Experiencing a Different Life

 "If you want to run, run a mile. If you want to experience a different life, run a marathon."

~ Emil Zatopek, 1952 Olympic Gold Medalist in 5k, 10k and Marathon

Truckin' at mile 21

When I was training for my first marathon, people thought I was a little crazy. Marathons are hard and I was a runner but a casual one. I've already detailed in an earlier post how I came to be a runner at all.

People who knew me were skeptical. A lot of dedicated runners refuse to run marathons. People who think nothing of running 15 ~ 20 miles won't go the final 6.2 miles. I had never even run a half marathon or a 10k. What made me think I could finish a marathon?

People who knew me really well knew I would finish because I'm stubborn. But they thought that would be the end of it. After all, marathons are hard and I was a casual runner. I'd drag myself across the line, check marathon of my bucket list and that would be the end of it.

My sister knew I would do another marathon when I texted her, "Finished!" at the completion of my first marathon. She knew because of the exclamation point. And the fact that I like being a little different.

Don't get me wrong, running a marathon still hurts. I walk oddly for two days afterwards and hurt in places I didn't even realize were involved in running.

I knew I'd finish the marathon again but I had some doubts about my training this time. I didn't need to worry; not only did I finish, I knocked 10 minutes off my previous time. And I'm already thinking about my next marathon in 2015. If I start training now and get a really good, solid base of running now, my pace should improve and I should be able to PR again, maybe cut another 10 minutes. I've got a long term goal now as well, to get under 5 hours.

I'm not sure I can truthfully say I enjoy running marathons but I don't hate running anymore. And the feeling of doing something intense and crazy like a marathon feeds a part of my soul that wants to be a rebel. I rebelled against running as a child; now, running is my rebellion.

My life is different because I run, because I run marathons.

Some highlights from this year's marathon:

• Singing the National Anthem with the other runners at the start and getting compliments from everyone in the Port-A-Potty line with me.
• My dad came to watch me run. He was able to see me at four different points (~ miles .5, 6, 11 and 25) in the race.
• A dear friend came to watch me run and saw me at three different points (~ miles 2, 5, and 21) in the race (and took some pictures)
• Two co-workers came to watch me run and saw me at two different points(~ miles 12 and 21). They were impressed that I was still running at mile 21.
• I no longer believe in the wall. I do believe in a mile of mental jello, difficult and mental and pace reducing and mile lengthening but still possible to get through. Just keep moving. I. Will. Not. Stop. (I also believe in the Blerch).
• Keeping a sub 12 minute pace for over 3 hours. And running down Greeley with less pain than the first time. The downhill training paid off.
• Remembering and honoring those who had their lives forever changed in Boston last April. It may take me a long time, but it would be pretty awesome to run the Boston some day. Even if I'm eighty.

Wasn't Once Enough?

Two years ago, I ran the Portland Marathon. Tomorrow, I'm doing it again.

My training has been different this time around. I started training earlier but I didn't train as hard. I didn't have Hood to Coast to train for this year (second year in a row of denied entry; they promised us guaranteed entry for next year) so I didn't run hills as much as I did the last time. However, I did focus a bit more on running downhill than I did last time as I remember how hard it was running down Greeley.

This year, as a mid-training test, I ran a half-marathon in Forest Grove. I did better than expected but that had unexpected results. If I was doing so well, I could cut back on training, right? I eased up on mid-week short runs but completed more of my weekend long runs, including a 20 mile run a few weeks ago. That run was both encouraging (I finished it) and discouraging (I didn't hit the pace I wanted to). But I did it; two years ago, the longest I had run was 15 miles.

I also had a week-long running break in September, just before my taper when I went on a cruise to Alaska. But I did do a lot of stairs on the ship. Up and down, 11th deck to 7th to 14th and back multiple times a day. Figured that should help a bit with the downhill as well, at least that's what I've been telling myself.

I'm not worried about tomorrow; I've completed a marathon before and I know I can finish. But I am worried about tomorrow because I was not where I wanted to be training-wise when I started my taper. Last time, my goal was to finish. This time, I want to beat my time from before. And, if I can cut 20 minutes off my marathon time, and keep that time or better in my future marathons, when I'm 80, I'll qualify for the Boston.

Once wasn't enough and I'm already thinking long-term.

Blanket the Bridge

When the wind is blowing, these billow like beautiful, rainbow sails.

Portland is sometimes called Bridgetown because of the many bridges crossing the Willamette River, running through the middle of Portland. There are 10 bridges (or 11 if you count the railroad bridge, which I do) crossing the river and each one is a little different. A new bridge is currently being built and it's the first bridge to be built in almost 40 years.

The Broadway Bridge is 100 years old this year. When the Broadway Bridge opened in April of 1913, it was a really big deal. At the time, it was the longest bascule bridge in the world (see the Wikipedia article here; I tried to find the longest now and some say it is Portland's Morrison Bridge) and it is currently the longest Rall-type bascule bridge still in existence today. The most important thing about it at the time of it's opening was that, for the first time, north and northeast Portland were connected with west Portland.

There was a big celebration for Broadway's birthday year, culminating in a public art installation and a block party. The art installation were four large knitted banners, made of 12" squares sewn together. Over 150 knitters participated, knitting feverishly. The banners will be disassembled when taken down, washed and made into smaller blankets, then distributed to shelters and a children's hospital.

I was one of the 150 knitters. I worked on yellow (the Timbers Army Loopers and Knitters or TALKs worked on the yellow and green squares; yes, there is a Timbers Army knitting group). My yellow squares were the ones with color patterns; I quickly got bored with stripes and garter stitch.

The week before the banners came down, I walked over to the bridge on my lunch to take pictures. As usual, I had my knitting with me and knit as I walked. After taking pictures of the banners, I started down off the bridge, passing a cyclist pulling a small trailer behind her. As we passed each other, she called out to me, "Knitting while walking, nice!" Sometimes, my life is exactly like Portlandia... all that is missing is the artisanal chickens or the heirloom cheese.



(As cool as our yarn-bomb was, check out this one as well. We even got a mention in the article.)

Run for Minutes

"Run for minutes instead of miles. If you're feeling great, you may go 6 miles in 50 minutes; if you're not, you may go 4.5." ~ @GregMcMillan, Greg McMillan, head coach of McMillan Running

Or, if the race officials/volunteers have marked the course incorrectly, run over half a mile longer than intended.

When I first decided to run a marathon, I had never run more than 7.24 miles (that was the length of the longest Hood to Coast leg that I had ever run; it was also the first H2C leg I ever ran. It's amazing I kept running). I was constantly asked if I had run a 5k or a half-marathon and the answer was constantly no. I just decided skip the little stuff and go straight for the crazy. Don't worry, I did train; I'm not that crazy.

This time around, a little wiser and experienced, I've stretched my training over a longer time period in the hope that I'll be more prepared for the marathon. And I added a half-marathon as a "test," to see if I was on track with my training. That "test" half was last Sunday.

There I am, in the pink

I had a goal for this race, to finish in under two and a half hours. This was an ambitious goal but what is the point of a goal if it is too easy? My goal for my last marathon was just to finish, and since I had never run that distance before, that was an ambitious goal. But now with a marathon under my belt, I felt it was time to have personal record goals.

I felt good for the first seven miles. I kept a steady pace, I passed several people (always an ego-booster). It was warm but not overly so and there was a little shade dappling the gently rolling hills of Forest Grove. Then it got warmer and I started wondering where the next water table was. The gently rolling hills started to roll a little bit more and a little less gently. The shade disappeared.

The good news was that the turn-around was close. For about a mile, I had been seeing runners who were ahead of me passing me going the other direction. I was finally seeing runners that I recognized and then I turned a corner and saw the turn-around just a little ways away. One lady that I had passed early on passed me (always an ego-buster) but I kept in my head and didn't try to run her race.

But the miles were passing more and more slowly. The turn-around was at eight miles, the ninth mile felt slightly stretched, ten was long and hot, eleven felt like a mile and a half. There was no shade and no water except for the greenhouses on either side of the road with their irrigation systems going full-blast, inside. It felt like an obscure form of torture (make someone run eleven miles then put cooling, lovely water behind a fence... evil). Mile twelve started and then went straight up. Seriously, a steep hill at between mile eleven and twelve? With a curve in it? I couldn't see the end. I had already started walking and doing the "run to that sign, then you can walk to the next sign, and repeat" but I got to the hill and it was just walking at that point.

After finally dragging myself to the top, I saw the twelfth mile marker, sitting next to nirvana, the last water station. I chugged two cups of water and poured another on my head. It wasn't much but it was enough. I staggered on, made the final few turns and somehow found it in me to power through to the finish.

Somewhere after mile eight, I had stripped down to my sports bra and running skirt. I'm a fairly modest person and I'm not particularly fond of my mid-section. I've never been one to run around in just a sports bra but one thing I have realized in my years on a rowing team and my years as a runner, people get uncomfortable enough, hot enough, sweaty enough, and they will do what ever they need to do to feel better (looking at that photo now, I don't look nearly as bad as I thought I did). Anything that could get me moderately cooler was a-okay by me and if people had a problem with it, well, they could run a half-marathon off a short pier for all I cared at that moment.

Here's the thing though. A runner got lost during this race and my ride/spectator/shanghaied volunteer extraordinaire was looking for a woman in a pink top, not a green one. I didn't arrive at the finish line by 2:30.00 and by 2:40.00, she was starting to worry a little. But I came in at 2:43.59 and I felt good about that time and she was able to recognize me early enough to get a few photos of my coming in. So it all worked out, even though I didn't make my time.

Actually, here's the real kicker. When I got home, I mapped the course so that I could log the race on the website I use to track my training. I didn't run 13.1 miles. I ran 13.75 miles. The race organizers had marked the course incorrectly and extended the turn-around too far. Even with intermittent walking and the evil hill, my pace was under the 12-minute mark. For me, that's really good and I'm very proud of that.

This last weekend, I was supposed to run for 17 miles but I had to cut my run short due to some pretty bad chafing (BodyGlide is my friend and I forgot to bring her along on this run) so instead of running for miles, I ran for the time I planned. Today, I mapped that run to log it online. Guess what? I ran 13.1 miles exactly.

Never Say Never

A friend pointed out recently that never and I don't get along well. This is something I have noticed as well. Never likes to bide it's time and just when I get complacent, spring out at me and "Ha, ha! and you thought you would never...." Here are some examples:

Mt. Fuji

When I was in high school, I swore I would never be an athlete. Yet, while in college, I accidentally signed up for the novice crew team, found that I actually loved rowing, and ended up a varsity athlete for three years.

When I was fifteen, I climbed Mt. Fuji (for the second time; yes, I'm aware that makes me a fool). When I came down off that mountain, I swore never again. A decade and a half later, I want to climb the mountain again. Go figure.

I told my parents I would never get a tattoo. I now have four.

My first marathon bib and shoes

Right after I graduated from college, I swore I would never run a marathon or even a half. My crew coach had suggested I take up running if I couldn't join a rowing club. While I did run a little bit at the time (usually only a couple of miles at a time), I didn't particularly enjoy it then. I think I outright laughed in her face when she suggested a marathon. Ten years later, I've run a full marathon and a half-marathon (I ran the half today, actually) and three Hood-to-Coasts and I'm training for two more marathons.

I thought I would never travel alone. I was scared to travel alone as a woman. But I realized that I was running out of traveling companions and I wasn't willing to sit at home anymore. So I went to London and I'm planning my next trip, which leads me to my next example.

Me, along the Thames

I though I would never go on a cruise. And, while I'm not ruling it out, I'm not terribly interested in a cruise to Mexico or around the Caribbean. Alaska, now that's a different story. I'm going on my first cruise in about a month, along the Inside Passage. There will be other firsts on that trip as well. A helicopter flight, a ride on a dog sled, ziplining, kayaking. I'm getting so excited, I want it to be September NOW.

So, as you can see, never and I don't get along. I swear never to do something and I do it. I think something will never happen and it happens.

I'm fairly confident that I will never skydive or bungee jump (I'm not afraid of heights, just falling from them) but, knowing my luck with never, I'll end up in a small airplane, one that has lost power and the only way to survive is by diving from the plane. Or I'll have to bungee jump off something... nope, can't think of a legitimate reason to bungee jump.

Never say never...

Taking Out The Trash

I once posted a Facebook status that said something to the effect of, "I know there are many things wrong in the world and my problems are little problems but they are mine and they seem big to me." My life is good and I know that. I am healthy, I have a job and a roof over my head, I have family that love me and a dog who doesn't like to be separated from me. Nothing to complain about, certainly not with the famine and disease and sickness and tragedies in the world. But, in the last year, there have been lots of little things and some medium sized things that have piled up to become a big thing, a weight that has pulled me down into a melancholy state of mind.

There has been a lot of change in my life in the last twelve months and it has been stressful. About a year ago, they began restructuring my department at work. I worked in the back office of a investment firm, running reports and balancing glorified check-books. It wasn't particularly stimulating but it was regular work and I kind of liked doing it.

But they were changing how my department was being run and outsourcing part of our work. There wouldn't be enough for four of us and, to use the words someone point-blank told me, I was the low person on the totem pole. I had the least seniority in our department. I went home after that meeting, terrified.

I spent a night wondering how I would survive? Would I have to move or maybe I could get a roommate to help with rent? I had some savings (for the first time in a long time) and I really didn't want to use that but I could. I didn't sleep well that night. The next morning, I talked with my supervisor and she allayed my concerns but did say I would likely be changing departments as the changes in operations went into affect. I felt better but still rattled. I was later offered a position in the marketing and sales department. I still work for the same company but doing something completely different. Even my LinkedIn profile recognizes that, for all intents and purposes, I switched jobs completely.

The official change in my job occurred about seven months ago, right after I performed a full-length vocal recital and right before I began costuming an opera. I had to complete my final operations quarter (running quarterly reports for all of our clients) while helping with my first client events in marketing and planning/rehearsing for my first full length recital in ten years. I was stressed. As a result, I procrastinated working on the costumes for the opera, thinking I'd just wait until everything died down a little.

To shorten this post a bit, things didn't die down until after the opera. In the meantime, I pulled what I hope to be the very last all-nighter I ever do, costumed an opera, and my house slowly became more and more cluttered as bits of fabric got left here and there. I went incommunicado with my family. Dishes piled up, and I started to eat almost exclusively at Starbucks. I wasn't sleeping well. It wasn't real pretty.

Easter came and went, the opera ended, and at work, I was starting to feel a little bit of a rhythm form. I was still training but things were slowly starting to get clearer. I thought my life would get back to order then but the damage had been done. My apartment was a horrible mess and every night, I came home, looked at it in despair and slumped on my couch to watch Netflix. Weekends were spent with grand ideas of cleaning and organizing, only to slip past with no change in my environment. This went on for about a month and a half. I still wasn't really cooking and I had some gnarly science experiments in the lab I call a refrigerator.

The first glimpse of some daylight was a knit night. I had offered to host, knowing that I would have to do some tidying. In this case, it meant everything got stuffed into bags and then stuffed into the guest room. Not really what needed to happen but it was a step. At least I could see the living room floor.

The second glimpse was my mom coming to visit. She's staying with me right now, in the guest room that a week ago, you couldn't walk into it (you could barely open the door). I'm not proud to admit this. In fact, I'm incredibly embarrassed that I let things get that bad but I want to be completely honest. Because admitting you have a problem is the first step, right?

You see, I'm a crafting packrat. When I say I don't want to toss something because I might be able to use it, more often than not, a month or year later, I will actually find a use for that item. But it has gone beyond the helpful stage to the mildly unhealthy stage. To clean quickly for my mom's visit, I had to toss. And it felt good. Today was trash day and I couldn't wait for the trash to be picked up so I could fill the can again with more stuff. Because I don't want to be weighed down by my things anymore. I don't want to lose myself in an apartment I don't enjoy because it's messy and cluttered. I want to be able to truly relax and enjoy life.

This may be sound overly simple but, sometimes, to live a more full life, you just have to take out the trash.

A Wish Fulfilled - How Atticus Made Us All Better

Last Wednesday, I got to go to the biggest, most important soccer match I will ever get to go to. Was it a final? No. Was it a championship game? No. Was it World Cup or Olympics? No. But it was more important than all of those put together.

By Bruce Ely for the Oregonian. I'm somewhere in that crowd but that's not as important as Atticus about to score!

Last Wednesday, I got to watch Atticus and the Green Machine take on the Portland Timbers in an exhibition match and win.

But it was more than just a game and a win. It was you and me and community and sunshine and Portland and love and soccer and a little boy who wished to play with his friends and his heroes.

Atticus and his teammates didn't know they were granting us wishes as well. Because of his selfless wish, we all got to be a part of something wonderful and magical.

I hope I always remember that most wonderful afternoon but there will be those days when I am down, those days when nothing seems right. On those days, I can come here and relive the best afternoon I ever had and the best, most important game I will ever attend.

By Bruce Ely for the Oregonian. An "awesome" time was had by all. Check out those faces!

Previews

Portland Timbers Preview
Stumptown Preview

Recaps:

Portland Timbers Quotes and Notes (and Highlights)
Anatomy of a Goal
Ref Report
Stumptown Recap
ESPN SportCenter #1 Top Ten
Oregonian Photo Essay
Letter to the Oregonian
The Axe Pdx
Full Day Highlights (only watch if you want to cry happy tears)

I'd say, wish fulfilled for all of us, wouldn't you?

Help make more wishes come true.

You can't stop us...

As a runner, yesterday was hard.
    Running my marathon was one of the hardest physical and mental things that I have done. When you finish a marathon, you don't have a lot left in the tank other than the mind-blowing thought that "I did it. I finished. I can stop moving now." I'm amazed at runners with the fast times (think about it, the men's world record holder was running almost 13 miles per hour and the women's world record holder was running almost 11.5 miles per hour) but I'm almost more amazed at those with slow times because those are the people who dug deep into their heads and hearts and refused to give up. My marathon a couple of years ago took almost 6 hours, hours of gasping breath and pounding legs and wondering why I had decided this was a good idea and the constant thought, "You're not a runner, just stop, no one will judge." But I would have judged myself if I had stopped and I ran to prove to myself that I am stronger than the doubts and the fear.
   And, while my family was unable to be there to cheer me on, thousands of strangers became friends for a moment and cheered for us all.
    My cousin, Sarah, summed it up well in her FB status.
    "Crossing a marathon finish line is an accomplishment, not only for a runner but for the family & friends that inspired them along their journey to 26.2. I'm heart broken that such a sacred moment turned in to such a moment of terror and tragedy today. Praying for you Boston. Stay strong."

As a co-worker and friend, yesterday was hard.
    I first heard about the explosions as chattering in the office. One of my co-workers had a niece running in the marathon and she hadn't heard from her family if her niece was all right. Other co-workers have family who live in Boston. All of the family members appear to be fine but the news sent me to FB, where I discovered that pretty much everyone I knew in Boston (and some people I didn't know were there) had been at the Marathon as spectators. I was checking constantly during the day, feeling more and more relief as, one by one, people updated their status to let everyone know they were all right.

As an American, yesterday was hard.
    We like to believe we are safe, we are above it all, that kind of thing doesn't happen here. Our "safe" bubble was burst over 10 years ago but we've let it grow back, we've grown complacent. And the truth is, we live in a broken world. Evil can happen anywhere and bad things happen to good people. Where you live is no guarantee of safety. Your nationality is no guarantee of safety. But just because there is evil doesn't mean there isn't good either. You only have to look at the people who were running to help the fallen rather than running to safety.


As a global citizen, yesterday was hard.
    Running (and sports) more than anything, seem to bring the world together. It seems to be the universal language. The world is a fractured place yet we can come together to watch sports. We rejoice in our triumphs and comfort in our failures. We love those who pick themselves up and continue on. We celebrate those who have the opportunity to succeed. We cheer for the underdog and revel in displays of sportsmanship. The runner who continues despite hitting the wall and intense pain. The soccer or football player who manages to walk off the field after a hard tackle. The gymnast who falls in a dismount, yet gets up and tries again. The high school basketball player who passes the ball to an opposing player with disabilities and cheers when he scores. These things touch our hearts and remind us all of what we are all capable of, especially when we work together. Yesterday, someone tried to break that global bond, tried to pull us apart again. But it won't work, just like it didn't work before. We are stronger than fear and we will continue to cheer for each other and run for each other and celebrate each other.

You can't stop us. We are runners, we are family, co-workers, and friends. We are Americans. We are global citizens. We are human and we can't be stopped.

"And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer...there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo... and it's worth fighting for." Sam, from The Lord of the Rings

A Passage

Why is it we don't realize the impact someone had on us until they are gone?

I received an email today, notifying me that one of my chem professors, William Randall, passed away last week. You know, I can't really remember a single thing he taught me even though I remember having fun in his classes and labs. What I do remember is, Professor Randall was an understanding man.

That's me, in front with the stripey socks.

My senior year, I was living off campus with my sister, rowing on the varsity crew team, working a federal work study job, and finishing my chemistry degree (and baking on weekends). I cooked my own meals and I biked everywhere. I left the house at 5 am and returned after 7 pm. I once mentioned to my sister that I can't seem to do all the things I did that year and she reminded me that I slept most of the time.  And it's true.  Every spare minute, I was napping. On the bus, at my desk before class, hunched over a piano in the music building or my computer keyboard, practically any time I stopped moving, I was asleep.  The lounge in the science building was particularly comfy and quiet ('cause nobody but us science nerds knew about it). I would push two arm chairs together and curl up in the nest they created and nap until class time.  Professor Randall would usually stop by my nest to wake me up before class.  If he got there earlier that usual, he would let me sleep and then would send a classmate out right before class started to wake me up.

Professor Randall loved music and opera. He started coming to choir concerts after I joined his class. He came to my junior and my senior recitals.  I remember eating lunch in the dining hall and he joined me and we talked opera and music the whole time.

A few years ago, I ran into him at the grocery store.  He asked how I was doing, what I was doing. I explained that I was working in an office downtown, not doing anything with chemistry. I waited for the inevitable, "Why didn't you continue with chemistry?" speech (I've given it to myself many times).  Instead, his only response was, "But you're still singing, aren't you?"

Yes, Professor Randall was an understanding man. He understood that I was sleep-deprived, he understood when I wrestled with a concept or a lab. He understood that, when I struggled to keep my eyes open, it had nothing to do with him and chemistry and everything to do with me and the punishing schedule I was trying to keep.  And, he understood that while chemistry was something I was interested in and enjoyed learning, music is a part of my soul.

He understood, and it is a pity that I didn't, not really, until today.