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!

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.

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.

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...

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...

Post Boston Marathon Bombing...Why?

A senseless act of cruelty and terror…

Why? Why did they do this? Why did they choose this event to target? My husband, who is not a runner, was perplexed, as were all of his friends. My family was perplexed. Why a marathon? How could a non-runner even begin to understand why anybody would target an event such as the Boston marathon?

I have my own theories of course, but my first response was...why not? It was logical to me. Boston is, after all, a huge part of what it means to be an American. The city itself, brim with history and culture, a tough no nonsense town, with the Boston Marathon exemplifying what it means to be a Bostonian, an American and of course a runner.

The marathon is considered to be the oldest organized race (over 117 years old this year) that attracts the most impressive of athletes from around the world. It also attracts somewhere in the realm of 50,000 spectators. Each year, when the marathon occurs, Boston becomes a town brimming with excitement and possibility. A qualifying standard makes the allure of the race even more impressive. If you do not already know this, you have to have a qualifying time just to be accepted into the race. This adds to the mystique of the race, in other words, a runner may spend their entire career chasing the "BQ."

As runner's, Boston is considered the creme de la creme of races. Luring over 20,000 runners, it is often on our bucket list of "must do's" before we die. For me, watching the runner's affected by that attack left a huge hole in my heart. I realized it affected so many people deeply but as a runner it really struck a cord with me. My heart sank for everyone there.

When the bombing occurred I had many Facebook friends and family ask if I was "safe' simply because I am a runner. Apparently they do not understand what makes Boston…well Boston. I had a hard time explaining to them that “Yes of course I was safe.” I was home, watching the news when it went down. I was not running anything. I was in my pajamas, eating dinner, shocked and saddened by the event.

After running for over a decade, I am not sure I will ever run Boston. As with any runner, it is on my bucket list but at this point, qualifying seems like an insurmountable task. But even though I was not physically in Boston, I was able to relate to those runner’s. I knew what it felt like to be there in Boston, to work so hard for something, to feel the excitement as you pass each mile and hear the roar of the crowds. I felt bonded to them. After all, we are a strange bunch, us runners. We are kind of nerdy (well most of us), driven, goal oriented, and definitely type A. We run because we get something out of it, maybe that endorphin rush, maybe just to sweat out some stress, but we all do it for the same reasons. We pass each other on the trail and nod or smile. Occasionally we might stop to pet another person’s dog and then keep going. We are not a cruel or spiteful bunch, for the most part, we are peaceful and calm. Running is a peaceful sport. Most of us are introverts (such as myself) who prefer the company of a dog as opposed to a human running partner.

Less talk is best.

Races are run against ourselves. We do not run to win, we run to PR, we run to prove to ourselves that we can do it, can accomplish something greater than ourselves. We rarely talk to each other on races, maybe at the water stop we might give a volunteer a high-five but for the most part we are running just because we can.

Yes, I was safe I said. I said I was too slow to qualify and I said that anybody that was there would otherwise be considered an amazing athlete.

But now I realize that I was wrong. I realized as I watched the TV in my pajamas that we are all Boston, we are all one, fast, slow, old, what difference did it make? It could have been me, my sister, my friend, anybody.

Then I saw the time posted at the finish when that first bomb went off.

4:09 and change...

That 4:09 meant, slower, older, charity runner's.... in other words the back of the packers. Somebody like myself, I would have been in that spot had I been there.

I started to think about those particular runners. What it took for them to get there. The incredible amount of endurance, spirit and effort, especially for those older or slower than the rest. Runners such as myself, who are not exactly "gifted" at the sport and might take years to achieve a BQ.

For myself, I have been slogging away at that pipe dream for almost 15 years. Each year I am lucky to shave a minute or two off a previous time but fall miserably short of any chance for a BQ. My current marathon PR of 4:29 means I would have to shave 35 minutes off my time just to squeak into the back of the race.

This made me angry. Once again I was asking myself, why?

My sister, who is slated to run NYC in November, was frightened now. She said, "What if somebody bombs NYC?" She had a point; does this make all races for this relatively peaceful sport a target for terrorist attacks? I told her that she needed to do that race because living in fear was not how she wanted to live her life. I said, "Screw them! You do that race!" So she thought about it for a bit and then said that I was right, she would not live in fear.

She was going to run NYC.

And now, I will not live in fear either. Now that this has happened it has sparked something deep inside me. Yes I am slow, I am overweight, I am a flat-footed, knocked kneed, sloppy old runner, but damned if anybody is going to keep me from doing what I love. Maybe one day I will prove to myself and everybody else that I can run Boston. Yes, screw them! I will run for Boston one day, I will run for myself and I will run for all those runner's that were there or at home like myself glued to the TV. I will run for us all.

Head held high, just try and stop me!

Detours on the Road to Thanksgiving

It is easy to get mired in the things that are not working in my life, not enough money, a major repair bill, how to buy a PS3 for my son, why I have no half and half left in the fridge for my coffee tomorrow...

But today is Thanksgiving, I needed to not focus on those little things, I needed to feel gratitude and focus on how great life is, so why was I was not feeling it?

No time for that, I needed to cook dinner, we were having company.

My husband invited a friend and his wife over this year, a friend that he grew up with in New York. This friend and my husband lost touch with each other for about 20 years, but then through a mutual friend were able to reconnect with each other via Facebook. Come to find out, for the past 20 years or so, this friend has only lived about 15 minutes from us in Englewood, Colorado.

Strange how life works.

I had never met them, and only knew bits and pieces about them from my husband. I was a little nervous to have people over that I had never met so I spent hours cleaning my house, setting the table properly and making sure everything was in order. My husband kept telling me not to stress out so much. He said, i am sure they will not notice if your napkins and place settings are not perfect...he said "Trust me, they are really down to earth".

Their names are Shirley and Ed. They met about 15 years ago while working together at the Denver Post. The first time Ed came out to Colorado was in the mid 80's. He said he came out to work a temporary construction job with several friends. He came out on a Greyhound bus he said with 16 teeth in his mouth and $1.85 in cash.

At that time, he was a drug addict and alcoholic.

He was very open about his life and his experiences. Down to earth would put it mildly. He still has a very thick New York accent, like my husband, he grew up in Queens, New York in the 70's. He told us that he has been clean and sober now for 27 years.

He chatted about his life, the fact that he spent months at a time living in the streets (homeless), a stint in jail, died twice (one due to a seizure from drug withdrawal), and then a final stint in rehab. By looking at him, you would never guess that he had gone through so much during his life. Aside from some weariness in his eyes and deep wrinkles in his forehead, he looked healthy and content. He laughed and smiled about his experiences. He seemed happy to be alive, amazed actually, considering all he has gone through.

In other words, he was grateful.

He and Shirley live in a small bungalow in Englewood. Not a wealthy area to say the least. My husband says that their lawn looks like a small golf course and the house, while small, is immaculate. After working for the Denver post for the past 20 years, he took an early retirement 2 years ago as the paper is slowly being phased out by technology. Who reads the Denver Post anymore? You can get your news for free just by googling it.

By outward appearances he does not have much money. He talked about buying his first new living room furniture and how he hoped to have it delivered in time for Christmas. He kept looking at our house and commenting on how nice our home was. Every time he made a comment about my home I would take a moment and complete a quick inventory. I did not see it, all I saw were the defects, the old funky couch, the too small table, the cabinets in the kitchen that were starting to show their age.

He chatted about the times he worked as a roadie for a band, traveling up and down the East Coast during his teens and early 20's. He talked about growing up in Queens, old friends and the crazy things both he and my husband did when they were younger.

He talked about how he and Shirley met and places they have been together. He chatted about hiking up the Great Sand Dunes, camping, and getting lost on a hike. They looked at each other and laughed about getting lost on a road trip in Sante Fe and how because they got lost they found this amazing place that sold old cemetery fences. He said, that the best road trips were the ones you did not plan, the ones where you got lost and ended up falling upon something remarkable.

He talked about wanting to see the Grand Canyon and how much he loved Colorado. He talked about staying at his Uncle's ranch on another visit to Colorado and how his uncle helped to save his life because he let him stay there when he had no place or no one to go to.

The more he talked the more I realized that Ed did not focus on the big things, things we all think we need or want. His focus was on the moment, the fact that he was alive, clean and sober. On how much he enjoyed the meal we served him, how good the crumb cake was, how good the coffee was, how nice our son was, how nice our yard was.

After the meal, he drank his coffee black (two cups), and thanked us profusely for a wonderful day and a wonderful meal.

When they both left it got me thinking. What was I whining about? Why did I take so much for granted? I looked around my house again and saw things differently. I realized that while my husband and I are not rich, we have a very rich life.

Maybe my cabinets were not so bad after all...

It also made me realize that although things do not always go according to plan that maybe that is how it is supposed to be, that is the point. I know that things have not always been easy for my husband and myself, we have had our own share of ups and downs but listening to Ed, made me rethink things.

Have you ever taken a road trip with someone, got lost, and that person started to panic and freak out? I have, and believe me, is not pleasant. You start to feed off the other person, your heart races, your stomach ties up in a knots, you have visions of crazy zombies attacking your car in the dead of night.

But then you take a deep breath. What is the worst thing that can happen? If it is dark out, you will eventually realize that there are no zombies in sight and you might pull over into a not so great hotel, pass out on a funky mattress, and regroup in the morning over the soggy donuts that are supposed to constitute the "Free Continental Breakfast".

The next morning, your head will begin to clear after a second cup of some very bad hotel coffee. You notice the sun is shining, there are no zombies and it is a new day, complete with new possibilites. You pay for the room, and grab a dusty map from the front desk clerk. Maybe you look at the map and see that the Giant Colossal Ball of Twine is about a mile down the road, an amazing landmark that would have been passed over had you never gotten lost in the first place.

It reminds me of the time, about 18 years ago, when my husband and decided to take a road trip.

We had no plans, no money, and just knew we wanted to head towards someplace in California. So we packed up our very small dented Honda Accord and drove West. We got lost several times but ended up in some remarkable places. We spent a few days sunning at Malibu Beach, gazing up at the trees in the Redwood Forest, stopping for a huge black bear in Yellowstone, playing slots in Vegas, wandering around the seaport in Seattle, walking across the stars in Hollywood, and burning up our clutch going up and down hills in San Francisco. Even after all these years we talk about it like it was yesterday and wonder why we never took another road trip like that one.

Maybe we need to...

Listening to Ed, made me think about all those wrong turns or mistakes you can sometimes make in life. I realize that some are pretty lousy but ultimately each wrong turn can take you to an unexpected place. They make your life interesting, meaningful, and can change you forever. You are not the same person afterwards, they cause you to have faith, gratitude, insight, appreciation or whatever else you want to call it.

So today I have decided to be grateful for my life, for meeting Ed and Shirley and having a chance to experience two amazing, and interesting people, to share a meal, and have good conversation. Today I will make a choice, I will focus on being alive, being healthy, and having a wonderful family and home.

Today I refuse to focus on the fact that there is no more half and half in the fridge for my morning coffee.

What is the worst thing that can happen?

Maybe like Ed, I will drink two cups black, soak in the sun in the morning, and head out for an amazing run with my goofy dog. Maybe if I get lost I will find that Colossal Ball of Twine I have been dying to see...