was a mere shadow of the life she could have had.
She shut me out, she had a tendency to do this, and I accepted that this is how she wanted things to be. Instead of trying to break through, I focused on the bits and pieces that were good. The times that we got along with each other, the times she seemed happy. I had accepted her a long time ago and was a peace with that. I felt no guilt.
My relationship with my mother was, let's say, complicated at best. We had ups and downs throughout the years and for the early part of my adulthood I felt like an unloved and flawed human being in her eyes. I moved out at 20 and spent the next 30 years being punished for leaving. She never visited, rarely called me, and treated me like I was a distant coworker. She was critical and emotionally detached. It was not until much later on in my life that I realized she had deep psychological issues, scars and baggage caused by a lot of trauma that happened throughout her life.
I realized it was not me, it was her. Once I realized these things, I was able to accept her for what she was. We started to turn things around and we were able to have a good relationship with each other.
My mother ran black and white, hot and cold. That is the only way to describe her. She was very self-involved and incapable of true love or affection. I do not remember hugs, kisses, or the "I love you" that my friends got from their moms. I only remember a mother that seemed distracted and unhappy. She smiled rarely, she took pleasure in very little.
On Sunday, November 2nd, 2014, I ran the NYC Marathon. On Wednesday I flew in early to attend my mother's memorial service.
I felt detached during the ceremony. I guess they say everyone grieves differently. I looked at the pictures that were collaged together to represent her life, in each one she wears a smile but it is only superficial. She always smiled for pictures because she wanted to look nice. We all had to smile even though we never saw any of those pictures in our house after they were taken. They were squirreled away for "safe-keeping." When my sister and I cleared out her house we found boxes and boxes of those photos, all in pristine condition. The memory was what she cherished, people however, were pushed aside. It was telling to comb through all of those pictures and realize that they never were enjoyed. Nothing in her house was enjoyed.
A typical depression era child, my mom saved everything. So on top of all the boxes of pictures, there were old baby shoes, notes about our birth, knitted caps, baby rattles, dresses, hats, china, toys, boxed and wrapped carefully in every closet. We never saw any of those things growing up, she never took them out, she just wanted to hold on to them all, to keep the memory alive.
On the long ride back from Albany to NYC after the memorial, I broke down. I finally realized that my mom was indeed gone and that despite all of my hurts and disappointments with her as a mother, I would never be able to pick up the phone and talk to her. I felt angry at her and sad for myself. Then the anger changed to pity for her and pity for myself.
I ran the marathon because I had spent the last 6 months training for it. I wanted to finish it now more than ever because the marathon represented life and its possibilities. The extremes and what a human being can do if they put their heart into something. I needed to run it for myself. I needed to finish it and know that I was capable of accomplishing anything, even at 50, even overweight and even with big flat feet. I needed to feel my body push itself to the limits and run 26.2 miles.
But, I also wanted to finish it for my mom. It was not like she had any interest in my running, she did not. She had no interest in anything I did, unless it was something she could have input in. I accepted this and rarely brought up my interests when I talked to her. I realized that was who she was. So our conversations bordered around whatever she wanted to talk about. They were pleasant and easy going. We would talk about cooking or home improvement projects, she liked those things. The last 10 years or so of her life we began to have a good relationship. My sister used to say "You are really good with her Christina." No, I was not "good" with her, I was just more patient as I got older. She said hurtful things to me all the time but I tried not to let those things bother me. Instead I focused on how to relate to her, to try and enjoy her company and to try not to let her get under my skin. I accepted her for who she was. She was not the mother I wanted, but she was mine. I did not always like her as a person, but I loved her for who she was.
But I also watched her slowly give up on life. She rarely exercised, rarely left the house. After awhile her muscles began to give out on her, she had trouble walking. She stopped paying bills, she stopped caring what the house looked like. Her phone conversations were curt at best. We intervened and found her in deplorable conditions. We had to make a tough decision and transition her to a nursing home. In the nursing home, she argued, she resisted any kind of positive treatment, physical therapy. All she wanted to do was sit in bed and watch TV... depression.
She did not return my calls, so I gave up. I live in Colorado, I felt helpless to connect to her unless I flew out every other week, which I could not do. Despite the fact that this was my mother, I had a job, a son, a husband, a life, a family that came first. I was able to visit a few times and help my sister. I hoped that I could connect to my mom through the phone but that never happened.
She wasted away and died several months after she got to the nursing home, but in my mind, she had died inside much earlier than that. When she went into that nursing home, she was just a shadow of herself. I knew in my heart that she was probably never coming out again.
I have a tendency of judging my mother, of thinking that she was weak, lazy, powerless but after my race in NY my dear friend put it all in perspective for me. She said, your mom did not have the same choices you did.
She was right.
I wonder now, what my mom's life would have been like had she been born into a different era? If she was able to be treated for her mental illness, if she knew she had choices and could feel empowered? Would she be the same person? I think in a lot of ways my mom felt trapped by a life that she thought she needed to live, by conventions that she felt compelled to fill. She was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole her entire life. I remember her talking about her dreams to me, what she wanted to do when she was younger. She was a musician, she was creative. I asked her if she ever wanted to have kids and her blunt response was "Not particularly." I guess another person would have been insulted by this but for me this response was very telling of who she was as a person. She was once a young vibrant woman who drove and had a drivers license when no other women did, she talked about the "business world" and working so she could be self-sufficient. She talked about dates and dancing with her friend Dottie, she talked about her bout with cancer, her traumas, her mom, her sister, her dad. She liked to talk about getting on the "L-train" and going to the city to hang out and meet guys. She was funny when she talked about these things. She wrote poems and music. She played the piano and she played the accordion. I know she wanted more out of life than what was offered to her. So she did what every other woman did, she got married and she had kids. She met my dad, and I truly believe for awhile the were happy. Then one day, they were not.
She went through the motions, she was efficient and provided for us as children but deep down inside she gave up, lived a small life of desperation and depression. It was not easy living with my dad, I loved my dad dearly but he had his own demons. My mom quietly dealt with things, shoved things inside, under the carpet, but she also confided in me, she told me things about my dad, about her life, things I had wished she had not shared but when it is all said and done, I am glad she did.
We had finally become friends.
I finished the marathon in a little over 4 hours. I am not fast and I did not care either. I just wanted to finish and feel alive. It made me feel better, during the run, I thought a lot about my mom, her life and our relationship. If she has her way, she will be up there with an accordion playing honky tonk tunes with a big smile on her face. I hope that is where she is. That for once, she is finally at peace and she is happy.
It was not unexpected, she was sick, she was 83, she was depressed. She gave up on life.
To be honest, I was not sure how to feel about the passing of my mother. I wanted to feel sad but my emotions did not seem to be working. I felt disconnected from it all, clinical and matter of fact. All I felt was a deep sadness for the life she chose to live for herself. A life that was a mere shadow of the life she could have had.
She shut me out, she had a tendency to do this, and I accepted that this is how she wanted things to be. Instead of trying to break through, I focused on the bits and pieces that were good. The times that we got along with each other, the times she seemed happy. I had accepted her a long time ago and was a peace with that. I felt no guilt.
My relationship with my mother was, let's say, complicated at best. We had ups and downs throughout the years and for the early part of my adulthood I felt like an unloved and flawed human being in her eyes. I moved out at 20 and spent the next 30 years being punished for leaving. She never visited, rarely called me, and treated me like I was a distant coworker. She was critical and emotionally detached. It was not until much later on in my life that I realized she had deep psychological issues, scars and baggage caused by a lot of trauma that happened throughout her life.
I realized it was not me, it was her. Once I realized these things, I was able to accept her for what she was. We started to turn things around and we were able to have a good relationship with each other.
My mother ran black and white, hot and cold. That is the only way to describe her. She was very self-involved and incapable of true love or affection. I do not remember hugs, kisses, or the "I love you" that my friends got from their moms. I only remember a mother that seemed distracted and unhappy. She smiled rarely, she took pleasure in very little.
On Sunday, November 2nd, 2014, I ran the NYC Marathon. On Wednesday I flew in early to attend my mother's memorial service.
I felt detached during the ceremony. I guess they say everyone grieves differently. I looked at the pictures that were collaged together to represent her life, in each one she wears a smile but it is only superficial. She always smiled for pictures because she wanted to look nice. We all had to smile even though we never saw any of those pictures in our house after they were taken. They were squirreled away for "safe-keeping." When my sister and I cleared out her house we found boxes and boxes of those photos, all in pristine condition. The memory was what she cherished, people however, were pushed aside. It was telling to comb through all of those pictures and realize that they never were enjoyed. Nothing in her house was enjoyed.
A typical depression era child, my mom saved everything. So on top of all the boxes of pictures, there were old baby shoes, notes about our birth, knitted caps, baby rattles, dresses, hats, china, toys, boxed and wrapped carefully in every closet. We never saw any of those things growing up, she never took them out, she just wanted to hold on to them all, to keep the memory alive.
On the long ride back from Albany to NYC after the memorial, I broke down. I finally realized that my mom was indeed gone and that despite all of my hurts and disappointments with her as a mother, I would never be able to pick up the phone and talk to her. I felt angry at her and sad for myself. Then the anger changed to pity for her and pity for myself.
I ran the marathon because I had spent the last 6 months training for it. I wanted to finish it now more than ever because the marathon represented life and its possibilities. The extremes and what a human being can do if they put their heart into something. I needed to run it for myself. I needed to finish it and know that I was capable of accomplishing anything, even at 50, even overweight and even with big flat feet. I needed to feel my body push itself to the limits and run 26.2 miles.
But, I also wanted to finish it for my mom. It was not like she had any interest in my running, she did not. She had no interest in anything I did, unless it was something she could have input in. I accepted this and rarely brought up my interests when I talked to her. I realized that was who she was. So our conversations bordered around whatever she wanted to talk about. They were pleasant and easy going. We would talk about cooking or home improvement projects, she liked those things. The last 10 years or so of her life we began to have a good relationship. My sister used to say "You are really good with her Christina." No, I was not "good" with her, I was just more patient as I got older. She said hurtful things to me all the time but I tried not to let those things bother me. Instead I focused on how to relate to her, to try and enjoy her company and to try not to let her get under my skin. I accepted her for who she was. She was not the mother I wanted, but she was mine. I did not always like her as a person, but I loved her for who she was.
But I also watched her slowly give up on life. She rarely exercised, rarely left the house. After awhile her muscles began to give out on her, she had trouble walking. She stopped paying bills, she stopped caring what the house looked like. Her phone conversations were curt at best. We intervened and found her in deplorable conditions. We had to make a tough decision and transition her to a nursing home. In the nursing home, she argued, she resisted any kind of positive treatment, physical therapy. All she wanted to do was sit in bed and watch TV... depression.
She did not return my calls, so I gave up. I live in Colorado, I felt helpless to connect to her unless I flew out every other week, which I could not do. Despite the fact that this was my mother, I had a job, a son, a husband, a life, a family that came first. I was able to visit a few times and help my sister. I hoped that I could connect to my mom through the phone but that never happened.
She wasted away and died several months after she got to the nursing home, but in my mind, she had died inside much earlier than that. When she went into that nursing home, she was just a shadow of herself. I knew in my heart that she was probably never coming out again.
I have a tendency of judging my mother, of thinking that she was weak, lazy, powerless but after my race in NY my dear friend put it all in perspective for me. She said, your mom did not have the same choices you did.
She was right.
I wonder now, what my mom's life would have been like had she been born into a different era? If she was able to be treated for her mental illness, if she knew she had choices and could feel empowered? Would she be the same person? I think in a lot of ways my mom felt trapped by a life that she thought she needed to live, by conventions that she felt compelled to fill. She was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole her entire life. I remember her talking about her dreams to me, what she wanted to do when she was younger. She was a musician, she was creative. I asked her if she ever wanted to have kids and her blunt response was "Not particularly." I guess another person would have been insulted by this but for me this response was very telling of who she was as a person. She was once a young vibrant woman who drove and had a drivers license when no other women did, she talked about the "business world" and working so she could be self-sufficient. She talked about dates and dancing with her friend Dottie, she talked about her bout with cancer, her traumas, her mom, her sister, her dad. She liked to talk about getting on the "L-train" and going to the city to hang out and meet guys. She was funny when she talked about these things. She wrote poems and music. She played the piano and she played the accordion. I know she wanted more out of life than what was offered to her. So she did what every other woman did, she got married and she had kids. She met my dad, and I truly believe for awhile the were happy. Then one day, they were not.
She went through the motions, she was efficient and provided for us as children but deep down inside she gave up, lived a small life of desperation and depression. It was not easy living with my dad, I loved my dad dearly but he had his own demons. My mom quietly dealt with things, shoved things inside, under the carpet, but she also confided in me, she told me things about my dad, about her life, things I had wished she had not shared but when it is all said and done, I am glad she did.
We had finally become friends.
I finished the marathon in a little over 4 hours. I am not fast and I did not care either. I just wanted to finish and feel alive. It made me feel better, during the run, I thought a lot about my mom, her life and our relationship. If she has her way, she will be up there with an accordion playing honky tonk tunes with a big smile on her face. I hope that is where she is. That for once, she is finally at peace and she is happy.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Brooklyn Marathon, The Good, The Bad, The Ugly
So it has taken me awhile to suck it up and write about this race... It required me to check my ego at the door.
Let's just say this was not my crowning moment in running history, as a matter of fact it was far from it. To be perfectly honest, it kinda sucked. There i said it.
So what do we start with first? The good? The bad? Or the ugly? I vote for ugly because it will keep you at least mildly interested until the end of the story, which culminates in the good parts. Does that work for you? Ok, let's begin...
Part one... the ugly.
So it started out as a pretty typical fall race, nice weather (not too cold, not too hot, in other words, in Goldilocks world, just right) but by about mile 2 I knew things were just not going exactly as planned. I felt slow, I never got my mojo on. I was not sure why but I was not feeling it. My legs felt like cement blocks and things began to fall apart. I knew the course was going to be a challenge when i signed up for it but a part of me (my delicate ego) thought i was going to conquer this one. How wrong i was! The course was several loops around Prospect Park (9 to be exact). The first 3 loops were shorter and then the next 6 were longer. I read about "the hill" in the park over and over again by previous runners and New Yorkers who ran that park on a daily basis but for some reason I figured I could handle it. Hey, I was a Colorado girl! I was used to hills, trails and altitude right? Ya, ok.
Well the first long loop was a piece of cake but by the time I got to loop number 5 i was literally in loopy loo ville. 150% grade each time, combined by 6 = kind of really sucks. At the start of each hill I found myself mumbling obscenities while other runners looked at me like I had lost my mind. All that went through my mind was, didn't I just do this already? Oh yea, that's right, yes, 4 times already! I started to feel defeated as more and more people passed me by. Usually I am in a zone and do not notice this as much, yea people will pass you in a race... duh. You are not going to "win" duh... but for this race it was all i could seem to focus on, obsess almost on who what where. Older, heavier runners seemed to whip past me.
By the 4th loop my knee started to burn, at mile 5 my ass joined in and by loop 6 my calf completely froze up. Seriously, it froze! I came to a complete halt. This was followed by me shuffling into the last mile like a walker with a grimace on my face.
I am a huge fan of the Walking Dead. Here is me at mile 25...
Only difference is that I did not have Rick Grimes shove a crowbar into my skull (not that it would have helped much). I vaguely remember mumbling "brains, more brains" about that time but for some reason I could not hear the sound coming out of my mouth, only heavy breathing followed by a little drool puddled on the left corner of my mouth.
Let's just say, this was not my race. Now, back to the ego thing. It is a funny thing the ego isn't it? Especially for us runners. We always assume that we are going to keep improving, keep getting better than before, another PR. We obsess about the PR and when that does not happen then we really have a hard time accepting it. For some reason, I thought I would beat my last time, hell even a BQ! But that did not happen. I did not even come close. My time was 4:42. All that kept going through my mind was, how did that happen?
I guess I could blame it on any number of things and in retrospect one or two of them would be the culprit, not enough miles under the belt or maybe too many miles, no speedwork, no hills, not eating right, too much walking around NYC the day before (so meandering around the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens for 2 hours was probably not a good idea right?), not good sleep, jet lag, and the list goes on and on.
For one thing, I have not been feeling it for awhile. Sometimes I forget my age. I am after all 49. I know this should not be an excuse, there are many amazing older runners but I have to cut myself some slack in that department right? Most of my 40ish coworkers can barely walk a mile without whining about their ass burning up so being able to run 26.2 in their eyes is like something between complete and utter insanity and a huge accomplishment. I will take the latter.
So being disappointed in my time and of course accepting the fact that apparently something went array in my training was of course a tough nut to swallow. I had to check my ego, regroup and move past this. What did I get out of it?
Well for one thing, I was glad I finished it and I also have to accept the fact that no matter how hard I "think" i am training for a marathon, it is probably not good enough, at least for me anyway. I am not gifted. I also realize that what i lack in "giftedness" I make up in mental toughness and 9 laps calculated with rubber bands is probably not the best race for my mental sanity... period.
Ok, well, put that one on the shelf and focus on the next one. I have officially been accepted into NYC for 2014 and I am excited about this one because it will probably be my last NYC race. So now to focus on "thank you may I have another" instead of "brains, brains" and I should be good to go right?
Right....
Let's just say this was not my crowning moment in running history, as a matter of fact it was far from it. To be perfectly honest, it kinda sucked. There i said it.
So what do we start with first? The good? The bad? Or the ugly? I vote for ugly because it will keep you at least mildly interested until the end of the story, which culminates in the good parts. Does that work for you? Ok, let's begin...
Part one... the ugly.
So it started out as a pretty typical fall race, nice weather (not too cold, not too hot, in other words, in Goldilocks world, just right) but by about mile 2 I knew things were just not going exactly as planned. I felt slow, I never got my mojo on. I was not sure why but I was not feeling it. My legs felt like cement blocks and things began to fall apart. I knew the course was going to be a challenge when i signed up for it but a part of me (my delicate ego) thought i was going to conquer this one. How wrong i was! The course was several loops around Prospect Park (9 to be exact). The first 3 loops were shorter and then the next 6 were longer. I read about "the hill" in the park over and over again by previous runners and New Yorkers who ran that park on a daily basis but for some reason I figured I could handle it. Hey, I was a Colorado girl! I was used to hills, trails and altitude right? Ya, ok.
Well the first long loop was a piece of cake but by the time I got to loop number 5 i was literally in loopy loo ville. 150% grade each time, combined by 6 = kind of really sucks. At the start of each hill I found myself mumbling obscenities while other runners looked at me like I had lost my mind. All that went through my mind was, didn't I just do this already? Oh yea, that's right, yes, 4 times already! I started to feel defeated as more and more people passed me by. Usually I am in a zone and do not notice this as much, yea people will pass you in a race... duh. You are not going to "win" duh... but for this race it was all i could seem to focus on, obsess almost on who what where. Older, heavier runners seemed to whip past me.
By the 4th loop my knee started to burn, at mile 5 my ass joined in and by loop 6 my calf completely froze up. Seriously, it froze! I came to a complete halt. This was followed by me shuffling into the last mile like a walker with a grimace on my face.
I am a huge fan of the Walking Dead. Here is me at mile 25...
Only difference is that I did not have Rick Grimes shove a crowbar into my skull (not that it would have helped much). I vaguely remember mumbling "brains, more brains" about that time but for some reason I could not hear the sound coming out of my mouth, only heavy breathing followed by a little drool puddled on the left corner of my mouth.
Let's just say, this was not my race. Now, back to the ego thing. It is a funny thing the ego isn't it? Especially for us runners. We always assume that we are going to keep improving, keep getting better than before, another PR. We obsess about the PR and when that does not happen then we really have a hard time accepting it. For some reason, I thought I would beat my last time, hell even a BQ! But that did not happen. I did not even come close. My time was 4:42. All that kept going through my mind was, how did that happen?
I guess I could blame it on any number of things and in retrospect one or two of them would be the culprit, not enough miles under the belt or maybe too many miles, no speedwork, no hills, not eating right, too much walking around NYC the day before (so meandering around the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens for 2 hours was probably not a good idea right?), not good sleep, jet lag, and the list goes on and on.
For one thing, I have not been feeling it for awhile. Sometimes I forget my age. I am after all 49. I know this should not be an excuse, there are many amazing older runners but I have to cut myself some slack in that department right? Most of my 40ish coworkers can barely walk a mile without whining about their ass burning up so being able to run 26.2 in their eyes is like something between complete and utter insanity and a huge accomplishment. I will take the latter.
So being disappointed in my time and of course accepting the fact that apparently something went array in my training was of course a tough nut to swallow. I had to check my ego, regroup and move past this. What did I get out of it?
Well for one thing, I was glad I finished it and I also have to accept the fact that no matter how hard I "think" i am training for a marathon, it is probably not good enough, at least for me anyway. I am not gifted. I also realize that what i lack in "giftedness" I make up in mental toughness and 9 laps calculated with rubber bands is probably not the best race for my mental sanity... period.
Ok, well, put that one on the shelf and focus on the next one. I have officially been accepted into NYC for 2014 and I am excited about this one because it will probably be my last NYC race. So now to focus on "thank you may I have another" instead of "brains, brains" and I should be good to go right?
Right....
Friday, May 31, 2013
Zen Running Moments
Not every run is pure zen to me, as a matter of fact, a lot of runs are not so memorable at all. I think though that the moments when everything seems to come together are the reasons why I keep lacing up and heading out the door.
Here are just a few of mine...
Running the NYC Marathon. Taking off towards the Verazzano Narrows bridge. The sun is just starting to surface and Frank Sinatra is bellowing "New York, New York..." from a speaker system nearby. The wind is blowing, the music is playing. You look up and can barely see the top of the bridge. It's size, combined with multitude of runners all around you, is overwhelming and magnificent.
Every time I think about it, I still get goosebumps.
The first marathon I did with my sister...Philadelphia. The moment we neared the end of the race and grabbed each others hand and finished together. I remember being so overwhelmed with joy that I thought I would break down and cry right there.
When I am running with my dog at night. The air is cool and I can see the sun setting in the distance. It is quiet and all I can hear is my own breathing and my feet going plop plop on the pavement. My dog has his tongue out and looks like he is smiling. I always feel like I am running faster at night, not sure why, but in my mind I am flying, even though my Garmin tells me I am doing a 12 minute mile.
The Colorado Marathon and running through the Poudre Canyon. Standing at the start line, it's cold and still dark out. After the first few miles, the sun starts to rise over the canyon. The Poudre river is to the left, the only sounds are breathing and rushing water from the Poudre. On both sides you are surrounded by mountain. If you can take a moment to soak it all in and stop thinking about how slow or fast you are going, it is gorgeous and amazing.
Running the Slacker just after my friend Mike passed away and seeing this amazing yellow butterfly at mile 8 that stayed with me for at least another mile or so. Symbolic, as if he was there by my side, pushing me along and telling me that everything would be OK.
The Vermont City Marathon. The most difficult race I have ever completed. I ran it with my sister and I thought we would never finish. But we did. It was beautiful and hilly. The last few miles we walked and barely made the cut off. The last stretch we grabbed each others hand and ran through to the finish. The race was so difficult, and finishing it was so fulfilling to me.
One of the happiest moments of my life.
Running the Keystone Half Marathon. My first official trail race, all single track, over rocks, rivers and boulders. Running that race made me feel invincible, kind of like a bad ass. It was quiet and all I remember is navigating through the mud and trees. The sun breaking through the leaves, a cool breeze on my face, never feeling more alive.
Running Las Vegas with one of the biggest hoards of people ever. It was cold that day and the wind was blowing us around. The Blue Man Group sang the anthem, the gun went off, and the people pushed and shoved. When the crowd broke up, the Vegas strip was spread out in front, beautiful lights, everywhere. Like a surrealistic magical city.
Myrtle Beach, running along the ocean, smelling the ocean and feeling the breeze on my face.
The Mt Evans Ascent, another difficult race, all uphill. Running that race with Mike and Nikki and barely making the cut-off. There was snow all around us and the wind was fierce. Reaching the top and Mike taking pictures of mountain goats. Taking the bus back down to the bottom and eating the most amazing cheeseburger ever.
I am sure there are many others but for now, those are the most memorable moments for me.
What are your zen running moments?
Here are just a few of mine...
Running the NYC Marathon. Taking off towards the Verazzano Narrows bridge. The sun is just starting to surface and Frank Sinatra is bellowing "New York, New York..." from a speaker system nearby. The wind is blowing, the music is playing. You look up and can barely see the top of the bridge. It's size, combined with multitude of runners all around you, is overwhelming and magnificent.
Every time I think about it, I still get goosebumps.
The first marathon I did with my sister...Philadelphia. The moment we neared the end of the race and grabbed each others hand and finished together. I remember being so overwhelmed with joy that I thought I would break down and cry right there.
When I am running with my dog at night. The air is cool and I can see the sun setting in the distance. It is quiet and all I can hear is my own breathing and my feet going plop plop on the pavement. My dog has his tongue out and looks like he is smiling. I always feel like I am running faster at night, not sure why, but in my mind I am flying, even though my Garmin tells me I am doing a 12 minute mile.
The Colorado Marathon and running through the Poudre Canyon. Standing at the start line, it's cold and still dark out. After the first few miles, the sun starts to rise over the canyon. The Poudre river is to the left, the only sounds are breathing and rushing water from the Poudre. On both sides you are surrounded by mountain. If you can take a moment to soak it all in and stop thinking about how slow or fast you are going, it is gorgeous and amazing.
Running the Slacker just after my friend Mike passed away and seeing this amazing yellow butterfly at mile 8 that stayed with me for at least another mile or so. Symbolic, as if he was there by my side, pushing me along and telling me that everything would be OK.
The Vermont City Marathon. The most difficult race I have ever completed. I ran it with my sister and I thought we would never finish. But we did. It was beautiful and hilly. The last few miles we walked and barely made the cut off. The last stretch we grabbed each others hand and ran through to the finish. The race was so difficult, and finishing it was so fulfilling to me.
One of the happiest moments of my life.
Running the Keystone Half Marathon. My first official trail race, all single track, over rocks, rivers and boulders. Running that race made me feel invincible, kind of like a bad ass. It was quiet and all I remember is navigating through the mud and trees. The sun breaking through the leaves, a cool breeze on my face, never feeling more alive.
Running Las Vegas with one of the biggest hoards of people ever. It was cold that day and the wind was blowing us around. The Blue Man Group sang the anthem, the gun went off, and the people pushed and shoved. When the crowd broke up, the Vegas strip was spread out in front, beautiful lights, everywhere. Like a surrealistic magical city.
Myrtle Beach, running along the ocean, smelling the ocean and feeling the breeze on my face.
The Mt Evans Ascent, another difficult race, all uphill. Running that race with Mike and Nikki and barely making the cut-off. There was snow all around us and the wind was fierce. Reaching the top and Mike taking pictures of mountain goats. Taking the bus back down to the bottom and eating the most amazing cheeseburger ever.
I am sure there are many others but for now, those are the most memorable moments for me.
What are your zen running moments?
Monday, May 27, 2013
Get off the Couch and Get on the Boat
Lately I have been obsessing about my newest marathon PR...
This obsession has made me think about my friend Mike. He was 60 years old before he died and in just a few short years, he was able to go from a 5 hour marathoner to a Boston qualifier, with a PR of 3:38 and change. An amazing feat for any runner, much less someone who was approaching what most would consider old age.
His accomplishments have inspired me to do more with myself. He was able to prove not only to himself, but also to others, that just because you are older, you can still do great things with your life. As I near 50, I am also beginning to realize that life is short, and opportunities pass with each day and waiting for life to happen can sometimes cause you to miss the boat all together.
I almost missed the boat once because I waited so long to run my first marathon.
I was 44 when I bit that bullet. It was always on my bucket list but tomorrow always took precedence over today and each year that passed I kept convincing myself that this would be the "year" that I would do one. Well one year turned to 5, then 10, then 15 before it finally happened for me.
Funny how life works. Why do we always seem to put things on the back burner until we are too old to get off the couch? At least I am grateful that I was able to get off the couch for that marathon. Getting on that boat so to speak, made me angry that I waited so long. I was happy I finally did it but also regretful that I was 44 by the time I did. The positive thing was that once I did that first marathon, I wanted to do more and more. I did not stop at one.
This last year after Mike's death, I almost feel his presence when I run. I know that sounds kind of weird (and I am not a spiritual person) but I do feel him pushing me along. I can almost hear him telling me that I can do better if only I tried just a little harder. Over the last year I have managed to meet my goal of breaking a 2 hour half marathon with a 1:58. Not a huge accomplishment for most, but it amazed me that I was able to do it. I had been running those damn races at about a 2:20 for the last 10 years. So why now? Something was happening to me. I do know that watching him leave this earth has left an indelible mark on my soul. It changed me forever. I have never been able to look at life the same after his death. Now I look at everything as if I only have a small moment of time left. Maybe in a way this was his gift to me? The gift of knowing that you are only on this planet for a short time so make the most of it.
I know Mike must have thought about this a lot. I often wondered if he had some regrets or demons in his closet from his past. Maybe that is why he tried so hard at his age, taking back the time he lost or wasted on his own foolish youthfulness. Who knows, I will never know because he never told me. I just always suspected it.
I often wish he was still here if not for anything but my own selfish reasons. I could show him that I have been able to do it, like him, I have been getting older and faster. He always had more faith in me then I did in myself. I have saved all of his chats and emails because I cannot seem to let him go. His words, his quirky style. I find myself reading them from time to time just so I can feel like he is really still with me, around to give me a high 5 after I finish a race well behind him.
Here is one I read the other day. It was about pushing myself into a faster pace group:
Me: I am trying to talk Nikki and Lisa into moving up in group, maybe 4:10
Michael: u no way u r a 4:00
Me: U think? Maybe i need to ditch the slacker ways....
Michael: nope not unless its more fun but u can
Me: true... see how things go. I would like to do speedwork again this year k.... off to gym. Send me info on that race. TTYLS
Michael: i have never seen u sweat...u seem like u're not ever pushing it.... lol bye
I do a lot of races, and have completed over 50 or more, but my times have been pretty much the same for the last 4-5 years. Not much of an improvement until my last marathon, a huge PR for me, 17 minutes faster to finish with a 4:12 and change.
Another 17 minutes would get me to a BQ, I would need 3:55 for that to happen.
My friend Nikki told me I should try and BQ, "Why not?" She said. But I said "Yea but then what if I get all psycho and stop enjoying it?" she said "Yea, that could happen, but so what? Think about it, it would only be for a year or so, you should go for it Chris!"
Life is short, a year is the sacrifice I would need to take, even then there are no guarantees that I could even do it, but what if I never took the chance at all? Then what? Would I be OK with that decision 10 or 20 years down the road when perhaps I am too old to care or would I have that huge regret...that shoulda, coulda, woulda moment?
I know it was not an easy road for Mike to take, I know he made a lot of sacrifices, but he was able to prove to himself that he could do it. I know that at least with that, the one small regret, he did not have, the one that said "See I told you so! You did it! You are an amazing runner dude!"
Maybe I can do it too? Which way to turn, decisions, decisions.... my boat awaits.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Mothers Day, What it is, What it is not
Yesterday was mother's day. It was a gorgeous sunny day and it felt just like any other day for that matter. Nothing out of the ordinary.
I have been a mom for over 20 years, a stepmom first and then having my own son in 2004. So I am not sure how to clarify this? A stepmom and then a real mom? It seems kind of strange to put it that way but for me it has actually felt this way.
I met my husband when I was 25 and he was 36. He had 3 children from a previous marriage and when I met him they were 13, 12 and 9 respectfully. They did not really like me very much and treated me like I was a visitor in their home. At first I was "My dad's girlfriend" and when we married "My dad's wife." I was never referred to as a step mom.
I never really knew what it meant to be a step mom and to be honest, I did not put much effort into the task either. I tried, don't get me wrong, but I was always met with either resistance or anger. I spent a lot of time trying to get my husband's children to even remotely like me. The only convert I had was the youngest, who spent the majority of his growing up living with us. The two older kids spent 2 years with us and decided to move back with their mom. It was not like we wanted them to leave but they really did not want to stay. Why force them?
In their defense, they did not have a very stable or positive upbringing. My husband and his ex would not qualify for parents of the year awards. Both being very permissive, immature, young and self centered parents. They did what they wanted and expected the kids to adapt. I was very young and immature when I met my husband and did not think the repruccusions of what it meant to be a step mom was when I met him. And to this day, when people ask me if i would do it all over again, marry a man with 3 kids, I would respond with a difinative, no, never.
It was a lot of pain to try to figure out his kids. They were, to make a long story short, horrible monsters. Devoid of any kind of self discipline or manners. They were self centered, mouthy and mean at times. I know that part of it was the age, wow 13 is not the best age to step into the role of "step monster" but I still expected, well, a bit of compassion and niceness once in a while. After all, I was not a horrible person.
While my husband and I were together for 15 years, I often asked him "what do you get out of this?" I could not understand why anybody would want to have kids. As they got older I became the enemy. I would put my foot down. They manipulated him with guilt and it almost always worked. What he thought was help, was nothing more than enabling. It took a long time for him to realize that he was not helping them. Often arguments were had over money, why it went there and what it was for. What started out as money for a car ended up on the purchase for a dog. Money that was meant for groceries was used on a family trip to an amusement park.
When I said, "no" I was the bad guy. And why not? They thought this behavior was normal. This had worked for 15 years and now it was not working.
When I finally decided to have my own child in 2004, I realized that a part of me had to disengage from my husbands older children. Now in their late 20's and early 30's they were too old to be perpetually bailed out of poor decisions. It was impacting my little boy who was too young to realize what was going on. A check for 1000 dollars to pay for a bailout that did nothing to bail out was money that could be used on my own child.
And so the division began.
We put our foot down, things began to change. The resentment grew but my expectations of them did not. As a matter of fact my expectation for all of these step kids was non-existent. I disengaged. I started to distance myself and work on my own life. I went back to school for my master's degree, I started to run marathons, I took care of myself and my immediate family, my husband and my son.
For the last 8 years, life has been good. No longer does my husband get sucked into the drama. When something happens back east, my husband is there to lend a sympathetic ear but that is about it. It took him awhile but he finally began to realize that he could not fix them or their problems and enabling bad behavior only made things worse.
My step daughter, who has spent the majority of her life as a stay at home mom cannot relate to me. Our lives are polar opposites, with the only comonality being that we are now both parents. She has never really worked or did much with herself outside of having children. Now that her kids are older and she has the opportunity to change the dynamic in her life i believe she is scared out of her mind. They never have money but because others have always bailed them out of situations, it did not really seem to matter much. Why work, when others can do it for you?
Either way, on mothers day, I expect nothing from her, nor i believe does she from me. When I got home from camping with my son, I was surprised to see a text message on my phone from her that said "Happy Mothers Day!" Wow... I know it sounds lame but it is a start I guess. Maybe things are changing a bit? I know we will never be close but maybe there is something there just the same?
Who knows? Either way, I did not get a card, flowers, or anything out of the ordinary for Mother's day. What i did get is a homemade gift from my son, and a nice juicy burger cooked with love from my husband, and of course a text message from my step daughter.
Overall It was a good day, I will take it.
I have been a mom for over 20 years, a stepmom first and then having my own son in 2004. So I am not sure how to clarify this? A stepmom and then a real mom? It seems kind of strange to put it that way but for me it has actually felt this way.
I met my husband when I was 25 and he was 36. He had 3 children from a previous marriage and when I met him they were 13, 12 and 9 respectfully. They did not really like me very much and treated me like I was a visitor in their home. At first I was "My dad's girlfriend" and when we married "My dad's wife." I was never referred to as a step mom.
I never really knew what it meant to be a step mom and to be honest, I did not put much effort into the task either. I tried, don't get me wrong, but I was always met with either resistance or anger. I spent a lot of time trying to get my husband's children to even remotely like me. The only convert I had was the youngest, who spent the majority of his growing up living with us. The two older kids spent 2 years with us and decided to move back with their mom. It was not like we wanted them to leave but they really did not want to stay. Why force them?
In their defense, they did not have a very stable or positive upbringing. My husband and his ex would not qualify for parents of the year awards. Both being very permissive, immature, young and self centered parents. They did what they wanted and expected the kids to adapt. I was very young and immature when I met my husband and did not think the repruccusions of what it meant to be a step mom was when I met him. And to this day, when people ask me if i would do it all over again, marry a man with 3 kids, I would respond with a difinative, no, never.
It was a lot of pain to try to figure out his kids. They were, to make a long story short, horrible monsters. Devoid of any kind of self discipline or manners. They were self centered, mouthy and mean at times. I know that part of it was the age, wow 13 is not the best age to step into the role of "step monster" but I still expected, well, a bit of compassion and niceness once in a while. After all, I was not a horrible person.
While my husband and I were together for 15 years, I often asked him "what do you get out of this?" I could not understand why anybody would want to have kids. As they got older I became the enemy. I would put my foot down. They manipulated him with guilt and it almost always worked. What he thought was help, was nothing more than enabling. It took a long time for him to realize that he was not helping them. Often arguments were had over money, why it went there and what it was for. What started out as money for a car ended up on the purchase for a dog. Money that was meant for groceries was used on a family trip to an amusement park.
When I said, "no" I was the bad guy. And why not? They thought this behavior was normal. This had worked for 15 years and now it was not working.
When I finally decided to have my own child in 2004, I realized that a part of me had to disengage from my husbands older children. Now in their late 20's and early 30's they were too old to be perpetually bailed out of poor decisions. It was impacting my little boy who was too young to realize what was going on. A check for 1000 dollars to pay for a bailout that did nothing to bail out was money that could be used on my own child.
And so the division began.
We put our foot down, things began to change. The resentment grew but my expectations of them did not. As a matter of fact my expectation for all of these step kids was non-existent. I disengaged. I started to distance myself and work on my own life. I went back to school for my master's degree, I started to run marathons, I took care of myself and my immediate family, my husband and my son.
For the last 8 years, life has been good. No longer does my husband get sucked into the drama. When something happens back east, my husband is there to lend a sympathetic ear but that is about it. It took him awhile but he finally began to realize that he could not fix them or their problems and enabling bad behavior only made things worse.
My step daughter, who has spent the majority of her life as a stay at home mom cannot relate to me. Our lives are polar opposites, with the only comonality being that we are now both parents. She has never really worked or did much with herself outside of having children. Now that her kids are older and she has the opportunity to change the dynamic in her life i believe she is scared out of her mind. They never have money but because others have always bailed them out of situations, it did not really seem to matter much. Why work, when others can do it for you?
Either way, on mothers day, I expect nothing from her, nor i believe does she from me. When I got home from camping with my son, I was surprised to see a text message on my phone from her that said "Happy Mothers Day!" Wow... I know it sounds lame but it is a start I guess. Maybe things are changing a bit? I know we will never be close but maybe there is something there just the same?
Who knows? Either way, I did not get a card, flowers, or anything out of the ordinary for Mother's day. What i did get is a homemade gift from my son, and a nice juicy burger cooked with love from my husband, and of course a text message from my step daughter.
Overall It was a good day, I will take it.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Recovery and the Lure of the Cheesypoofs
As runner's we tend to really beat ourselves up.
We are a crazy bunch...
With a little over 2 weeks post marathon I can't control myself. I am ready to run again! Even though my training plan clearly says "recover," I am having a hard time wrapping my head around this concept.
I look at the plan again, no running last week, just a few walks and some cross-training, nothing else, this week, 4 miles at best. This is clearly madness! When I try to sneak an extra run in, my running buddies threaten to report me to the coach and hastily host an intervention on my behalf. I know they are right, but my brain, which is wired for competition and improvement, thinks that a break from a run will automatically equate to the couch of doom followed by at least 5 bags of cheesypoofs. In other words, without a run, taking a break and relaxing, I will clearly turn into a huge lard ass.
Help me, they are right, I am need of an intervention!
But there is another problem. I push myself out the door, sneak out, don't tell my running buddies. I try to slog through 3, 4 or 5 miles. Who will know? How bad could it be? Yet, I am dead wrong. My running buddies are right, It is bad, very bad. My body is still really tired. It is still recovering from my marathon. It keeps telling me, as I peek at my Garmin and gasp in horror at the fact that I am barely eeking out a 14 minute mile, that instead of running, I should be sitting on my couch watching reruns of the Big Bang Theory. On top of this, I am hating every minute of it.
I often forget about the importance of "recover" for a runner. It is crucial for your body to heal itself, take both a physical and mental break from running, especially after pushing yourself for 26.2. When we do not allow ourselves time to heal, we end up injured. We are sore, our form is off and we overcompensate by leaning a bit more here, or perhaps slouching there. Eventually, somethings gotta give and the lean or the slouch end up as a tear or a pull.
Last session, after running a not so great 6th marathon finish, I had an epiphany. I realized that I was a bit burnt out from training. Physically I was tired and mentally I was not loving it much. The result of a poorer race, combined with a slight mental block, got me thinking that perhaps it may be time for a break.
So I took off a few months from running and tried some other activities. I realized that after being a member at my gym for almost 5 years, that I had never really bothered trying out any of the classes they offered. I took a wack at TurboKick, BodyPump, Step, and of course Zumba. It was fun, and I felt a complete sense of renewal. The adaptations I made for each class also helped to strengthen different muscle components. This also allowed me to loose a bit of weight. Because I had done nothing but run for the last several years, I was of out of balance. I had strong legs but my core was weak.
After a few months of Zumba, I was hooked. It was really fun! As a matter of fact, even after resuming my running again, I still take Zumba at least 2-3 times a week for my cross-training activity. Not only has it helped to strengthen my core, because the exercise required for it is so different, I really believe it has helped to improve my running times.
Trying those classes, reminds me of this recover that I am forcing myself to do. It is a way for me to renew my love for running by trying other things or simply taking a much needed mental break.
I will never forget reading a post that my friend Mike put up on Facebook during one of his tapers. He had a pictures of his tomato plants growing from day to day, similar to what it would be to watch paint dry. Each day another picture of a tomato plant with the caption "What to do during a taper." It still makes me laugh, but yes, that is kind of the point of a taper or recover, sit and watch the flowers grow.
In other words, chillax.
I know my coach sets up this plan for a reason, and that is success. The same way that the recover works, the taper is designed to do the same. It is hard for a runner to wrap his/her head around the fact that it is OK to well... do nothing once in a while.
OK, forget the intervention, bring on the cheesypoofs!
We are a crazy bunch...
With a little over 2 weeks post marathon I can't control myself. I am ready to run again! Even though my training plan clearly says "recover," I am having a hard time wrapping my head around this concept.
I look at the plan again, no running last week, just a few walks and some cross-training, nothing else, this week, 4 miles at best. This is clearly madness! When I try to sneak an extra run in, my running buddies threaten to report me to the coach and hastily host an intervention on my behalf. I know they are right, but my brain, which is wired for competition and improvement, thinks that a break from a run will automatically equate to the couch of doom followed by at least 5 bags of cheesypoofs. In other words, without a run, taking a break and relaxing, I will clearly turn into a huge lard ass.
Help me, they are right, I am need of an intervention!
But there is another problem. I push myself out the door, sneak out, don't tell my running buddies. I try to slog through 3, 4 or 5 miles. Who will know? How bad could it be? Yet, I am dead wrong. My running buddies are right, It is bad, very bad. My body is still really tired. It is still recovering from my marathon. It keeps telling me, as I peek at my Garmin and gasp in horror at the fact that I am barely eeking out a 14 minute mile, that instead of running, I should be sitting on my couch watching reruns of the Big Bang Theory. On top of this, I am hating every minute of it.
I often forget about the importance of "recover" for a runner. It is crucial for your body to heal itself, take both a physical and mental break from running, especially after pushing yourself for 26.2. When we do not allow ourselves time to heal, we end up injured. We are sore, our form is off and we overcompensate by leaning a bit more here, or perhaps slouching there. Eventually, somethings gotta give and the lean or the slouch end up as a tear or a pull.
Last session, after running a not so great 6th marathon finish, I had an epiphany. I realized that I was a bit burnt out from training. Physically I was tired and mentally I was not loving it much. The result of a poorer race, combined with a slight mental block, got me thinking that perhaps it may be time for a break.
So I took off a few months from running and tried some other activities. I realized that after being a member at my gym for almost 5 years, that I had never really bothered trying out any of the classes they offered. I took a wack at TurboKick, BodyPump, Step, and of course Zumba. It was fun, and I felt a complete sense of renewal. The adaptations I made for each class also helped to strengthen different muscle components. This also allowed me to loose a bit of weight. Because I had done nothing but run for the last several years, I was of out of balance. I had strong legs but my core was weak.
After a few months of Zumba, I was hooked. It was really fun! As a matter of fact, even after resuming my running again, I still take Zumba at least 2-3 times a week for my cross-training activity. Not only has it helped to strengthen my core, because the exercise required for it is so different, I really believe it has helped to improve my running times.
Trying those classes, reminds me of this recover that I am forcing myself to do. It is a way for me to renew my love for running by trying other things or simply taking a much needed mental break.
I will never forget reading a post that my friend Mike put up on Facebook during one of his tapers. He had a pictures of his tomato plants growing from day to day, similar to what it would be to watch paint dry. Each day another picture of a tomato plant with the caption "What to do during a taper." It still makes me laugh, but yes, that is kind of the point of a taper or recover, sit and watch the flowers grow.
In other words, chillax.
I know my coach sets up this plan for a reason, and that is success. The same way that the recover works, the taper is designed to do the same. It is hard for a runner to wrap his/her head around the fact that it is OK to well... do nothing once in a while.
OK, forget the intervention, bring on the cheesypoofs!
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
So What Exactly Does a Runner Look Like?
When I first started to run over a decade ago I had a pretty warped view of what constituted a real runner. Maybe things were a little different back then but to me a "real runner" was one that looked like they could run circles around me. They were small, slender and compact, with tight calves and not an ounce of fat to be found anywhere on their bodies. They dressed the part and were seriously competitive. These were the people that did the 5 mile warm-up run before the 5 mile race. They never looked like they were at a race for the enjoyment of it.
They wanted to win.
I always thought I was out of my league, even though quite honestly, If I had put a bit more effort into my training, I probably had a pretty decent chance of being in their league. The problem was, I was just not that serious.
Years later, I often ask myself what exactly constitutes a "real runner" anyway? I guess if you were a non-runner you would assume that anybody that runs typically looks like someone that runs, meaning... not me.
And yes a lot of runners do fit that description but then there are the rest of us.
A few months ago some old friends came over for dinner. Since neither of them run they are constantly intrigued by my running stories. They ask me where I run, what races I have run, how many miles I run, etc, and seem amazed when I repeat myself time and time again to the question of what is a marathon.
"26.2 miles."
"Wow" they say, "But for some reason, I can't visualize someone like you, running."
"Why?" i say.
"Because you don't look like a runner."
Hummmmm....
I suppose I should have been insulted by this comment, but I took it in stride, especially since it was followed by "Well you know, the runner's I see are really skinny and stuff and well, your not."
"oh..."
They have a point. Yes, I do not "look" like a runner. As a matter of fact, when I tell people that I run upwards of 45 miles a week when I am in training they look at me oddly. The often cannot wrap their heads around the fact that me, the slightly overweight, middle-aged, flat-footed person that I am, can even run up a flight of stairs without passing out.
While it's true that I have lost a bit of weight over the last year and my form is a little better (I do not slap my honkin feet on the pavement and trip quite so often) I still do not look like what you would think a typical runner looks like.
Maybe to any non-runner you would need to look like the Olympic medalist jumping hurdles during time trials.
The reality is though (and I feel confident saying this since I have been running for over a decade) is that I used to think this way too. I used to think when I ran a race and some tiny, young, muscle clad gazelle, flew past me, I was kidding myself. What am I doing here? Who me? A runner? Hysterically funny to even conceive of this! I really had no clue.
After running several races and being passed by 80 year old women, gimpy guys, wheelchair recipients, and very overweight wheezy newbies, I now have a different concept of what a runner is. Runners really do come in all shapes and sizes the concept of what makes a runner well... a runner has more to do with spirit and dedication than ability and waist size.
For one thing, anybody can run 26.2.
I know this is shocker, and maybe that should have been my response to our house guests that day as they went out in the front of the house to have a cigarette. Yes, you, can probably, if you put enough heart and soul into it, could feasibly run and finish a marathon.
You could walk it if you had to and found the right course that allowed for a generous cut off. Nobody would say "What do you mean you walked half the race?" Technically, you still completed a marathon right? You get the finisher medal and bragging rights. If you walked and ran and walked some more, guess what? You are still a marathon runner.
Let's not kid ourselves, it helps if you are one of those tiny people that trains well and takes the distance seriously. Having the ability is crucial but all the ability in the world is not going to compensate for the desire, dedication, determination and willpower it takes to complete 26.2.
Sometimes I wonder if the older, overweight, flat-footed peoples like me can make better runners? Yea, we do not look like you speedy guys but we know that life is shorter, and we have less time to make that impression on ourselves and others, we have less time to follow our dreams and fill up our bucket lists. I am 48 and still trying to fill mine.
I know this now because I have actually passed those runners that look like they should be in the Olympic time trials. Yes, me, the floppy footed, middle aged me. Sometimes I pass them as they are walking around mile 23. They look dejected and I often want to pull over next to them and give them a pat on the back. I also want to ask them "Why are you stopping?" "Did you see what I look like and I am still moving!"
It is easy to judge and maybe that was my problem in the beginning of my running career. You cannot judge any runner that you see, especially as they magically pass you on a course. You never know how much spirit and dedication is moving them to complete 26.2.
Maybe they are like myself, the old chick in the back, determined to plop just one more item in that big old bucket list.
They wanted to win.
I always thought I was out of my league, even though quite honestly, If I had put a bit more effort into my training, I probably had a pretty decent chance of being in their league. The problem was, I was just not that serious.
Years later, I often ask myself what exactly constitutes a "real runner" anyway? I guess if you were a non-runner you would assume that anybody that runs typically looks like someone that runs, meaning... not me.
And yes a lot of runners do fit that description but then there are the rest of us.
A few months ago some old friends came over for dinner. Since neither of them run they are constantly intrigued by my running stories. They ask me where I run, what races I have run, how many miles I run, etc, and seem amazed when I repeat myself time and time again to the question of what is a marathon.
"26.2 miles."
"Wow" they say, "But for some reason, I can't visualize someone like you, running."
"Why?" i say.
"Because you don't look like a runner."
Hummmmm....
I suppose I should have been insulted by this comment, but I took it in stride, especially since it was followed by "Well you know, the runner's I see are really skinny and stuff and well, your not."
"oh..."
They have a point. Yes, I do not "look" like a runner. As a matter of fact, when I tell people that I run upwards of 45 miles a week when I am in training they look at me oddly. The often cannot wrap their heads around the fact that me, the slightly overweight, middle-aged, flat-footed person that I am, can even run up a flight of stairs without passing out.
While it's true that I have lost a bit of weight over the last year and my form is a little better (I do not slap my honkin feet on the pavement and trip quite so often) I still do not look like what you would think a typical runner looks like.
Maybe to any non-runner you would need to look like the Olympic medalist jumping hurdles during time trials.
The reality is though (and I feel confident saying this since I have been running for over a decade) is that I used to think this way too. I used to think when I ran a race and some tiny, young, muscle clad gazelle, flew past me, I was kidding myself. What am I doing here? Who me? A runner? Hysterically funny to even conceive of this! I really had no clue.
After running several races and being passed by 80 year old women, gimpy guys, wheelchair recipients, and very overweight wheezy newbies, I now have a different concept of what a runner is. Runners really do come in all shapes and sizes the concept of what makes a runner well... a runner has more to do with spirit and dedication than ability and waist size.
For one thing, anybody can run 26.2.
I know this is shocker, and maybe that should have been my response to our house guests that day as they went out in the front of the house to have a cigarette. Yes, you, can probably, if you put enough heart and soul into it, could feasibly run and finish a marathon.
You could walk it if you had to and found the right course that allowed for a generous cut off. Nobody would say "What do you mean you walked half the race?" Technically, you still completed a marathon right? You get the finisher medal and bragging rights. If you walked and ran and walked some more, guess what? You are still a marathon runner.
Let's not kid ourselves, it helps if you are one of those tiny people that trains well and takes the distance seriously. Having the ability is crucial but all the ability in the world is not going to compensate for the desire, dedication, determination and willpower it takes to complete 26.2.
Sometimes I wonder if the older, overweight, flat-footed peoples like me can make better runners? Yea, we do not look like you speedy guys but we know that life is shorter, and we have less time to make that impression on ourselves and others, we have less time to follow our dreams and fill up our bucket lists. I am 48 and still trying to fill mine.
I know this now because I have actually passed those runners that look like they should be in the Olympic time trials. Yes, me, the floppy footed, middle aged me. Sometimes I pass them as they are walking around mile 23. They look dejected and I often want to pull over next to them and give them a pat on the back. I also want to ask them "Why are you stopping?" "Did you see what I look like and I am still moving!"
It is easy to judge and maybe that was my problem in the beginning of my running career. You cannot judge any runner that you see, especially as they magically pass you on a course. You never know how much spirit and dedication is moving them to complete 26.2.
Maybe they are like myself, the old chick in the back, determined to plop just one more item in that big old bucket list.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Post Marathon Blues
It is officially the second day after my 7th marathon. Aside from the never ending burning sensation in my quads, I have to say, I am not in such bad shape, but for some reason I cannot shake this feeling.
I think I am suffering from post marathon depression.
If you are a runner, you know what this is. It happens after every race. A common after effect of running 26.2.
Why?
I think it would be easier if the marathon were not such a task. Anybody that runs them knows that so much of yourself goes into one. Most runners are lucky to do 1 or 2 a year max, so the key is to well... do them well or not do them at all. So you put every ounce of your energy into training and finishing. You take time away from your family and friends, you are tired all the time, you are trying to fit runs into every spare moment of your day. You become a slave to the miles, the training schedule, the speed work, the hills.
You try to watch what you eat, you try to take care of yourself. Your kid begins to think that perhaps you are a ghost. You are away in some far away country and promise to be back for good in 6 months. You are there but you are not.
There is such a build up to this moment, 6 or more months of training that comes alongside pain, agony, sweat and tears. It is expensive. You need sneakers, outfits, GU, coaching and training. It is stressful. Stress in a way that would be like giving birth but instead of hemorrhoids cramps and bad gas, you are riddled with black toenails, hamstring pulls or tendon tears. You do everything in your power to not get injured... black death for any runner training for a race. An injury means you can be sidelined for weeks or months at a time. So you try to do everything right. Whatever your coach (God) says, you do. Do not anger the God, you will hear his wrath and surely pay the price.
You are consumed.
Then the moment arrives. You are prepared, at least you think you are. Are you really? Can you do this? Self doubt vibrates through your body. You have planned this right? If you are a typical runner, you are probably a kind of an OCD type A personality, which means you have picked a special destination race, one that has a high percentage of BQ's (Boston Qualifiers), you have packed enough supplies to last several months if say, you become stranded on an Island. You bring 17 different types of running outfits. Will it be too hot? Warm? Cold? Snow? Rain? You might have a few extra pairs of sneakers. The old tried and true trainers, or maybe you bought a new pair two weeks ago. Are they broken in enough? Too many variables.
You have been on the race's website at least 1700 time already. You have digested all of the information on it so that you are able to regurgitate it by heart if someone asked. You have printed out the course map and meticulously studied every detail of it. You have googled reviews and tips from other runners.
Bring it on you say to yourself.
Then of course, there are your family and friends. They know you run, so they are always asking about "The Race" like it is some trek to a far off land where you will sit with a Buddha and have an Oprah "Aha moment." If your friends and families are runners... little explanation is needed. There is more of a nod, a knowing glance. Yea, of course, new compression socks. Oh that sneaker got best review in Runner's World, yea, they know. You talk about running like you are chatting about the weather. There is always the PR, a BQ. We runner's are obsessed about time, PR's, which race is the best option for a new PR. It is no different than standing at the water cooler chatting with a co-worker about updating the spreadsheet.
If they are non-runners, it is not that simple. To them a 5k is no different than 26.2. Most of the people I know have never run around their block. To them you are either an inspiration or completely nuts. Most of the time, it is the nuts one. You are in essence a nut job. Why do this? Why not go out to the bar on Friday, dinner on Saturday, and a movie on Sunday? Seems like a much better way to spend a weekend? Yes, true, they may have a valid point.
Last week, I was going out to lunch with a few co-workers. Most people know that I am always training and running something. In the warmer months I may do several races a month. I do not typically talk about it unless someone asks. They may say "What did you do this weekend?" and I may say "Oh I had a 21 mile training run." They will look at me and blink a few times and respond with "Oh, that's nice."
Running can definitely be a conversation killer.
On this particular afternoon my coworkers asked what my plans were for the weekend. I said "I am running the Colorado Marathon." They got really quiet and replied with "How long is a marathon?" I said "26.2 miles." Again I was met with a moment of silence and "Oh... how long does that mean you run for?" I said "For me, about 4 and half hours." They stop talking again and then look at me like I have completely lost my mind. They look scared, a bit freaked out. They realize they are in the company of a lunatic. The next response is typically "Why?"
I have been running for about 15 years and change and you know what? I still am not sure I can answer that question with 100% accuracy. For me of course the answer should be easy, I run for myself. Isn't that why we all run? But this might be a bit much to digest, most people do not get that response. It is a crazy, you are weird response to give anybody. So instead I might tell a non-runner friend that "Oh well, for my health" or "I like to eat chocolate and drink beer." It sounds a lot less lofty and elusive if you add beer to the conversation. Yes, beer, of course. Sign me up for a 5k!
But sometimes I am not even sure how to respond. I would be lying if i said, I loved it. Often I do not love running. It is not that I hate it all the time, short runs with my dog or alongside a trail with a friend are often better than a chocolate milkshake in my opinion. But to be honest, I hate training for marathons with a passion. The only thing that makes it remotely bareable is that I get to eat whatever I want and I have a few friends that I have become very close with who I meet every Saturday for those long grueling training runs. In 2 or 3 hours of running we get to catch up with each other's lives, we share funny stories, books that we have read, Facebook secrets, kids happenings, new sneakers, new running outfits and of course bitch sessions that ponder the age old question "Why are we here again?"
So now 2 days post marathon I have to say, I am feeling the let down. The build up, the finish, the "What's it all about Alfie?" moment. I am in the birthing room and the doctors have left. I am sitting in the hospital bed alone, waiting for my new baby to arrive. I am feeling overwhelmed, sad and happy all at once. This marathon, four hours of my life are gone that I will never get back. Was it worth it all? What did I get out of it? Was there anything remarkable about the course? A beautiful epiphany that occurred? For some reason the only memorable thing I can recall about the race is the finish, the last push to the end and the realization that omg, I am done. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Now give me my baby and my hospital bill. I want to go home.
Two days later, I am tossing around all of the what if moments. What if I did not stop 7 times for Gatorade, could I have shaved off another minute or two? What if I wore something else, compression socks, different sneakers, could I have gone a bit faster?
I am trying my best to shake this feeling, the sadness, the let down. I keep thinking that I have not quite finished yet, that I missed something critical and there is more to come. I am trying to bask in the glow of my PR. I shaved 17 minutes off my previous race time, so why do I feel like I was hit by a mack truck and want to hide in my bedroom in the dark for the next month?
Maybe it is just me but then I realize as runners' we all do this. We are like junkies after the high has left. Now we are sitting by ourselves in the crack house with the empty pipe. What do we do now? We have reached a critical cross road in our recovery. Do we get more crack or do we try and come down off the drug and hope for no nightmares, sweats and hallucinations.
Tough call.
We tell ourselves, put the pipe down... no more races. Haven't we already proved ourselves? Have we not put our bodies, our families our friends through enough of this madness? We are done but yet we cannot help ourselves. We need that fix again and again and again. So what do we do after the post race blues? We sign up for another race... our coworkers and friends are right. We are certifiable, we need to be examined, we need therapy or rehab.
With shaky hands, sore legs, sweaty palms, I head towards my computer. I google another race. I read reviews, I think about GU, compression socks and fitting in runs during the hot summer months. I have once again gone to the dark side.
I find one... I slowly take out my credit card, hand shaking, I enter the information and press send... ahhhh.... yes, that's right, feels so good...
I smile, bring on number marathon 8.
Thank you sir may I have another.
I think I am suffering from post marathon depression.
If you are a runner, you know what this is. It happens after every race. A common after effect of running 26.2.
Why?
I think it would be easier if the marathon were not such a task. Anybody that runs them knows that so much of yourself goes into one. Most runners are lucky to do 1 or 2 a year max, so the key is to well... do them well or not do them at all. So you put every ounce of your energy into training and finishing. You take time away from your family and friends, you are tired all the time, you are trying to fit runs into every spare moment of your day. You become a slave to the miles, the training schedule, the speed work, the hills.
You try to watch what you eat, you try to take care of yourself. Your kid begins to think that perhaps you are a ghost. You are away in some far away country and promise to be back for good in 6 months. You are there but you are not.
There is such a build up to this moment, 6 or more months of training that comes alongside pain, agony, sweat and tears. It is expensive. You need sneakers, outfits, GU, coaching and training. It is stressful. Stress in a way that would be like giving birth but instead of hemorrhoids cramps and bad gas, you are riddled with black toenails, hamstring pulls or tendon tears. You do everything in your power to not get injured... black death for any runner training for a race. An injury means you can be sidelined for weeks or months at a time. So you try to do everything right. Whatever your coach (God) says, you do. Do not anger the God, you will hear his wrath and surely pay the price.
You are consumed.
Then the moment arrives. You are prepared, at least you think you are. Are you really? Can you do this? Self doubt vibrates through your body. You have planned this right? If you are a typical runner, you are probably a kind of an OCD type A personality, which means you have picked a special destination race, one that has a high percentage of BQ's (Boston Qualifiers), you have packed enough supplies to last several months if say, you become stranded on an Island. You bring 17 different types of running outfits. Will it be too hot? Warm? Cold? Snow? Rain? You might have a few extra pairs of sneakers. The old tried and true trainers, or maybe you bought a new pair two weeks ago. Are they broken in enough? Too many variables.
You have been on the race's website at least 1700 time already. You have digested all of the information on it so that you are able to regurgitate it by heart if someone asked. You have printed out the course map and meticulously studied every detail of it. You have googled reviews and tips from other runners.
Bring it on you say to yourself.
Then of course, there are your family and friends. They know you run, so they are always asking about "The Race" like it is some trek to a far off land where you will sit with a Buddha and have an Oprah "Aha moment." If your friends and families are runners... little explanation is needed. There is more of a nod, a knowing glance. Yea, of course, new compression socks. Oh that sneaker got best review in Runner's World, yea, they know. You talk about running like you are chatting about the weather. There is always the PR, a BQ. We runner's are obsessed about time, PR's, which race is the best option for a new PR. It is no different than standing at the water cooler chatting with a co-worker about updating the spreadsheet.
If they are non-runners, it is not that simple. To them a 5k is no different than 26.2. Most of the people I know have never run around their block. To them you are either an inspiration or completely nuts. Most of the time, it is the nuts one. You are in essence a nut job. Why do this? Why not go out to the bar on Friday, dinner on Saturday, and a movie on Sunday? Seems like a much better way to spend a weekend? Yes, true, they may have a valid point.
Last week, I was going out to lunch with a few co-workers. Most people know that I am always training and running something. In the warmer months I may do several races a month. I do not typically talk about it unless someone asks. They may say "What did you do this weekend?" and I may say "Oh I had a 21 mile training run." They will look at me and blink a few times and respond with "Oh, that's nice."
Running can definitely be a conversation killer.
On this particular afternoon my coworkers asked what my plans were for the weekend. I said "I am running the Colorado Marathon." They got really quiet and replied with "How long is a marathon?" I said "26.2 miles." Again I was met with a moment of silence and "Oh... how long does that mean you run for?" I said "For me, about 4 and half hours." They stop talking again and then look at me like I have completely lost my mind. They look scared, a bit freaked out. They realize they are in the company of a lunatic. The next response is typically "Why?"
I have been running for about 15 years and change and you know what? I still am not sure I can answer that question with 100% accuracy. For me of course the answer should be easy, I run for myself. Isn't that why we all run? But this might be a bit much to digest, most people do not get that response. It is a crazy, you are weird response to give anybody. So instead I might tell a non-runner friend that "Oh well, for my health" or "I like to eat chocolate and drink beer." It sounds a lot less lofty and elusive if you add beer to the conversation. Yes, beer, of course. Sign me up for a 5k!
But sometimes I am not even sure how to respond. I would be lying if i said, I loved it. Often I do not love running. It is not that I hate it all the time, short runs with my dog or alongside a trail with a friend are often better than a chocolate milkshake in my opinion. But to be honest, I hate training for marathons with a passion. The only thing that makes it remotely bareable is that I get to eat whatever I want and I have a few friends that I have become very close with who I meet every Saturday for those long grueling training runs. In 2 or 3 hours of running we get to catch up with each other's lives, we share funny stories, books that we have read, Facebook secrets, kids happenings, new sneakers, new running outfits and of course bitch sessions that ponder the age old question "Why are we here again?"
So now 2 days post marathon I have to say, I am feeling the let down. The build up, the finish, the "What's it all about Alfie?" moment. I am in the birthing room and the doctors have left. I am sitting in the hospital bed alone, waiting for my new baby to arrive. I am feeling overwhelmed, sad and happy all at once. This marathon, four hours of my life are gone that I will never get back. Was it worth it all? What did I get out of it? Was there anything remarkable about the course? A beautiful epiphany that occurred? For some reason the only memorable thing I can recall about the race is the finish, the last push to the end and the realization that omg, I am done. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Now give me my baby and my hospital bill. I want to go home.
Two days later, I am tossing around all of the what if moments. What if I did not stop 7 times for Gatorade, could I have shaved off another minute or two? What if I wore something else, compression socks, different sneakers, could I have gone a bit faster?
I am trying my best to shake this feeling, the sadness, the let down. I keep thinking that I have not quite finished yet, that I missed something critical and there is more to come. I am trying to bask in the glow of my PR. I shaved 17 minutes off my previous race time, so why do I feel like I was hit by a mack truck and want to hide in my bedroom in the dark for the next month?
Maybe it is just me but then I realize as runners' we all do this. We are like junkies after the high has left. Now we are sitting by ourselves in the crack house with the empty pipe. What do we do now? We have reached a critical cross road in our recovery. Do we get more crack or do we try and come down off the drug and hope for no nightmares, sweats and hallucinations.
Tough call.
We tell ourselves, put the pipe down... no more races. Haven't we already proved ourselves? Have we not put our bodies, our families our friends through enough of this madness? We are done but yet we cannot help ourselves. We need that fix again and again and again. So what do we do after the post race blues? We sign up for another race... our coworkers and friends are right. We are certifiable, we need to be examined, we need therapy or rehab.
With shaky hands, sore legs, sweaty palms, I head towards my computer. I google another race. I read reviews, I think about GU, compression socks and fitting in runs during the hot summer months. I have once again gone to the dark side.
I find one... I slowly take out my credit card, hand shaking, I enter the information and press send... ahhhh.... yes, that's right, feels so good...
I smile, bring on number marathon 8.
Thank you sir may I have another.
Monday, May 6, 2013
When a Marathon Slaps, Slap Back
Sunday I ran my 7th marathon.
I had vowed to never do another marathon ever. My previous marathon was the Hudson Mohawk in 2011 and instead of any kind of glimmer of improvement, I actually had a worse time than my last 3 prior.
It was a huge blow to my ego.
After that race, I said never! Never again will I sign up and run another marathon. I was done, stick a fork in me, retired at the ripe old age of 46 after doing a mere 6 marathons.
The real problem was not the marathon itself, it was accepting the fact that... well... I just did not train well for it. I thought I did, I convinced myself over and over again that It was the heat, It was my sister pushing me through the first half, my crappy sneakers, an ill fitted tech shirt, my lack of good sleep the night before. I tossed it over and over in my mind until I finally had to accept the fact that, yes, me, I had slacked off.
I also gained a lot of weight. I got sloppy and a little cocky. I lost the respect I had for the distance, something that no runner should ever do. It is after all, 26.2 miles, a distance in which anything can and will happen to you. Once you disrespect the distance then everything begins to fall apart. And that is exactly what happened to me at that last race.
The marathon bitch slapped me.
You see, that is what a bad marathon can do to you, one big bitch slap. The ego is bruised and often it takes awhile to get back on the proverbial horse so to speak.
So about 6 months ago, after vowing never ever never to do another one of those things again, I got an email from my dear friend Nikki. She was thinking about our friend Mike that passed away last June and how much he loved to run the Colorado Marathon. She talked about running, friendship and running in memory of him. Oh boy...
Sucked into one more.
Why? It was not even the bitch slapping. It was the other thing I forgot to mention.
I really hate marathons.
To me, the marathon is akin to some kind of Chinese water torture. Why? Why do this to yourself? Wouldn't it be much more fun to play in traffic or or poke a hot needle into your eye socket? I am convinced it would be.
In my humble opinion, training for 26.2 can be compared to several sucky things and they are as follows:
Thing one, having that sucky part-time job in food service. You get a neat polyester odor keeping, way too tight in the boob and ass area uniform. You show up, sweat your ass off by the fryer, and come back home slightly irritable with a bad case of thigh chaffing and black toenail. You keep asking yourself why you are working in this hell hole? Well, you need the money. How else are you going to buy cigarettes, put gas in your run down hoopdie car and meet your deadbeat (parents don't like them one bit) friends at the grubby bowling alley on a Friday night for a game of quarters? It is a perpetual gerbil wheel of work, gas, cigarettes and greasy fries stuck to the bottom of your orthopedic shoes.
Thing two, is it like a drug? You need it, must have it, cannot live without it. You hate doing, you feel guilty about doing it, but of course you cannot help yourself, you are after all, an addict. I have never been an addict but suspect there are several ex crack heads wandering around my running group, (throw in a few dozen meth heads too for that matter). They freak me out. They have the same far away, blood shot, crazed look in their eyes. Why would anybody with half a brain show up at 6 am to run 21 miles? Not only do they show up, they are the ones doing jumping jacks and running in place before the actual torture begins, not enough drug that 21 mile training run. More, more, more, they say. They can't stay still. They are the ones that look like they pulled an all nighter at an abandoned crack house, hair sticking straight up, rancid coffee breath, way too perky mindless chatter about nothing, stinky not so fresh tech shirts, bright dayglo spandex (yo, TMI, next time wear some undies under that dude), compression socks, beeping gadgets, and bright pink Brooks sneakers.
Thing three, maybe its like giving birth? I always thought about this myself. I see these frazzled moms shoving a cart around Walmart with 6 kids in tow. The kids are picking up loafs of bread and playing volleyball with them or crawling under an unsuspecting customers shopping cart, stealing bananas or spilling Gatorade on the floor. They are out of control and the mom is too tired to give a crap. All she seems to care about is if the customers cart that greasy kid number 4 is crawling under is heavy enough to kill him if he gets ran over. Oh, only one gallon of milk in it, OK you are fine...You shake your head and go, tisk tisk, why did she not stop at one? But in essence haven't I done the same? I swapped out having 6 screaming blood sucking demon children for well...marathons.
I must be either a crack head or certifiable.
So here I was at the start of marathon number 7. To be honest I felt good. Having a crappy prior marathon experience was probably the best thing that ever happened to me. Being bitch slapped once was enough. I was no longer cocky. My respect returned for the distance and I had trained well. I followed every bit of my coach's advice, I became a slave to my mileage. I showed up diligently for every organized run, no matter how long, hilly or torturous. There were times I hated the runs, I hated my coach, I hated my friend for sucking me into another marathon, but I did what I needed to do.
I lost some weight, I added some cross-training. I ate better (well kinda better) and I was not going to let another marathon get the best of me, ever again. If this was my last, then by god it was going to be my best!
I am not typically ever nervous about races, I try to approach them like I would any training run. Go in, do my best, finish strong. I usually do not have trouble sleeping the night before, I do not need to mentally prepare, I just get up and run. It is that simple. I have no game plan, I do not wear a Garmin, I do not try and pace myself, I do not like to run with anybody, and I do not think about time until about the 3rd or so mile into the race. I had my playlist all set on my iPod, Kelly Clarkson "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I was ready, I was gonna do this thing...
Then about mile 5 those damn competitive guys come out...
This is what I call them. They are really rather annoying. The stay at bay and then a few miles into that race they came out to rear their ugly little heads. I joke with people and say they are only about an inch or so tall and come out to sit on my shoulder during a race. They are rude and yell things like "Move your fat old ass!"
Then of course, I have no recourse but to listen to them because they refuse to go away. All of a sudden what turned into a gentle and relaxed training run became a race for time, a PR.
I must try to appease the competitive guys.
So here they were in full force. I knew I was going too fast. Typically about a 4:30ish marathoner, I was neck and neck with the 4 hour pace group leader. I felt good, I felt strong, but I have enough racing experience to know that going out too fast is a marathoners worst nightmare. It was marathon suicide! What was I thinking? It is all you hear while you are awaiting the gun to go off at any long distance race. You never want to bonk, you know that thing that happens around mile 18?
It is called "The Wall."
There it is, staring at you in the face as you hit it like a ton of bricks. It is a soul sucker. It is the realization that even though you packed enough GU to last you 6 months on a deserted Island with nothing but one non fruit bearing coconut tree... you have run out of gas. Of course, you have no one to blame for this but yourself, you crazed speed demon you. Why did you start out so fast?
I did not want to be that person. At a 9:15 pace, I was dissing the distance again so to speak. I know, I know, for anybody that is typically a fast runner, this might seem astoundingly slow, but for me, it was akin to running an Olympic time trial.
I needed to slow it down.
I backed off a bit, but I got to thinking, perhaps I could break my own record? Maybe I could actually PR? It was a crazy thought, yes. My nickname after all to any of my fellow running friends was "10 minute mile Chris."
How could I possibly even conceive of anything faster than a 10 minute mile? Was I insane? No! It was those damn competitive guys!
So I got the ipod situated and plowed through the race. I tried to stay focused on how I felt, which to be honest was pretty dang good. Normally I would never say this. I was the one who conned an old woman out of an Ibuprofen on the Staten Island Ferry in route to the NYC marathon. Back then, a race was painful from mile one through mile 26.2. Finishing and walking after a race was even more painful. I often wanted to swap legs with anybody that was ready and willing to suffer through a double amputation.
But here I was, feeling good, feeling strong, feeling like well... I was going to bitch slap this fucker! Bring it on Colorado!
I made sure to stop at each water station, I brought fuel, I ate, I listened to Kelly Clarkson diligently, I brought a disposable jacket and tossed it at mile 4, I bought a fancy running skirt the day before at the expo, I had a new pair of sneakers. I looked like a runner... really... for once I felt and looked like an actual runner.
The course was gorgeous, until about mile 18 then... not so much. The canyon exposed itself to a highway to the left and a narrow bike path to the right. Looming mountains became strip malls and trailers. There were sporadic spectators here and there but nothing like a large race such as NY. At mile 18 you need those spectators, where were they? A huge honkin hill at mile 19, sealed the marathons fate for me. Gorgeous was tossed out the window and replaced with sucky, psycho crack-heads and 5 demon children at Walmart. I wanted out but the only way out was to keep going, so I did. I knew I was going to PR but I was not sure by how much. I tried to stay somewhere between the 4 hour and 4:15 pace groups. That became my mantra, my goal, my appeasement to the competitive guys. Maybe if i stuck it out in this spot, maintained this pace, the guys would go bye bye. No, they stayed put. They shoved me, they berated me, they wanted to know who I thought I was? They told me that they were not leaving until I finished and they mocked me for even thinking of walking or stopping. God, how annoying they were.
At mile 23 Kelly Clarkson was really getting old. So was the GU and the Gatorade. I was done, stick a fork in me. I really wanted to stop so bad. You have no idea, it was either pull something out my ass or stop, but for some reason I kept going. I refused to stop. I started to think about my sister, my coach, my friends. I thought about the competitive guys but mostly I thought about why I was running this marathon in the first place.
You see marathon t-shirts all the time. They say something like "At mile 18 you think why am I doing this and then at 26.2 it becomes crystal clear." And this was what went through my head. I started out thinking that maybe I was running in memory of my friend Mike. I thought about the last time I ran that race and how we ran it together for the first 13 miles. I wanted to convince myself that maybe it was a lofty thought such as this... in memory of a dear friend. No, it wasn't. I started to think about my coach. I thought about maybe he would be impressed with my new PR, maybe I would feel more like I was part of the in-group in our running group instead of the quiet antisocial weirdo in the back of the pack/out-group person. Would he be happy with my time, say way to go, I knew you could do it? No, that was not it either. Then I thought about my family and friends. Was I trying to impress them? Was I trying to prove to them that because I could do this, run this 26.2, that they would care, be impressed, and think that I was remarkable? No.
I realized that it really was all about me. This was a huge epiphany actually. I had never really thought about it before and maybe doing 7 marathons was what needed to happen before it did. Competitive guys or not, the only person that really cared about this race was me. The only person who really mattered was me. This was for me, about me, my race. The time I got, whether good, bad or otherwise, really only mattered to me.
So that was what did it for me (well maybe Kelly Clarkson helped a little bit) but I finished that race. I not only finished it, I bitch slapped it! I ended up with a PR of 4:12:08. Ok, yes for all you Boston qualifying crazy crack peoples, not amazingly fast, but amazingly fast for me. I was happy.
I got to the finish and texted my sister one message "I slapped that bitch!" She called me back very concerned as she thought I got into some kind of fight with a perky pink skirted girl who was running neck and neck with me to the finish. She said "Exactly, what bitch are you referring too?"
I said "The marathon...that bitch!" "Oh." she said... I told her my time and of course she was happy for me.
And why not? I rock!
So now what? I think I am going to rest my tired legs and look for another marathon to bitch slap. Perhaps that will come with another PR or a BQ? I know, I know, very ambitious, but who knows, crazier things can happen right?
After all, it is all about me...
I had vowed to never do another marathon ever. My previous marathon was the Hudson Mohawk in 2011 and instead of any kind of glimmer of improvement, I actually had a worse time than my last 3 prior.
It was a huge blow to my ego.
After that race, I said never! Never again will I sign up and run another marathon. I was done, stick a fork in me, retired at the ripe old age of 46 after doing a mere 6 marathons.
The real problem was not the marathon itself, it was accepting the fact that... well... I just did not train well for it. I thought I did, I convinced myself over and over again that It was the heat, It was my sister pushing me through the first half, my crappy sneakers, an ill fitted tech shirt, my lack of good sleep the night before. I tossed it over and over in my mind until I finally had to accept the fact that, yes, me, I had slacked off.
I also gained a lot of weight. I got sloppy and a little cocky. I lost the respect I had for the distance, something that no runner should ever do. It is after all, 26.2 miles, a distance in which anything can and will happen to you. Once you disrespect the distance then everything begins to fall apart. And that is exactly what happened to me at that last race.
The marathon bitch slapped me.
You see, that is what a bad marathon can do to you, one big bitch slap. The ego is bruised and often it takes awhile to get back on the proverbial horse so to speak.
So about 6 months ago, after vowing never ever never to do another one of those things again, I got an email from my dear friend Nikki. She was thinking about our friend Mike that passed away last June and how much he loved to run the Colorado Marathon. She talked about running, friendship and running in memory of him. Oh boy...
Sucked into one more.
Why? It was not even the bitch slapping. It was the other thing I forgot to mention.
I really hate marathons.
To me, the marathon is akin to some kind of Chinese water torture. Why? Why do this to yourself? Wouldn't it be much more fun to play in traffic or or poke a hot needle into your eye socket? I am convinced it would be.
In my humble opinion, training for 26.2 can be compared to several sucky things and they are as follows:
Thing one, having that sucky part-time job in food service. You get a neat polyester odor keeping, way too tight in the boob and ass area uniform. You show up, sweat your ass off by the fryer, and come back home slightly irritable with a bad case of thigh chaffing and black toenail. You keep asking yourself why you are working in this hell hole? Well, you need the money. How else are you going to buy cigarettes, put gas in your run down hoopdie car and meet your deadbeat (parents don't like them one bit) friends at the grubby bowling alley on a Friday night for a game of quarters? It is a perpetual gerbil wheel of work, gas, cigarettes and greasy fries stuck to the bottom of your orthopedic shoes.
Thing two, is it like a drug? You need it, must have it, cannot live without it. You hate doing, you feel guilty about doing it, but of course you cannot help yourself, you are after all, an addict. I have never been an addict but suspect there are several ex crack heads wandering around my running group, (throw in a few dozen meth heads too for that matter). They freak me out. They have the same far away, blood shot, crazed look in their eyes. Why would anybody with half a brain show up at 6 am to run 21 miles? Not only do they show up, they are the ones doing jumping jacks and running in place before the actual torture begins, not enough drug that 21 mile training run. More, more, more, they say. They can't stay still. They are the ones that look like they pulled an all nighter at an abandoned crack house, hair sticking straight up, rancid coffee breath, way too perky mindless chatter about nothing, stinky not so fresh tech shirts, bright dayglo spandex (yo, TMI, next time wear some undies under that dude), compression socks, beeping gadgets, and bright pink Brooks sneakers.
Thing three, maybe its like giving birth? I always thought about this myself. I see these frazzled moms shoving a cart around Walmart with 6 kids in tow. The kids are picking up loafs of bread and playing volleyball with them or crawling under an unsuspecting customers shopping cart, stealing bananas or spilling Gatorade on the floor. They are out of control and the mom is too tired to give a crap. All she seems to care about is if the customers cart that greasy kid number 4 is crawling under is heavy enough to kill him if he gets ran over. Oh, only one gallon of milk in it, OK you are fine...You shake your head and go, tisk tisk, why did she not stop at one? But in essence haven't I done the same? I swapped out having 6 screaming blood sucking demon children for well...marathons.
I must be either a crack head or certifiable.
So here I was at the start of marathon number 7. To be honest I felt good. Having a crappy prior marathon experience was probably the best thing that ever happened to me. Being bitch slapped once was enough. I was no longer cocky. My respect returned for the distance and I had trained well. I followed every bit of my coach's advice, I became a slave to my mileage. I showed up diligently for every organized run, no matter how long, hilly or torturous. There were times I hated the runs, I hated my coach, I hated my friend for sucking me into another marathon, but I did what I needed to do.
I lost some weight, I added some cross-training. I ate better (well kinda better) and I was not going to let another marathon get the best of me, ever again. If this was my last, then by god it was going to be my best!
I am not typically ever nervous about races, I try to approach them like I would any training run. Go in, do my best, finish strong. I usually do not have trouble sleeping the night before, I do not need to mentally prepare, I just get up and run. It is that simple. I have no game plan, I do not wear a Garmin, I do not try and pace myself, I do not like to run with anybody, and I do not think about time until about the 3rd or so mile into the race. I had my playlist all set on my iPod, Kelly Clarkson "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I was ready, I was gonna do this thing...
Then about mile 5 those damn competitive guys come out...
This is what I call them. They are really rather annoying. The stay at bay and then a few miles into that race they came out to rear their ugly little heads. I joke with people and say they are only about an inch or so tall and come out to sit on my shoulder during a race. They are rude and yell things like "Move your fat old ass!"
Then of course, I have no recourse but to listen to them because they refuse to go away. All of a sudden what turned into a gentle and relaxed training run became a race for time, a PR.
I must try to appease the competitive guys.
So here they were in full force. I knew I was going too fast. Typically about a 4:30ish marathoner, I was neck and neck with the 4 hour pace group leader. I felt good, I felt strong, but I have enough racing experience to know that going out too fast is a marathoners worst nightmare. It was marathon suicide! What was I thinking? It is all you hear while you are awaiting the gun to go off at any long distance race. You never want to bonk, you know that thing that happens around mile 18?
It is called "The Wall."
There it is, staring at you in the face as you hit it like a ton of bricks. It is a soul sucker. It is the realization that even though you packed enough GU to last you 6 months on a deserted Island with nothing but one non fruit bearing coconut tree... you have run out of gas. Of course, you have no one to blame for this but yourself, you crazed speed demon you. Why did you start out so fast?
I did not want to be that person. At a 9:15 pace, I was dissing the distance again so to speak. I know, I know, for anybody that is typically a fast runner, this might seem astoundingly slow, but for me, it was akin to running an Olympic time trial.
I needed to slow it down.
I backed off a bit, but I got to thinking, perhaps I could break my own record? Maybe I could actually PR? It was a crazy thought, yes. My nickname after all to any of my fellow running friends was "10 minute mile Chris."
How could I possibly even conceive of anything faster than a 10 minute mile? Was I insane? No! It was those damn competitive guys!
So I got the ipod situated and plowed through the race. I tried to stay focused on how I felt, which to be honest was pretty dang good. Normally I would never say this. I was the one who conned an old woman out of an Ibuprofen on the Staten Island Ferry in route to the NYC marathon. Back then, a race was painful from mile one through mile 26.2. Finishing and walking after a race was even more painful. I often wanted to swap legs with anybody that was ready and willing to suffer through a double amputation.
But here I was, feeling good, feeling strong, feeling like well... I was going to bitch slap this fucker! Bring it on Colorado!
I made sure to stop at each water station, I brought fuel, I ate, I listened to Kelly Clarkson diligently, I brought a disposable jacket and tossed it at mile 4, I bought a fancy running skirt the day before at the expo, I had a new pair of sneakers. I looked like a runner... really... for once I felt and looked like an actual runner.
The course was gorgeous, until about mile 18 then... not so much. The canyon exposed itself to a highway to the left and a narrow bike path to the right. Looming mountains became strip malls and trailers. There were sporadic spectators here and there but nothing like a large race such as NY. At mile 18 you need those spectators, where were they? A huge honkin hill at mile 19, sealed the marathons fate for me. Gorgeous was tossed out the window and replaced with sucky, psycho crack-heads and 5 demon children at Walmart. I wanted out but the only way out was to keep going, so I did. I knew I was going to PR but I was not sure by how much. I tried to stay somewhere between the 4 hour and 4:15 pace groups. That became my mantra, my goal, my appeasement to the competitive guys. Maybe if i stuck it out in this spot, maintained this pace, the guys would go bye bye. No, they stayed put. They shoved me, they berated me, they wanted to know who I thought I was? They told me that they were not leaving until I finished and they mocked me for even thinking of walking or stopping. God, how annoying they were.
At mile 23 Kelly Clarkson was really getting old. So was the GU and the Gatorade. I was done, stick a fork in me. I really wanted to stop so bad. You have no idea, it was either pull something out my ass or stop, but for some reason I kept going. I refused to stop. I started to think about my sister, my coach, my friends. I thought about the competitive guys but mostly I thought about why I was running this marathon in the first place.
You see marathon t-shirts all the time. They say something like "At mile 18 you think why am I doing this and then at 26.2 it becomes crystal clear." And this was what went through my head. I started out thinking that maybe I was running in memory of my friend Mike. I thought about the last time I ran that race and how we ran it together for the first 13 miles. I wanted to convince myself that maybe it was a lofty thought such as this... in memory of a dear friend. No, it wasn't. I started to think about my coach. I thought about maybe he would be impressed with my new PR, maybe I would feel more like I was part of the in-group in our running group instead of the quiet antisocial weirdo in the back of the pack/out-group person. Would he be happy with my time, say way to go, I knew you could do it? No, that was not it either. Then I thought about my family and friends. Was I trying to impress them? Was I trying to prove to them that because I could do this, run this 26.2, that they would care, be impressed, and think that I was remarkable? No.
I realized that it really was all about me. This was a huge epiphany actually. I had never really thought about it before and maybe doing 7 marathons was what needed to happen before it did. Competitive guys or not, the only person that really cared about this race was me. The only person who really mattered was me. This was for me, about me, my race. The time I got, whether good, bad or otherwise, really only mattered to me.
So that was what did it for me (well maybe Kelly Clarkson helped a little bit) but I finished that race. I not only finished it, I bitch slapped it! I ended up with a PR of 4:12:08. Ok, yes for all you Boston qualifying crazy crack peoples, not amazingly fast, but amazingly fast for me. I was happy.
I got to the finish and texted my sister one message "I slapped that bitch!" She called me back very concerned as she thought I got into some kind of fight with a perky pink skirted girl who was running neck and neck with me to the finish. She said "Exactly, what bitch are you referring too?"
I said "The marathon...that bitch!" "Oh." she said... I told her my time and of course she was happy for me.
And why not? I rock!
So now what? I think I am going to rest my tired legs and look for another marathon to bitch slap. Perhaps that will come with another PR or a BQ? I know, I know, very ambitious, but who knows, crazier things can happen right?
After all, it is all about me...
Friday, May 3, 2013
Runs with dogs...
It has been over a year since I lost my dog Elvis to cancer. He was my perpetual furry friend, my running buddy and had the sweetest doggie soul I will ever know. To say that he was slightly codependent was an understatement. He followed me everywhere, was just a tiny bit jealous of any other human being (or dog) that showed me the slightest bit of affection. He was my dog and I was his human, plain and simple.
I found him online at the local shelter in Denver. I saw his face and knew that he was my dog. I had been searching for several months but no other dog seemed to click with me. But there was this sweet face and huge brown eyes looking up at me from my computer screen. I knew I had to go right to the shelter and get him, so i did.
I only had Elvis a few short years before they found a tumor in his nasal cavity. The prognosis was poor and I sadly made the decision to let him live his last few weeks or months as a dog who was oblivious to the fact that he was dying from cancer. I made the decision to not go through any grandiose plans to try and save his life with radiation or chemotherapy. When I looked at him all I saw was happiness to be near me and happiness to be alive, who was I to upset the balance? What point did it make to put him through the pain of chemotherapy just to keep him alive for a few extra months? That would only benefit me, an utterly selfish thing to do to my sweet friend.
I never thought of a Cocker Spaniel as the type of dog which would be a good fit for me. I always gravitated towards sporting dogs like labs or retrievers. Dogs you would think of as "durable." The ones you took on long hiking trips or camping. Ones that were happy to be just as muddy and grubby as you.
But here I was headed down to the shelter to adopt this little dog.
To say that Elvis was a phenomenal running partner was an understatement. He would go as long or as far as I wanted with pure enjoyment in his eyes. He loved to run almost as much as I did. He completed 2 half marathons and a few smaller races just for good measure. He kept me company on several long grueling runs. Whenever we came home from a long run he would flop down with exhaustion but then be ready to go again in an hour, his tail wagging and whining by the door.
My friend Heather always got a kick out of the fact that Elvis went on long training runs with me. Anybody that saw Elvis would describe him as a bit "foo foo" and they were right.... he was. A beautiful dog complete with perfect markings, huge expressive brown eyes, and feathered fur around his feet that made him look like he was wearing little slippers. When he ran he always looked like he was a bit full of himself, his head would sway from side to side and his ears would flow in the breeze as if he had the long hair of a super model. The shelter said they thought he was mixed with a bit of King Charles Cavalier, so maybe that was were the regal part came from, who knows, either way he was not what you would typically think of as a running dog.
He was an anomaly.
When i finally made the decision to let my friend go, i will have to admit it was one of the saddest days of my life. I hugged him and said goodbye and cried the whole way home. A few days later i came back to pick up his collar and his ashes. Not a day goes by when I do not think about him and see his sweet face waiting for me at the door each day after work. It pains me to look at his ashes and sometimes I wished I had never brought them home. It is too upsetting and I had to put them, along with his collar into the closet so I could not be reminded every day of his passing.
I have never lived without a dog... ever. Even growing up, we always had dogs. They were not pure breeds, they were mutts or Heinz 57 varieties as my dad would call them. Most of the time they found us before we found them. We had strays that my dad would feed and they would eventually take permanent residence on his dad's lap. Every dog we had growing up would bond with my dad. He was their human, they were his dog. My dad was a stoic man that kept his emotions guarded, he had trouble expressing himself but each time a dog passed on my dad would break down and cry. Like a tiny piece of him went with each dog.
So it made sense that when I moved out on my own and could actually afford to finally feed myself that I too would own a dog. And as it was with my dad, I was also their human. My husband and son were mere extensions of the food bowl, chopped liver so to speak, when I was not around.
Before Elvis there was Brutus and after Brutus there was Bernie. Each dog held a special place in my heart.
After several months of missing Elvis, I knew i had to get another dog. Part of me felt guilty for wanting to replace him so quickly after his death but living without a dog was like living without water or food. A dog made my life complete. My husband, who you would call a "non-dog person" often had a hard time understanding this. "What was the big deal?" he would say. To him a dog was something you "had" to feed, an expense, a bother. While he was never cruel to any dog we have owned, he always treated them kindly, fed them, took care of them in my absence, it was as if he was only going through the motions. He did not connect to any of our dogs like I did. He did not understand that having a dog was what made my life 100 percent complete.
So my search for another dog began.
I started off at the Aurora Animal Shelter. My first pick was a little white terrier mix named Minnie. She was a little over a year old, kind of scraggly looking and small. Not what you would exactly term a sporting dog by any means. She was part Jack Russel, perhaps a good running partner for me or was I making a hasty decision? To fast in trying to fill the void.
I thought she would be a good fit for me.
They told me she had to get spayed and that they would hold her for me and I should call back in a day or two. I dutifully came back in two days only to see her kennel empty. Someone else had already adopted her.
I was upset of course, but when I saw the couple sitting in the waiting room and how happy the both looked to be adopting this little scraggly girl, I knew that perhaps this particular dog was not meant to be. You see they had just lost a Jack Russel Terrier several months ago and this dog looked like their old sweet dog. Minnie was their dog, not mine.
So the search began again...
A few days later while searching the Denver Dumb Friends League website, I saw one dog that looked interesting. His name was Tommy and he was a 6 month old Australian Shepard mix with a goofy face and a tongue that hung so far down the one side of his face it could have been mistaken for a pool slide. I showed his picture to my husband and he was favorably unimpressed. He said "That one?" "Are you sure, he looks a little doofy." He did, but I think that is what sold me on him, this doofy dog was coming home with me!
So we went down to the shelter to take a look. As soon as we took him into the meet and greet room he jumped up on my husbands lap and licked his face. Then he did the same to me. He was clumsy and bumped into things. In typical puppy fashion, every part of his body was a bit uncoordinated and moving every which way. A tail that flopped around, ears that did not quite stand up right, furry puppy fuzz and big goofy puppy feet. He did not look anything like an Australian Shepard but I was hooked. Don't those kind of dogs make great running partners?
So we adopted him.
It has now been a little over a year. My son has renamed him Cluebo. After his initial vet visit it was determined that there is nothing remotely Australian Shepard about him. As a matter of fact the vet thinks he is probably a Rottie mix! So go figure. He is only about 50 pounds soaking wet but he has huge web toed feet and a furry tail that kind of turns into itself much like a husky. He has Rottie markings for sure but I am still at a loss with what else is jumbled up inside his genetic make-up. Most definitely a Heinz 57.
It took me awhile to get him used to the leash as he would yank me all over the place. At first i thought he would always be this goofy puppy who chewed everything in sight (destroyed every potted plant i had on my deck, several pairs of socks, pillows, underwear and numerous transformer action figures) but since then he has turned into a remarkable and very intelligent grown dog.
And boy can he run! I feel bad for saying this because Elvis would really be upset, but I am pretty sure he has Elvis beat in the running department. This dog can go go go and keep going. He is fast and powerful. When he runs he is solid muscle and never tires. He can't wait until I take him out and if he had his way he would go again and again.
We are up to 9 mile runs together. It might take awhile to get up to Elvis's level of 15 miles but we are working towards it.
I was thinking the other day that I am so happy to have him to run with. I know it sounds corny but he really has become my running friend and protector.
So now i need to sign off as Cluebo has just dropped another tennis ball in my lap and is patiently obsessing about what i plan to do with it...
I found him online at the local shelter in Denver. I saw his face and knew that he was my dog. I had been searching for several months but no other dog seemed to click with me. But there was this sweet face and huge brown eyes looking up at me from my computer screen. I knew I had to go right to the shelter and get him, so i did.
I only had Elvis a few short years before they found a tumor in his nasal cavity. The prognosis was poor and I sadly made the decision to let him live his last few weeks or months as a dog who was oblivious to the fact that he was dying from cancer. I made the decision to not go through any grandiose plans to try and save his life with radiation or chemotherapy. When I looked at him all I saw was happiness to be near me and happiness to be alive, who was I to upset the balance? What point did it make to put him through the pain of chemotherapy just to keep him alive for a few extra months? That would only benefit me, an utterly selfish thing to do to my sweet friend.
I never thought of a Cocker Spaniel as the type of dog which would be a good fit for me. I always gravitated towards sporting dogs like labs or retrievers. Dogs you would think of as "durable." The ones you took on long hiking trips or camping. Ones that were happy to be just as muddy and grubby as you.
But here I was headed down to the shelter to adopt this little dog.
To say that Elvis was a phenomenal running partner was an understatement. He would go as long or as far as I wanted with pure enjoyment in his eyes. He loved to run almost as much as I did. He completed 2 half marathons and a few smaller races just for good measure. He kept me company on several long grueling runs. Whenever we came home from a long run he would flop down with exhaustion but then be ready to go again in an hour, his tail wagging and whining by the door.
My friend Heather always got a kick out of the fact that Elvis went on long training runs with me. Anybody that saw Elvis would describe him as a bit "foo foo" and they were right.... he was. A beautiful dog complete with perfect markings, huge expressive brown eyes, and feathered fur around his feet that made him look like he was wearing little slippers. When he ran he always looked like he was a bit full of himself, his head would sway from side to side and his ears would flow in the breeze as if he had the long hair of a super model. The shelter said they thought he was mixed with a bit of King Charles Cavalier, so maybe that was were the regal part came from, who knows, either way he was not what you would typically think of as a running dog.
He was an anomaly.
When i finally made the decision to let my friend go, i will have to admit it was one of the saddest days of my life. I hugged him and said goodbye and cried the whole way home. A few days later i came back to pick up his collar and his ashes. Not a day goes by when I do not think about him and see his sweet face waiting for me at the door each day after work. It pains me to look at his ashes and sometimes I wished I had never brought them home. It is too upsetting and I had to put them, along with his collar into the closet so I could not be reminded every day of his passing.
I have never lived without a dog... ever. Even growing up, we always had dogs. They were not pure breeds, they were mutts or Heinz 57 varieties as my dad would call them. Most of the time they found us before we found them. We had strays that my dad would feed and they would eventually take permanent residence on his dad's lap. Every dog we had growing up would bond with my dad. He was their human, they were his dog. My dad was a stoic man that kept his emotions guarded, he had trouble expressing himself but each time a dog passed on my dad would break down and cry. Like a tiny piece of him went with each dog.
So it made sense that when I moved out on my own and could actually afford to finally feed myself that I too would own a dog. And as it was with my dad, I was also their human. My husband and son were mere extensions of the food bowl, chopped liver so to speak, when I was not around.
Before Elvis there was Brutus and after Brutus there was Bernie. Each dog held a special place in my heart.
After several months of missing Elvis, I knew i had to get another dog. Part of me felt guilty for wanting to replace him so quickly after his death but living without a dog was like living without water or food. A dog made my life complete. My husband, who you would call a "non-dog person" often had a hard time understanding this. "What was the big deal?" he would say. To him a dog was something you "had" to feed, an expense, a bother. While he was never cruel to any dog we have owned, he always treated them kindly, fed them, took care of them in my absence, it was as if he was only going through the motions. He did not connect to any of our dogs like I did. He did not understand that having a dog was what made my life 100 percent complete.
So my search for another dog began.
I started off at the Aurora Animal Shelter. My first pick was a little white terrier mix named Minnie. She was a little over a year old, kind of scraggly looking and small. Not what you would exactly term a sporting dog by any means. She was part Jack Russel, perhaps a good running partner for me or was I making a hasty decision? To fast in trying to fill the void.
I thought she would be a good fit for me.
They told me she had to get spayed and that they would hold her for me and I should call back in a day or two. I dutifully came back in two days only to see her kennel empty. Someone else had already adopted her.
I was upset of course, but when I saw the couple sitting in the waiting room and how happy the both looked to be adopting this little scraggly girl, I knew that perhaps this particular dog was not meant to be. You see they had just lost a Jack Russel Terrier several months ago and this dog looked like their old sweet dog. Minnie was their dog, not mine.
So the search began again...
A few days later while searching the Denver Dumb Friends League website, I saw one dog that looked interesting. His name was Tommy and he was a 6 month old Australian Shepard mix with a goofy face and a tongue that hung so far down the one side of his face it could have been mistaken for a pool slide. I showed his picture to my husband and he was favorably unimpressed. He said "That one?" "Are you sure, he looks a little doofy." He did, but I think that is what sold me on him, this doofy dog was coming home with me!
So we went down to the shelter to take a look. As soon as we took him into the meet and greet room he jumped up on my husbands lap and licked his face. Then he did the same to me. He was clumsy and bumped into things. In typical puppy fashion, every part of his body was a bit uncoordinated and moving every which way. A tail that flopped around, ears that did not quite stand up right, furry puppy fuzz and big goofy puppy feet. He did not look anything like an Australian Shepard but I was hooked. Don't those kind of dogs make great running partners?
So we adopted him.
It has now been a little over a year. My son has renamed him Cluebo. After his initial vet visit it was determined that there is nothing remotely Australian Shepard about him. As a matter of fact the vet thinks he is probably a Rottie mix! So go figure. He is only about 50 pounds soaking wet but he has huge web toed feet and a furry tail that kind of turns into itself much like a husky. He has Rottie markings for sure but I am still at a loss with what else is jumbled up inside his genetic make-up. Most definitely a Heinz 57.
It took me awhile to get him used to the leash as he would yank me all over the place. At first i thought he would always be this goofy puppy who chewed everything in sight (destroyed every potted plant i had on my deck, several pairs of socks, pillows, underwear and numerous transformer action figures) but since then he has turned into a remarkable and very intelligent grown dog.
And boy can he run! I feel bad for saying this because Elvis would really be upset, but I am pretty sure he has Elvis beat in the running department. This dog can go go go and keep going. He is fast and powerful. When he runs he is solid muscle and never tires. He can't wait until I take him out and if he had his way he would go again and again.
We are up to 9 mile runs together. It might take awhile to get up to Elvis's level of 15 miles but we are working towards it.
I was thinking the other day that I am so happy to have him to run with. I know it sounds corny but he really has become my running friend and protector.
So now i need to sign off as Cluebo has just dropped another tennis ball in my lap and is patiently obsessing about what i plan to do with it...
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