from mile to marathon

just a thought

2011-08-12T12:06:00.001-07:00

I am thinking about running again.

route 66 marathon

2011-01-11T09:15:00.000-08:00

Tulsa, Oklahoma, November 21, 2010. Yeah, that was some time ago, I've been doing other things. Not running, not blogging.

This was probably the most carefully organized marathon I have ever done, with Royal Victoria in British Columbia and Oklahoma City as close contenders. In Oklahoma they take their runs seriously, with all sorts of little special touches. They had this high-tech new thing I never encountered before: if you signed up with a cell number or Facebook address, when you crossed a mat they would send a message (text or post) recording your progress live. It did not work out (I put in my boyfriend's cell number and he did not receive any notification), but I am sure it will in the future. They filmed the finish line, so now you can watch yourself coming in after 26 miles. I did, and did not like it. First time marathon runners had different colored bibs and special medals.

They also had a Marathon Maniac's corner, separate porta-potty included. Yeah, luxury. The tent was installed right before the finish line, with a great view of the runners coming in. After I finished we sat down there, and ate a bit, and watched the show. Yes, I ate, meaning I was not sick, that was cool. I felt special sitting there. The maniac tent was at ground level, like everything else in the field, but it felt elevated, like a balcony.

It was not an easy run. Perhaps I was tired, this being my fourth in four months, but I can hardly bring this up, since there were maniacs there who had run in Arkansas the day before. My right leg hurt, especially toward the end, I don't mean the usual soreness, but something worse, a real pain in my knee, maybe also the hip. Perhaps it was the running shoes, I was a bit overdue in getting new ones.

Nevertheless, I did not walk. I slowed down a bit while eating, at the beginning, but I gave up on eating early, and from then on I just kept running, water stops included. I have done this before a few times, not walking, no big deal. What was really special was that I did not feel like walking. This has not happened before, not in all the marathons I've done. Walking was always a temptation, which I sometimes managed to dismiss without much effort, and mostly had to fight with everything I had. This time I did not even need to shrug it off. I did not need to walk. I am still wondering about this.

goblin valley state park 50k ultra

2010-11-13T12:24:00.000-08:00

The weather forecast had predicted rain, and they were not wrong, just one day off - it rained the whole day the day prior. Race morning came sunny, cool, and crisp, a perfect combination. Fueling plans did not work out - I could not swallow anything beyond the halfway point. The run on the whole was much easier than I thought, only three to four miles were truly difficult.

There were no mile markers, and a road portion before and after the turnaround point had been washed out by the rain, so the course had to be changed at the last minute. I am only approximating where I was when, but the first 25 miles or so went by in a kind of a rush.

I lost my way once - running happily into the wilderness, feeling free and unecumbered, I realized at some point I was utterly alone and no orange ribbons flagged the trail. I remembered the sheriff's search and rescue truck parked at the start line and envisioned how it would look for me at dusk. With some trepidation I turned around until I was back on track. The little adventure must have cost me 15 minutes or so, but I still seemed to make progress much faster than I expected.

On the way out there was this hill that appeared unseasonably high, and it went up and down, and up and down, I walked the uphill slopes, ran downhill, and dreaded having to do it again on the way back. But then coming back, I was bracing myself for the crest when I realized I had just put it behind me, and had no idea how that happened.

Then came the three or four miles that brought me down, I could barely move, I walked a lot, I felt small and whiny. Somehow I snapped out of it. I was already back to the start line where a loop of about 2 km had been added to make up for the distance lost at the turnaround point. It was not a real path, but a curvy imaginary line marked by pumpkins, and you wouldn't always know which way you had to run until you reached a pumpkin and looked around for the next orange spot that would indicate your direction. I was tired of being tired. I was running, eyes darting around, a single thought on my mind: just give me the next fucking pumpkin.

6 hours 22 min 12 sec. Immediately afterward I felt I could have done it better. I do not mean I wanted to run another 50K. But given the same race again, I would have run it differently, without letting those three or four miles get to me.

the ultra-runner

2010-10-31T17:18:00.000-07:00

They say that once you run a marathon, even if it is your last, you are a marathon runner. Always will be.

Somehow this does not seem to apply to ultras. Ultra-runners are hardcore. They run ten miles in the morning that way I brush my teeth. Their weekly mileage is that of a different species. They have run at the very least a 50-miler or two, and they plan for the next half a dozen or so.

I do not feel that simply putting 50 km behind me one sunny day in Utah qualifies. I am not an ultra-runner. I am a marathon runner who has run an ultra.

i am going to

2010-10-20T18:15:00.000-07:00

I don't know what possessed me or how I got myself into this, but I am going to run an ultra. Okay, so it's the tiniest ultra one can find, a 50K, but half of the time I am scared - I can barely finish 26 miles, what made me think 31 is no big deal?

To make things just a bit worse, I have not trained properly - not more than for a marathon, in any case. I got sick at the end of September, a cold, fever, sore throat, the usual. I prescribed myself lots of vitamin C and bedrest, and I managed to get rid of the fever and to put in some mandatory long runs, the biggest one a 20-miler. But I have not increased my weekly mileage a bit, and I have not completely outrun the illness.

Otherwise, I am excited - I am going to run an ultra, I am going to run an ultra. Okay, so technically I am not going to run this thing. I am going to run, walk, crawl, whatever it takes.

What it takes, I decided in the end, is fueling. I cannot do 50K on empty, as I did a couple of marathons, and I am so tired of getting queasy with gels and such, I switched over to real food. The New Mexican breakfst burrito with green chile. A little bit at a time. Each bite during walking breaks. Slow. Steady. The race has a nine hour cutoff. Plenty of time.

It's the Goblin Valley ultra-marathon in Utah, October 23rd.

I am going to run an ultra.

american discovery trail marathon

2010-10-01T12:24:00.000-07:00

September 6. It was more a dirt road than a trail course, more flat than downhill. The trails, as few as they were, went up and down and up and down again, but I did not mind since they came with shade. It was a hot day.

Thinking this would be serious trail business, I had made up my mind beforehand to take my time and not care about pace. So when the heat became too much I just walked. I walked a lot. To my surprise, I still came in under five hours, which is fast for me.

What was even more of a surprise is how good I felt. The sun bothered me, but otherwise I was fresh almost until the very end. Fueling did not give me trouble (it's true I did not eat much). I never hit the wall. Only the last mile became truly difficult. I wanted to walk again, but I felt weird about walking so close to the finish, as if I would let someone down, although no person would have cared. So I pushed on, and it was hard. When I entered the final loop I was slightly nauseted, dizzy, hot and cold at the same time, and just shy of a heat stroke, or so I thought.

I poured the bottle of iced water someone handed to me at the finish all over my face, and in two minutes I was whole again. That afternoon we drove five hours round trip to the Sand Creek Massacre site, only to arrive there 11 minutes after it closed. On the way back, holding the car steadily at 15 miles over the speed limit, very decently I thought, I got my first speeding ticket.

Yet it was a fun day, after all.

leading ladies marathon

2010-09-04T11:45:00.001-07:00

August 15, Spearfish, SD, right next to Sturgis where the annual biker rally (think close to a million bikes) came to an end the day before. It was, objectively at least, the most beautiful course I have run so far - canyon and creek, shade and rock, light and tree.

It was also downhill. I had reached mile six when it first crossed my mind to run for speed - if not here, where would I? So from then onward, relentlessly, I tried for a better pace. I pushed so hard it stopped being fun. Not that it is ever, in the true sense of the word, fun, not until it's over, not physically. But now... it got nasty. When someone passed me, I hated them. This, I have been told, means being competitive. Not sure it applies, since I am competing only with myself. I never cared about other people's pace or race. I think my reaction might have been just a case of old-fashioned pettiness.

I was wondering if something neat would happen, as it did in Oklahoma, some unknown force helping me out. I was on my own this time. I always sprinted at the end, whether fifty yards or one mile, I always finished strong. This time there was nothing left in me. During the last mile I had to fight the temptation to take walking brakes, again and again. Fifty yards before the end I got a cramp in my left foot, and I reached the finish line limping. Right there, just before crossing the mat, I looked up and saw the gun time. I had done it - a personal record. 4h 30min 47sec. My best race had been my first, three years and ten marathons ago.

A couple of hours later we were in the Badlands, taking pictures.

the pre-race big run

2010-07-28T17:37:00.000-07:00

I did 20 miles last Sunday, a smooth run in cloudy weather. It also helped that the week before I bailed out mid-run.

I had planned for 19, but it got so hot that I walked off the course after mile 13. Could not decide for a long time whether this was wise or lazy. Contrary to expectations, I did not feel guilty.

But after a few days I started questioning whether I run enough. A runner told me once that doubting if one does enough and forcing oneself to run more is a sign one has become a runner. I don't think this just happened to me. I think I simply do not run enough.

time is short

2010-06-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

After Oklahoma I did not run for a month. I meant to, but I am far too lazy to run after a race. Then, one night when I was restless for ill-defined reasons, I picked myself up and did two miles.

I did this a few more times to my own amazement. With the exception of the time three years ago when I first started running and had no idea when I would be ready for 26 miles, I never ran without a specific marathon in mind, I never ran for the sake of running. So, in order to remedy the situation, I started to look around for a marathon.

I decided on a tiny August 15 race in the Black Hills of South Dakota, Leading Ladies Marathon, women only. Not sure why, perhaps because I want to take pictures in the Badlands. Not sure why I am running another marathon in the first place. I told myself that I am doing it because Oklahoma had a such a neat finish, but each marathon is different. That experience won't repeat itself.

In any case, I better work hard. Two weeks ago my weekly output was two miles.

oklahoma city marathon

2010-05-13T18:36:00.000-07:00

This was a destination marathon - we actually went to Oklahoma to visit friends, and I ran this race for them. To add a little twist, I had the map of Oklahoma and the letters OK shaved at the back of my head.

I was slow. 5h 12 min 05 sec, although I slowed down to walk only twice, I even slurped water while still running. It is true that at times some walkers seemed to be walking faster than me. It was just one of those things - you hurry, but you are slow.

This is a soulful marathon. It starts and ends at the memorial for the Oklahoma City bombing. 168 banners on the course bear the names of those who died. Many people run it in honor of someone. Many only want to finish, nothing else. It's the only marathon I saw where even the relay runners were walking. Many left their bib numbers on the memorial's fence. Some even left their medals.

Somewhere after mile 18 I fell apart - I was whiny, and moving like a 90-year old, and feeling sorry for myself. Mile 22 was the longest mile I ever ran. I had set my goal on 35th street, going south, and was counting down from 47th. I could swear that someone was shuffling the streets around - no matter how much I ran, 35th was still afar. I was miserable.

Somewhere after mile 22 I snapped out of it. I was still moving like a 90-year old, but I stopped feeling sorry for myself. Every marathon is different. Here, about two miles before the end, someone came, inhabited the body, took over, and finished very nicely. It was me, and it was not me. I came in steady and strong and straight, and it felt as if I were someone else.

signed up today

2010-03-10T23:16:00.001-08:00

... for the Oklahoma City Marathon on April 25.

I started running, somewhat tentatively (2 miles per weeek, that is) in December. In January I picked up some conviction. For whatever reason, it does not come easy.

The most I did so far was an uncomfortable 16 miles, a cold and back-breaking run, the wind like the blade of a knife against my skin, the pain like the edge of a saw at my spine. I strived to put all the thoughts of running out of my mind, and I ran. It worked.

Even when I do not think, I know every step takes me closer. I am running to Oklahoma.

my ninth

2009-10-06T17:09:00.000-07:00

Perhaps because this was a reunion event for the 50 States Club, I saw more Marathon Maniacs on the course than in any other race.

The weather was perfect. We took the start at 5:30 am and the sun did not come up until mile 23. I felt good, ran all the way through, barely slowing down for water a few times. Had trouble "fueling," but my lover brought me a Starbucks Frappucino at the midway point, and I could swallow that. Going by the comments on the course, if he had opened up a little delivery business for the day he would have been profitable.

It was a smooth affair, steady and uneventful until the end. My hips and thighs hurt as badly as if clamped in a vise, but I did not care much, I only had one or two miles left to go, and I was not about to slow down at this point. I only wished I could run faster.

I hurried across a street where a policeman held up traffic for me to pass. I had not reached the opposite sidewalk yet, when it happened. The pain in the hips vanished, as if someone had physically taken it away. Unshackled, I bolted loose.

I have sprinted toward the finish before, but not like this. This was long, strong, sustained, and almost effortless. I could read it in the reactions of the bystanders. It did not look like an end run, strained. It was fresh and fast and calm.

I could see the finish when I felt the nausea coming up. I asked whatever force had freed me from pain to give me 30 seconds: oh, give me another 30 seconds.

It did. I felt horribly sick after the finish line, but obviously it did not matter anymore. I did not throw up, but I spent the next few hours shaky and ready to do it.

Finished under five hours, which is fast for me. But I still wonder who ran my first, Shiprock 2007, in so much less than that.

tomorrow

2009-09-05T10:24:00.001-07:00

I had a bad running week - I was exhausted, my ankles hurt, my right side was tight, I got dizzy a couple of times, and a muscle knot in my back felt as if I had a coin stuck between my ribs. Worst of all, after a cumbersome 5K in the morning the notion of running 26 miles - voluntarily - seemed totally insane.

Somehow this all went away - well, the muscle knot is still there, but it doesn't count. I will run a marathon tomorrow, and someone inside me is elated and wants to break out in song. I will run a marathon tomorrow, and someone inside me wants to go dancing on the sidewalk.

I will run the marathon that outlines the city from south to north, from east to west - and this is a love song I am singing.

what i did this summer

2009-08-29T12:52:00.000-07:00

17 miles last Sunday, 13 tomorrow, and then comes the race.

I started running again at the end of May, with 0.7 cumbersome miles. Now it's the end of August and in a week I will run a marathon. I do not know where the summer went, but it was marked by this steady expansion of mileage and willpower.

At the beginning I still had moments when I wondered who this girl was, moving ahead, pounding the ground, running. Now I do not ask anymore. Somehow during this time I made running my own. It's not that I really enjoy it - it's still best when it's over. It's not that I ever come close to looking forward to it, except for that occasional small shift in perception just before taking off that signals I am ready. But running has become part of who I am, something that defines me.

And probably always will, no matter what I do after this race. In the meantime, I am running this marathon for my new love. Not sure what this means aside from the fact that, running or crawling, broken or whole, dead or alive, I will finish it.

the biggest big run

2009-08-23T12:13:00.000-07:00

I used to run the longest pre-race run two weeks before the marathon. This time I decided on three weeks, not sure why, perhaps to make it easier for myself toward the end. To make up for the indulgence last Sunday I ran 23 instead of the 20 miles I initially had in mind.

The heat got too be too much like always, the trail mix that had worked fine the week before was a nuisance now, and I did not have enough water with me, so I got totally dehydrated. But it was smooth and steady again, and reasonably fast.

I would have called it uneventful, except I had cramps during the last three miles or so. That never happened to me before, and all I knew to do was to take a walking break until it subsided. Then I learned to stop running as soon as I felt them coming on, and one way or another I finished the planned 23. I was so out of it that I did not remember until later, with some help for a friend, that a common cause for cramps is loss of salt. I had big white rings on my running top when I got home.

Still - it was one of the best long runs I ever had.

the perfect run

2009-08-17T19:54:00.000-07:00

I ran another little 5K race on a Sunday, interrupting the string of long runs. A week later I decided on 16 miles, thinking it was necessary to do more than a half marathon but wiser not to attempt too much after the gap.

It turned out to be the perfect run, or at least as close to that as I ever get. Smooth, steady and fast, it took a half hour less than my average time on that distance. I ended up doing 16.5, out of sheer momentum. I "fueled" and did not get sick from it, as it usually happens. It got hot, but the heat didn't affect me. Much more important, I ran in the present, never ahead of myself, never wanting it to be over. I stayed with it, step by step, each and every moment.

It was over in no time.

two in a row

2009-08-05T21:53:00.000-07:00

At the 5K I ran the other week-end my lover played with my camera and enjoyed himself, so I decided to give him another go. Not wanting to interrupt the string of big runs again, I picked a little race on Saturday night - the inaugural Nob Hill run on former Route 66. It did not seem wise to do a race (even if only a 5K) less than twelve hours before a long run, but if it made the long run more difficult that would be good training.

It looked like a "let's have fun in Nob Hill" kind of race. The street was closed off, the music was playing, the mood was high. I wore the dark pink technical shirt I had won in a drawing at the last race. Even though I hate pink with a vengeance, I thought it would be good to try something new. I have not run before at night, or seen so many restaurants in a race before. It smelled of steak up and down the course. I did not have a good race. I walked a few times. I never walked in a 5K before. Felt lousy about it too.

In the end, I shook the feeling off. The race did not matter. What counted was the big run next day. We had ice cream and peaches that night. Next morning I ran eighteen miles, heat and tense muscles and all, and was content.

i know

2009-07-30T10:53:00.000-07:00

The lesions on my skin are healing so slowly I sometimes doubt my doctor has the right diagnosis - lead toxicity, of which skin marks are not a typical symptom anyhow. On the other hand, they are definitely fading, so so maybe the stuff he gave me to take works after all. It's not only the skin that improves, it's the running too.

One week after the little 5K I ran fourteen miles, and it was the easiest big run ever, if one can even call it big. The legs did not feel the distance until around mile ten, and the rest was relatively effortless. It makes me wonder if I have run my eight marathons a year or two ago lugging around all that heavy metal. My doctor says yeah, that's what happened.

I told myself I have to be up to a half on any given day to run a marathon again. I am not there yet. On some days even a 5K gives me trouble. Even an entirely smooth big run comes with the overpowering sensation that one more step beyond it would be too big a stretch. But I know I will outrun that sensation. I know I will run a marathon.

nice little distraction

2009-07-20T18:27:00.000-07:00

Either lazy or burned out from too much mileage, I decided to skip a big run one weekend and ran a little 5K race instead. Can't say I enjoyed it, but at 7 am the weather was pleasant, the mood entusiastic, and the pace the fastest I probably ever achieved. I finished with a PR of about 40 seconds in just over 28 minutes, and got like everyone else a flower and chocolate. Cool.

easier than ever before

2009-07-14T09:43:00.000-07:00

In six weeks I went from zero the a weekly mileage of twenty-five and a big run of sixteen miles. I do not mean to say it was easy, but it was smooth and steady. It's getting way to hot for running. After the last big run I was dizzy and nauseous for a while and sluggish for a few days.

Soon enough I will have a fueling problem again. Cannot bring myself to swallow anything.

Running is good though, or better than it used to be.

At the least.

spring, unpredictable

2009-06-04T09:43:00.000-07:00

I moved last October. I am living alone now.

I started running a couple of weeks ago, trying to do it all right from the start, stretching and core exercises and healthy food. My back hurts like hell and 3.5 miles last Sunday completely knocked me off, but the run this morning was smooth.

A doctor in oriental medicine just diagnosed me with lead toxicity and consequent deficiency of iron, magnesium, and phosphorus. That's a lot of minerals. I did some internet research just to learn of a variety of heavy duty symptoms, as if all systems were failing and I were dying of a wasting disease, but the truth is that I plan to run the New Mexico Marathon Plus on September 6th, three months from now. The only sign of illness I have are lesions on my legs. They look as if I have been hit by the plague. The other day I took pictures of them, complete with make-up, music, perfume, and accessories, and the images are quite sexy, in a morbid sort of way.

I bought a pair of knee-length running pants to cover up the worst and deal with the warm weather as well.

Even before this I quit smoking, not actually quitting in the way we understand the term, with its implied trail of temptation and torment, but simply forgetting, overnight, to smoke another cigarette. The opened pack lay around for a few days before I decided to put it away somewhere. I had just bought a whole carton, since quitting was not high on my priority list.

I play music loud in my car. I cut my hair very short. I am thinking of a cute pair of shoes I saw.

Oh, and I am in love.

i don't know what happened

2009-05-31T10:19:00.000-07:00

I am running again.

the end

2008-10-29T07:35:00.000-07:00

It is self-evident I came to end of the journey months ago. I have run from mile to marathon and from one marathon to eight without even stopping to think about it. My life has changed since in many ways. I might blog again some day, but not about running.

Thank you all.

dreaming

2008-07-21T10:40:00.001-07:00

As soon as I decided to give up marathons, I started dreaming about running.

I dreamed running had been outlawed, but I had to deal with an emergency in a distant place, there was nothing to do but run there, so I kept running throughout the dream.

I dreamed about an Indian village, raided. The people who discovered it found the body of a woman, embalmed her head and took it with them, so they could find out who she was. A girl who saw the head almost fainted. It belonged to her mother. She was a marathon runner.

for what it’s worth

2008-06-19T10:11:00.000-07:00

On June 8th I ran a little 10K, my first, with the idea of bringing some excitement into my listless, uneventful running. Start time was 7:30 am so I figured I’d be home by 9, the day still ahead of me, the time expenditure minimal.

I was curious about the course. The race took place in the new community of Mariposa north of Rio Rancho, which is north of Albuquerque - the suburb of a suburb. An inaugural run, it benefited the Special Olympics, and – I suspect – was also intended to create additional buzz around Mariposa, touted as the next paradise on earth. Predictably, the goodies bag contained some real estate information.

In truth, Mariposa is beautiful, the barren New Mexico way, only enhanced by a luminous, cool, wistful morning. We waited for the live anthem on the deserted road. The horn blew, and we took off toward the east, gathering momentum on the downward slope of the first mile.

The rest of the course was hilly. On stretches the road was paved with pink stone. The homes were mostly pueblo style with a twist in a modern interpretation of the traditional. Some were already inhabited – dogs barked, flowers bloomed in pots, life stirred behind open windows. Some were only future outlines at the side of the street. I saw a road with dark asphalt, the sidewalks painted, the median decorated, all brand-new and pretty, stop as if at a line drawn across the desert. Beyond it the sand glowed pink and untouched. I wished I had the camera.

I felt a bit like a faded beauty at a pageant, someone in retirement who once “was there”. I walked a few of the hills, reluctant at first, then persuaded by incline and heat. The last mile veered unexpectedly into a dirt path, up and down through ditches, over hills. Where I was most people just renounced the whole running thing, possibly feeling they did not sign up for a trail run. The end stretch was paved and even again, perfect for a strong finish. Retired or not, I gave it everything I still had. During the drive back home I was delighted like a child.

i still run

2008-05-30T12:35:00.000-07:00

I knew it right after Shiprock. I knew it before I even approached the finish line. Marathons were not enough anymore. Insane or not, I was thinking about 50 miles.

Instead I decided to give up marathon running. I would run, but not marathons. At least not for a while. At least not for the foreseeable future.

It takes more time and energy than I can invest without putting the rest of my life on hold. I cannot go back to who I was before. I am a marathon runner. But I have to become who I am meant to be. For me running is an adventure, not a destiny.

I still run.

But my magical marathon year is over.

shiprock, again

2008-05-11T10:07:00.000-07:00

While eating quite improvable pasta in the hotel restaurant the night before I did not know whether I would go on to attempt 50 miles or if next day’s marathon would be my last. But I did not need to decide right then. I could feel only pure, bubbly happiness. I would run Shiprock, again.

I like the numbers 3 and 8 (or 11, 12, 24, 5, any combination thereof). Have so since childhood. Last year, in the 24th Annual Shiprock Marathon, upon discovering I had bib number 24, I could not contain my exaltation. Superstition flared up again when I found that in my second Shiprock race, at the 25th edition, my bib number turned out to be 50. I was meant to be here, again.

I could not avoid comparing everything to last year. Last year I left my sports bra at home, and we turned around on the highway to get it. This time I forgot my fuel belt, but we kept going. Even before we checked into the hotel, we went shopping at the Farmington Walmart. The belt packs were bulky and I hated the sheer sight of them. But a little fist-size thing called first aid kit drew my attention. Yellow, it would match the maniac shirt, and the yellow socks with the NM Zia sun symbol I had just bought. My boyfriend objected I had nothing to attach it to, but I took some straps off the camera pack and improvised a belt. So there.

The most striking difference was the start line. The race started both times at 7 am, but last year the sun was just rising over a wall of clouds, unveiling the mysterious desert. This time the sun was up, the moon was gone, it did not snow. There was no chanting to the beat of drums, and no Indian idiom blessing set us on the trail. I thought they did that every year. By the time the race ended I was convinced it happened only last year, solely for me, so my first marathon could be magical.

We took off without ceremony. I didn’t pace myself. For the last month, sick, I had taken walking breaks at every mile, so that I covered the first half running, a couple of aid stations aside, was a big win. But I struggled. I still had to cough until my chest hurt. The weakness in my right ankle, an on-and-off annoyance I had forever, way before running, never bothered me in a race before but was present this time. My tummy was upset. I inferred this had nothing to do with fueling, and starting chewing with caution on the Margarita Cliff Blocs early on, spacing them apart, one at a time, so I could keep doing it without becoming nauseous.

I looked at my watch once. It seemed I was slow, so I did not look at it again. Beyond the halfway point, I ran as much as I could, and walked when I could not help it. I had promised my boyfriend to call him at the 20-mile-point, and give him a timeframe as to when to pick me up. He had to drive the 30 miles between Farmington and Shiprock. My cell phone died en route (although fully charged the night before), and I spent a few restless miles agonizing about how to get in touch with him. He knew I was weak. He would be worried.

I hate cell phones and felt mortified about asking to borrow one in a race, but I tried once, with a friendly runner who struck up a conversation. He did not have his on. I held hopes high for mile 20, it was the last relay station and the point where the course turned onto highway and traffic again. There would be aids and vehicles. There would be a cell phone.

A proud Indian – I recognized him from last year, he had helped me track down my time – offered me his when I started to explain, and I took it with gratitude. I got mired in hotel voice mail, and was too embarrassed to try a second approach. I thanked him and set off again. This was the point where I nearly collapsed a year before, but now I just took a left and kept running. I talked myself into serenity. The volcanic cone of Shiprock was watching over us. My boyfriend would figure it out, set out on his own. We had mastered this three or four times before without wireless connection. He would be at the finish line.

I negotiated the last six miles with an even mindset. Something is different in every marathon. This time it was availability. I did not yearn for the finish line. The last few hundreds of yards were sand and gravel, hardly the terrain for sprinting. I always doubted the value of sprinting at the end of a 5h+ marathon, and always forced a strong finish nevertheless. This time quickening emerged on its own, at the last turn, effortless and elegant. Seven times before I felt I could not take a step beyond 26.2. For the first time I had more to give. Not much. A couple of miles maybe. I didn’t realize until much later how helpless of a wreck I was, but I could have still gone on for a couple of miles

My beautiful Indian showed up again. “You made it,” he said.

“My boyfriend didn’t,” I replied. The only thing I could think of was he had an accident.

I was hanging out with Marathon Maniac #558, a truly generous soul, trying to figure what was the smartest thing to do: call the hotel again, wait around a bit more, get a ride into Farmington, go for the maniac gold level...

When my boyfriend appeared he was quite calm. Relief notwithstanding, so was I. We meandered around with great composure. I offered him some water from my plastic cup. He looked a bit dehydrated. We checked the posted results, mine was not in yet. He mentioned something had happened that day, but was reluctant to say what. Good or bad? I asked. Not good, he indicated. The car? I asked.

He hit a coyote after dropping me off in the am, while driving through the dark, somewhere between Shiprock and Farmington. Or a dog, or a wolf, some animal coming in from the median. He was too rattled to go check it out. The man has not had an accident in 35 years.

The car was brand-new. It had about 50 miles on board when we left home. The old one was falling apart after fourteen years, but suffered a dent only once, and it was me who put it there.

Between dealing with all that and waiting for my call (I had told him I might have to walk half the race) my boyfriend missed the finish line. Only after he called me twice and failed to reach me did he set out. By then he was worried I was lying in a ditch somewhere. I was not exactly in shape to run a marathon.

We eventually got to the car. The golden Honda looked as if someone had taken a bite out of it. I looked at it for a while. “When were you going to tell me?”

It could have been much worse. Some wires were dangling down,close to the ground. “What are these?” I asked. My boyfriend shrugged. I stuffed them back in, one by one, amazed the machinery was still working. I took a picture or two. Must have been one feisty animal. On the way back to Farmington, my boyfriend pointed out the place where it happened. Big pieces of car were lying around on the shoulder. The animal carcass was not there anymore.

5h 26min 17sec. I would not have minded if it lasted longer. It was a good day to run.

I still wonder what hit the car.

in the future

2008-05-04T17:01:00.000-07:00

I ran Shiprock again, my eight, one year after the first marathon a year ago. 5 hours 30 mintues, more or less, my longest or second longest after San Antonio.

Silver level maniac, pending.

I had to run these eight. From now on, in the future, marathons are optional.

looking at the bright side

2008-04-22T07:58:00.000-07:00

With only two weeks left until Shiprock, I had to put in a decent run this last week-end, sick or not. The last run over five miles was three weeks back, a past so distant I doubted the legs could remember it.

It’s not fun to run when you cannot breath and the coughing shakes you so hard that your chest hurts. But I went out determined not to care, since the alternative – no big run, no Shiprock - was unpalatable. I managed sixteen miles before the body gave in. Less then I hoped, but more than I could reasonably expect. My big run for this marathon is going to be the marathon itself.

This is not the way I wanted to return to Shiprock, my first marathon, my best, my magical race a year ago. But then I don’t think I ever went to a race feeling prepared. I will walk it, if need be. It’s still so much better than not finishing. And that is still so much better than not starting.

exhausted

2008-04-10T08:56:00.000-07:00

I went to a four-day seminar in Santa Fe over the last week-end, very intense, from morning to evening. No way I could do a long run, but I managed to squeeze in over an hour of running Saturday morning, and it was mesmerizing to do it at dawn in the Sangre de Cristo mountains. Then I got a fever.

First I thought it was the run - only five miles, but at 7,800 feet it might have tipped the scale toward exhaustion. Then I thought it was stress over the seminar, not a comfortable affair. A Reiki practitioner who saw me that evening concluded I was working too hard.

The fever broke during the night but I am still not well - first it was a headache, then a tummy ache, then a sore throat, today I lost my voice. The bad part is being sick turns me off from running. I cannot envision doing a 16-miler this week-end without getting myself ever sicker.

I said Shiprock, in three weeks from now, will be my last marathon. For a while I wasn't sure, since I spotted one in Taos in June and started plotting how to get there. Now, again, I do not know if I am even able to do Shiprock. The heroic focus I exerted for El Paso while sick for weeks, it might have worked once, but it seems insane to repeat it.

the last six miles

2008-04-01T04:54:00.000-07:00

When I first embraced the idea of smiling at mile twenty, I had no idea what that implied.

I had not yet run ten miles. A year later, when I ran my first marathon at Shiprock, I was just as clueless. I hit the wall at mile twenty, without any inkling about the wall awaiting to be hit. Only afterwards did I learn that muscle reserves get depleted thereabouts, and from then on, unless you fuel wisely, you are running on empty. Yes, I was that ignorant.

I thought the smile at mile twenty bloomed from the twenty miles left behind. With so much terrain already covered, the last six miles would inevitably follow, because it did not make sense to falter at that point.

Now I know that is the point where one is prone to falter.

Only now I know that the smile at mile twenty arises from the anticipation of the territory ahead. With a little bit of judicious training, twenty miles, more or less, are a given. It is the stretch beyond this virtual breaking point that we cherish. At the core of our being, the prospect of running further is not what we dread. It is what we relish. It justifies why we are there, on track, undeterred, running. It is what we run for.

The pure motivation to smile.

outlines

2008-03-20T07:44:00.000-07:00

The next marathon is going to be my eight and my last. At least so I think. At least for a while.

I have decided, with some trepidation, on Shiprock. This will take the journey back to where it started, like a circle closing in on itself. Of course on the map the line that connects the site of my marathons is not round, more like the suggestion a of sail ship in the wind.

I pulled a muscle of my left calf in El Paso, and I have barely run since, trying to let it heal. It's still tight when I run, but I have to move on. I have only weeks left to get ready again.

el paso, el paso, el paso

2008-03-07T18:01:00.000-08:00

El Paso started out somewhat confusing. Pre-race the website stated packet pick-up at the convention center (I am almost sure), and race start in front of the museum of fine arts (I am quite certain). What the website says now is unmistakebly different. I could not have overlooked it if it were there before.

No one at the convention center knew a marathon was going on the next day, and when I asked about the near-by sponsoring Hilton, they could not place that either. The only Hilton in town, they said, was at the airport. For a twilight moment I wondered whether I was in the right place, on the right day, or if the El Paso marathon was just a trick, some sort of momentous illusion.

After some fumbling around I got my chip and bib, #124, adding up to seven, very apt for my seventh marathon. The race started at the Lynx Exhibit Halls, around the block from the arts museum.

The sky was clear, and the high for the day still loomed in the seventies. I have always started out slow attempting to preserve strength for the late miles, but I was so terrified by oncoming heat, I decided for a change in strategy. I would cover as much ground as I could while the air was still cool. Four of the first five miles were uphill, enough in itself to render me exhausted. It felt counterintuitive, but I could think of nothing else to do.

So I pushed on, relentless, through downtown El Paso and beyond, up and down, up and down, not giving in to the temptation to walk the upward slopes. I covered six miles in just a bit over an hour, and calculated this was the best pace achieved in a marathon so far. It was downhill from there, in all senses of the word.

My average pace went down, but the momentum carried me forward. I did not walk during the whole race, a few aid stations and the two calls to my boyfriend excluded. The first to tell him I'll show up at the finish late, the second, much later, to alert him I'll show up much sooner. In a dismal industrial landscape the half-marthoners veered away, and I found myself alone, advancing against sun and wind. The wind was a blessing. It kept the skin cool.

Most of the course wounded through residential areas, at first pretty little homes, then ranches and mansions. I passed a house with white walls like sails on a ship. I do not remember the miles, I just ran. The residents, way ahead of the convention center, lounge chairs on lawns, music blasting, gave us enthusiastic cheers. A toddler offered me water over the fence. A young girl belly-danced, harem costume and all, in the blast of her boyfriend's loudpeakers.

The Margarita Cliff Bloks worked out, to a point. After a while, well beneath the recommended ration, I felt I could not take it anymore, salt content notwithstanding. I just kept running, running and running, until the running itself resembled a caricature of running.

The New Mexico loop was a mere three miles of utter poverty. They mark the border on highways, but not on humble streets. Only election advertisements alerted me we had switched states - the plackards carried the Zia symbol of the New Mexican flag.

We were back in industrial landscape again. My legs hurt, but otherwise advancing was a given, step after step, with no stop. The course ran somehow parallel to the highway, slighlty uphill. When I left mile 25 behind I started to get worried. I knew the race ended where it started, downtown. But I could see none of the high-rise buildings, and I wondered if this was some momentous trick that would go on forever.

Then I reached the top of the ramp, and the cauldron of downtown opened up in front of me. It was easy to sprint, less than one mile to go, the slope inviting, the end in sight. At the bottom of the ramp a volunteer motioned me to the left. I took the corner, and there was the finish line, so close it took my breath away. The bells of a church started ringing - noon, but I knew they were late. The race had started at 7am sharp. For the first time in absolute clarity about timing, I knew I had not done this in five hours. But I sprinted ahead, as in the last moment on earth. They say finishing strong is the thing to do.

5h 5min 1 sec. Of course, they were out of burritos. I am not much of a beer drinker, but I took a few cold sips from the fancy Michelob Ultra bottle. I never knew a sponsor so adamant his name is engraved on the medal.

I had so much energy left, in the afternoon I shlepped my boyfriend along to the Lynx Exhibit Halls, to see a mesmerizing reconstruction of the tomb of Tutankhamon. The faked gold of the reproductions looked a bit tacky, a tad gaudy, but this was the price to pay - it would have been quasi-impossible to assemble in one place the genuine artifacts housed in museums on three continents.

What was genuine and convincing was the ultimate margarita in the Dome Bar of the El Camino Real hotel.

What was genuine and convincing was the Dome Bar itself, with its Tiffany glass ceiling.

Perhaps the best part of El Paso. No, the best part was the finish line. It was easier to get from start to finish, than it was to get from wherever I was before to the start.

a few more details

2008-02-29T07:59:00.000-08:00

Very pleased to have purchased some Margarita Cliff Bloks. I discovered them at the expo before the Tucson marathon. Never though I would touch those gelatinous things, but they worked out better than anything else tried before. Okay, so they need a solid shot of tequila to taste anything like margarita, but they are salty, and that's not only practical, but also a welcome alternative to all the nauseating sweet stuff.

We are staying at this cool landmark hotel - El Camino Real - where the ceiling over the lobby bar is a Tiffany glass dome. The expo, the start, and the finish are all across the street.

They have burritos at the finish line. Of course, by the time I get there, none might be left.

For the first time I am worried about the six hour cut-off. In only trained for five weeks. I will give myself permission to walk. This means I will run later during the day, when the sun and heat will slow me down even further. El Paso is the sunniest city in the US. The projected high for race day is 78F. I am not looking forward to that.

Once I run El Paso, I will probably run another marathon. One more within the next two months would bring my marathon maniac level up to silver. Nothing stellar, but it just sounds better than being at the bronze bottom of the ladder.

el paso in sight

2008-02-24T18:15:00.000-08:00

Last week-end my nose ran for 20 miles, and I was right behind it. I signed up for March 2nd in El Paso. The race, in its second year only, is a bistate marathon. It starts and ends downtown, in Texas, but the northern part of the course loops through New Mexico. El Paso is a border town wedged between New Mexico at the north, and the Mexican city of Juarez across the river to the south.

The race also starts in late winter - about 40 degrees as the start line, and ends in early summer, when temperature could reach the seventies.

I put in a taper of 13 miles today. Yesterday we had champagne - not only the two-year anniversay of my very first mile, but also twelve years since I lived with my boyfriend.

Next week it's on to El Paso, for whatever it may bring.

not different than before

2008-02-20T09:10:00.000-08:00

This reversal of mood - I am running again, I will run El Paso, how cool - held on until I did the 16-miler.

I had forgotten about chafing and Glide. I had forgotten how much an ice bath can hurt. I had forgotten how a big run, even one not so big, can knock me out for the rest of the day. Here I was, a helpless puppet, and I had no one but myself to thank. All this, so next time I could run even further and be even more miserable.

All this, so I could run El Paso, while I did not even know I could indeed. The absurdity of what I was doing struck me again. Putting in two big runs did not mean I would finish El Paso. It just enabled me to get to the start line.

But then, it's always like that. Once at the start line, you are certain you will start. Afterward anything can happen. The same as in the other races.

Oh, well, I was going to be there. That is if I could put in a 20-miler next.

who moved my treadmill?

2008-02-15T11:16:00.000-08:00

To make things worse, the first morning I went to the exercise room after considering El Paso after all, I found the door locked and a sign announcing the place was being remodeled during "the next couple of months."

I always did the weekday runs during the winter on the treadmill, boring perhaps, but expedient, safe, and free. That morning I turned around, and went home to sulk. No way I would run after work. No way I would invest time and money for gym before work. I would run, but not if it interfered with the rest of my life. Running outside in the dark was too scary.

I seemed the decision was made for me. I had the perfect excuse to skip El Paso. But it is one thing to let go on your own, and another to have some remodeling thwart your plans.

In the end I opted for running outside. The apartment complex is large enough for a one mile perimeter. Darkness and all, a 5K was still double by running around three times within the fence. The only unsolved problem was the duel between the freezing temperatures and my persistent cold. My first 5K this novel way was on crunching ice, but most mornings were easier.

It must not have been obvious to the early risers who saw me during those pre-dawn hours traipsing in the darkness, swaddled in layers like a mummy, but I was running toward to El Paso.

"spirit of the marathon"

2008-02-10T17:52:00.000-08:00

It was not my initiative. A friend invited us to see the movie on January 24. What a shame I had passed the sickness on to my boyfriend, so he could not go, in spite of his faithful presence at so many finish lines. I was not healthy yet, but thought I could handle a night out.

The movie was cool, as expected. Deena Kastor, switching from her shy smile to a grim determination visible on her face all through the race, got to me. I do not like races as big as the one featured (the La Salle marathon in Chicago), but the tens of thousands of participants made for splendid filming at the start line. Truly amazing was the director comprising so much content in a two hour duration. My companions, all non-runners, said they got tired simply by watching.

Next morning I knew I wanted another marathon.

With less than a month and a half to go, it was almost to late for El Paso. I sat down with a sheet of paper and allocated mileage to the available week-ends. I had to do ten miles the coming Sunday, or El Paso would be lost.

Ten miles is not much, but the most I had run since the December 2nd marathon was a six-miler before I got sick. I had not run for ten days, and I was still coughing my lungs out.

The run itself was not that hard. My muscles hurt, predictibly, nothing unmanageable. The body cooperated, at least for the length of ten miles. Once home, already showered and comfortable, I had a bad spell of dizziness and nausea. My sight went black, the ground swayed. I thought I would faint, but I did not panic. It was sheer exhaustion, the organism protesting against exertion, too much of it, too soon. I laid down, waiting for weakness to pass, and I was all right within the hour.

The door to El Paso was open.

spontaneity

2008-02-04T12:53:00.000-08:00

I did not mean to end my last entry by saying I am marathon runner. It just came out this way. Sometimes the opposite comes out, and it's meaningful too.

Two weeks ago I got sick and any shred of motivation I still had at the time burnt up in fever. The illness itself (a bronchial inflammation of some kind)was not that bad - I spent three or four days in bed, and read a half dozen books. But I got completely alienated from running, a zombie kind of endeavor, senseless, and going nowhere.

Fever and all, I had to keep an appointment, so my boyfriend gave me a ride. Driving west on Alameda street I thought back at the New Mexico Plus Marathon in September. This was mile 17 or 18 or thereabouts, and at this point I was dragging myself through the heat, half stumbling, half walking, as I would for the next five or six miles, possessed by the inexplicable.

My boyfriend glanced at me. "Does it bring back memories?"

"Yeah, I was just thinking about that," I said. "Was I crazy?"

I doubted I would ever put on running shoes again.

don't know, don't know, dont' know

2008-01-28T17:46:00.000-08:00

...what to do.

Part of me wants to stand at the start line in El Paso on March 2nd, ready for the miles ahead, no matter what it takes.

Part of me wants nothing to do with running anymore, wants pretty clothes, wants sleeping in, wants long weekends spent writing, wants to go back to who I was before.

I ran since the last marathon in December, just a tiny bit each week, careful to increase my weekly mileage, even if only by a mile or two each week.

The problem is I am not anymore who I was before. I am a marathon runner.

2007

2007-12-31T16:45:00.000-08:00

Roughly 1015 miles - a fine line between running and not running.

One 5 K, one 8K, one 20K.

Two half-s.

Six marathons.

Bronze level maniac.

Quite a year.

A fabulous year.

It will never lose its glow.

2007, the year I ran my marathon. And a few more.

not who I seem to be

2007-12-22T19:43:00.000-08:00

It was exhilarating during the Tucson race to garner the applause due a Marathon Maniac. As early as the start line I thought of taking the masking T-shirt off, and move forward in the full splendour of it. But it was far too cold, too vain and impractical to do so. I waited until it was warm.

Mile six or seven, at the foothills of the Catalinas. The T-shirt crumbled in the dust, and suddenly, a golden stamp on my breast, I belonged. People waived, thrust their tumb up, applauded, cheered, praised, engaged, acknowledged. I felt like the member of a select club I had always aspired to belong to.

And I felt like an impostor.

How much of a Marathon Maniac am I, when I doubt I am going to even run next year? This season of marathon running has been a definite high point in my life - definitely a culmination of achievement, on a spiritual level even more so than on the physical one. But I cannot keep this rhythm up for any longer, and simply running for the sake of running is not who I am.

I am not a runner. I have what it takes to run a marathon or more - perseverence. I have what it takes to become a Marathon Maniac - an inclination toward the extreme.

But I do not find enjoyment in the sheer experience of running, and still have to filter out what I will keep and what I will renounce.

I have the remaining slothful days of this year to figure it out.

Holualoa

2007-12-07T19:19:00.000-08:00

In a long row of headlights inching forward through the dark, it took us more than a half hour to drive the last mile to the bus pickup area, and the bus took almost an hour to get to the start line. I suspect the driver got lost. But it worked out well, since the delay spared us too much waiting in the cold. Upon arrival most of the drivers kept their engines running for us to inhale all the exhaust fumes before engaging in this healthy endeavor. That puzzled me, but I forgot it soon enough.

A thousand or more, we converged on a narrow road in the Catalina mountains. Facing the rising sun, swaying to the music of Chariots of Fire, waiting for take-off, we stepped in place. The man in front of me wore a lovely T-shirt that recommended “Bach around the clock.” The dawn was brisk, rosy, and serene. There was no gun, just a countdown ending in an imperative GO that too place only gradually. So many of us crossed the parallel mats at the same time, the beep prolonged itself into an acute, aching sound. Then the field widened and we broke loose.

I was a glorious start. For the next six or seven miles we meandered up and down the hills of the Catalinas, negotiating the sharp turns, so marked the road was slanted not only up and down, but also left and right. My ankles started to hurt. Someone cracked a joke about us being “almost there.” The air was still frigid and I was happy about the disposable gloves I bought at the Expo.

We ran through the lonely, shabby town of Oracle. At the entrance an upright man with white hair tirelessly bid us all good morning. At the exit a little girl held up a handwritten carton sign: Oracle “heart” you.

I could not believe six miles were already over. I shed the boring, stained cotton-shirt I had worn for warmth so far. It’s funny, as soon as I stood in my Marathon Maniac shirt I felt different, as if I was a legitimate runner now. Then the course opened up into route 77 and we ran along the quiet highway into the expanse of the desert.

A couple of runners hailed me as a fellow maniac, an odd passing recognition from people unknown with whom I had something unexpected in common – the impulse to run many marathons in a short span of time. And Marathon Maniac #658 disengaged himself graciously from his party to chat for a few minutes at my side. He planned to do a 38 mile race in the high desert of New Mexico in January, an event I had already wistfully considered some time ago for a few minutes before I admitted to myself I can barely run 26 miles, never mind more.

Around mile 10 the course veered off to the left in a single loop toward Biosphere 2, a cutting-edge inter-disciplinary research center run by the University of Arizona. Through an improbable link in the relay of information I knew about Biosphere 2 back home in Eastern Europe, in the ‘80s, before the Iron Curtain fell, way before it was opened to the American public. Heading back into the mountains, this was the one uphill segment of the race, and it was eerie to run against the incline, against the sunlight, toward the memory from a score of years ago, anticipating the sight of the futuristic glass structure at every bent in the road. In the end, I did not see it – the loop turned around just in front of the gate, too far from the actual compound. But the anticipation of seeing it spurned me on throughout the uphill slant. Way back Biosphere 2 embodied a reassuring landmark for me – testimony that beyond our limited life vaster realms engaged in conquering the future. The splits reflect that. In spite of the ascent, my pace picked up during those miles.

Then we reached route 77 again, and went on and on and on. The day heated up, but a breeze kept the air cool, and outright discomfort away. I caught a tan. Perhaps because we were running outside actual city limits, spectators were few or disinterested. The volunteers made up for it, screaming their lungs out, always reacting to the Marathon Maniac shirt, always encouraging and enthusiastic.

I do not know when I became tired, the fatigue must have taken hold gradually. Breathing came easier than at home, the altitude was lower. But my legs hurt. Pain clamped around my ankles like an iron vise. I kept running since walking did not make it much better, but I must have slowed down.

Somewhere around mile 21 or 22, while slurping water after passing an aid station, I looked at my watch in an attempt to compute how fast I was, what time I was making, and I reached the disheartening conclusion that in spite of descent, dry air, pleasant temperature, and lower altitude, I would still come in way over five hours. I shook the feeling off, it did not matter, this was a good marathon. I kept running, wondering why I could not persuade myself to walk between aid stations. A policeman at a crossing asked me if I was all right. I nodded and trudged on, wondering how I looked.

As the traffic picked up on route 77 the endless roaring of engines in both directions became unnerving. Luckily the last couple of miles veered off into a residential area. On a little alley behind a strip mall a small band of what I identified as Japanese drum players provided a long needed boost. The day was hot now. The last aid station offered iced water, it tasted as good as the nectar of the gods. It was only after I passed mile 25, already approaching the finish line, when I realized that my prior computations were wrong – getting there around 12:15 pm with a 7:30 am start meant I was under five hours, not over. What was I thinking?

This was the first marathon where I heard the announcement of my name, “Marathon Maniac, from Albuquerque, NM,” and the first where in response, or by virtue of plenitude, I had the energy the raise my arms in a gesture of triumph. I did not see my boyfriend for a long time after crossing the mat, and then we ran toward each other as if we had been parted for weeks.

If I had run this marathon with any expectations, I would have probably been disappointed. Or so I thought. It was smooth, but uneventful. It was faster then most of the other ones – 4h 44 min 23 sec – but still behind Shiprock. Only later during the afternoon, while limping through the hotel room to gather pretty clothes for dinner, did I realize what had been different.

Me.

This was the first marathon where, from start to end, I maintained composure. Not once did my breathing get whiny – the threshold of exhaustion, the signal of alarm, the tell-tale sign of self-pity. I was not impressed by the pain. I was not moved by my own accomplishment. I just ran, a hard, cool, light, serene experience, free of superfluous self-absorption.

Just before we headed out the doors I slipped the medal off my neck. The dinner experience was delightful even without me showing off.

Once more, I have grown up a bit.

one more

2007-12-01T14:14:00.000-08:00

It's raining now in Tucson, but tomorrow we are supposed to have pleasant, cloudy, cool running weather for the Holualoa Marathon.

This is my fifth in three months, and my sixth and last for the year. I need to take it easy for while. It's not the running itself, since my average weekly mileage over the last months, maybe half a year, has not exceeded 25. I just wish to sleep in more often, and not to have every Sunday high-jacked by the shorter of longer "big" runs, and the subsequent ice baths and exhaustion. I am tired of running shoes, and of driving a day to get to one race or another. And I should start spending less, also, this was one expensive year.

The next race I can think of, maybe, is the El Paso Marathon in March - it takes only half a day to get there, he, he.

But tomorrow is Holualua, a downhill marathon I will run without claims or expectations, for it won't be easy to surpass either the serendipity of Shiprock, or the subjective experience of San Antonio.

I've been thinking of it for months. I will wear my Marathon Maniac shirt.

back to bAsics

2007-11-26T18:45:00.000-08:00

Two weeks before the NM Marathon Plus in September I bought a new pair of shoes. They happened to be my first Brooks, and it took me a day or two before I realized I didn't like them. It was, I thought, too late to return them, but I could buy another pair before the next marathon, and reserve this pair for hateful runs. Or something.

The next marathon came much too fast, and two weeks later came the next, and I never made time to go to the running store again. In hindsight it is unconceivable that I ran four marathons in shoes I don't care for.

Last week I bought Asics again, and they felt like home. Some life is still left in the Brooks, and I might take them out on select muddy days - I wore them during hours of rain and wind storms, and they are particularly dirty and disgusting anyhow.

By contrast the Asics look eadearing as if they might sprout wings at my ankles any time now.

I did not overly relish the prospect of a Thanksgiving 5K. Here was one day to sleep late and remain sheltered from the cold. But I know that on a day of gratitude a little race is apt and sensible, and if I would not run I would feel lazy and slacking afterward. So I signed up in my customary reluctant mood, and showed up at the start line, like last year, at the last minute. The morning was so frigid even breathing hurt. I almost died during the first uphill mile, until eventually the exertion became bearable. I did not really check my watch, and the electronic display over the finish line was broken, but I somehow felt I finished in about 30 minutes. I had forgotten I could manage that kind of pace. Shivering, exhausted, and awaited by tasks at the stove, I did not wait for results.

But I checked them out on the website today, and to my surprise I scored 28 min 48 sec. A pace of 9:16, it's nothing, I know, but for me it's breaking a record, the first PR in all my months of running. I had given up on that. Any distance I have run so far, the first race always garnered my best time, and it went downhill from there.

So many things have happened in the meantime, I cannot go beyond subdued excitement. But still, it's a PR, my only one.

marathon of the americas, san antonio

2007-11-15T18:58:00.000-08:00

The lit wall of the Alamo stood so compelling under bulky clouds I could not stop taking pictures. No matter how much I adjusted the settings, the darkness was too dense for a memorable shot, but I still caught a glimpse of Texas regalia. I wondered later if we owed the gun moment to these gentlemen, with their old-fashioned rifles.

Then the light waxed, and so did the crowds. Thousands converged on the spot, red numbers for the marathon, blue for the half. I kept clicking away until my boyfriend urged me to get in line, and I reluctantly handed the camera back to him. The clouds thinned, the anthem rang, and the guns went off in big Texas style. It took me minutes to reach the mat.

The morning was hot and humid, and we were all sweat-soaked in less than one mile, I could see it on our shirts. A woman in electric lime green was holding a sign. I looked up expecting a name or a cause, but it said “4:45,” and I realized she was a pacer. I never noticed one before in any of my races. If I hung out with her group, I would finish in 4h 45 minutes, not my best time, but worth a try. It took me very little to realize that keeping up with her strained me, so I let go. I fell behind.

This incident, so early in the race, was a bad sign. It meant I would probably not be able to finish under five hours. But I hadn’t set any time goals, and kept on at my own pace. We passed through uptown San Antonio – high towers, temorary shade, picturesque shops, Tex-Mex restaurants, streets lined with clapping bystanders, a marvelous thing of red brick and green rails called “The Book Building.”

At the turn of a street, a woman in a black evening gown and high-heels was waving next to a rough sign that said “runners fan.” You had to love her.

Runners wore on their backs pictures of loved ones. A stocky man was carrying the Marine Corps Veteran flag. I saw girls running in pink and girls running in fatigue colors. Certified by the purple and red ribbons fluttering from her hat, a woman beyond a certain age proclaimed she could do anything she wanted to do, even run marathons.

So we ran. We ran by the Concepcion Mission, its faraway walls a reminder of centuries past. We ran into the open space of Mission Park, along the San Antonio River, as peaceful as in the time before we enclosed it within alleys and bridges. We ran past scores of brown markers pointing left and right to the San Juan Mission, the San Jose Mission, the Espada Mission, and back, and again, and all of them at once, although we barely saw the missions themselves. Sometimes a cloud passed over the face of the sun, sometimes the wind picked up for a brief reprieve. But on the whole we ran through a big open-air sauna.

Team in Training had a powerful presence in this race. Mile 12 was theirs – the most exuberant aid station I have ever seen, the cheering, the clapping, the enthusiasm, the readiness unbelievable. The song they played went “we love the way you move,” you had to love it again.

The halfway point amounted to a beep in the middle of nowhere. The turnaround point came later, at the Espada mission, I saw the bell tower atop of trees. And then we were mired in the exposed stretch of Mission Park again. Somewhere there I shook hands with Marathon Maniac #408, who had run a 50K the day before. Here’s a man who makes good use of his weekends. Compared to him I am tame.

The mile or more around 17 and 18 was the hardest. No matter how much I summoned myself forward, it was a wearisome inching ahead, step by step, breath by breath. My face was burning, my legs were limp. Then I came upon station 12 again, this time around it was station 20. They held up a sign “What wall?”

There was no wall. I cannot say I sailed past them, it was more like crawling. But then, something inexplicable happened. The last six miles shortened into nothingness. They went by so quickly I did not have time to register it. I do not mean to say it was easy. My own breath approximated a pitiful whine, the alarm sign of running out. The next thing I knew was getting nauseous at mile 22 – I knew I was losing electrolytes. After the sweat dried off at the finish in the air-conditioned Alamodome a fine layer of salt covered all of my skin.

But somehow time went by in a hurry, even skipped forward. Since Victoria, where my boyfriend waited two hours in the pouring rain, I carry the cell phone with me. We talked after I reached mile 23, to postpone my estimated time of arrival once more. I snapped the phone shut, I ran a few more steps, and there was mile 24. Where did the distance in between go?

Next thing I know I reach the last aid station, positioned right between the Goodyear shop where we had replaced my tire and the Italian restaurant where we had pasta the day before. And they say, “at the corner over there it’s 25.5 miles, you have roughly a half mile to go.”

What happened to all those miles? What diminished mile 24? Where did mile 25 go?

All I know is I stayed with it.

All along, I stayed with it, mile by mile, minute by minute. Time subjectively flies by faster when you live in the moment, but to have the last six miles of a marathon dwindle away is uncanny, akin to a mystical experience.

I sprinted on the last stretch. I do not know if it makes sense to sprint at the end of 5.5 hour marathon. There is nothing to gain. But my soles lifted from the ground by themselves, and I sprinted. My boyfriend was annoyed they did not announce I was coming, while they seemed to mention everyone else. No one handed me a medal – for a few moments I stood lost and useless beyond the finish mat. I had to ask for one and felt awkward. Then I was dizzy again, for a few moments.

Not that any of that matters. I conquered more than a medal in this race.

My boyfriend asked me the day before if it would be all worthwhile. The aggravation, the expense, the rest of our lives put on hold, everything for the sake of this one race, even if I would not make good time. Yes, I said, they are all worthwhile, each and every marathon.

That was even before I set foot on the beautiful start line at the Alamo at dawn. That was even before my mind shortened the last six mile to a mere few steps. This was my longest run - 5 h 32 min 59 sec, and every minute of it was worthwhile. I will always remember the Alamo.

most beautiful

2007-11-12T17:54:00.000-08:00

The tire I had replaced a few days before due to a random nail stuck in sideways blew up on me while I was driving at over 80 miles per hour on the Texas highway. When I finally came to a stop and we got out to assess the damage, the thing was in shreds.

We tried to put in the spare, but could not loosen the lugs on the damaged wheel, they must have used guns to fasten them, and all our efforts would not dislodge them. One hour and a half after we first called AAA they could not find a service order in our name. I took this to be a brief picture taking opportunity.

After two hours of catching a tan, a red pickup pulled over, and a man stepped out to the rhythm of music blaring. He was big, black, and his eyes were glazed over, a detail my boyfriend interpreted to me after the fact as "totally stoned." He should know, he grew up in Brooklyn in the seventies. In the meantime, the big man shook his head over our predicament. Leaning forward with a five-fold graceful, effortles motion, he loosened the lugs on the damn wheel.

My boyfriend and me, we are short little people.

We had left in the early afternoon on Thursday, but all the advance gained by early departure was lost in this tire affair. We crawled along with the "donut" for the next 100 miles. We had patience, but the real challenge was ahead of us, in the highway pattern of downtown San Antonio. We were in the right lane, emergency lights on, and had to take a left-hand exit, crossing four lanes, among cars that moved as fast as if we were standing still. My boyfriend was driving by that time, and I told him to just go with the flow, if he could not take the designated exit we could just get off later. The truth is, we would have hopelessly lost our way.

He handled it beautifully, but when we checked into the hotel he poured himself a glass of scotch and did not say a single word for a good 15 minutes.

Did I mention that he is a New Yorker and handled that kind of highways all his life?

Two mechanics who inspected the artifact next day shook their heads about our good fortune: "something really bad could have happened."

I inquired later what the "really bad" things were, and my boyfriend shrugged his shoulders. Skidding all over the highway, he said, or turning over. Aha. I remembered that a white car was passing me at the time, I could have skidded in its way if I had slammed the brakes. I did not because I was terrified by the sound that rose from the ground, as if the earth itself was groaning. I just took my foot of the gas pedal, and this neutrality of which I felt guilty ("there is something I should do") landed us safely on the shoulder.

Otherwise it was a cool trip.

I asked my boyfriend on the way back (a smooth 11 hour and 1 minute door to door trip) what was the best moment of San Antonio. We changed the tire, we visited the Alamo, we had dinner on the Riverwalk, with me dressed up, camera in hand, medal around my neck. He said the best part was me crossing the finish line, and my image appearing on the big screen (this is a marathon that ends indoors, in the Alamodome, wired and air-conditioned and everything). That was the moment when he could stop worrying.

But I think the most beautiful moment was the start at the Alamo at dawn.

questioning san antonio

2007-11-07T19:22:00.000-08:00

Oh, not the saint. The place.

Both my boyfriend and I had mixed feelings about San Antonio - the investment of time, the expenditure of money, the brutal drive of ten hours (on closer inspection more like eleven), the rest of our lives put on hold.

We debated fruitlessly a couple of times, and could decide no further than setting the matter aside to be revisited after a week or so. Ten days later we found ourselves still conflicted, but agreed upon going with wonderful simplicity. The drive is still eleven hours long, it's not going to cost any less, and the only thing we will accomplish is taking pictures of the Alamo

Besides me running my next marathon, that is.

living the immediate moment

2007-11-04T19:21:00.000-08:00

Marathon Maniac and all, I still do not like running. But, I have to admit, I have ceased to mind it. I am troubled by the energy it takes away from my writing, in more than one way - the time, the energy, the focus. But there are trade-offs. I learn from each race, sometimes even from each individual run.

I learned it's no good use to look forward to the moment when it's over. You have to stay with it. You have to live in the run, with the expenditure of effort, as it unfolds each step, as if it were precious in itself - minute by minute, hour by hour. The end will come, on its own, unavoidably, without superfluous anticipation. I am an advocate of living in the present moment, but I have not applied my belief to running, not until lately. If you stay with it, with the simplicity of each step, with the endurance of the advance, you get to the end much sooner than expected.

The insignificance of time passing is not a new concept for me, but to experience it in the body as miles accrue behind is a novelty. If I can keep this insight in mind during future long runs and upcoming marathons, if I can keep this belief centered in my body, I will learn more in spirit. Not about long distance running, but about the art of living.

About the quality of our lives that transcends time.

duke city – fourth marathon race report

2007-10-25T19:34:00.000-07:00

I woke up at 3:30 am to have breakfast, a novelty embraced following Lora’s suggestion to eat three hours before start time. When the alarm rang I had to convince my boyfriend to stay put – this was not a coffee making opportunity, I would be back, and we still had another hour of sleep afterward. It was eerie to eat in the dim kitchen without being hungry. But bread with butter is my favorite food, and I added just a bit of Jarlsberg cheese for protein, and strawberry preserve – Einstein liked it too – for carbohydrates.

The frigid pre-start half hour chased runners into the lobby of the corner hotel, where Starbucks enjoyed a tide of brisk business. I talked to a bare-chested hero outside who upheld the theory he could prevent his body heat from going up too much before plummeting. I think he accomplished that. I also saw sensible Navajo runners wrapped in blankets, ready for the relay, a sight that in the manifold colors and lights of downtown reminded me of desolate Shiprock.

Then the seconds coalesced into the frenzy of the start, and we stepped over the mat in a long wave. We turned right on Central Avenue, the historic Route 66 of Americana fame, running through that segment of serene buildings that always reminded me of a seaside resort, as if vacation were at arm’s length. Running past the Motel Blue where I spent my first night ever in Albuquerque, not certain that one day I would make this city my own. Running on to reach Tingley Beach with its artificial lakes of improbable blue and its whimsical iron sculptures, where on July 4th last year I ran my first race ever, a 5K that placed me in my age group, unaccountable beginner’s luck.

Leaning over the fence, chatting at leisure, was the director of that race and of my last NM marathon, the one who used to shake his head over me running too much and too little at the same time. We hugged over the wire, and I pointed to the emblem of the Royal Victoria Marathon on my shirt. “Two weeks ago” I said. His eyes widened with understanding, and he shook his head again.

The weathermen lied, they lie here often, it's part of their lifestyle – the day was not cloudy as foreseen. The New Mexico sun rose into a gorgeous vault of pure blue, but the wind see-sawed through any incipient comfort, and I kept my long-sleeve on for the first several miles. We ran on the path along the zoo. I hate zoos, had never been there before. Then we turned into the Bosque bike trail. I felt good and stable, and thought I could go on like this forever.

And I went on like that for a long time, mile after mile, aid station after aid station, they were abnormally frequent enough to confuse one as to distance covered. I did not even take a watch with me, I would run as fast as I could anyhow, a watch would not change that.

I got tired eventually, somewhere close to the half-point, I had taken my shirt off and put it back on innumerable times, in tune with the sun shining brighter and the wind picking up and fading down again. The few miles before and after the turnaround were the hardest, the course winding up and down, the wind blustering, the sun glare blinding, a relentless advance against the grain. Mile markers were for some reason more obvious in the second half. I counted the miles, but I was intent on ignoring their meaning.

I wanted to reproduce in this race the best part of the otherwise gruesome experience of the Royal Victoria Marathon – I wanted to replicate the steady, unperturbed advance of the last 10 or 12 miles. And I did. I ran on and on, without wavering, slowing down at aid stations only, where I always took the time to bend over and embrace my ankles, a reply to stiffness that kept me supple and fresh. I missed the 20-mile marker, so I did not place a timely smile there, but if I had seen it the smile would have been for the first time in my marathon history genuine and supplanted by fact. It did not make any difference whether I was before or after glycogen depletion – I was on track.

The wind picked up, sand filled my eyes, dust settled on my tongue. At slow pace I passed one or two runners pulled forward like puppets on strings, and I wondered if I looked the same, a caricuture of my own being propelled by something stronger than body. All of us engaged in the same stubborn struggle, we were tracing back our morning course, resources exhausted, redemption ahead. The last mile on Central Avenue had a world-end feeling to it, and I realized I had never experienced Route 66 without traffic. The utility poles screeched harsh and metallic in the wind, and the only other sound was my breath, a whimpering orchestrated by the metronome of each step forward. Do you remember the last scene of the movie “On the Beach,” the world awash in radioactive waste?

That is how Central Avenue felt like, deserted on a Sunday morning, a few ghosts shuffling forward. I wanted to finish with grace, this was not the end of the world, just the end of my reserves, I could hold on for a little while longer. I wanted to sprint, as I did in Victoria, but the best of my exertion did not thrust me ahead, only kept me moving. When I finally turned left on 3rd street, the bells of a church starting ringing, and I knew it was noon. 5 hours. Just a little stretch left.

You were fast, my boyfriend told me as I folded on his shoulder and started crying. 5 h 3 min 8 sec, 18 minutes better than my last, 9 minutes better than the one before, a half an hour behind Shiprock.

But this was the marathon I was most in control of. And the beep of the mat as I crossed the finish line certified me as Marathon Maniac #675.

the bad, the good, and the ugly

2007-10-23T19:27:00.000-07:00

The Bad
God only knows where my mind was when I assessed the criteria of being a gold level marathon maniac with four marathons in four different states, etc. - it has to happen within 8 weeks, and my projected time span is 12 weeks (from September 2nd in NM to December 2nd in AZ), so it won't happen.

The Good
God only knows where my mind was when I assessed the criteria of being a marathon maniac any level, but I already qualified, unwittingly, for one star, simply by running my "in the meantime" Duke City Marathon race. I just joined tonight, MM number pending. Think large grin here.

The Ugly
I have a hard time convincing my boyfriend we should still travel to TX in November and AZ in December, while I am already a marathon maniac as is. Apparently he was willing to do so for the sake of my insane desire to be certified - dreams count in his agenda, even if crazy. But since the extra effort doesn't even upgrade the status, the gruesome endeavor of driving 10 hours to San Antonio and back doesn't seem worthwhile. We will probably still do Tucson, because the University of Arizona houses this awesome photography institute, and we planned to stay a few extra days just for that. Negotiations still in course.

The Honest
I am not looking forward to that 10 h drive to San Antonio either. Part of me liked all these races neatly lined up. Part of me is just plain tired, I am fighting a cold, I drag myself through the day, I cannot sleep at night because of exhaustion.

in the meantime

2007-10-20T15:41:00.000-07:00

I ran New Mexico Marathon Plus in September, and The Royal Victoria Marathon two weeks ago. With San Antonio Marathon in November and Holualoa Tucson Marathon on December 2nd I can become a gold level Marathon Maniac - four marathons in four months in four different states or Canadian provinces.

I owe it to Michelle, of course, that I even thought of such a thing.

Someone asked me once what "do you get" if you become a Marathon Maniac, sort of: what's in it for you? I said "not only are you crazy, you are certified." That should count for something, he, he.

In the meantime, I signed up for the Duke City Marathon tomorrow, since it's right here in my backyard. Starts and ends at the Civic Plaza downtown.

Someone commented: "I thought you did not enjoy running."

Well, I don't. I calculated that by the time I recovered from Victoria I'd had to start tapering for Duke City, so I didn't have to run that much in between. It's just the way my mind works.

I am a bit scared though. I mean, they seem to get more and more difficult. I thought it would be the other way round. And I leafed through a copy of the Runners magazine I got unasked in the mail, and all stories go with horrendously high weekly mileages, where mine are so negligable I am embarrassed to state the number.

But I have my outfit ready - its' going to be cold and cloudy and windy, no New Mexico sun for us, and I plan to wear the awesome technical shirt that came with the goodie bag in Victoria. And I plan to run, for what else is there to do in a race?

royal and unforeseeable

2007-10-11T18:55:00.000-07:00

I started the race day by engaging in a no-no. Never do before a race something not rehearsed and tried out beforehand. I thought about it, and decided to do it anyhow, a calculated risk.

The weather forecast robbed me of delusions even before we left. No crisp autumn day – it was going to rain. Light showers on Saturday, real rain during race day. I assessed my quasi-inability to ingest any kind of fuel while running, and concluded no way I could uphold a race in rainy cold without having food on board. That is, for the first time ever I had a full breakfast one hour and a half before gun time. On the spot, it felt good. The strategy paid off during the second half of the race, but made me uncomfortable during the first part, so in the end I am not sure how beneficial it was.

With a loose understanding of space coordinates gleamed from rough pdf maps, I had made the most inspired hotel reservations ever. The start line was situated a half a block away from our backdoor, and we could see the finish line from our balcony. The day ensued overcast, but when my boyfriend walked me over to the start, the sky lit up and the sun broke forth. The crowd was fretting on the spot, exuberant, happy, impatient. I took the redundant gear off and lined up.

It started off much too fast. I must have been too far ahead for my pace, since for a half an hour everybody passed me, a furious wave parting around me and closing up ahead. We left behind the boats in the inner harbor, speeded up along the waterfront, breezed through quaint streets, outlined downtown Victoria, and turned south to the bay again.

The course was beautiful. It meandered through green parks and residential areas where everybody was up and about, coffee cups in hand, stereos blasting, lounge chairs on the lawn, signs hanging from trees. I am so used to running in the desert, I gaped at that. They have trees in British Columbia, you know. I have not seen in any race before, not even in the Phoenix Rock’n’Roll half-marathon, such an involved, enthusiastic audience. We followed the contour of the bays, running through the gray-golden glitter wafting up from the inland extensions of the Pacific Ocean. The air smelled of salt and iodine and energy.

I could not find my comfort zone. I had barely gotten into the rhythm whan I was already exhausted. I knew I could run much more, much faster, on any given day, but today was not that day. At km 10 (I realized with horror I was not even a quarter through) I was spent. At mile 10 it started raining, and I understood why so many runners had kept their gear on. By the halfway point I gave up on making good time. A bit further, at the turnaround, the rain was coming down in sheets. With nothing left in me, I felt hopeless, inadequate, trapped.

A couple of times I cried with exhaustion, striving blindly forward, tears mingling in my eyes with rain. I was walking when a volunteer in a reflective vest approached me on bicycle and asked me how I was doing. “No matter what I do from now on,” I said, “I still have to get back somehow.”

He offered me a garbage bag. “To ward of hypothermia,” he said. I was cold, of course, I had long running tights on, but the same top I used in NM in 70 degrees weather. Still, hypothermia? I searched his face trying to see what he was seeing, but I could not detect anything besides hidden concern. Duly I slipped into the black plastic, and went on.

He circled back to me several times over the next couple of hours. I always knew kilometers to be shorter than miles, and can adequately handle the conversion, but on this day kms were much longer. Sometime after acquiring my new designer marathon wear, I fell into a resolve that resembled stoicism and trudged on forward, steady, relentless, resigned.

Returning along the course of the bay I had a schizophrenic moment. In spite of rain and wind, volunteers and onlookers protected by hoods and umbrellas and tents still lined the road, but here the street was deserted. Nobody ran in front of me, the turbulent expanse of the bay was the only witness of ordeal, and I looked down on my bare arms to feel estranged, as if somehow, by an erroneous shift in the gears of the universe, I had fallen into someone else’s slot of life – a seafarer on a wild shore, an adventurer on a remote island. I was living their experience. There was no discernable reason for me being here, my mind full of novels and art, running along the sea, lost and exposed to the elements.

At mile 18, against my better judgment, I swallowed a half cup of Gatorade that instantly made me nauseous, the only intake besides water I indulged in along the course. I learned something from this race. You do not have to break down at mile 20. The last six miles were no different than the six miles before. No letdown intervened. I kept pushing ahead, before and after, on automatic pilot, with the same thought-free advance. I registered the accrual of space without passion, one more km, one more mile, one more hour, one more load of rain, whatever.

I had about one mile to go, I cannot be sure of detail, when something unscrambled at my center, and broke loose, and sprinted forward in a long stride. I took the next curve flying ahead, and I heard the awed exclamation of a spectator, “oh my god, look at her,” as I spurned forward. The end was so close I could almost sense it, although every turn of the street still disappointed me – I wasn’t there yet. My knight in reflecting armor showed up on his bicycle (“you are sprinting!” he said) and rode along me in silence until close to the finish line. By then the impulse had deserted me, and I was on my own, breathing the last breath out of my body. Somehow I would make it.

A stranger embraced me beyond the mat. “You are hypothermic,” she said, “have something hot.” I stumbled around in search of my boyfriend. I had given him a much too early estimated arrival time, and had agonized over the last hour and a half about him waiting in the cold, straining his bad back. The hot stuff in the refreshment area was all gone, and we wobbled to the hotel entrance. In the mirror next to the elevator I saw my face, drained of all color. Upstairs, I got out of the running shoes and pulled off the wet socks – my feet were blue. Oh, so this was hypothermia.

I attempted a cold bath, but had to step out of it after a few minutes, the feet hurt too much. I had a hot shower instead. We cranked the heat up, I crawled under the covers, and sipped as much as I could on a hot tea. It took me about three hours to stop shivering. We cancelled dinner, and waited until I was halfway whole again to order room service. My choice was a tiny bowl of hot Pacific seafood chowder, so good I wish I knew the recipe.

I was too mindless to register my time on the electronic display while crossing the finish line, but I heard the announcer say that I gave my best in Shiprock. How true. Roughly 30 runners were still behind me, out of close to 1900. The longest marathon I have ever run, at sea level of all places. It should have been easy. It should have been easier, at least. It was brutal.

But I do not mind. It was a good marathon. Thinking back at the stubborn advance of the last 10 miles in frigid rain, I cannot believe it was me. At custom control in the Vancouver airport the officer asked what I had brought back from Canada. I was still musing about missed shopping opportunities when my boyfriend pointed to the medal hanging around my neck and said, “She brought this.”

And there was this moment, transcendental… Oh, how can I explain it? The best moment of the marathon. Around km five or six, too early for the endorphins to have kicked in, not that I felt the endorphins kicking in at any time during this race, not that endorphins kicked in ever during my love-hate relationship with running. We were in that green park with overlapping loops, I reached the top of a soft incline, and took it all in: strings of runners streaming by in opposite directions at a three-way crossroads, in a six-way unfolding of energy. A band was playing at the intersection on some tremendous wooden instrument I could not identify, a wistful sound between flute and drum, an alert rhythm between primeval upbeat and French nostalgia. It was not raining yet, but the pavement still wet from the downpour of the night glittered in the pale sunlight breaking through layers of clouds.

Time and place fell away. We were runners of the 21st century, in technical shirts, identified by a number, running a race in British Columbia, Canada. But the specifics were incidental. This could have been a medieval fair, with the sound of mandolins rising in the background. This could have been an oasis in the Saharan desert, where Berbers on their camels stopped during pilgrimage. This could have been the bustle of trade routes intersecting in the dark core of Asia. The concept of alocality emerged in place, and timelessness settled in my heart. This was anywhere, anytime, the unfolding of human fervor as a single constant dimension – the striving of the body to surpass itself and reach its soul.

It lasted only for an instant, but out of the 5 h 21 min 25 sec, this is the second I best remember.

victoria, british columbia

2007-10-09T19:24:00.001-07:00

first night view

street corner, china town

architecture of a city

a matter of taste

gold & hay

crossroads

twilight

finish line setup, day prior

me & my weapon

countdown to victoria

2007-10-03T10:21:00.000-07:00

I love week-ends with small big runs – I ran a half last Sunday, and had enough of me left to do another 1000 things during the day. I did not start packing for British Columbia yet, but I hardly can think of anything else. I am excited about everything - the ride on the ferry, the hotel room with a view to the harbor on which we splurged, the pictures I am going to take, the new pretty dress I am going to wear. Even the marathon, he, he.

When I started running – only a year and a half ago? – I pictured myself running a marathon with nonchalance one day. I am not sure about that anymore. I do not believe the body was designed to run 26 miles. A half, certainly, 20 miles, maybe. 26 is stretching it, at least for me. At least as of now.

But if I ever come close to that envisioned easiness it’s going to be in a race like this - a crisp day in autumn, a flat course, and – oh, I am so looking forward to this part - sea level altitude. Oxygen.

I am also thinking of a personal record. I am not sure how hard I am supposed to think of it. I probably cannot establish one if I do not aim for it. But if I aim for it, I will push myself, and then I forfeit the potential for nonchalance. On the other hand, if I do not push myself here, where am I ever going to surpass that magic momentum that carried me forward in Shiprock?

I do not have firm goals yet, not beyond the simple one of somehow making sense of this blend of desires.

living with injury

2007-09-28T07:21:00.000-07:00

My weekly mileage is indeed pathetic, as the race director of my last marathon implied - in the low twenties on the average, all the big runs notwithstanding. I put in a 19-miler last Sunday. For the first time in months, I did not worry about the heat. The blanket of clouds mitigated the sun, and a breeze kept the coolness alive. I went at it steady and stubborn, and finished in just under 4 hours.

I figured out there is not much wrong with my knee, not the knee itself. Instead it's my whole right side, from a patch of pain somewhere under the ribcage, in the back, through the buttock, to the knee, down to the ankle. A cord of tightness, not always coalescing into pain, but always there. Sometimes I can run a 5K without paying attention to it, but I cannot forget it during big runs.

Nine days to go until the next marathon, and I still do not know what this is and how to ban it from my body. I learned to live with it as if it's part of me.

Sometimes I think running would be so worryfree without it.

2007-09-18T07:51:00.000-07:00

My boyfriend has this little potential thing to do in British Columbia, half business, half pleasure, but we never went. Because we'd have to fly and he hates it, because British Columbia is as sinfully expensive as it is beautiful, because there were always other priorities.

I devised a strategy. He would only go if I'd give him a reason to go for my sake as well. With womanly cunning, I looked around in British Columbia and found it. At sea-level. The Royal Victoria Marathon on October 7th.

It's Thanksgiving weekend in Canada, but nevertheless we managed to schedule my boyfriend's little thing, half serious, half play, as well. I knew we were meant to go.

Chips’n’Salsa Half-Marathon

2007-09-11T19:26:00.000-07:00

I woke up in the morning with a dream – I had run a half-marathon in more then two hours and a half. I was roaming around in search of food. By the end of the dream the half had turned to a full I had run in more than five hours and a half, and I was wondering how come all these races get more and more difficult.

Awake, I had only once certainty – I have never accomplished a PR. But I started out as calm as could be. This was a training run, no pressure attached.

The organizing details turned out to be somewhat sketchy. Parking spots were scarce, a truck with markers got delayed, the race started late. I chatted with a soldier going to Iraq next year – a cool, down-to-earth guy. The morning was cool too, a perfect day for running. By the time we assembled for the start, the clouds converged on the top of the mountains in a dramatic unfurling of gold and gray.

We were running on the old Camino Real, the vital artery that in past centuries connected deep Mexico to Santa Fe. Loads of chocolate, saffron, cinnamon, sweet meats, dried shrimp, and oysters had been hoisted north along the dirt road of once. Now it was paved, with expanses of green left and right, grasshoppers chirping, cows mooing, flies buzzing around runners striving ahead.

It drizzled just the slightest bit, so discreetly that you could run between rain drops.

I did not feel as if I had run a marathon the week before – the leg muscles were loose, the knee clamped in its supportive band was inconspicuous – but I felt tired. The miles were too long, much longer than I knew them to be. For the duration of the whole race, and much more so after the turning point at 6.5 miles, I was split between the urge to forge ahead at all cost, and the temptation to just relax with the flow. What I was trying to accomplish pushing myself, I did not know.

In the end I did both. Pushing myself and taking walking breaks. On the way back I stopped to read the historic marker on the side of the road, at the dividing line between common ground and the territory of Tuf Shurn Tui. It was the first time I came upon the real name of the former pueblo on the Sandia reservation. Tuf Shurn Tui.

There were miles stretches, not full miles, but almost, when I just tuned into the beat, when running ceased to be this effort I was exerting, and became this thing I could do. I might have even managed a negative split – we cannot trust my aptitude to deal with numbers while running, but even if my computation is wrong I came close to it.

It all became easier when I had the last turn-off in sight, and the effort to sprint almost brought tears to my eyes. What for, I asked. But I crossed the line with a finish so strong and exhilarating I wished the idea to storm ahead would have occurred to me earlier. Wishful thinking, I guess.

The medal was an ingenious sliver of metal in the shape of a chip with salsa splattered on a corner. The reality of the southwestern breakfast was more mundane. But I had not fueled at all during the race. That means I was not nauseous but hungry, and the burrito kept warm in aluminum foil was a treat.

2:20:28, better than expected. This race, just a trial run of sorts, gave me almost as much satisfaction as the marathon preceding it.

training run, I think

2007-09-08T18:25:00.000-07:00

My knee behaved with decorum last Sunday. I felt its presence on the downward portion of the marathon, roughly 1/5 of the race, but it did not bother me otherwise and afterwards. Nevertheless, I want to continue to run flat. If someone would pay me my weight in gold, I'd tackle the high-school track again, but I have not received any offers. Everything within comfortable distance is downhill and uphill and both. For a flat course I would have to choose the other side of town.

So I did. Yesterday I signed up for the Chips'n'Salsa half-marathon. It starts tomorrow at the El Pinto restaurant, goes north for a few miles, turns around, and ends where it started with a little southwestern breakfast. What more could one want?

I was hoping to run with Lisa, but her husband surprised her at the last moment by signing up to run with her. I am not going to interfere with romance, now will I?

love, one mile at a time

2007-09-03T19:19:00.000-07:00

It was was an affair so accesible and simple, my boyfriend dropped me off right at the start line. Although participation included 37 states and seven foreign countries, only 300 marathon runners or so gathered at 5:30 am. The moon straight above, in a circle of glimmering stars, presided over the modest ceremony. A woman somewhere ahead in the group sang the anthem live, and without seeing him we clapped for Brad who set out in a wheelchair. Then, in a prolonged wave, we passed over the narrow mat, and took off ourselves.

We ran on the shoulder, counter-traffic, the city to our left, the mountains to our right, cars passing us in the darkness. Within minutes we dispersed into a long line, shadows on the road. I started out so easy, it could be barely called running.

Before the May race in Shiprock, unexpected and magical, I thought for months this would be my first marathon. Even now I was holding on to the idea of running it the way I thought I would run my first: without time goals, without heroics, without constraints. I read once about someone who dedicated each mile of his marathon to a person he loved, and I wanted to do that too. It would be easy, since I was familiar with the course, having run most of it at one point or another – the second part one year ago, when I did the half-marathon. It would also be exclusive; to do justice to everybody I would have to run an ultra.

This attention to discrete intervals of distance, of taking in mile markers and promptly switching focus to a new person, changed the dynamics of the race. I have to confess from the start: since running interferes with my ability to count, I garbled up the allocation a few times. It’s as if all the energy of my being goes into the legs, and the drained brain cannot come up with accuracy. I run mindless, without understanding of numbers, space, or time.

Thinking of the people who are important in my life, one mile at a time, forced me to pay attention to distance. As a paradoxical consequence my mind was immersed in what I wished for them, not on the consumption of miles. The apprehension about the upward incline of the first eight miles, which had endlessly concerned me before, simply vanished. I did not even notice an incline. It must have been there, but it was dark, I did not see it, I had other things on my mind. The eight-mile-marker came when I reached The County Line Restaurant, where the aroma of barbecue permeated the air (they put the brisket on the night before). Only then did I realize that the uphill part was behind me, and I switched over to Irene, my girlfriend since ninth grade, back home in Eastern Europe.

The course turned left, west, and downhill, and the cauldron of the Rio Grande valley opened in front of me in a haze of purple and peach. Due to its proximity to the mountain range, the course was still protected by shade, although the city below was already shimmering in the gold of dawn. It smelled of sage grass, and we were running on the Sandia Indian reservation. Again, I went easy downhill, concerned for my knee. I wore an elastic support band, more for the placebo effect than anything else. As long as I could feel the pressure of the band, the pain would not be too loud, and would not worry me. Runners starting passing me at high speed, as if they had little engines whirring inside. I stayed put, letting them go.

The sun rose over the crest of the mountains two hours after start. The landscape changed to poignancy, our shadows elongated El Greco-wise in front of us. I had to think about fueling, but could not stomach the thought. During the whole race I had a half a bar of trail mix and a date, and I wish I could have done without. At the half-way mark I switched over to American friends. I was still doing good.

The course was marked, here and there, with endearing blue chalk marks: “you are doing great, it’s downhill from here, only little to go, see you at the finish line.” When we turned south on 4th street, at the El Pinto restaurant, a whimsical pair of clowns, all dressed up, played nostalgic music from their parked car, blowing soap bubbles across our path.

The sun was getting to me.

When you love people, you wish all of them, more or less, the same thing: that they may be themselves, find their purpose, express their creativity, grow without too much suffering, have comfort, live in health, enjoy support, give and receive love. What amazed me was the differentiation these wishes can take for each particular person, tailored to their specific circumstances; what diverse wording you can come up with, conveying the same love; how much that can spurn you on to take the next step and forget about taking it, because you have to take the next one and the next.

At mile 19 (or somewhere there) a bird crossed my path, swirling back and forth in front of me, until I realized it was a hummingbird, and it zoomed off. We were in the Bosque, the bike path along the Rio Grande. It smelled of heat, and rotten wood, and stagnant water. I was running south, or crawling, as it may be. My face was burning. I walked for a long time behind a man in black socks, carrying an American flag on his shoulder. Each time I started to run again the body faltered, and I wondered if I would have to walk the last six miles. Until I realized we were missing some mile markers (I remembered the trail from a year go), and I took heart again. And ran, ran as much as I could under the relentless sunlight. The next mile marker was 22, and I was surprised again. Only four more miles to go?

I could do that. I splashed water on my face. I dismissed the thought of further fueling. I ran. I ran holding in my mind the few people I could still honor in the short interval of four miles. My girlfriend in Italy, lonely and sick. An old lady who died this last April, she did not need a greeting anymore, but who knows. Eventually, the marker I was awaiting, mile 25. From then on, the easiest and hardest mile plus, I ran for my boyfriend.

At the last turn before the finish, I summoned up all I still had in me – not much – and launched myself forward with composure, intent to cross the finish line in beauty. I sprinted ahead blindly, past the yellow-clad runner from Brazil who got spurned on and passed me in turn.

I stopped short of breath beyond the gate of balloons. My second marathon. Five hours 15 something minutes. I did not look at my watch, and I did not stay long enough to see results posted. What difference would it make in the long run?

Still - I had no idea how I had run Shiprock in almost one hour less.

I reserved the first mile for me, because you cannot love anyone, really, if you do not love yourself. And although I ran that first easy mile in cool darkness thinking it was “mine,” I did not articulate for myself the ardent wishes I sent to everybody else, one mile at a time. I did not realize this until the day after. I still have to work on it, next time around.

But I pampered myself, nevertheless. A bubble bath after the ice treatment. A dinner out. A good movie. On Labor Day, again, I stopped to smell the roses. I did a few loads of laundry, but I took time off from writing, and spent a few leisurely hours at the pool. And for the first time in my life, I baked a peach pie.

it's almost marathon day

2007-08-31T07:42:00.000-07:00

I bought new shoes (Brooks) two weeks ago, when I decided to do everything possible to take care of the knee, and I discovered in the meantime I do not like them that much. I have to wait until after this race to pick up another pair of Asics.

I am surprised again how unprepared I am, I do not mean the running itself, just associated details - the knee, what exactly to wear, how to fuel. I still don't like anything I've tried, and my last 20-miler was essentially on empty.

I can think of a dozen things I should thave tested or focused on or done differently.

It's too late now for looking back. Marathon day is two days from now. I played it out in my mind. The incline of the first eight miles, then the descent - all the elevation loss of the race is condensed in the next five miles. I'm going to have to take it very easy here, since my knee doen't like it downhill. My strategy, if I have any, is to arrive fresh at the half-way point. My marathon starts at mile 13.

I spite of this course layout, I don't believe a negative split is likely. Neither is a personal record - that comes the next time around.

tapering

2007-08-27T07:47:00.000-07:00

Tapers might be good for the legs but they mess with my mind. I am happy of course that I am supposed to run not more, but less. But it puts limits on my imagination.

Yesterday I started my 13-miler at 5:30, the same time as the race, my knee didn't bother me that much, the air was a few degrees cooler than last week, I ran steadily, even if not fast, and I finished in good shape, tired but not exhausted, pleased even if not exhilarated.

The thing is I could not even conceive of doubling the output. It's a thing of the mind, of course - 13 miles is what I had programmed myself for, so 13 miles is what I delivered. Presumably next Sunday, my mind set on 26 miles, I will deliver 26 miles. But this tapering business, right now, prevents me from envisioning a full marathon.

I shared this with my boyfriend over breakfast, and he looked at me for a while, as is his way. Then he said: "You better start envisioning it."

Right.

focus, focus, focus

2007-08-21T19:09:00.000-07:00

It says something about how much I am on automatic pilot that, more than a month after my first symptom in my right knee, it occurred to me I need to do something about it. Here I am, marching into my marathon with an injury.

I started with extensive research on the web. If it's ITB syndrom, then it's mild and atypical. I cannot decide what it is, and the other possibilities are not a better prospect.

First things first, I better avoid running hills until the marathon. For weekday runs I can go back to the threadmill. For my planned 20-mile run this last week-end I was at a loss. The only flat course I know is the Bosque along the Rio Grande where a woman was assualted and shot last week in broad daylight. Since I planned to start at 5:30 am, the Bosque seemed a contraindication of sorts. I chose the track of La Cueva high-school - it would take me 80 loops, OMG, but it would be safe. I still asked my boyfriend to come with me and stand guard until dawn.

It was, exactly as the last really big run before my first marathon, a brutal experience. THE HEAT! The temperature was in the mid-80's before sunrise. I did not care to find out what it was when I finished roughly four hours later, but I did not need numerical indicators to know I was wiped out.

This is the desert. Let's pray for clouds.

My mind is plotted across various exercises and strategies that are going to enhance the overall strenght of my legs, neutralize whatever issue dwells in my right knee, and do away with the injury by sheer effort of will.

It's imperative. Marathons are looming.

too much or too little?

2007-08-16T07:25:00.001-07:00

Since I could not get either the knee or the incline of the marathon course out of my mind, I ended up calling one of the organizers at www.newmexicomarathon.org and asking if he would talk to me about it. I only saw him two or three times before, while signing up for a race or at the award ceremony of another. He is of course experienced as a runner, and luckily did not mind meeting me.

He said I worry too much about the knee, it's nothing. He said I worry too much about the incline, it's not that steep. But throughout the conversation he continued to shake his head in disbelief about my training. My weekly mileage (20-25 miles) he considered dismal - how do I plan to run a marathon in three weeks with such an output? On the other hand my big runs (19 miles every other week at least) were too frequent and too long. Who trained me, anyhow?

Eeerh... nobody. So, I asked, was I doing too little or too much?

He offered to run those first uphill miles of the marathon course with me.

He was right, it's not that steep. Once we were done, it was a pretty good experience. I refrained from commenting I had no idea how I would add another 18 miles on top of those first eight.

It's the first time I ever ran with someone. Time passed with easiness, but he was much too fast for me. I had to fight to keep up with him. Then, when it was over, he claimed he had adjusted his pace to mine, and I had dictated the rhythm all along.

I can do it

2007-08-07T18:33:00.000-07:00

The 20K, with its first half at a steady incline, was a good training run. I signed up for the New Mexico Marathon Plus on September 2nd, and the first eight miles are more or less uphill, almost one third of the marathon. When I do big runs on the Academy track every Sunday, a third of it is uphill too, but in loops, so every third mile is uphill, it's not a relentless ascent.

We drove along the course this last Saturday, and I do not know how I will handle it. Sure, there are a couple of dips. Sure, one way or another I can do those first eight miles. But then I have to do another 18.

Ironically, they call this a downhill marathon since the elevation at the start is higher than at finish.

I ran 19 miles this week-end, the last part in overwhelming heat. Between now and September let's have some cooling down, let's have some clouds, let's have some reprieve from the brutal sun.

And the knee is bothering me too. But I can do it. I can do it, I think.

the longest 12 miles I ever ran

2007-08-01T18:46:00.000-07:00

All three races - 5K, 10K, 20K - shared the same starting point, with the 20K taking off the earliest. For the first half a mile, while winding our way through the uphill casino parking lot, everybody passed me. Well, not quite everybody. A couple of 70-year-olds passed me just a bit further.

The course, marked by tiny orange flags, was easy to identify, but running is was a whole different proposition. Off it went, along track tires and ravines, across ditches and arroyos, over gravel and rock, left and right, up and down, incessently. The first mile marker I noticed was the 5K turnaround. It was incomprehensible to me I was just 1.5 miles into the nightmare.

At mile 3 two boys passed by with such velocity I inferred they could not have just lagged behind, they were the winners of the 10K, striving for the turnaround. Seconds later I saw them again flying by from the opposite direction, God bless them, they had half of their thing behind them. I never envied anybody as much.

An endless ordeal later, I crossed paths again with a few lonely figures, and I computed, shocked, these were the winners of my 20K, their turnaround already behind them. One of them was familiar - a guy with dark shades I had encountered repeatedly on my week-end runs on the Academy track. We always exchanged glances before, but never said hello. This time we did. It was a kind of highpoint.

Next I saw the five mile marker, and I could have sworn I saw it before, one mile behind, but I had no way to prove it. A pebble had nestled in my shoe. I did not feel like sitting down in the desert convening with rattle snakes while I fished it out. Actually, to say the truth, I did not mind the rattle snakes as much. I feared that, if I sat down, I would not have the strength to get up again.

By mile six I was done, ready to lie down and forget about everything. But I was already on one of the turnaround loops, halfway through, and it occurred to me, no matter what I did, I could not just hang out there, in the middle of nowhere. Some way or another I had to find my way back, whatever it took. The right knee had started to bother me, but at that time every ounce of me was so immersed in discomfort, it did not make any difference anymore.

I was so far behind the contingent in front of me, I could not spot anybody on the entwined loops. Long ago, the city had fallen silent behind me, and the distant roar of the highway had died. I could hear my own ragged breath, and the cries of birds splintering thin air. The range of the mountains glittered in refracted light, and nothing existed besides the desert and me.

I do not know how I made my way back. It was easier than the first half, since the gist of return was downhill, but here we went again, across arroyos and ditches, right and left, down and up, endless miles. The heat was burning in my face, and I could not understand why I would ever want to run a marathon again.

I was one of the last to cross the finish line. They had already dismantled the triumphant gate of grape-colored balloons in burgungy and green. I even had a hard time finding a bottle of water. I finished in 2 h 25 min 20 something seconds, didn't even bother to check out my time, overall pace between 11.5 and 12, my worst race ever.

But I ended up feeling good. I do not mean simply the phsysical part. My limbs were still loose, and I laughed with my boyfriend at the pathetic performance, amazed and grateful I didn't break an ankle or twisted my spine, with all those ravines. Besides and beyond all that, I was happy about the cruel exertion.

run to break the silence

2007-07-28T16:24:00.000-07:00

I signed up for a little 20K tomorrow. It's not exactly little, I know, but the prospect of not going over 13 miles is a fast relief. Since the race benefits an institute where deaf children learn to speak, I am additionally thrilled - for years I considered being a speech therapist. Verbal communication is part of what makes us human, although of course it does not radically distinguish us from dolphins or humpback whales.

The race starts at the Sandia casino and goes north and east into the Indian reservation. The flyer mentions an "all-terrain, cross-country course." I have never done this before, whatever it means. But I know, without opening an atlas, that the map in that area is blank. I guess they will somehow mark the route. I doubt I will be able to keep my pace under 10, but more and more I am trying to persuade myself not to get hung up on numbers.

Aside from an atrocious pink rubber brain model that summons me to "think oral deaf education," I am for the first time truly delighted with the goodie bag - a bottle of water, a green chile package from the local eatery 505 (think New Mexico), a yummy looking bar of honey roasted nuts (preferably pre-run snack), a fancy rubber to tie my hair with, and a cool T-shirt with a design in burgundy and green.

I am tempted to wear it tomorrow, but I will not. The race starts at 6:30 am. I will be a running heat-stroke candidate by the time I can end it.

challenges

2007-07-22T19:14:00.000-07:00

Twice during weekday runs, once this week, once the week before, I ended up with a funny feeling in my right knee, not pain, just a weird sensation as if a muscle or a tendon were twisted or dislocated. Each time it was gone next day. Each time it set in, as far as I could figure out, after the downhill mile on pavement. A mild descent, like the one during big runs on week-ends, so I inferred it was the pavement.

I changed my route slightly to an alternative on a dirt road, and the weird sensation stayed away. That is until yesterday afternoon, when it made its appearance while I was walking around in Barnes & Noble. Perfectly flat.

Kind of worrisome.

This morning I got up at 4 am, but could not move fast enough for an early start. It was 5:40 when I was ready for take-off on the Academy track, my knee wrapped tightly in a mental vise. I did not know what I would do if it started acting up again. The smart thing might have been quitting, and part of me was ready to frolic at the prospect. The other part panicked.

I ran about 11-12 miles with ease, and struggled for another four or five under the gaining sun. Heat just shuts my system down. I must have walked more than half of the last two miles, to reach a cumbersome 19. The knee held.

change of plans

2007-07-15T11:46:00.000-07:00

Since the marathon, I never ran more than twice each week during work days, but I put in "big runs."

Just before the 8K freedom run I did a 16-miler. Although I started early, toward the end the sun had become an almost palpable menace, and I walked half or most of the last 2-3 miles.

Last weekend I took off even earlier. At 5 am the darkness was a bit scary. I could discern the track in the moonlight, but a man on a bike, without cyclist gear, passed me TWICE and spoke to me both times, and that creeped me out. I got in 7-8 miles while the sun was still rising on the other side of the mountains, and afterward a slim layer of mist filtered out the worst of the heat. By the time the sun shook it off and started burning unencumbered I was done with my 19 miles.

Today I planned for 22. I was so stressed by my dilemma between darkness early and heat later, I dreamt during the night that by 4 am we had broad daylight and fine rain. I waited until some pink was weaving itself through the gray of dawn. When I got out of the car I noticed I had forgotten to put on my sports bra.

I do not have much to speak of there, so running was still a doable thing. But would a knight forget to put on his armor when getting ready for battle? I felt stupid, vulnerable, and... unprofessional.

I decided, on the spot, to do 13 miles only. I do not know if this, under the circumstances, was common sense, or if I chickened out because of the distance or the oncoming heat, or if it just occurred to me that 22 miles 7 weeks before my next marathon might be overkill.

I still walked a lot. My pace improved only slightly over last week's. But 13 miles left me remarkably fresh. And I realized something I might have not noticed if trudging on. The amount of miles I can do now drama-free (not effortlessly, but without feeling overwhelmed) is not 10 miles anymore. It's 13.

4th of july freedom run

2007-07-07T18:41:00.000-07:00

One thing the marathon did for me: when I picked up my race package for the 8K I did not feel like a total outsider.

The race occurred in the same place and was sponsored by the same store (Fleet Feet) as the Thanksgiving 5K last year. It can get never get more local than this. I got into my car, I drove for 5 minutes. There was no parking space (I knew that!), so I invented one, and lined up at the starting line a few seconds before the anthem started playing. I swear it was even the same balloon rising. Like last year, I wept. Not because of any articulate emotion, as in ”I am an American now,” simply because of indescribable beauty – the music enveloped us, the flag was fluttering from the gondola, the sun leapt over the rim of the mountain range, and we were ready for go.

The course started out eastward, facing the glare. For the first two miles, everybody passed me, youngsters, old hippies with white hair in ponytails, moms with strollers. I wondered what those infants were thinking in the urgency of the morning, recline over pillows, pushed against the light. I tried desperately to remind myself this was just another weekday morning run, a bit longer perhaps. It did not matter who was ahead. The silence behind me said there was no one on my heels, and I did not look back, afraid to find it confirmed.

I did not bring my watch. I repeated to myself time did not matter. The area was residential and quiet. There was road kill on the streets. It smelled of manure, it smelled of hey, it smelled of heat. The neighborhood dogs yelped at the commotion. Somewhere after mile 2 we turned westward, and the valley opened up before us. I ran for a long time, in silence, next to a man in a blue shirt, none of us staying behind or reaching forward.

By mile four I glimpsed on the electronic display that for the first time in the race I was below a 10 minute pace, and ambition suddenly bit me. If I could only maintain that. I had not pushed myself before, not to my knowledge, but now I did. The last mile was uphill again, as the first two. It was too much. Just before I got the finish in sight, I had to walk, breathless and spent.

But I crossed the line in 48 min 45 sec, still below the 10 minute pace, the same as in all my prior races shorter than a marathon, and I ended up on the other side dizzy and happy, soaked in sweat and satisfaction, barely able to reason.

By the time I got home I was hungry.

8K tomorrow

2007-07-03T19:06:00.000-07:00

One year after my very first race ever, the 4th of July Sunrise 5K of 2006, when I placed. By serendipity alone, not that I had any idea what I was doing.

The first two miles or so of the course tomorrow are uphill. I am not happy about that, but I better start being grateful pretty soon. The marathon in two months from now... the first eight miles are uphill.

Tomorrow I dread two things. Finding a parking spot. And the sunlight. At the poolside, a couple of days ago, I burnt my nose raw. So pathetic. A ton of sunscreen won't protect it from the sun tomorrow. Since the race will be over by about 8 am, I think I will survive the heat.

Happy Birthday, America!

to win or not to win

2007-06-29T08:04:00.001-07:00

A week ago The Wall Street Journal ran an article about How to Win a Marathon. It wasn't about running. It went on at length about amateur athletes using the internet to scope out competition at various races, by studying past attendance and results. When they find one where the field is small, with next to none participants in their age group, they can sign up and, if not win, at least place.

Train less. Instead peruse for a few hours Athlinks.com. Take a triathlon in the Bahamas, attended by six other people. Win. Do not divulge the details to your admiring fans.

Hmmm. I spent some time trying to fathom if in their innermost heart they really believe they won this race or another.

Could not figure this one out, so instead I signed up for a little July 4th 8K. An odd number, I guess they made it into a race since it approximates five miles. I do not know how many people are going to be there, and I don’t care. It’s not in the Bahamas, just further up north on my street and around the corner. I will not place, but I will run. Good enough for me, at least as far as next week goes.

dreaming

2007-06-24T19:04:00.000-07:00

The other night I dreamt I was doing a biathlon (it was called “doathlon” in dream lingo). For the interval of a blink I thought that if I take my bike out as well, I could make it a tri. But then it occurred to me the second event in my doathlon wasn’t swimming, but shooting. Pistol target shooting, the sport I practiced years ago. It is almost two decades now since I lay my hand on a pistol.

In the dream, it wasn’t that far behind. It was shooting, my passion and redemption for so many years. Now I could combine it with running.

The dream never reached the actual competition. For all its duration and action, as vague as it was, I was concerned with one single consideration: how would I steady myself after the hype of running to reach in a minimal amount of time the composure required for shooting – that calm, still focus of utmost concentration that suspends breathing, thought, and any kind of interference, while I pull the trigger.

I am totally out of it after a running race. I breath like a locomotive, I am restless, my mind is blank. If I wait until I am self-possessed again, my transition time in the doathlon throws me out of the competitive range. If I start shooting too soon, the shots will not go off smoothly.

I fought with this conundrum for the duration of half a night, envisioning a tremendous effort of collecting myself in seconds after the run – no panting, no pacing, no relief, just the unmoving gun as an extension of my arm and intent. That’s where the dream ended.

There is actually a biathlon event, a combination of cross-country skiing and shooting, although it’s rifle shooting, prone position, offering more stability that pistol.

I wonder why I dreamt this.

back to sanity

2007-06-16T09:24:00.000-07:00

This did not qualify as work, but it did not feel like a vacation either. It was an exploration.

We had dinner with friends.

We played with their kids.

We drove everywhere.

New Jersey lived up to its name of Garden State. Between one six-lane highway and the next we found a stripe of green.

New York was cool, crowded, vibrant, frenetic, glamorous, and overrated.

I photographed the Puerto Rican Day Parade,

the rain in Bryant Park,

the building where I used to work,

,
and Manhattan hanging on to its cell phone.

The best part about New York is the food.

In spite or because of exuberant dinners and such luscious desserts as banana fried cheese cake with caramel sauce, I dragged myself twice to the pool, a brief and steamy affair that can hardly qualify as cross-training. But I put in a 16-miler before we left, and now that we are back to normalcy it's time for running again.

a look at the past

2007-06-07T14:08:00.000-07:00

Flying out to the East Coast again. This time it's for closure, and presumably it will be less stressful than in April. My boyfriend made sure to get reservations at a hotel with a pool. For cross-training, he said.

I am not taking my running gear, since we already have too much luggage. I will not miss the small runs, and I won't have time for a big run. We are staying an extra couple of days, to meet with our friends and take a look at our former life, since we will have no reason to go there again.

Not unless I find a New York agent for my book(s) and have to go there on business - for book signings and publicity, he, he.

A girl can dream.

I'd rather be sleeping

2007-06-04T07:37:00.000-07:00

People ask me: "So are you still running, now that you did your marathon?" It's amazing how many found almost exactly the same wording.

Yes, I am. It feels strange to have settled into this mood, where running is mine for a while. I cannot see beyond the end of the year, but until then it's a season of running.

Running feels different now. It is less encumbered, less anxious, less confined to a specific goal. I still do not enjoy it. What I hate most is getting up early, when the night is still dark and sleep is lovely.

Even on week-ends, the dread of waking is unvoidable. Otherwise long runs would have me running until noon. It gets too hot too fast, and I'd faint.

Ideally I would run minimally during the week, simple reminders to the body, and otherwise keep in shape by running races on week-ends. Perhaps this is the single most important way in which running has changed. Before I dreaded races.

2007-05-30T07:48:00.001-07:00

With all my conflicted feelings about running, one thing has been clear and remained unchanged for almost a year now: that I will run The New Mexico Marathon Plus in September.

The one I thought would be my first when I aimed for autumn, before spring urgency took over and I found Shiprock. The one I could not yet do last year, so I signed up for the half only. The one that follows the foothills of the mountains, touches upon the Sandia reservation, and turns south through the valley of the Rio Grande, outlining the city in the thin desert air.

That one is going to be my next.

Even my boyfriend has known this all along. Since I called him from work one afternoon in June, last year, and asked if he will be at the finish line for the half. The full one would be coming one day, he was sure. This spring, while I was still training for Shiprock, already thinking ahead to September, he reminded me that I will need to do some incline work, since the course along the foothills is uphill.

This is strange, I know, coming from someone who would just as well see me quit all this running and go back to who I was before. Not exactly lazy, but more carefree. Not at leisure, but less exhausted.

He knows me. He is complicated too.

almost summer

2007-05-25T14:56:00.000-07:00

The days are longer now, and I can run outside in the morning, without worrying about the darkness and still making it to work on time. I scouted out a 3.2 mile loop – from door back to door. It’s pavement, but I am tired of the treadmill. It can’t stand it anymore, being inside, smelling the rubber, running in step with the rattling machine each time I run during weekdays.

The uphill part winds through a residential area pretty with greenery – richer than one can usually see in Albuquerque. I pass a Starbucks where I can sense a whiff of coffee and a trace of melody. Half of the time I either face the mountains or the cauldron of the valley where the city stirs from sleep.

I did not ice after the race, and I skipped the massage, but my legs felt loose after a few days, and I did several easy runs, at leisure and without timing myself. For someone who never fathomed the immensity of the endeavor, the marathon now, when I look back, appears as an issue of astounding simplicity. A doable business. Challenging, taxing, but nothing to fret about. I suppose I have appropriated the notion. I knew it before, on some level, but now I have made it my own: I can run a marathon.

I am still searching for my place somewhere on the continuum that links my reaction at the finish line (So I ran a marathon. So what?) to the awe in which I always beheld the distance. I do not believe it is a fixed spot. It is a moveable feast, and in search for it, and along with it, I run.

too hard on myself

2007-05-21T11:09:00.001-07:00

In the last two weeks I learned to believe in my marathon, to be proud of it, and to forget it again.

But at the finish line, I did not feel much. I was relieved to had gotten there in one piece, but not elated or moved. Mostly I felt puzzled – where had I lost the euphoria of the first miles, that feeling of magical readiness? Had I run too slow or too fast? Could I have done something differently? Or better? Looking through he wind-blown gray of noon I even felt, right on the spot where I had completed my first marathon, that the finish was anti-climactic.

I agonized over this for the rest of the day and beyond, as if I had just scored a failure, not an accomplishment. On the drive back to Farmington through opaque rain, I turned to my boyfriend at the wheel and speculated whether this meant we had to move on to bigger and better things.

He rolled his eyes. In the weeks since, a couple of times, he asked aloud a question addressed to no one in particular: “what is she going to pick up next?”

I don’t know.

In the meantime, I will run a couple of more marathons, as I said I would. Perhaps there is something I can do in a better way. Or differently.

fueling

2007-05-17T07:48:00.000-07:00

Energy gels are not it. The first I took during the marathon gave me a tummy ache, although I had tried it out before without problems. The second one, at mile 23, made me nauseous. In between I had a half a Cliff bar, or less, and I had to force myself to swallow.

If I ever run an ultra, the biggest problem is going to be fueling. I can see myself with a little backpack perhaps - a quesadilla or two, salsa, guacamole, some chicken enchilada, a small bottle of condensed margaritas. No, make that a big backpack.

Oh well. That would not work either. I simply do not like to eat while running, even if it's during walking breaks. I did most of my runs, even some big ones, on an empty stomach. I ate before all the races, but just because I had to.

I am a food-happy person. I enjoy eating. I love to go out. Every meal is a feast. I am always hungry. Here I found the one circumstance where my appetite fails me. It's running, and running requires fuel.

future PR difficult

2007-05-14T07:43:00.000-07:00

I closed with an overall pace of 10:29, much better than I expected. According to official splits, at the halfway mark I was still under 10 minutes per mile, the rhythm I have sustained through all my races so far.

I am proud of my time, but I do not understand why I pushed so hard. I was convinced I would walk a great part of the way. I was prepared to walk. I believed I could not do it without walking.

I thought I would run the second time around. In my next marathon.

Instead I ran, at least as far as the legs would take me. It did not occur to me I would have enjoyed the course more if I had forced myself less. I raced, as if this were the last race on earth.

It is obvious to me I am not at a level of fitness, or even ambition, to overtake other runners out there. I can only surpass myself. And yet, I succumb to this visceral need to run faster, to be better, to be now.

it's me

2007-05-11T16:58:00.001-07:00

Over the last week I have been bursting with gratitude, and joy, and pride, and vanity at my running a marathon, and with all the nuances of delight and conceit in between. I sent a note to my parents back in Europe, a bittersweet revenge to them admonishing me last year that one can run a marathon at 21 or 24, but not at 41 or 42. Yeah, I am that kind of child. I basked in the applause I have received from all of you – thank you, almost as enchanted by your praise of my race report below as I am by the race itself, since I am a writer (although not published yet), and translating experience into words lies at the core of who I am. I wore my medal and my fabulous race T-shirt to work, although there most people ask me how long a marathon is and turn away at the prospect of 26 miles.

And I repeated to myself, over and over again: I am a marathon runner. I ran a marathon. It was just an idea, and I made it real. I materialized myself as a marathon runner.

And through it all, I carried with me a lingering disbelief: I ran a marathon? I float along myself through the first magical miles, I can see myself carrying on over the long middle stretch, I remember the brutality of the last six miles. And it’s as if I am watching someone else: this girl I don’t know, who is an athlete, right? she must be; she runs a marathon.

I am her. I have to incorporate this notion into the jumbled composition of my identity. It is incomprehensible to me how I – middle-aged, clueless, the indoor-type, a smoker – could get up one day and run a marathon.

cinco de mayo

2007-05-08T19:36:00.000-07:00

If I had any apprehension, it was just enough to respect the distance.

I usually dread the logistics, but not this time. The race started at the Arizona border and we had to reach it by bus, since Navajo 13, the first 20 miles of the route, would be closed for traffic. The buses departed from Shiprock at 6 am, and we stayed at the nearest available lodging, 30 miles west in Farmington. No use in fumbling for the bus staging area in the darkness before dawn, so the night before, after we checked into our hotel, we got right back into the car and drove to Shiprock to scout out the layout. Shiprock at dusk, with the squalor of its shacks, pawn shops, and junk yards, and the majestic, uneven crest of the volcanic cone that dominates the entire landscape, blended the dismal with the mystical.

The morning bus ride itself followed the full course, and as any drive along the route it made me a bit queasy. We were driving and driving, we were driving until the sky lit up and the soil turned reddish approaching Arizona, and it seemed incomprehensible to me that I would cover all that distance. Bracing itself on the upward road, even the bus was panting. Or was it the wind roaring? The good part was I would run back downhill.

A small race. 80+ marathoners, and about as many relay teams. Someone from Missouri, someone from Florida, a couple of Indians from Canada, a runner from Grand Britain. Most of us were in shorts, and frigid wind bit into shivering flesh. A circular wall of clouds ringed the expanse of the horizon. Under half-blue skies and gold-rimmed clouds, for a minute or two, at the start line, it snowed. The moon lingered evanescent in the west, and three Navajos chanted to the beat of drums. Few times in my life have I felt such happiness.

A runner from a Canadian tribe blessed the trail in his own language, and off we went.

For a couple of miles I kept behind a bow-legged Indian with an i-Pod and a red bandanna, not knowing that by the end of the day I would take his shape. Then the sun rose over the wall of clouds, holding me next to an Indian woman in a fixture of light. I do not know her face or her age, I did not turn to look at her. I only know her waist-long pony tail swinging black above a black outfit. But I thought for a while that, if I had been born 5000 miles to the West, we could have been friends. She was running relay, and I stayed at her side until her station was in sight and she sprinted ahead.

I took it easy at first. It was only the beginning, my legs were numb from the cold, and we faced a slight incline. But after the highest peak I took it easy as well, since I had never run so steeply downhill, and did not know how to handle it.

The sun illuminated our path, and the course was visible for miles ahead, a bejeweled belt laid across the hipbones of the desert. The dawn enhanced New Mexico’s beauty to eerie, breathtaking purity. With Navajo 13 closed for traffic, except for the occasional official car, for miles we heard nothing but our own step, and the wind tearing at our bibs, growling through the gold-brown expanse of the plateau, the intensity of the sky, and the exhilaration of silence.

There were no mile markers. Aid stations – sometimes simply two people standing next to a car in the middle of the desert – were posed every two miles, but I lost track of count. Once or twice I glanced at my watch, but I could not grasp the lines on the screen, and what their position meant. It didn’t matter. Shiprock – the giant volcanic rock itself, not the town – was in sight from start to finish line, a timeless center holding us enthralled.

I ran in its spell for miles that got longer and longer, searching for the mysterious essence of this ground sacred to Indians, for the elusive vibration that would propel me to overcome my own melodramatic and indolent bent, the countless “don’ts” and “you can’ts” drilled into me from early on, the shadow of myself I was conditioned to embody.

The sun pulled on a hood of clouds, the temperature dropped, the muscles faded. At mile 13 I thought I had done 16. I was lagging behind my spirit. I ran.

The walking breaks I started to take somewhere after mile 10 were enough to warrant a few stretches and the smooth sipping of a half cup of water. I was ready at one point to give up this purist approach and just walk, but I saw the next station ahead, and I decided I could make it there. I had to ask three people what mile we were at before I got a definite answer. Mile 20. I smiled. Only six more miles to go.

I walked for a dozen yards, holding on to my water cup, and turned north on highway 491, only one of its four lanes closed, back to civilization and traffic. I started running again, and I found myself in a twirl of panic.

I was so exhausted I could cry. I had done at least 20 miles twice before, but with walking breaks – frequent, long, unmonitored. This time I reached mile 20 by running, and my legs felt as if they would break at the next step, they were not mine, and I could not coordinate them. My breath was coming out in a pitiful whine, my eyes darting back and forth in search of a place to collapse.

I remembered the idle thoughts of a few miles back: I was not supposed to be this helpless little girl they taught me to be. I remembered what I knew when I tackled that first mile 15 months ago: I am. I do. I can.

I struggled to pull myself together.

I have a way with words, and I have talked my way in and out of diverse situations over the course of 42 years. But I very rarely talked myself into anything. This time I did. It was fortunate no one was around me. I said it out loud: go – run – go – don’t think – just run – just do it – run lia run.

And I ran.

Mile 23 was the hardest. I hobbled myself up to an aid station manned by a single Indian woman. She asked me repeatedly if I was all right. Obviously not, but that was beside the point. I swallowed an energy gel. I slurped some water. I shed my boyfriend’s old sweatshirt that until then had sheltered me against the worst. And I ran.

Only three more miles to go. Uncharted territory, the miles I had never explored. Finally I caught up with a figure in black and white that had marked the horizon for a long, long time.

His accent was funny and I thought more than once to ask him about it, but I never got to it. It sounded Southern. He was cramping up, and timing himself – three minutes run, one minute walk. As soon as he broke loose from me he was yards ahead, and I had to fight to keep up. Whenever he walked, I caught up again, and got a few steps at his side before he sprinted once more. I wished those breaks were longer, and I was grateful he didn’t wait. He pulled me for the last two miles.

Only when the finish line was in sight did the rhythm change. We were walking next to each other, and he didn’t take off.

I said: “Whenever you go, I go.”

He asked “Are you ready?”

And we ran.

I always thought I would cry. I teared up innumerable times beforehand just thinking of it, the finish line after 26 miles. But I only cried when I saw my boyfriend rushing toward me under turbulent skies. Otherwise I just thought of throwing up.

There was a glitch in the relay of information, and the results for women marathoners were not updated for more than an hour. It took me endless stumbling through the wind gaining in fierceness before I eventually found out my time – a glittering line of digits and letters on a computer screen in the back of the truck belonging to the timing crew. 4 h 34 min 36 sec.

Once in the car driving back to Farmington, the sky split open and the rain gushed forth without mercy. But the work was done. Our trail was blessed.

I am

2007-05-07T07:43:00.001-07:00

...a marathon runner. 4 h 34 min 36 sec.

I will run a marathon

2007-05-04T08:57:00.000-07:00

Technically that is not correct. Inevitably I will walk part of the course.

The way I envisioned my first marathon (a lifetime ago), I would put in several 20-plus-milers before the race, so my body would be inured to the effort and I would conceive of the marathon as I approach now 10 or 13 miles – doable on any given day. The way I envisioned it, I would run my first marathon with sprezzatura

That was before the setbacks of the last months, minor as they were. I have not done a big run without walking breaks since the half-marathon race in January, Arizona.

That was before I moved the date of the marathon from “sometime in fall, whenever I am ready” to “before summer.”

What matters is to finish, I know. One day perhaps I will run a marathon for real – run it, run it through, without breaks. Maybe in autumn. Maybe at sea level.

But before then, inappropriate as the term may be, I will run a marathon any way I can. For as long as it takes. At 5,000 feet altitude. I will run through the desert. Tomorrow.

pacing

2007-05-02T07:51:00.000-07:00

If I extrapolate from my usual pace on the Academy track (about 12.5), I can finish the marathon in five hours and a half. Given that Academy is in part uphill, while the marathon course is mostly flat or downhill, I can probably finish in five hours.

Not that it really matters. To avoid low spirits, I gave up on monitoring splits during the big runs some time ago. In spite of numerous runs on treadmill, with all the numbers in front of me, I have not gained any experience in pacing myself. Sometimes a pace of 12 seems fast, and next day I can effortlessly go under 10. I ran all my races, whether 5Ks or halfs at the same pace, slightly under 10, which doesn't make much logical sense to me.

If, through some serendipity or alchemy or other miraculous doing, the energy of the race carries me, I might do it under five hours. The gun goes off at 7 am. I told my boyfriend to be at the finish line before noon and start looking toward the horizon.

giant run upcoming

2007-04-29T10:59:00.000-07:00

I finally got things on track again. I switched my big runs back to Saturdays, to be in tune with the race. Not that the body really cares whether it's any day of the week or another, just that I believe it gets inured to the rhythm: each seventh day, a big run. I did 13 miles. While I question how come I did not manage as much the week before, I also cannot grasp how I will double the output a week from now.

It is too late now to second-guess myself. We are in countdown mode. My boyfriend emailed me the other day at work: "giant run upcoming." Right.

I looked upon my 13 miles yesterday as a rehearsal run. I considered it a test of sorts. And I ran. I did not think so much about my own running, as of the runners out there whom I know without knowing, who are running this week-end. And I followed them in my mind, step after step, mile after mile: traveler022 braced against the cut-off time at Big Sur; Steve racewalking Eugene; the whole happy gang up north - Michelle, Eric, Rob doing their usual manic shenanigans, ultras and marathons back to back or not, with bleeding feet or not.

My 13 miles were over before I finished thinking.

just a thought

2007-04-25T18:49:00.000-07:00

My boyfriend claims I run because I cannot fly.

in a funk

2007-04-23T07:28:00.000-07:00

I meant to run 13 miles this Sunday, but I only managed ten. I guess I could have gone one more time around the Academy course, if it were a matter of life and death. But it was just the usual weekend trek, and my legs hurt even before I started. Sluggish, listless, and demotivated, I dragged myself through the hazy morning.

I have not figured out yet how I will fuel during the race. I feel pathetically unprepared. And I have lost the excitement, the frisson from a few days ago. When I think of the marathon, it's like "who signed me up for this?"

Paradoxically, my mileage this last week exceeded 40, while I never before went above 30. Just a quirk, since I ran the big run of the week before on Monday. A day here or there is a technicality that should not influence how I feel, but maybe I have not yet fully recovered. I'll try to squeeze in a massage in the days to come.

One way or another, I have to get my mojo back. Less than two weeks to go.

low points and high points

2007-04-18T14:54:00.000-07:00

You make plans and then life interferes. I meant to commit myself to the race for the remaining weeks, to work on core strength, to schedule my time around big runs. Instead the focus was broken by a flight to the East Coast and back and the emergency situation in between.

I could not imagine missing another long run, so I scouted out good places. More than once. Incessant rain had liquefied the ground, the roads stretched into unfamiliar woods, the weather was foreboding. One alternative that seemed safe was a 0.8 mile loop on solid pavement. But 0.8 miles? I would have to go around dozens of times for the run to make a difference.

I did not have a chance until the third day, Monday, one of the rainiest days of the rainiest April in the recorded history of the region. The rain thinned from the storm of the day before to a persistent drizzle, but the wind stayed gusty and the temperature in the low forties. The only thing that seemed appealing about this run was the altitude. At sea level, the oxygen would make breathing easy, it would increase my speed, it would jolt me forward.

My pace improved from roughly 12.5 at home to just under 11. Subjectively though I did not feel any easiness, any relief. It was the most brutal run I ever did, 28 times around the miserly loop, 22.4 miles. Perhaps it was the stress. Perhaps it was the exhaustion – I had an average of five hours night's sleep over the last 72. Perhaps it was the weather. For hours I pushed myself on and on, chilly to the bone, soaked in icy sweat, the running shoes heavy with water.

Two more loops would have brought the mileage to a perfect 24, and I meant to do them, even if I had to crawl. I did not because of time constraints. Instead I raced through a cold bath, a hot shower, and dressing up, and 40 minutes later I was ready for business again. I shivered for the rest of the day.

This is going to be the most I could do before the marathon. It has to be enough.

verging on being there

2007-04-12T07:38:00.000-07:00

I started living from week-end to week-end. I started to measure time by big runs and the mileage they can hold. I conceive of this spring as space beyond mile 20.

I will go on other journeys. Life will hold more adventures. There are still surprises ahead and acts of creation. But nothing, I already know, will be again like this. Like this spring, with the expanse of miles conquered and the elation of will.

This closing in on marathon day.

Even on the treadmill, now, I run with a destination.

smile at mile 20

2007-04-09T16:10:00.000-07:00

It’s winter in New Mexico… just kidding. It snowed during my big run on Saturday. For real. It snowed. For the duration of six miles, mile 14 through 20.

Mile 20. A bit too much, too soon again, but I figured I cannot go into a marathon four weeks from now with a base of 19 miles completed four weeks ago. My weekly mileage over the last months has been fitful and erratic, not at all the steady accretion I wanted. I did 13 miles the week-end before, and I was sore for days to come, and my morning runs were hard. Once again, I was scared of the big run.

All week long, when I thought about it, I told myself I can do it. I had done four loops last Sunday, I could do two more now. Two more loops. “I can do it.” I did six loops around the Academy track, roughly 19 miles, and an extra leg and back to complete 20 miles.

4 h 13 min. It wasn’t fun. I was still congested, and had to blow my nose every two miles or so. I have a hard time breathing when I run as it is, and obstructed airways didn’t help. I took a GU at mile 13. Oh, I hate energy gels. They give me a tummy ache. And I cannot sense any improvement afterwards anyhow. Why can’t we have a quesadilla instead?

The fog over the mountains never lifted, it was bitterly cold, all the runners disappeared from the track, it felt as if I was the last person on the planet still running. But the snowfall stopped, as if on cue, when I reached mile 20. I could not envision a single step beyond it, but loyal to the web address of my blog, I smiled.

Two more loops will bring me close to 26. Two more loops. Only six more miles. I can do it.

the drawing

2007-04-07T15:34:00.000-07:00

Here is the day. We drew lots for the Aveda lotion. I put all the names on pretty colored paper, and persuaded my boyfriend to act as the hand of fate. Which he did, with patience and some skepticism, as is his way. I did all the talking, he, he.

And the winner is the lovely Bre of Win or lose, we go shopping!. How aptly put. It's win, not lose. Aveda foot relief and a small surprise will be on their way to Bre next week.

This was fun. We have to do it again sometime. I will not find a more appropriate prize. Happy Easter!

senseless numbers

2007-04-05T14:47:00.000-07:00

When, over a year ago, almost overnight, for reasons I could not fathom, I started to obsess about running a marathon, I looked for significance in the number 26. I know it's silly and backward. But I thought that if could find something, a myth I could relate to, a link to something meaningful, then I'd be more comfortable with the idea, I could appropriate the notion, I could make the marathon mine.

I found out that the distance between Marathon and Athens, run by that faceless warrior of two milleniums ago, was actually close to 25 miles, and the extra length came about in the context of a race ending precisely in front of the seats of the British royal family. Oh well.

Since I grew up in Europe, for most of my life I thought about marathons, if I thought at all, in terms of 42 kilometers. Needless to say, I did not fare better with 42 than with 26.

A few weeks ago - I had already discovered Shiprock - I realized that if I run my first marathon before summer I will run it while I am still 42.

I know it's silly. But it made me feel good.

Okay, last chance between now and Saturday to sign up for the drawing - see the entry titled "Aveda foot relief."

one step at a time

2007-04-02T07:24:00.000-07:00

I started running with strictly one goal in mind: to run a marathon. It did not matter which, since any marathon was for me The Marathon. I did not know what I would do afterwards: whether I would put the gear away and stop running, whether I would continue training and racing, or whether I would carry on in maintenance mode, once or twice a week, two or three miles, to keep the muscles toned.

Once, when reading how Lora planned to graduate to ultras, I wondered whether at any point in time I would get contaminated and go the farther distance. And sometime this last Ianuary, when I still thought that I would run my first marathon in autumn, I said to my boyfriend, jokingly, reassuringly, that he does not need to worry, I won't do any ultras or triathlons this year. He looked up at me and I saw his eyes widen in horror at the prospect of a 2008 high-jacked by athletics.

I still don't know what I will do, except for the fact that I won't stop right after Shiprock. One marathon, I think, will not be enough to know what a marathon is.

I will run at least two or three.

five weeks to go

2007-03-29T07:31:00.000-07:00

The fact is old, but the confirmation is recent. A man ran around the world. The article doesn't say what he did in between continents - tread water? But I will not get hung up on technicalities. Here's someone who took running very far.

I did not run for six days. Sick within the triangle defined by flue, tonsilitis, and sinus infection, I could not breathe, I could not sleep, never mind running. My mileage last week was a meager six miles. This week - today, still congested and miserable - I attempted a 5k and finished it, slow and steady.

I started the taper for my marathon awfully early, isn't it?

Just kidding. I have five weeks to fully recover, and get back to mile 19, and then beyond it.

aveda foot relief

2007-03-26T18:13:00.000-07:00

It's a cool lotion. It's rich, and nourishing, and refreshing in a peppery way. Of course it's not going to take care of plantar fasciitis or anything of that sort. At best, we can lull our feet into a sense of false security.

I saw this kind of thing for the first time on Paris Parfait's
blog. Paris Parfait lives in Paris and loves antiques and she put up a French vintage clock for a chance drawing. Whoever would leave a comment on that post would have their name included, and she would ship it to the winner wherever he were.

I thought it was cool, but I did not leave a comment, since I don't like clocks. Time goes by without our monitoring it, and I do not believe too much in the essence of time anyhow.

A few weeks later, one night when plotting out my "big runs" over the oncoming week-ends interfered with my falling asleep, I dreamt or just envisioned putting an Aveda foot relief tube up for a drawing. In that half-conscious state between sleeping and waking, it seemed a great idea.

Fully awake, I am not so sure anymore. I mean to a certain extent it must be a gimmick of some kind. But my impulse that night was genuine, and I work for a salon & spa that uses Aveda products, and our poor mangled runners' feet could use some relief from time to time. A little massage, a gentle pampering, a skin-deep soothing at the very least.

So here I am. Whoever posts a comment on this entry between now and April 7th will be entered into a lot drawing. I'll have my boyfriend pick up the slip of paper from a bowl, if I manage to convince him to engage in such endeavor. Somewhere around 3 pm. And then I'll ship it to the winner, continental North America only please, otherwise postage is going to exceed the price of content, he, he.

Here's to our heroic feet!

must be insane

2007-03-23T12:02:00.000-07:00

It's spring in New Mexico and I must be out of my mind.

I can run about ten miles without drama... not without effort, not without strain, but without feeling overwhelmed. Ten. Not 13, not 16, not 19, and certainly not 26.

I ran 19 once and it took me half a day. I have had a backache for a quarter year now. I have a cold, again, which I ascribe to sheer exhaustion.

And I just signed up for a marathon.

my first marathon

2007-03-19T10:19:00.000-07:00

I signed up. I will run on May 5th.

Run, walk, whatever it takes.

The course starts near the border with Arizona, stretches east along the wind-swept plateau of northern New Mexico, declines from roughly 6,000 to 4,800 feet, and ends in Shiprock - a town so tiny we stay overnight in Farmington, another 30 miles to the east. The Shiprock Marathon.

It is a small race, without fuss and fanfare. It takes place entirely within the bounds of the Navajo Indian reservation.

It is in the middle of nowhere, it is at the heart of the desert, it is the center of the world.

my first marathon - considerations

2007-03-16T07:36:00.000-07:00

I don't want a huge, crowded race with thousands of people. That makes for an exuberant atmosphere, but somehow the running diminishes in importance. We end up stumbling over each other.

I don't want sea level. This will ensure a lovely running experience, but I will never be able to improve on it.

I doesn't have to be Albuquerque, although one day I plan to run a marathon here - uphill next to the ridge of the mountains, across the southern edge of the Sandia reservation, along the valley of the Rio Grande, outlining the city in the thin desert air.

It can't be too far, since my boyfriend only flies when it's a matter of life and death. We have to be able to drive there. I ran this last year alone, but when I run my first marathon I need someone at the finish line, and they can't be grouchy.

It doesn't need to be fast. I will probably walk stretches of it. My back still feels funny sometimes, but I am working on core strength. I will be ready.