The Tortoise and the Hare
from News to Swallow, meghanandtommy.com
My friend Lissette turned 50 this year. From her friends and family, she requested a unique gift: Run the San Antonio Rock n Roll marathon with her. Her goal is to recruit 50 family and friends to run this November race. The half, the full, the relay; run, walk, skip, jump, she doesn’t care what they do or how they do it, only that they try.
Many months ago when she told me about her request, I promised to be one of those 50. Last month, I registered for the half.
I made out my training plan then, deciding to try something new. The plan I’ve used for years requires 5 to 6 days of running a week. My new plan requires only three: Two days of intense speed work and one long run, plus three days of cross training and one day of rest.
Two weeks into my plan and I can’t decide if I feel like the tortoise or the hare. Not that I’ve ever run as fast as a hare (or would consider napping in the middle of a race like the hare). But I’m finding the speed work days to be not just intense but also fun. And on the days that I run long, the tortoise mantra paces me: Slow and steady, slow and steady.
It seems that I’ve found the plan that will get me there, as one among the 50.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Where’s the Margarita Stop? (Part 2)
There was no margarita stop, but we survived last weekend’s Tour de Jalapeno anyway. Although this was a 26-mile race, the event lasted 2 days—at least for us.
Day 1
Saturday morning 4:15 am my alarm rattles me out of bed. It’s the morning of my very first bike race, and I am moderately excited. It is difficult to be extremely excited about much of anything but coffee at this very early hour, so I pour myself a cup and sit on the dining room floor with my dogs, staring vacantly into the kitchen until cup #1 kicks in.
Robert, moderately excited upon arising at 4:45 am, completely misses the fact that there is a fresh pot of coffee waiting to help him kickstart his morning. He sees it at 5:25 am, as we are walking out the door.
We’re on the road at 5:45. Our excitement meter has moved up a notch from moderate but has not yet landed on extreme. We at least smile but are not yet ready to chat.
We approach San Marcos. The race day instruction sheet is in my hand, and I am reading the directions to Robert. They are very clearly marked. As we head east to Martindale, we both comment on how strange it is that there is not much traffic. Not one other car with bikes. We’d think by now—it’s 6:45 and start time is 7:30—there’d be a steady stream of cars down the country roads and into the parking area. There is none.
We follow the directions on the race day instruction sheet, still firmly gripped in my hand, turning left and left and finally right—and pull up to a gate. It is closed and locked. We are confused. This is the place. Why is it vacant?
Robert slaps his hand to his forehead and swears. I look down at the paper in my hand, very clearly marked. The race is tomorrow.
Day 2
I wake up at 4:13 am, minutes before my alarm. Today my excitement jolts me out of bed. On Saturday we made the best of the day and took the opportunity to drive the route. It is beautiful. Rolling hills, cows, mist settling on the sunflowers at daybreak. We even spot a Mexican eagle standing in a field. My excitement level is bordering on extreme from the get-go. 
Now that we’re old hands at pre-race prep (even though yesterday was a false positive, it still counts), we shave 5 minutes off our prep time and hit the road at 5:40. Before we get on the highway, we see vehicles loaded with bikes. This is a good sign.
We chat excitedly for most of the drive and arrive at the race site 10 minutes earlier than yesterday. A line of headlights thread through the country roads behind us as we park the car. We are in the right place, and on the right day.
We finish assembling our gear from the back of the car. Since neither of us has been in a bike race, we watch others to see how it’s done. I am used to pinning my race bib on the front of my shirt. Slapping a sticker on my bike. Getting body marked. The guy parked next to us is clearly an experienced cyclist. He is as sleek as his bike, unpacks his stuff confidently. He is kind enough to tell me where to put things.
As we gather near the start line, I realize how different I am than real cyclists. Like the guy parked next to us, most of the people here are sleek and have colorful clothing that inevitably match each other and their bikes. I do not. I survey feet and notice that I am the only person wearing bike shoes with laces. Anxiety curls my stomach and I wonder if I should take Alka Seltzer now instead of later.
Redemption Race Productions runs unique and fun races. This one has 4 events: 26-mile race, 26-mile jalapeno race, 26 mile tour, and 50 mile tour. An orange wristband distinguishes the jalapeno racers from the smart racers. We get one minute deducted from our race time for each jalapeno we eat. We start in waves according to event—smart racers, jalapeno racers, 26 tour, and 50 tour—and I quickly fall to the back of the pack. The first aid stop is 8 miles out. Before I reach it I am passed by some of the tourers, including a six-pack. I am briefly sucked along behind them as they pass me and disappear into the horizon.
When I get to the first stop, many of the other jalapeno racers are still there. A ripple of excitement stirs the crowd. Some brave person has already stopped in, devoured 20 jalapenos, and moved on. Volunteers meet each of us with a cup of 5 pickled jalapenos. I quickly consume the first cup and ask for a second. To my surprise, it’s not that bad, even if there are no margaritas. I pause after the 2nd cup and wonder if I should take another. Although I feel fine right now, we have 10 miles to ride to the next stop and I have never eaten anything hot before riding. My stomach may be OK now but may very well rebel somewhere between here and there. I drink water, get my wristband marked, forget to wash my sticky hands, and ride on.
The jalapeno heat actually feels good as I ride and probably makes me pedal faster. My stomach is holding out just fine. I cruise past the sunflowers and try to remember which field we saw the eagle in. But somewhere around mile 13 the pickled part of pickled jalapenos gets my attention. I don’t feel sick, but I can taste pickledness. I push on to the next stop, just before mile 18.
The brave racer-eater has cruised through long before I get there, devouring 15 more jalapenos. That’s 35 jalapenos he has eaten. I bow my head in admiration and take 1 cup. I try to calculate my pace, the number of cyclists I’ve passed, those who have passed me, and realize that racing, jalapenos, and math do not mix. I stop at 1 cup—5 jalapenos—and move on, happy that I can eat 15 jalapenos and still ride my bike in the hot sun, up the rolling hills we now face.
Before this race, the longest distance I have ridden is somewhere between 22 and 23 miles. I hit mile 23 at the bottom of a very big hill, which I whiz down so fast smiling so big that a bug may be lodged in my teeth. It is difficult to tell. It might very well be a jalapeno seed I feel instead. I am so excited when I reach this point—rolling into uncharted territory on my bike—that I forget about the jalapenos and the race and the eagle and simply ride.
The race ends in the gated community where we started. It’s a long haul around the lake to the back of the neighborhood, about 1.5 miles with a headwind. I am pedaling as fast as I can and out of the corner of my eye notice someone not too far behind me. I pedal harder. I can’t let whoever this is pass me at the finish line! I push myself as hard as I can, the taste of pickled-sourness rising in my throat, and cross the finish line first at 19 mph. I am stunned and wonder if I should eat jalapenos every time I ride.
Robert is waiting, smiling, having finished at least 10 minutes and 20 jalapenos before me. We rack our bikes, rummage for the bottle of precautionary Pepto Bismol, and mingle at the after-race party, fully stocked with jalapeno kielbasa. We are incredibly excited to find that we both medaled in our age group.
We are determined to be back next year. At least now we have a jalapeno training plan—and a year to find a portable margarita machine.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )Going Batty
Twice this week I hit the road at just the right time. Although I enjoy any morning run, I especially love running early, when night and day collide, during that short crack in the dawn when the birds are not yet up and the bats are getting ready to call it a day.
If I run with my eyes up, I can usually spot dozens of bats flitting and diving for their last meal before they disappear. They’re hard to spot against the darkness at first, but as the sky fades to pre-dawn lemon, they’re pretty visible. If you know what you’re looking at.
It’s easy at first to mistake bats for sparrows, but they don’t fly the same. Or sound the same. As soon as the bats disappear, the sparrows come out to chase down the scraps. I’ve seen a sparrow hunt a bug as big as its head, chirping bloody murder all the while, and win a meal big enough to feed a family of four.
This time of morning is the loudest of the day. The treetops quiver with birdsong. Long before they arise from their nests, grackles, doves, sparrows, and every other bird in the neighborhood announce the dawn. If you’re quiet and run without an electronic device shoved in your ears, there’s no mistaking nature’s music. My favorite.
If you want to see the bats and the birds vying for the sky, you have to be quick. The crack closes in less than half an hour. It’s about that time right now, in fact. I guess I better get moving.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )The Price of One Bad Meal
I’ve been recovering most of the week. Not from a race or an injury or even an illness, but from a meal.
I talk a lot about my love for (not-so-healthy) food. Chocolate. The -ito family (Dorito, Frito, Cheeto). Nevertheless, for the most part I am a healthy eater and know enough to stay away from certain foods, or at least eat them in moderation.
I generally avoid dairy and gluten, limit sodium, and try not to eat refined sugar that often. I eat complex carbs and protein and enough produce to compost the entire neighborhood.
So I don’t know what I was thinking on Sunday night when my boyfriend and I sat down for dinner at the Alamo Café. We had just come from his grandmother’s 90th birthday party and I was pleased with myself for by-passing sandwiches and cake (yes, cake—the chocolate kind, with gobs of white, fluffy frosting) and munching instead on nuts and fruit. Too pleased, apparently.
And too hungry to by-pass chips and queso. Margaritas with salt. The smell of fresh flour tortillas. Before I could sing “Deep in the Heart of Texas” I was elbow deep in carne guisada. Too much carne guisada.
I didn’t even finish my plate. I left the rice and refried beans, opting for a side of boracho beans instead, and picked out the chunks of meat, leaving behind the glop of thick gravy they came covered in. Still, I left there waddling like a duck.
Sodium, gluten, enriched flour and lord knows what else bloated my body for days. On Monday morning, I couldn’t even run. (Is this what my pregnant friends feel like? How do they do it?)
On Tuesday, I managed a waddle/run—at my slowest pace in years. The rest of the week was a wash.
An entire week of fruitful exercise and six pounds of bloat were the price I paid for one bad meal. I don’t know how people eat like this on a regular basis, but I know many who do. I wish they could spend a week clean so they could experience natural energy, healthy-food style. From now on, I sure will.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )In a Minute There Is Time
One of the interesting things about having read so much literature is that snippets of poetry pop into my head at what seem like weird times. I’ll be sweating in my car and Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” trickles into mind:
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.
Or maybe I’ll be in a public bathroom and get a whiff of that lovely orange-scented “fragrance” and lines from Stevens’s “Sunday Morning” waft by:
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair
For the past couple of weeks I’ve been haunted by Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” one of my all time favorite poems:
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
These lines fall upon me at what seem like odd times. When I’m running. Biking. Staring at my training log tacked on the side of my fridge.
On Thursday morning I figured out what it is that’s been getting me, why Prufrock haunts me. I stood staring again at my log. Just over 4 weeks until the Olympic distance tri I was sure I would enter. Thursday. I was supposed to swim. Instead, I drew a line through the day. I looked over my plan. Three more swim days Xed out. Two strength-training days.
My upper body isn’t doing what it’s designed to do. It’s supposed to be strong. Lift things. Move other, heavier things. Like me. Through the water. Nearly 3 months since a shoulder injury caused me to stop doing “normal” activities, I am still unable to resume them fully. (I somehow suspect that when my doctor said go ahead and resume normal activities, his idea of “normal” was a bit different from mine.)
No Olympic distance tri for me, it seems. Not yet, anyway.
By Thursday afternoon I revised my goals. Lofty ones, maybe, but why not dream big? San Antonio RnR half marathon in November—to qualify for the Houston marathon in January. And, if I’m going to dream even bigger, why not see if in Houston I can qualify for Boston?
Who knows if I’ll qualify for anything, but it can’t hurt to aim high. If I can’t swim, I might as well run.
At least that’s my plan. For the minute.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )The Dark Side of a Morning Run
My feet know the roads surrounding Salado, Texas, better than any other roads. Having lived there four years, I ran them hundreds of times. In the predawn hours, a world completely different from the one most residents see in broad daylight thrives beneath the stars and the moon.
When I lived in Salado, I could tell you where the doe threaded their way from the creek to their bedding field, followed closely by their fawns. Two does bore twins each year, and I’d mark their monthly growth. I stumbled across bucks one early morning, gathered in a semi-circle around two sparring for dominance. I heard antlers cracking hundreds of meters away before I caught sight of the proud assembly.
I could tell you which field was manned by hawks, adjacent to the stretch of road on which I did sprints. Then there was Heron Pool, Woodpecker Corner, Skunk Alley, Camelback Hill—all places I named based on the animals that frequented them or the lay of the land.
So when I visited Salado for a couple of days early this week, my excitement swelled at the prospect of an early morning run. I planned my route: 5 miles, from my mom’s house at the top of the hill, in a circle through the hawks’ territory and the sparring field, through downtown, and then an out-and-back past the old Salado cemetery before I tackled Skunk Alley and headed up the ½-mile hill back home.
I woke up minutes before my alarm, at 4:28 am, and was out the door by 5:10. I no sooner stepped into the yard than a deer snorted and nearly gave me a heart attack. Even though there was a sliver of moon, the sky was too black to see much of anything beyond the looming shapes of trees. I walked to the end of the cul-de-sac, waiting for my Garmin to find the Salado satellites, and quickly realized that Salado, like so many other towns, was hard up for cash. None of the already sparse streetlights was lit.
I stood in the dark and stared at the stars and listened to the snorting taper off into the rustling leaves. It was dark, all right. None of the houses even emanated light. I waited there at the crossroads until my eyes could adjust to the inky black.
Did I mention it was dark? I paced down the road a bit, still waiting for the satellites, noting my amplified sense of hearing. More leaves rustled, although there was no breeze, and goosebumps prickled my skin.
I get scolded frequently for running alone, in the dark: Aren’t you afraid someone will jump you from behind a tree, drag you into a field? There are so many crazy people in this world…
Crazy people don’t scare me. I run with the awareness of a cat—which is why I don’t listen to music when I run. I want to know what’s around me. No, it’s not people or the possibility of being butchered in a field that triggers goosebumps.
It’s the old Salado cemetery.
Or, to be more exact, my imagination.
Most of the fiction I write has elements of horror, the supernatural. I don’t need to watch horror movies (I shun them like the plague). I have enough creepiness in my head to last nine lives.
So standing in the pitch black of pre-dawn waiting for the satellites, my skin rippling like the ocean before a storm, I got to thinking. I haven’t lived in Salado for 2 ½ years. What do I know anymore? It’s quite possible the deer have been domesticated like the Far Side cows and are hanging out in the newly cleared subdivision-to-be, a spotter calling “car” as the rest of the herd hide their newspapers and resume grass-chewing. Maybe the hawks have retired to South America for good. It’s even feasible that Skunk Alley has succumbed to gang activity and I may very well get sprayed—or worse—this time through.
So, really, who needs 5 miles?
Especially past the old Salado cemetery, where the pre-Civil War gravestones jut from the earth like ruined fingers under the waning moon, bats flit and dip through the phantom-shaped shadows, and willow trees cast their weepy leaf-arms about like matted, tangled hair.
My 4-mile run was a peach. The wind chimes big as organ pipes hung grandly from the house in the dip by the bend, and the kitty-cat mailbox painted in pastels stood welcoming and warm at the end of the cottage’s driveway. My mom’s subdivision, at least, hasn’t changed much.
Who needs nature anyway?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )I Tried
Believe it or not, I survived last Saturday’s Gator Bait sprint tri at Lake Boerne, Texas. Better yet, I actually enjoyed it. Once I got there.
My day did not go quite as planned. But they never do.
Prerace
For once, I don’t wake up before my alarm. When it sounds at 4 am, I’m startled from a dead sleep and am so disoriented that I contemplate sleeping for another hour. But then I remember the race.
I packed up my gear the night before, pinned my bib to my shirt, loosened my shoes. You know, all that prerace stuff. All I have to do is drink lots of coffee, force my pre-run breakfast down (buckwheat, banana, honey, chocolate almond milk, and blueberries), shower (Yes, I know, I’m just going to get all gunky with lake water and sweat and dirt, so why bother? Because it wakes me up and helps me focus. Showering is my second most powerful think time.), and load my bike onto my car.
My plan is to leave at 5, but secretly I know I can leave at 5:15 and still be way on time. Start time isn’t until 7, and it’s about a 45 minute drive. I’m one of those people who get anxious if I’m not at least 45 minutes early to a race (10 minutes early for everything else), so I factor in plenty of time.
So I think.
Even though my plan is simply to enjoy the day and not stress about my time or drowning or anything else, an unusual prerace anxiety kicks in. To make a long and unpleasant story short, I don’t leave until almost 5:30.
I drive 70ish mph (the speed limit) with one eye in my rearview mirror. My bike rack, you see, is almost older than I am, and I rarely use it. It’s one of those models with lots of straps and buckles and only one brace. My worst nightmare is that my bike will fly off the back of my car and onto someone else’s hood.
(I’ve been procrastinating getting a new rack, simply because I don’t use it that often. For the most part, I bike from home. Although that would probably change if I had a bike rack I felt comfortable with, right?)
So. Ten miles out from my exit, one eye in the rearview mirror, and I realize I can’t see my bike’s front tire anymore. That can’t be a good sign. I pull over at the next exit. Sure enough, a strap has loosened and the rack has slipped. My front tire is only inches from the road. I tighten up the straps, readjust my bike, and decide to take the frontage road the rest of the way. I swear once or twice (maybe three times), and vow to throw my bike in my car on the way home, ditch the stupid rack, and get a new one.
I drive 55ish mph (the speed limit) with one eye still in my rearview mirror. Before I know it, I’m in the middle of lovely downtown Boerne, where the speed limit is 25, there are lots of stop lights, and the road is under construction. Apparently, the frontage road doesn’t front I-10 for the whole stretch. I swear once or twice (maybe three times), turn around, and try to figure out how to get back to the highway. Eventually, I do. My heart rate is slightly elevated.
I arrive at the park at 6:30. Just enough time to pick up my chip, get body marked, and spread out my stuff in the cramped little corner area that’s left in transition. Barely enough time to stand in the massive porta-potty line, where I meet a nice woman who says her husband told her she should just pee in the water while she’s swimming. We agree that this is not an art either one of us has yet mastered, but if they teach it in triathlon courses, we may just take one after all.
The Swim
I decide that if I’m going to enjoy the race, I should be one of the last people in the water. I haven’t been in the water as much as I’ve liked, and I really don’t want to deal with elbows and feet slapping me around. I stand toward the end with a dozen or so first-timers. We joke and laugh and I loosen up enough to have fun.
It’s a windy day and the water is choppy. I try to swim slow and steady. Every time I turn my head for a breath, a wave slaps me in the face and I inhale water. A couple of strokes in I revert to the breaststroke, which is my strong suit, but not what I have been practicing for nearly a month. I try at every turn to swim freestyle, but quickly switch to breaststroke so that I can breathe easy and see in front of me.
I feel like I’m moving in slow motion, but I don’t really care. I swim at a pace I can comfortably sustain, with my eye on the guy in front of me, who I secretly want to pass. I do, finally, and am later stunned to find that my time is less than 20 minutes.
500m swim time: 12:17 = 2:27/100m
TI
What can I say about a transition? I don’t practice them. I was wet. It was hard to pull on my shirt. But I remembered to stick a piece of gum in my mouth.
T1 time: 2:37
The Bike
I love my bike. It’s about 7 years old, bottom of the line. It’s a hybrid, with slightly thicker tires than pretty much everyone else’s, has mountain bike handlebars, and is relatively heavy. I don’t care. It’s my bike, and it gets me where I want to go.
The 13 mile ride is an out and back, with a turnaround on the top of aptly named Heartbreak Hill. We head into the wind. A half mile out, three miles of road has been freshly graveled and tarred. The out is slow-going, but breezy, and at least I dry off relatively fast.
I pass a guy as the sun peeks out from behind some clouds and shines on his backside. He is wearing gray spandex, and as soon as the sun hits him, his shorts become less opaque than he is probably aware. I gasp and wonder if I should tell him later. A guy passes both of us. He is wearing black spandex. The sun has the same effect on his shorts. I make a mental note that they are both wearing regular old spandex and not tri shorts. I chuckle, but then realize that so am I. This is no longer funny.
(Later that morning, I drag my boyfriend outside into the sun, bend over, and ask him if he can see through my shorts. He cannot. I am relieved beyond words.)
I start my way up Heartbreak Hill, giving myself a pep talk. I rode all the way up last year, dang it, so I’ll be danged if I’m going to walk it this year. Two-thirds up my quads are burning, I am traveling at a speed of 2 mph, and I realize I still have to run. I swallow my pride, dismount, and run my bike up the hill at over 4 mph. At least I’m gaining speed.
The most beautiful thing about Heartbreak Hill is that you get to go down. I do, feeling like that stupid pig in the insurance commercial as I squeal “Wheeee!!” all the way down. Seriously. It was fun. Plus no one was around.
Because I was one of the last in the water, much of the bike route has cleared and during most of my ride I am alone. I hit a stretch of road with a breathtaking view of misty, rolling hills; birds sailing; flowers blooming; fingers of sun touching here and there. I dawdle along, gaping, thanking God that I am here, until the little voice in my head screams that this is a race, dang it, not a joy ride, and I better step it up.
I do, and truly enjoy the entire ride, minus the gravel and tar. Later, however, I will be disappointed in my bike time. It’s the nature of the racing beast, I guess.
13 mile bike time: 54:32 = 14.3 mph
T2
I approach the transition area with a little boy who’s maybe 10. He’s in my way and I want to run him over, but decide that might look bad, as the spectators hanging around the area ooh and aah about a kid in the race. I give him a wide berth and run to my space. He pulls up next to me. (Go figure.) I start to feel bad about the urge to run him down, so I make small talk.
“How was it?” I ask as I change shoes. “Did you have fun?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It was fun. But not that bad. I rode 56 miles last Sunday.”
The pummeling urge resurfaces, so I quickly look for the exit.
T2 time: 1:54
The Run
I am a runner. Have I mentioned that? This is the leg I am looking most forward to.
The run is several out and backs on 3.5 miles of trail. The trail is rockier than I remember, with steeper hills. I feel like I’m running through molasses at first, and consciously make myself run faster. I fix my eyes on the trail ahead of me, repeat a mantra in my head: Slow and steady, slow and steady. I level at a pace I could maintain for hours.
There are no mile markers on the route, and I have no idea how far I’ve run or exactly how much farther there is to go. The wind picks up, and my hat flies off twice. I run clutching it in my hand until I can finally keep it in place on the last stretch.
I feel good, and when we turn the last corner I am surprised to see the finish. Surely we can’t be done already? I turn to cross the field toward the line, and a runner comes up behind me, yells at me to pick it up. Her encouragement lights a fire under me, and we sprint together to the finish line.
3.5 mile run time: 29:19 = 8:22 min/mile
Post Race
I did it. I finished the sprint tri without drowning, twisting an ankle, lobbing my bike onto someone’s windshield. I even came in under my goal time of 1:45.
Overall tri time: 1:40:40
I guess the bottom line is this. I am a runner. But I love the heck out of training for tris. I have my eye on an Olympic distance in August. It will be my first. At least it will prompt me to finally get a new bike rack.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )I Can Tri
On Saturday I am participating in the Gator Bait sprint tri. My training log for this race has been posted on my fridge since early March. I included in my plan vacation time, other days I knew I’d need off. I included races I intended to run between then and now, extra weeks of training to focus on running.
Usually by now, the week going into a race, I’m a bit anxious. My mind is completely focused on the race. I’m visualizing the entire morning—from waking up before the alarm to getting ready, getting there, fidgeting at the start line, going the distance, and crossing the finish line with the hope of setting a PR. I’ve checked my gear a million times. Put on my lucky necklace.
This time, however, it’s different. I feel relaxed, at peace. Although the race is certainly on my mind and I’m preparing, I’m not obsessing as usual.
I race and train for several reasons:
- It feels good.
- I’m a better writer when I run.
- Training promotes self-discipline.
- I enjoy the sense of accomplishment.
- My confidence increases when I push myself to do things I think I cannot do.
- If I can reach an unreachable goal here, in this area of my life, why can’t I do it anywhere?
For the most part, I’ve enjoyed the training more than the races I’ve entered. I get a supreme satisfaction when my training log progresses from empty to full, when there’s the least bit of improvement in my running, biking, or swimming. I even enjoy it when I stop eating cookies and my body gradually changes.
Training is transformative. Race day is not the culmination of training; it is the by-product. It’s a goal I shoot for, but not the end in itself. It’s one step on the road to becoming something more, something better; one more reminder of capability, as well as potential. It’s a measure of ability in the moment.
If we are lucky, there will be another race.
Going into this race, I already know what’s next for me. Two races–bigger races. Two goals I have never been able to meet before. One I have been too afraid to try.
That doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy the moment on race day tomorrow. On the contrary, I think I am finally in a place where I can enjoy the race itself.
My training plan didn’t pan out as I expected. I took a lot of time away from training to recover from illness, a car accident I am still feeling. During this forced hiatus, I was surprised to find how often I’ve taken for granted my body, my ability to do the things I love.
So I’m approaching Saturday’s race with a new excitement, a peaceful satisfaction. The joy I feel in doing this tri—not having been able to do anything for weeks—is that I can.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 3 so far )When You’re Smiling, the Whole World Smiles with You
If there’s one thing that bothers me it’s being ignored. Not by my mom or siblings or friends, but by complete strangers. It seems odd to me to pass another person and not make eye contact, whether I’m in a hallway, on the sidewalk, or in a grocery store. I find it especially weird to not acknowledge someone when we are the only two people in sight. Like, say, on a trail in the middle of a forest.
I try to be a friendly everywhere, even when I run. I like to smile and say hello to everyone I encounter. On long runs, however, I may not always smile at passers-by. If you catch me in the last quarter or so of my run, you may get only a nod, a flick of the hand in your general direction. Eye contact, for sure, but it may be the case that all the extra energy I have is expended by looking at you.
However, I rediscovered something during last weekend’s long run. The power of a smile. I don’t mean how a smile affects the recipient—at some point in my run I really don’t care. I just want to get the damn thing over with and get back to my car. I mean the power a smile can have on your energy level.
I started my run a little later than usual last Saturday on a trail I haven’t run since February. It was packed—alarmingly packed—with people of all persuasions: Runners, walkers, bikers, stroller-pushers, dog-walkers, meanderers, and even kids on Big Wheels.
I found all these people to be a challenge. On the one hand, I was happy they were there, particularly the runners. My competitiveness piqued and I ran a little bit faster because of it. On the other hand, there were so many people (dogs, bikes, walkers spread in a horizontal line across the trail—and even a startled deer) to dodge that I initially found it difficult to get into my own head space.
But once I was there, it was bliss. Thank God. The reason (one of many) I run.
Since it was later in the morning than dawn, the Texas sun was up and blazing. Since it was later in the morning than I’m used to, I didn’t think to bring a hat or sunglasses. I headed back to my car squinting into the sun, sweating profusely, and probably not quite the friendly runner I try to be.
Before long, my squint screwed into a scowl. I didn’t really notice it, however, until a pack of people came into eyeshot, walking slowly toward me. Somehow, I had been running a stretch of trail virtually alone. Just me and the cardinals and an errant mosquito or two. Bliss. Thank God. Another reason I run.
Because I had such a long stretch alone, I forgot about people, pulled into my head, and apparently twisted my face into a grimace. When I passed this mob of walkers, I forced myself to make eye contact, and I smiled.
Incredibly, all the tension in my body melted away. A simple smile loosened my facial muscles, which are connected to my neck muscles, which are connected to my shoulder muscles, then back, arms. You know the song. It’s all connected, and like a ripple the tension throughout my body released. I felt stronger, lighter, and faster. In short, I hauled.
And then I remembered that I had heard this before from numerous sources: We tend to clench our jaw, tighten our face when we’re stressed. If we can remember to relax our face, our whole body loosens and we de-stress. What better way to relax your face than to smile?
So I tested this theory for the rest of my run by making faces. I must have scowled, grimaced, frowned, glowered, glared, smirked, and puckered, then alternately smiled, beamed, grinned, and glimmered. It was amazing what a difference a simple expression could make in the whole experience of my run—my pace, gait, attitude, and posture improved remarkably.
I made it back to my car and walked around the park a bit, drinking water, cooling down. Another group of walkers I vaguely remember passing must have parked there too, because they came back loudly, chatting it up. Until they saw me. They stopped, quieted down, and gave me a wide berth. I guess I had forgotten to pay attention to passers-by mid-experiment.
I made a point of walking by them as I left. I smiled, Chesire cat-like, and nodded. They averted their eyes nervously, as if I wasn’t there. For once, I didn’t mind being ignored.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Circle of Care
My friend Erica is a grief counselor for children. A heart-wrenching job, for sure. You enclose these kids in a circle of care, she says, to help them understand what’s happening to them and their world.
When she says circle of care, Erica holds up her arms in front of her for emphasis like she’s holding a laundry basket. Their lives are like a basket filled with things that have become soiled but can be made clean again. Erica’s job is to hold the kids loosely, but firmly, until they’re ready to unload their own basket.
I see this image of Erica with arched arms often when I think of Girls on the Run. Most recently at last weekend’s race.
On the way to the race, the SUV I was driving, loaded with nearly everything we needed for race day, was forced off the highway and into a cement wall, totaling the car. It was my mom’s SUV. She was my passenger. Miraculously, we are both fine.
Everything that was loaded into the SUV in an orderly, organized fashion suddenly looked like tornado debris. Somehow, with the help of my great friend Chris who showed up within minutes of being called, we were able to transport the race gear to the park in time for the run.
Each girl who participates in Girls on the Run receives a medal when she finishes the race. It’s a mark of accomplishment not only for achieving her race goal but for completing the entire season. 
I love to see the hanger full of medals strung from our tent, each one waiting to be hung around girls’ necks. This season, we arranged the hanger weeks before the event, just so we could look at it.
The medals swayed in the back of the car, streams of blue and pink, and jangled as we drove. When we hit the cement wall, the medals flew off the hanger in every direction and crumpled on the floor.
I picked up all I could find and held them in a ragged mound on my lap as Chris drove us to the park. There was no more order, only wrinkled or dirty ribbons speckled with broken glass. I carried them in my arms, a mangled heap, to our set-up site, still a bit dazed, wondering how to recreate order out of what had become chaos.
It was then I was reminded of Erica. I put the medals down and stepped away. Dozens of others stepped in and did what they were there to do. The tent and tables went up, gear was organized and distributed, girls and buddies signed in, medals re-hung. There was smiling, laughter, nervous anticipation. Clouds of pink hairspray.
And then, girls running. Not alone, but with their buddies.
At the finish line, I watched coaches drape a medal around each girl’s neck, followed quickly by a hug big enough to enclose us all.
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