The English Geek

Running Constellation (Moab Other Half Race)

"The bus will pick you up at 6:30 a.m.," the race information stated, but really, the bus didn't come until seven. That meant a half-hour of standing, shivering, in the cold desert morning. Behind me, the sun was just beginning to blue the night sky; in front of me, Orion blazed, bright as midnight, nearly setting behind the dark cliff. Orion is a hunter, not a runner (even though he chased the Pleiades across the sky), but he gave me a bit of courage at any rate. I'd been hunting something for the past year, after all: the achievement of a certain goal.
 
Last year, when I was training for the Snow Canyon half marathon, I had a thought: what if I could run more than one half marathon in a year? What if I pushed myself and ran four? I consulted the Internet for possibilities, and my nebulous plan began to take shape. Snow Canyon, then the Provo Half ; Hobble Creek in the summer, and Moab in the fall. Each race was a dot, a destination, a thing I drew a line toward as the twelve months progressed. The races kept me running even when I didn't want to run. The goal became my own personal constellation, a shape drawn out of seemingly-random dates.
 
Although I didn't get to run the summer race I wanted (Hobble Creek filled up in something ridiculous like 3.5 hours, so I did Provo Canyon instead, and I am still trying to cope with the fact that the race Ts were printed with the wrong date), I still kept running. The line drew me forward, the dates coming as my mileage increased, and seemingly-all-of-a-sudden I found myself in Moab, at the beginning of my last goal race, waiting for the bus. Listening to the other runners around me, looking at Orion, thinking about the nature of goals and achievement. I had my large goal (the four races), but to accomplish it, I had to break things down into smaller pieces, individual goals that made the larger one possible. The goal that drove me the most between race three and four came about because of a surprise: as I trained, and did a little bit of speed work, an odd thing had happened. I got faster. So I set my last small goal: I wanted to complete the Moab race in under two hours.
 
Now, honestly, there are lots of runners who would roll their eyes at that goal. I know plenty of people who run four (or five or six) full marathons in a year, with consistent seven-minute miles. They qualify for the Boston marathon. They log 100+ miles in a week. So my four halves must seem paltry in comparison, and my sub-two-hour goal? More than a little silly, because that requires only a 9:04 pace. I know that, compared to them, my little achievements are just that: small. But really, running is something personal. Unless you're one of the elite runners who has a good shot at actually winning the race, you mostly compete just with yourself. Plus, it's all comparative; I listened to one group of first-time half-marathoners on the bus, for example, who were discussing their goal: finish the distance.
 
And honestly, the "my goals are pitiful" doubts were out voiced by a louder complaint. Had I been selfish during those twelve months of training, putting my running needs before my family's? I invested both money and time in no one but myself. If I were a good mother and wife, would I have a compulsive need to accumulate milage and race Ts? I need to always have my "thing" that I am trying to accomplish. Or, the even bigger question: what to name the fault in me, the weakness that requires a race in order to keep running. Why can't I just run a few miles every other day and be content—why do I need a race to work toward?
 
What I can't make the person whose questions were a loud voice in my head understand is just how exhilarating a race is. Even when you're not riding the bus with a girlfriend, even when you're shivering in the cold waiting for the gun to go off, there is just something about a race. Other people's energy fills you up. You get to run a road you've never run before—and it's usually a beautiful one. A race gives you motivation because it isn't nebulous or vague, like running a few miles every other day is. It lets you have a process and something to work towards.
 
Plus, there's always a T shirt, even with the wrong date.
 
Finally, the buses arrived to take us to the start of the race, and I turned resolute: whether or not I had been blindly selfish over the past year, the only remedy was to run the best race I could. So I silenced the "you're selfish" voice and I hushed the "your goals are pitiful" voice. I put my head on the window and watched the scenery color itself, from bland pre-dawn shades to the burnished-with-new-sunlight the rock walls took on. The Moab Other Half Marathon (called the "other" half because the original, and more widely-known, race is run in March) goes down the scenic Route 128, a canyon carved by the Colorado River.
I wish it had a better name, something that explains how scenic it really is. The early settlers called it the "Heavenly Stairway" but I'd like to know an intricate and earthy Native American name. Narrow spots, and wide, sandy meadows; blind corners that open to views of towers and mesas. Some of the cliffs are sheer, some the tumbled accumulation of massive boulders, but all are red sandstone. Moki holes and desert varnish, the white La Sal mountains sometimes topping the red distances, the sage-colored Colorado slow and wide and constant. I don’t think I’ve run in a more scenic space.

 

The race starts at the skeleton of an old bridge. There were hot chocolate and coffee, big metal cans holding fires, and long bathroom lines. I took a few gulps of warm beverage, made it to the front of the bathroom line, then stood by a fire when some other runner graciously gave me his spot. There was music, and a guy with a megaphone encouraging everyone to get their sweat bags in the back of the truck. This time, I’d been smart (unlike the Provo Half): I wore pants over my shorts, and a sweatshirt, but I still waited until the very last second to take them off. Then it was time to line up. Since my goal was to run nine-minute miles, I lined up by the 8:30 pace sign, hoping I’d find someone to stick to who would keep me running just fast enough.

 

After the gun goes off, it still takes two or three minutes to get to the official start line. That affects your time, so I made sure to start my watch just as I crossed the line. There were Native Americans at the start line, beating drums, and for the first half mile or so, that was the pace I followed, passing (and being passed by) other runners. By the first aid station—mile three—I had found my pace and it was, surprisingly, much faster than I had expected, about 8 minutes and 45 seconds. I decided to do something I've never done before: walk through the aid station and take a few seconds to get more than my customary half-swallow of water into my body.

 

In mountain canyons, the direction is consistent: up the canyon, or down. So if a race is all downhill, I can deal with that. If it is all uphill, I can deal with that, too. Canyons in the desert, though, are different; they take you through a valley rather than up to something higher. What I loved about this course—and what made it the hardest course I've ever done—is that it's mostly rolling hills. The first few hills were no problem, but then other runners started passing me on the uphills. I'd pass them again going down. I kept pushing, though. I didn't want to fail. I didn't want to hold anything back. So I went as hard as I could up the hills, and as fast as I could down. I checked my watch every two miles, and I kept my pace within five or six seconds to 8:45. I walked through the aid stations, I drank water, I had my half Block every two miles.

 

I felt fabulous. My ITB didn't bother me at all. I felt strong and fast, lithe and nimble. Drawing energy from the desert. Even though it was probably rude—people passing me had to go around—I ran right down the middle of the road, on the yellow line. Up and down hills, through the gorgeous scenery. My running play list, set to shuffle, brought up just the right songs. I thought about how I'd trained for this race—fewer long runs, but five long hikes. I picked a person to pass at random, and then slowly gained on her, and then picked someone else. I kept up my sub-nine pace. I didn't hold anything back.

 

I felt like a runner.

 

Maybe for the first time during a race: I felt like a runner. A strong, lean runner.

 

And then I got halfway through mile eleven. Just a little more than a mile and a half to go. Suddenly my strong melted away. Suddenly fast passed me by. Suddenly I was running through mud, not air. Suddenly I had nothing left.

 

Running 7900 more feet seemed impossible. Running 79 more inches seemed impossible. I pushed forward through the mud of exhaustion by thinking of what I could blame it on: running out of water on yesterday's hike, not enough long runs, all those rolling hills I didn't train for, bad running karma brought on by passing others, hotel-room beds and how I never sleep well on them, not enough carbs or too much sugar.  I kept running, but barely. Everyone I'd passed passed me, having kept a reserve of energy for the end. I stopped looking at my watch and just went on hope that the rest of my miles had been fast enough to get me to my goal time.

 

The last little bit of the race turns off the canyon road. You run along a long, fence-lined dirt road that's the driveway for the Sorrell River Ranch. But it's not a straight shot. There's a 45-degree turn, and then another stretch, and then the finish line. That last bit seemed longer than all the other miles I'd already run. It stretched out in front of me, an impossibility. I kept running. I didn't pass anyone. I didn't look at my watch. I just pushed, as hard as I could, although it felt like nothing. The mud got thicker and thicker. I turned, finally. I saw the finish line. I pushed. I ran, but barely.

 

I passed the finish line, pushed STOP on my watch, and stopped running. I swayed. I didn't see Kendell, even though he is always at the finish line. I swayed, and then I tried not to sway. I didn't want to pass out. So I walked, and I looked for Kendell, and I finally stopped swaying, and I dared to look at my watch:

 

 
2:00:48

 

Forty-eight seconds. I missed it. I failed. I didn't achieve that goal that seemed, standing there by the Colorado river and trying not to sway or to cry, like the most important goal I could have ever achieved. Only I didn't. I stretched under a cottonwood tree and I wondered: how should I feel? Happy that I'd achieved the four-halves-in-a-year goal? Glad that I'd shaved three-ish minutes from my previous race time? Or downright disappointed in myself? Being me, of course I felt the latter. The litany of almost-good-enoughs in my life caught up with me for a few minutes, while I stretched there on the grass under the yellow tree by the river. I struggled to offer up the other ways of feeling as a dam to hold the flood back. It sort of worked.

 

I wandered around, looking for Kendell. Got some water, and a banana and an orange. Some chocolate milk for later. Finally I realized that he was probably back at the finish line, so I wandered back over there and found him waiting, right at the front of the line, camera up and ready. He thought I was running in pants, so he was watching for a girl in black pants, not black shorts. We laughed and I took a deep breath and showed him my time. I wanted him to be proud but I know he wanted me to achieve my goal too. I wanted him to tell me "that's OK, because how many people can say they've run four half marathons in one year?" and I wanted that to be balm enough.

 

Instead he said "You'll do it next time" and then told me how awful the parking for spectators was. But I wondered: will I? Will I do it next time? Will I ever be this close to my goal again? Did it take running four half marathons to get me that close, and if so when will I ever do that again?

I don't know. I was OK, though, with not bashing myself too badly on the ride back to the hotel. I was fine until Becky called, and I could tell in her voice that she was certain I had done it, and I had to tell her I didn't. Then I crumpled up on the hotel bed, the one I hadn't slept well on for two nights, and had an ugly cry. The cry that's full of disappointment, that gathers up all your failures into one lump of anguish, the one that leaves you exhausted and hopeless. Then I pushed myself up, took a shower, and went home, dreading the inevitable questions that would come. "How was your race?" people asked, and I hesitated before I could respond, every time. Wonderful and amazing, and at the same time, an abject failure.

 

That race was five weeks ago. Since then, I've gone running only twice. I don't want to lace up my shoes and hit the road. I can feel my strength and lung capacity dwindling. Maybe I just need a running break, need to take up another exercise for awhile. My heart tugs me back, though, to that feeling I had during the first eleven and a half miles. I want to feel like that again: fast, strong. Like a real runner. It was a sort of mythic feeling, somehow. Achievable only on rare days, when all the points become a shape, and the constellation was me, running in the desert, fast enough to catch something real.

Advil, Nevertheless*

If you do a long Saturday run without stopping for water, you're going to get a headache.

If you get a long-Saturday-run-without-water headache, it will be of the mildish sort, so you'll take a few Advil.

If you take a few Advil, they'll cure your mildish headache but not the general energy drain that comes from forgetting your Cliff Blocks.

If you're experiencing general energy drain, it'll affect your creativity, so you'll decide to abandon your scrapbooking project in favor of a trip to the fabric store.

If you take a trip to the fabric store, you might just find the exact fabric you didn't know you needed in order to finally make that really cute witchy Halloween quilt.

If you find the exact fabric, you'll buy it. You'll take it home and cut it up and start working on the witchy quilt and a new table runner for your kitchen pretty spot.

If you're caught up in sewing excitement you're going to stay up far too late for two nights in a row. You'll finish the table runner and start on the witchy quilt.

If you stay up far too late for too many nights in a row, you're going to get a very non-mildish headache. The kind of headache that lasts for three days and makes even thinking difficult. The kind that no known medication even touches. Especially not Advil.

If you get a non-mildish headache, you're going to be nauseated by the thought of running. Running will be the last thing you think you could ever deal with, down there on the bottom of the list underneath things like scrubbing toilets, eating anything, or moving without wincing.

If you can't deal with running, you won't run at all. Even though there's not that much time left before your next half marathon.

If you don't run enough before your last half marathon, you'll feel anxious about the upcoming race. You'll probably decide, once your headache has finally and blessedly gone to wherever headaches go, that you need to put in one more long run, preferably ten miles.

If you decide to put in one more ten miler (after not running for 8 days), your ITB is going to flare up. On both legs. You'll have to stop running with a mile left to go, cursing your stupidity and your weakness and your *&$#%* headache, not to mention witchy quilts and table runners and the general need to always be working on some project or other you seem compulsively unable to avoid. You'll want to cry.

If you manage not to cry, and if "Authority Song" happens to come up on your random playlist, you'll at least be able to run the last half mile of your long run. Without crying.

If you finish your run without crying, you will still want to when you stop, because your knees will hurt and your legs will hurt and the back of your hip bones will hurt and you'll be exhausted because you'll realize that again: you ran too far without stopping for water. Or any Cliff blocks.

And chances are, if you ran too far (again!) without water, you're going to have a headache along with all those other aches.

Nevertheless, at least it's the kind of headache that Advil will cure.

*with apologies to Laura Joffe Numeroff, whose rhetorical style I have (none-too-successfully) hijacked for this post.

The Race that Taught Me to Not Be Afraid

Looking back at the different half marathons I’ve run, I can see some small piece of self-knowledge I’ve gained from each of them. Maybe that’s an odd thing to say about running 13.1 miles because it is, on its surface, a sheerly physical experience. Finding the strength to keep your feet moving, worrying about glycogen levels and anaerobic thresholds, pushing your muscles. But dig a little bit deeper—start running yourself—and you discover that it’s an equally mental experience. Not "crazy" mental (well, maybe it’s that, too!), but mental as in: how much longer can I get my mind to coax my body into doing what I want? As in: what do I do with my thoughts during two hours of racing, not to mention the hours of training? As in: how do I believe in my soul that I can do this enough to make my reality be that I can do this? All that mental and physical work combines, in the race, to teach me something about myself. The Snow Canyon half (the first half I’d run—the first race I’d run—in 3+ years) taught me that I don’t have to fear downhills and reminded me that I can trust my body because it’s stronger than I think. At the Provo City half, I learned that I am the only person who can get me through hard times, even though it helps to have people you love cheering you on.

Today I am trying to put into words what I learned at the race I ran on Saturday morning, the Provo Canyon Half. Because, you know, at every half marathon I’ve done, there’s been a moment of disbelief: Just exactly why am I doing this? Generally it comes on the bus, when I realize it’s been going for a long time and I have to run back. Yesterday it happened when I climbed off the bus at 5:27 a.m. at the freezing top of the canyon. It felt simply autumnal all day on Saturday, but Saturday morning, in the blue-black pre-dawn mountains? In shorts? I was freezing. And I had 90 minutes to think about how cold I was. Even the monumentally-long bathroom line ended up not killing much time, since there were 28 or so porta potties, not to mention people climbing hills to pee au naturale. To stay warm, I wandered around the crowds of waiting people, occasionally stopping to stand close enough to a random group that I could absorb some of their body heat but not close enough that they started thinking "who’s this weirdo standing by us?"

As the sky very slowly lightened, changing the fleur-de-lis silhouettes on the tops of the mountains into trees, I thought about the 10k race I ran on July 24 (Pioneer Day here in Utah). I had set a goal for myself to achieve at that race, and I thought I’d achieve it. But I held back a little bit. I’m always afraid, during a race, that I’ll go out too fast at the beginning, and then not have enough energy to finish. But at that 10k, when I had about one-quarter of a mile left, I started running as hard as I could and I found I had a whole wellspring of energy left. I didn’t make my goal time, though—I missed it by four seconds—and I went home thoroughly discouraged with myself. If I had pushed myself a little bit harder, I would have not only accomplished my goal, but run the race even faster than I thought I could.

I let fear hold me back at that 10k, and that’s what I determined not to do, walking around and shivering before the start of my half. I decided that I would push myself as hard as I could. That I wouldn’t hold back—wouldn’t let fear hold me back. That by the end of the race, I would have used up every ounce of energy I had. It took ninety minutes of walking around in the cold, trying to not feel like the world’s biggest loser (since I was the only one there not with a big group of friends)listening to odd bits of conversation, shivering, and thinking for me to realize that maybe it hasn’t been my body that’s kept my speed down, but my mind.

There were so many people at the race that it took me three minutes after the gun went off to even get to the starting line. I started my timer as I went across the line so I could make sure my miles were fast enough to accomplish my goal, and I was off. The thing about races like this one—when everyone starts clumped together in a random group—is that super-fast runners end up right next to really slow ones. There’s a lot of passing during the first mile or so, a lot of running around people and hoping you don’t trip. I even knocked into one girl, completely by accident, and we both almost went down. Luckily she wasn’t grumpy about it; we both laughed and apologized and went on our way. Down the canyon. The first four miles seemed to speed by, although by the third mile I could tell I was starting to get a blister or two. (I need new shoes but didn’t have time to break them in before the race.) I checked my watch at each mile and I was right on target.

At mile six, there was an out-and-back section. I know some runners don’t like out-and-backs, but I love them. The out- part was uphill—a relief from the constant downhill that formed the rest of the race—and honestly: I like the -back part because it lets me see that I’m not the last person. At the end of the out-and-back, a girl crept up behind me, then next to me, then just a little bit ahead. She was a tiny thing, blonde, wearing a pink running shirt. And I thought no way. No way was I going to let her pass me. It wasn’t personal. She just became the thing I wouldn’t let get by me, that I had to run faster than. For almost the rest of the race, she stayed just far enough behind me that I could see her shadow out of the corner of my eye. Whenever I’d start to lag even just a little, her shadow would get closer and that determination would kick in again. I told myself to ignore the blisters (even though it seemed like they got bigger with every step I took; I thought I could almost hear them growing) and the slight ITB twinge I was getting. All that mattered was that her shadow stayed behind me.

I don’t know her name, and I probably wouldn’t recognize her face, but I’m so grateful for that girl. She kept me going, kept me pushing myself, made sure that I didn’t let fear get a hold of me. All the way down the canyon I managed to keep her shadow at the corner of my eye, and at the last mile—a long stretch of hot pavement winding through an electrical power plant and industrial buildings, quite the shock after twelve cool miles through the trees—I found I had enough left to pick up the pace even more, so that my first mile and my last mile were my fastest. She wasn’t in my peripheral eyesight at all. I left her behind.

The last quarter mile of the race was crowded with spectators. I heard someone shout my name—"Amy Sorensen! Keep going!"—but I don’t know who that was. I knew Kendell would be somewhere by the finish line, but I didn’t see him. Just knowing he was there was enough; I ran as hard as I could till the very end. My time—2 hours, 4 minutes, 22 seconds—still isn’t amazingly fast. But it is 12 minutes faster than the last half marathon I ran. And it’s only four minutes, 23 seconds away from my next goal: a half marathon in under two hours. That will be my goal when I run Moab in a few months. While I’m training, I’ll try to run with that same edginess I had yesterday, try to keep pushing myself harder. Because this race taught me: I don’t have to be afraid.

(This is my favorite race photo, EVER. I'm serious. Also: I didn't include a photo of my blisters but HOLY COW. My three middle toes on my left foot are each entirely blistered along the bottom. I've never been hobbled by blisters but these ones? Have hobbled me.)

Hard Run

I've not been running for almost two weeks. I got a cold, and then it finally went away, but as is my body's wont, I'm hanging on to the cough. Climb stairs? Cough cough cough. Take a deep breath? Cough cough cough. Start laughing hysterically? You guess it: cough cough cough. Tired lungs are not a good thing to take along on your run. Throw in some out-of-control hayfever (Singular is letting me down this year!) and running has seemed impossible.

But I miss it. I need it. So I went running this morning anyway.

Here's the thing I always struggle with, starting up again: my mind can deal with the long distances, but my body can't. Some runs are awesome; sometimes running feels like it does when I dream about running. Effortless. Today? Today was a hard run, even though I went slow. Every breath hurt, and my ITB hurt, and my feet. I was itching to go long but my my body got all sarcastic: yeah, not so much. I guess four miles was too long to start with.

In fact, I didn't even make my entire route. I did something I never, never, ever ever do: I walked the last quarter-mile or so. Lungs and knees were just not ready for any sort of distance yet. But even though it hurt, and I sort of felt like a failure for walking home, I'm glad I finally started again. Good runs don't require much mental coaxing, but the hard runs? The runs where you think "I want to stop right now" with every single step? They need lots of positive mental conversation. It's probably a very good thing that no one can hear what goes on in my head while I'm running. It's the only time I act like a cheerleader. "Just keep going! You can do it! Just a little bit longer! You're doing great!" There can't be any room for self-doubt or for negative mental conversations. I'm the only one who's going to make me keep going, and it takes all the positivity I can uncover to do it.

And like the runner's high that lingers on days when I've going running (even on hard-run days), the mental benefits of all that self-cheering stick around for the day. And that, really, is why I keep running. Not as much for the weight control and everything else that's good about exercising. It's because I need that time when, rather that my usual negative self banter, I'm cheering myself on. It's also why I think everyone should be a runner, but that's a different post for another day.

Solitary Run

I was feeling a little bit sorry for myself at the start of the half marathon I ran on Saturday. For one, the cool-but-sunny morning I had hoped for hadn’t happened. Instead it was freezing: low thirties with intermittent snow. And not just snow, but spitting snow, splayed through the air by bitter wind. Plus, I wasn’t sure I was ready. No; I was certain I wasn’t ready. My longest run since my last half was only seven miles. I was afraid my ITB would start to hurt, or that I wouldn’t have enough stamina to finish. But what really had me gloomy was a little bit of down-right pathetic loneliness. My friend who I’d planned to ride to the race with had decided not to run it. And even if she had come, she’s much faster than I am, so it’s not as if we’d have run the race together. As I walked from the parking lot to the starting line (bundled up in a wind breaker, a long-sleeve, insulated turtleneck running shirt, gloves, and ear warmers, yet already shivering), it seemed like everyone around me had someone to run with: husbands and wives, big groups of friends. Wouldn’t it be nice, I thought, to have a friend to run with? Someone with a similar pace and a similar crazy desire to run long distances, even in the cold?

I wasn’t sure what to do with my race number. Usually I pin it somewhere low on my shirt, but I didn’t want it underneath my jacket; plus, there was the off chance that it would magically warm up, and I could unzip my jacket—which would be problematic if my number was pinned across the front of it. Plus I couldn’t stand the thought of listening to it crinkle and rustle in the wind. I’ve a weird thing about sounds when I’m running. I don’t carry a water bottle, for example, because the sound of the water sloshing around with each step makes me want to hurl. A number rustling in the wind would make me equally nauseous. So I walked up to a complete stranger—an older, grandmotherly-type woman even more bundled than I—and asked her to pin my number on my back. I asked another complete stranger where to put my timer, as I’ve never run a race with one. (It goes around your ankle. Good to know.) And that, dear reader, was the extent of my race conversations.

So I wasn’t very cheery or optimistic when the gun went off. Except—it is hard to maintain gloom when you’re running in a big group of cheering runners, even if you feel like you’re the only one there without a friend. The cold began dissipating as I began to run, and even with the course’s only real uphill, I managed an exactly-nine-minute pace for the first mile. I didn’t even turn on my music, just ran and thought, trying to find my stride, listening to the voices around me, blurred from individual words to sound by my ear warmers. The swish of my jacket, the staccato of feet hitting the pavement, that tiny sound a snowflake makes, falling on your shoulder. Suddenly the cold seemed perfect; my cheeks were stinging with the snow, and occasionally my eyelashes filled up with it, but the rest of me was pleasantly warm.

The miles slid past. The first three felt fast and easy; by mile four I had slowed down a bit, the road’s berm beginning to take its inevitable toll on my ITB, starting the painful numbness along the bottom outside of my knee that's something akin to that feeling you get when you bump your elbow on something—but nothing too painful. I turned my music on, took a bite of Cliff Blok and a gulp of water at the four-mile water station, and settled into my run. Despite the cold, the nervy knee pain, the want of a running friend, I found that place in my head, the one that makes me love running, a quiet zone that must, by its very definition, be void of the negativity that’s usually sprinting around in my head. It’s not even a place that’s filled with encouragement. It’s just...quiet.

At about seven and a half miles, though, my body was like "OK, that’s as far as we need to go. That’s as far as we usually go. That’s as far as we’ve gone for a long, long time. That’s as far as we’re going. Really? We’re going to keep going?" and my quads were starting to sing an unpleasant tune. My quiet place slipped away. This part of the race was on a country road weaving through cold fields. Horses galloped their own races, up to and away from the road, a course only instinct could show them. Then it met up with the lower part of the Provo River Trail, which I’ve never been on, a tunnel through still-naked trees and swampy bits of marshes, then houses. Out of my quiet spot, I had to coax myself not to stop, and my pace became a mantra: keep going, keep going. Every once in awhile, a huddled group of people would appear on the side of the trail, cheering the runners on. As I ran, and ran, and ran, I started thinking about my loneliness at the beginning of the race. I watched the three girls I’d been following for the past two miles, listened to their voices, saw the way their strides all matched. But I wasn’t lonely anymore.

Instead, I remembered: this is what I do. Most things, for me, aren’t about doing with someone else. Mostly I am alone. And it wouldn’t matter, anyway, even if I’d come to that race with 18 other friends who also ran some miles in nine minutes and others in eleven, because in the end, everyone has to run the race on her own. The friend next to you can’t run it for you. No one else could be that voice in my head, the one saying keep going, keep going. No one else but me could hush the "you’re not strong enough to do this" voice. No one else but me could make me just keep going. And probably I wasn’t getting enough oxygen, but it started to feel like that’s how life is, too, not just running. People at your side make it easier. The cheering of spectators along the way gives you bits and bursts of energy. The thought of someone waiting for you at the finish line helps pull you along. But no one else runs the race. Just you, alone, pushing along.

I found a long-buried poem, C.P Cavafy 's "The Road to Ithaca," surfacing in my mind. "Hope your road is long," I kept thinking, instead of keep going. I had started with Laistrygonians in my soul, had brought along my demons, but I had dropped them along the way. Exhausted, my legs wanting to stop, I didn’t want the race to end, didn’t want to get to the finish line. I wanted instead to keep running, to keep wanting to get to the end, to keep anticipating it while I grew "rich with all I gained on the way." To have the running be the point of everything, and not the end of running. But it came anyway, the end. I ran the last block, looking for Kendell and the kids, and when I saw them at the finish line I nearly cried I was so glad to see them—to know I managed the race alone, as I had to, but also not alone, because they were waiting for me, filled with a new knowledge that life is always like that, that everyone is both alone and not alone, and that there are people cheering us on, and that someone is always waiting for us at the end.

"The Road to Ithaca"
~ C. P. Cavafy

When you set out for Ithaka 
ask that your way be long,
full of adventure, full of instruction.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - do not fear them:
such as these you'll never find
as long as your thoughts is lofty, as long as a rare
emotion touch your spirit and your body.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - you will not meet them
unless you carry them in your soul,
unless your soul raise them up before you.

Ask that your way be long.
At many a summer dawn to enter
- with what gratitude, what joy - ports seen for the first time;
to stop at Phoenician trading centres,
and to buy good merchandise,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensuous perfumes of every kind,
sensuous perfumes as lavishly as you can;
to visit many Egyptian cities,
to gather stores of knowledge from the learned.

Have Ithaka always in your mind.
Your arrival there is what you are destined for.
But do not in the least hurry the journey.
Better that it lasts for years,
so that when you reach the island you are old,
rich with all the you gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.

Ithaka gave you the splendid journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She hasn't anything else to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka has not deceived you. 
So wise have you become, of such experience
that already you will have understood what these Ithakas mean.

Bugging Me.

You want to know what's bugging me? The new light they installed a few blocks away from my house. It's been operational for at least two months and I have very literally NEVER managed to drive through it without stopping. EVERY TIME I get to that intersection, the light is red. What are the odds? But I am not joking.

I'm also feeling bugged tonight with slow people. You know---the ones in their cars on the freeway, driving 62 mph in the fast lane. Do they not notice the annoyed looks coming from the cars passing them ON THE RIGHT?

And speaking of slow. Don't get me wrong: I love shopping at Costco, and in terms of slowness at least it's faster than Walmart. But, when I went there yesterday, I was surrounded---nay, drowned by slowness. There was a cart jam at the front door, no doubt caused by the woman walking very slowly down the middle of the entrance aisle, talking on her phone and yet still possessing the uncanny ability to steer to the left at the exact same time anyone behind her also steered to the left, thus preventing the ability of anyone to pass her. Then there was the lady in the produce section who completely blocked off the exit with her cart while yapping on her phone and agonizing over which carton of strawberries to put in her cart. Lest you think that it was really cell phones (or people unable to talk and, you know, think at the same time) bugging me, the slowest of all the slowest slow thing? The pharmacy. They're usually slow to begin with, and the words "Your prescription will be ready in 45 minutes" really translates into "your prescription will be ready in one hour, fifteen minutes, and however long you have to stand in line at 5:45 pm while we've only got ONE pharmacy tech checking people out."

But when it all comes down to it, what's really bugging me is my knee. I finally decided: I'm going to stop putzing around and get busy training for my half marathon . It's only, like, two and a half weeks away. What's the rush? So I actually got out of bed at 6:00 on Monday and hit the road. I did just short of five miles, which shouldn't have been a big deal. But about two miles in, my IT band flared up. Usually, a few miles into my run, my left IT complains a little bit. I lengthen my stride and focus on extending my back leg as far as I can, and the complaint is silenced. But not on Monday. No, on Monday it wasn't just complaining. It was howling. No, wrong metaphor: it felt like an electric shock shooting up and down the side of my leg that never let go of my knee. Then, when I hit the uphill to get home, both IT bands lit up. I kept going of course, because what else do you do when you're a mile away from home? Catch a cab?

The very second I stopped running, the electrical storm passed. But if I turned it the wrong way, or dared climb a flight of stairs, or had to even jog somewhere at any sort of speed, it lit right back up. I've since been icing, and loading myself up on Ibuprofen, and making Kendell give me massages, and stretching like crazy. I'm going to go out again tomorrow morning and hopefully avoiding hills will make everything better. But the deep-down thing that's bugging me? It's the voice that's insisting I've ruined everything, that I won't make it through the race, that I will never run again. That my downhill slide starts today: I'll put back on the 32 pounds I've lost, and then some. Even my fat clothes will be tight. And I'll become diabetic, which will cause me to lose my mental stability and a few toes as well. And I'll die far too young, of something that could have been prevented if only I could have exercised more. And, even worse: I'll never feel it again, that I-love-being-this-strong feeling that comes at the end of a good hard run, that doesn't have anything to do with speed or strength or running ability, but with perseverance. Or the joy of running uphill. Or just how good morning runs really are, even though I usually have a hard time getting out of bed.

Yeah.

THAT's what's really bugging me right now, making me alternate between cranky and overly emotional (for example, I had a little quite moment of weeping alone in the bathroom because Haley didn't like the swimsuit coverup I bought her. The one I was certain she'd love ). That's what's making it impossible for me to deal with slow drivers, or the guy at the checkout counter who spent five minutes sifting through coupons to find just the one he needed, or, you know, things like my children and my husband. I just want to curl in fetal position and bawl my eyes out.

Of course, I think fetal position isn't good for your IT band.

I also think I'm putting way too much meaning behind tomorrow's run. It'll feel like the end of the world if my IT flares up again. It'll feel like I'll never run again, and really: what other thing is there to do for exercise? I love it.

So wish me luck tomorrow. Wish my tight IT bands supple flexibility and the ability to not be annoyed by repetition.

Otherwise I think a good deal of crazy's about to ensue.

Begin Again

Tight tendons. Weak muscles. Tired lungs. Everything, in fact, complaining.

But I finally did it: started running again.

I've only hit the pavement five or six times since my half marathon in November. The holidays got in the way, and the cold weather, but I'm starting to feel really soft. I need to start exercising again! I finally got some mojo back when I stumbled on this half marathon---close to home, and not a bad course, and, well, close to home! I wish I didn't need a race to get me motivated, but there you go: I do. Whatever it takes, right?

It was a cold run this morning, and probably I should have gone to the gym instead, because the air was dirty. I felt like I'd eaten dirt once I'd finished and cooled down. But it felt so good to be outside, running again that it was worth it. I'm just left with the question I ask myself every time I drop the exercising ball: why do I ever stop when doing it makes me feel so good?  

The second thing I'm beginning again: cooking real meals.

I've been feeling terribly frustrated with dinner. It seems like there's nothing I can cook anymore that some child doesn't complain about. After the Lasagna Incident (which involved actual puking) I have thrown up my hands in cooking despair. We've pretty much lived on pasta, cheese tortillas, and cold cereal since then. I'm not the kind of mom who cooks four different things for four different kids. I think I'm a good cook, and I think they should be able to eat what I cook. If they don't like it, then they can eat it anyway or be hungry.

That's supposed to work, right?

Well, it hasn't. And I've been discouraged. But I'm trying again this week. Not that I think anything will change---I'm 100% certain that someone will complain about every single meal I've planned. I'm just trying to encourage myself to take a deep breath and ignore the complaining. I can't just give up, right? I finally got organized this afternoon, planned the upcoming meals, and went grocery shopping. Kendell went with me, so it wasn't quite as stressful as it usually is when it's just Kaleb and me. In fact, Kendell kept Kaleb happy, walking him around the store and looking at stuff, so I shopped all by myself. Nearly a pleasant experience that way! At any rate, here's my upcoming meals, just so I don't forget:

• Sweet pork burritos

• Lemon chicken and brown rice

• Chicken pot pies (with the leftover lemon chicken of course!)

• Beef stroganoff (a new recipe I am trying)

• Italian pasta bake

What's for dinner at your house this week?

Snow Canyon Half Marathon: Race Report

The short version:
race #: 638
Finished in 2:04:22.5, for a 9:29 Min/Mi pace
42nd in Women 25-39
4 Clif Bloks consumed
Gorgeous weather
Fantastic course
Great company
Only embarrassment: my headband slipped down, so I have a lovely sunburn line right across the middle of my forehead
Aches and pains: quads and my second-to-littlest left toe, which really cannot any longer be considered to be a toe, but simply a blister with an attached toenail
End-of-the-race photo (thanks Jessica!) :

(me, Jessica, Hayley, Taunya)

The Long Version: (as if I could just leave it with the short version!)

When you're running for 2+ hours, you have a lot of time to think. Even with music coming through my headphones, my thoughts kept running all over the place. From mile 4-ish to somewhere in the middle of the seventh, I thought about how I would write about the race. Of course, there are tons of details to include. Like how the route was way more hilly than I expected or planned for, both up and down but consistently losing altitude, so today my quads are killing me. Or how the out-and-back part, on the dirt road, seemed to be everyone's least favorite spot, except for mine. Me, I loved how intimate the contact felt with the canyon, on the dirt road nearer the canyon walls. Plus, having an out-and-back portion helped calm my starting-to-paralyze-me fears over coming in dead last; on the -back part I could see there were still plenty of people behind me. Or even how, during the last mile, my feet hurt so badly that the stones in the asphalt each seemed to be a tiny dagger slicing right through my shoes' tread, down through the balls of my toes and right to the bones.

But what I am not sure of how to do is to relate, with the details, how the race felt for me. It's an odd thing to say about a bunch of people running down a canyon, for feet on pavement, but the race had a certain spirit for me. Yeah---that does sound weird. But I'm going with it. I started feeling it while we stood near the starting line, waiting for the race officials to smooth out some problem with the aid stations. The color of the light, the shadow-and-sunspot pattern on the sandstone walls, the blue sky with its few streaks of clouds. Then, the sudden and steep downhill. You know that I'm literally fearful of downhills, right? So I started out a little bit hesitant. I immediately lost sight of Jess, Taunya, and Hayley, my racing compatriots, but then, I knew I would: they were always going to be faster than me. With all that initial downhill, it was a little bit hard for me to get a good pace going; I'd trust myself enough to speed up a little bit, but then I'd get unsure and pull back a bit. I'm certain the runners around me, who I'd pass and then let pass, must have thought I was crazy.

Once we got off the road, though, and onto a biking trail, I was feeling better. Settling into the run. While I ran, I looked at the landscape. Here and there were trails, sandy little divets winding through the cactus and sagebrush, and I'd have these wild little desires to take the trails instead. At mile 4, the route went off the bike trail and onto that dirt road, and that was when I really felt great, even though there were racers already coming down when I was only half-way up the road. I found myself passing other runners, especially on the uphill parts---feeling quick, really quick, passing people on uphills. (Even though that "quick" feeling is really subjective; I think I'm still slower than the majority of the other runners in the race.)

At the aid station by the turn-around spot, I suddenly remembered Becky telling me that I should start taking my Bloks early on in the race. So I grabbed one out of my pocket (the boys shorts worked perfectly!), chewed it up, and grabbed some water. That was the way I handled all the aid stations: a Blok, or just a half Blok, and a few mouthfuls of water. The aid stations were spaced out perfectly for me, so just as I felt I was starting to run out of energy, that half a Blok kept me going. I never really felt spent.

After the out-and-back, we continued on down the canyon. Somewhere along the approximately 892nd hill, I was no longer afraid of going down. I don't know why at all. Suddenly I was just flying, feeling fast and lethal---but going downhill. From then on, I used the downhills to add a little speed to my time, or to pass people I couldn't stand to be behind for one second longer. (Like the girl whose lower legs flew up at an odd angle at every step, or the man whose grunting breaths I could hear over my music.)

Maybe that fast-and-lethal feeling (again...keeping it subjective and in comparison to my running friends' 8-minute miles) is what gave the race its spirit. Or my sudden downhill fearlessness. Plus the perfect weather, the gorgeous route, the feeling I had of being in shape, healthy, strong. It's hard to put a name on it. I know my speed isn't anything impressive. But I still felt this little inward glow of self-satisfaction. It felt like I was supposed to be there, running that race.

When I took my shoes off after the race, my toe looked like this:

A lovely, multi-layered blister. With different colors of pus, even! My feet hurt, my IT bands ached, and I had that weird soreness I get right above the back of my pelvis. My quads were already tight. But it was worth it for that little inward glow. Runner's high, maybe. Or racer's high. Figured-out-running-sustenance high, runs-down-hills-with-confidence high, running-in-the-desert high. Whatever.

It's a good glow.

November Gratitudes: The Running Edition

(Admittedly, I’ve tried this every year: write every single day in November, something I am grateful for. I’m trying it again this year, although, who am I kidding: I’ve not been so successful at blogging every single day. Here it is, ten minutes before November 1^st ends, and I’m trying to squeeze it in. Still, worth another shot, yes?)

Some running things I am grateful for:

1. Cliff Bloks.

The last time I ran a half marathon (August 2004), the thing to do, about halfway through your long runs, was Gu. Gu is this gloopy stuff. Full of electrolytes and instant energy, true. But gloopy. Like trying to swallow a heaping tablespoon of mayonnaise. Or snot. Fruit-flavored snot. I don’t do well with that kind of texture, but I managed to suffer through the Gu when I had to.

This week, I finally made it into the running store, and along with my nifty new socks, I left with some Cliff Bloks. Same benefits of Gu, only without the nearly-makes-me-hurl side effects. They’re sort of the texture of gummy worms, only a little bit firmer. I am a happy girl!

2. Running shorts with pockets. Apparently, companies like Nike and Addidas don’t think women need or want any type of pocket in their running shorts. Maybe they think that all female runners have a male runner to carry their stuff for them. Or that they just don’t need to carry anything with them when they run. Maybe the Nike execs think we run with our purses over our shoulders? Or maybe I’m just strange because I can’t stand to run with a fanny pack or a fuel belt slung around my hips. They make too much noise, and the sloshing sound of water in a bottle makes me nauseous. Honestly, I can’t even stand to hold anything. So I run with my key tied to my shoe. Maybe most women aren’t bothered by carrying stuff while they run, and make up for the lack of shorts with pockets by using said fanny packs and/or fuel belts.

Just not going to work for me.

So I started shopping. And seriously, I’ve looked everywhere I could think of for a pair of long-ish shorts with pockets. Why long-ish? Well, this spring at Target they had some long-ish running shorts. I bought a pair to try out. Then I went back and bought three more. They are perfect for me, because I am not blessed with Thighs That Don’t Touch. Yep, I’m admitting that publicly: my inner thighs touch. When I’m running, get this: they rub. Which means one thing: inner thigh rash. Not pleasant! So those cute little running skirts? Yeah. Tried a few on, and the cute little undershorts they come with? Not long enough to cover my fat inner thighs.

When I wear normal running shorts (the cute short running shorts) I also have to wear a pair of short (but not as short as running shorts) bike shorts underneath. Fifty-nine different layers? Seriously frustrating. So those long short shorts from Target have been heaven. I love them.

Except they don’t have pockets.

And even though I’m sure there’ll be Gu at some of the aid stations at the race, I’m not sure at all that there will be Bloks. And having done just one run with the aid of the Bloks, I am fairly paranoid to be without them. So I need long-ish shorts with pockets. To carry my bits of Cliff genius.

I did find a few pair of long-ish shorts. But nothing with pockets. Tonight, though, I had a stroke of genius, right there in the middle of Gart Sports: what about men’s shorts? Of course I would have to sacrifice the color choices you find on the woman’s side—chartreuse, magenta, lavender, raspberry—but it’s a sacrifice I was willing to make. Sure enough: nearly every single men’s long-ish shorts had pockets. What is up with that? Even better (because the men’s shorts were annoyingly wide), somewhere along my trek into the men’s side of the running section, I found myself in the youth section. So I grabbed some extra large boy’s shorts, too.

And, you know, after finally finding an employee who actually worked at the store and was willing to drag herself away from her discussion with the eight other employees who couldn’t bear to help me, just to get the dressing room door unlocked, I found the perfect pair of shorts. True, they were made for a 16-17 year-old boy. But they fit me OK. And they’re plain black. They didn’t cost fifty eight bucks. And they have pockets.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been that happy in a dressing room.

3. Bathrooms. At least, somewhere. I needed to run for 100 minutes today—a rough estimate of 10 miles. (Told you I am slow!) I had my route on the Provo Parkway all planned out: I parked about half-way up the trail, so that I could run up for 25 minutes, then back down to my car for another 25, where I would scarf down the Blok (cranberry-pomegranate!), gulp a few mouthfuls of water, then head back down the canyon for another 25, and then up again for the last 25. But imagine my dismay when I discovered that at the parking lot I had chosen, the bathrooms were closed.

I can’t run for 100 minutes without visiting the little girl’s first. Who could?

So I decided to run to the next closest bathroom, a mile up the trail. It was closed. So then I ran down to the next closest—if three-ish miles is close—and it was closed. Luckily the fourth bathroom—38 minutes into my run—was open.

It’s rare for a person to be that grateful for a park bathroom.

And I guess agonizing over finding a bathroom is good a way as any to pass 38 minutes of running. After that, I had to just, you know, think. And stuff.

4. Survival. That 100-minute goal? I accomplished it. I was tired at the end, and my legs are sore tonight. But not too bad. Considering how I’m pushing my body, not too bad at all. I’m grateful to have managed it OK so far. And I’m greatly anticipating the race now that all the wrinkles have been ironed out.

Just don’t tell anyone that I’m running in boy’s shorts, OK?

How to Run and Eat Cake, Simultaneously

I can't do it, I thought, reading my friend Jessica's email about a half marathon she'd be running, there's no way I could be ready in time. Because, back in September when I realized the half I'd been training for was full, I stopped training. Kept running, of course, but only four or five miles a run. No Saturday long runs at all. There was no way I could be ready in four weeks.

I want to run this course

, I thought, reading online about the Snow Canyon Half Marathon. I've been to Snow Canyon once and thought to myself then (as I invariably think in any scenic landscape with a road) someone should plan a race here. It looks like this:
Gorgeous, yes? Looking at those photos from three years ago, thinking about challenging myself, there it was: I couldn't possibly be ready in time. But I wanted to run it anyway.

I'll just try some distance

, I thought, running on the treadmill one early morning. Just to see how far I can go. So last Saturday, I did—seven and a half miles in Provo Canyon. A nearly-perfect run—the autumn leaves lit up by the morning sun, the temperature just the right degree of chill, not cold enough to be cold, but nowhere close to warm. As I ran up the canyon, the runners coming down smiled hello at me and no one coming up behind me managed to pass me. And my legs—my legs felt awesome. Strong and fast and confident. My lungs were happy. I even had enough left at the end for a strong finishing push.

I can totally run this half marathon

, I thought, stretching on the bridge at the end of the trail, I am going to run it. Then, nearly simultaneously, it hit me: the race is the day before Jacob and Nathan's Primary program at church. How would I miss that? I don’t want to miss that. But I don’t want to miss the race, either. So I debated back and forth with myself. I figured out half-baked schemes for getting myself home on Saturday night instead of Sunday. I called powerful leaders in the Primary (you know who you are!) to beg that the day be changed. And I finally decided I couldn't run the race. It wouldn't be right to miss their program. I wanted to see their hard work more than I wanted to test mine.

Of course, all that agonized decision-making process could have been averted had I simply not assumed that Jessica would want to come home on Sunday. So when I let her know I couldn’t run it, and why, she assured me that she’d planned on coming home Saturday night anyway.

Duh

, I thought. And then where should I do my next long run? Just on the river trail again, today. I’m not sure how many miles I put in this afternoon—after finally getting all my laundry caught up, and running the Saturday errands, and taking Kaleb to his first-ever birthday party—because I went off-trail for awhile. Well, off the paved trail, right up the side of the mountain onto lonely and rocky trails that both thrilled and freaked me out (what if I come across a mountain lion? I kept thinking. This looks like mountain lion territory. As if I know what mountain lion territory looks like). But I pushed on for ninety minutes, until my legs pulsed with that numb-painful feel.

And even though I was exhausted at the end of this second long run, my face crusted with salt and two of my toes blistered, the first thing I did at home was register for the race. My mind's full of the things I need to do, now I know for certain I'm running it. Like buying some new socks, and finding some running shorts---or maybe even a running skirt, if I get brave like Becky did---with a pocket to carry some Gu. Oh, and, practicing with the Gu, which is far worse than blistered toes or tired legs. I expected today's run to be the hardest. Next Saturday's will be easier. Most of the race is mental, anyway. It's not really how far your legs will carry you. It's how far your mind will.

See, sometimes I do get to have my cake and eat it, too. I’m not sure just how crazy I am to want to eat the thirteen-point-one-mile cake without enough preparation.

But I want to eat that cake. Bad.

(PS, I canNOT figure out why those funky blank lines are appearing in my text. Typepad won't fix it no matter how I delete and re-save. So, funky lines it is...I'm too tired to figure it out!)