tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92104782166955331562024-02-20T12:44:21.123-05:00Having a ThinkBorn in Pittsburgh, educated in Rochester, working in New York, and traveling the worldALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.comBlogger743125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-65497651152764094842023-12-24T14:21:00.000-05:002023-12-24T14:21:19.323-05:00Top 10 Books of 2023 and Who Should Read Them<style>td {vertical-align:top;}</style>
<p>Another year, another top-books roundup.</p><p>I only read 48 books this year (vs 56 last year), but it has been super-busy year. For those interested, activities included breaking my foot (boo), vacationing in Mongolia (yay), extremely expensive gum surgery (more boo), and visiting friends around the country (more yay). It also included a huge variety of freelancing projects, from ghostwriting a nonfiction book to editing a multi-million-dollar grant. I'll say one thing for freelancing: it's never dull.</p><p>In between all of the work and life shenanigans, I read. So, from the 48 books I read in 2023, here — in no particular order — are my ten favorite.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table><tbody><tr><th style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVROR9IfF-QgKs3jeU7t1-OfwdOnN7eHJPhSXUYB7dVIrU0kIlw-oHuKkOQ1Hqb56d9Xp4ic05dtzOHNVL3GhEhvLdh8OeGfgYYaswjqVoiKkZUWve0hDejc1PC8MzDDdmYUMNibxzHbZrGtRs87UIExwjxWXHuSL4aLA6A-kN2P-EPXasbV2ScYjqTldM/s700/RomanticComedy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="464" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVROR9IfF-QgKs3jeU7t1-OfwdOnN7eHJPhSXUYB7dVIrU0kIlw-oHuKkOQ1Hqb56d9Xp4ic05dtzOHNVL3GhEhvLdh8OeGfgYYaswjqVoiKkZUWve0hDejc1PC8MzDDdmYUMNibxzHbZrGtRs87UIExwjxWXHuSL4aLA6A-kN2P-EPXasbV2ScYjqTldM/w133-h200/RomanticComedy.jpg" width="133" /></a></div></div></span></th><th><p style="font-weight: 400; text-align: left;"><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62628727-romantic-comedy" target="_blank">Romantic Comedy</a></i></b><br />Curtis Sittenfeld</p><p style="font-weight: 400; text-align: left;"><b>This is:</b> a romantic comedy about comedy. (The protagonist is a writer for an SNL-type show who falls for the musical guest star.)</p><p style="font-weight: 400; text-align: left;"><b>I liked it because: </b>I love pretty much anything Sittenfeld writes. And this was the perfect romance book because it fulfilled all the genre expectations and tropes while being smart and genuinely fun to read. (Sadly, some romance books can be a real slog.)</p><p style="font-weight: 400; text-align: left;"><b>Read this if you like:</b> romantic comedies. Duh.</p></th></tr><tr><td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikHDWw6s_OUf-naEfe_g_6HjvqsXujvw9V6nghJ2Wm8nrNF5C4D9gGODnBwzs6MwwceQM0fkmeM2siT_6ad71uj_qJoe_Iz00EzZWKGhSdJaad8hlVrYQ3vpRb4Z3syChqi4HHdQqXTyvXmPVhyphenhyphenTOmndhpJqz40DWO_XjUXRZ-FvZ8ARPFfORuKevXatO8/s2550/Piranesi.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2550" data-original-width="1688" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikHDWw6s_OUf-naEfe_g_6HjvqsXujvw9V6nghJ2Wm8nrNF5C4D9gGODnBwzs6MwwceQM0fkmeM2siT_6ad71uj_qJoe_Iz00EzZWKGhSdJaad8hlVrYQ3vpRb4Z3syChqi4HHdQqXTyvXmPVhyphenhyphenTOmndhpJqz40DWO_XjUXRZ-FvZ8ARPFfORuKevXatO8/w133-h200/Piranesi.jpg" width="133" /></a></div></td><td><p><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/50202953-piranesi" target="_blank">Piranesi</a></i></b><br />Susanna Clarke</p><p><b>This is: </b>a strange, slim, dream-like book that takes its time and defies your expectations (whatever they may be).</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> I have never read anything else like it. The world building takes a while, but if you can stay patient, the ride is worth it.</p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> atmospheric books that aren't 12,000 pages long. And maybe Greek mythology (although I myself have no strong feelings for or against Greek mythology).</p></td></tr><tr><td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyhjcOBCOQgwcf1eq_u6HsZYC9ia0z0Fqx8A5360lZkUwB6NSVrLRDsqbWkkmR2tt_vg2sfnVayfHn6p_tudXd0RqrGj_3uyI4QwOnqSvDQq8dlouQhphJFZT9nkT2Ys7bEljckvBPfxYOlTdkrsj6hyphenhyphenNdtSygm-XwCTcMnKW1FVEIZ5JKIbIjTylPXko/s1294/Heavy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1294" data-original-width="844" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyhjcOBCOQgwcf1eq_u6HsZYC9ia0z0Fqx8A5360lZkUwB6NSVrLRDsqbWkkmR2tt_vg2sfnVayfHn6p_tudXd0RqrGj_3uyI4QwOnqSvDQq8dlouQhphJFZT9nkT2Ys7bEljckvBPfxYOlTdkrsj6hyphenhyphenNdtSygm-XwCTcMnKW1FVEIZ5JKIbIjTylPXko/w131-h200/Heavy.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><br /></td><td><p><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/29430746-heavy" target="_blank">Heavy</a></i></b><br />Kiese Laymon</p><p><b>This is: </b>a memoir about being overweight, male, and Black in America.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> Laymon manages to tell his story in a way that is intensely personal while also shining a spotlight on larger issues facing our country and the people in it.</p><p><b>Read this if you like: </b>intense memoirs about difficult but important subjects like race, education, mental health, and more.</p></td></tr><tr><td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuGDC-4c9bSevKZcwho48lEbK0FLoPzl6KvlPMqWriSJ7ddLU_PXVh0x63Y6HLBiliaGttJDMmQ4mbyMtJks_hESudd8mztZB80n4aInurZ937QLV7sqfWQ0jG_S44mkf5CUfI4dpntjuNWQoDvDT_P8ucN0pN7NnCLE2M5ekerpPXZwDgFFho30uno7i/s2475/FilthyAnimals.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2475" data-original-width="1575" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuGDC-4c9bSevKZcwho48lEbK0FLoPzl6KvlPMqWriSJ7ddLU_PXVh0x63Y6HLBiliaGttJDMmQ4mbyMtJks_hESudd8mztZB80n4aInurZ937QLV7sqfWQ0jG_S44mkf5CUfI4dpntjuNWQoDvDT_P8ucN0pN7NnCLE2M5ekerpPXZwDgFFho30uno7i/w127-h200/FilthyAnimals.jpg" width="127" /></a></div></td><td><p><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/56519333-filthy-animals" target="_blank">Filthy Animals</a></i></b><br />Brandon Taylor</p><p><b>This is:</b> a short story collection that includes a set of stories that intersect and further one another. Topics and themes include vulnerability, savagery, memory, sexuality, and things that we leave unsaid.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> each story is complete, except, of course, the ones that are connected. (This is rarer than you would think with short stories!) And it explored difficult themes in ways I found compelling and nuanced.</p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52476830-the-push" target="_blank">The Push </a></i>and other novels and short stories that will make you occasionally wince or squirm a little.</p></td></tr><tr><td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjESo-kMS3sF51tYxdOkf-yp8pgOuuJt4A33mpU9xKh1hN00wNtE96-eoSz02SUZiVYZ6gbYK5J7Vw77qqr10JN-5hVsoQfQ_FGufzIJ3Z9LKjwYsKxAjNTf3zcto3F1JG2nGbXqxS-EiNqM9U9FZ22lqmV6yyPJhQGZjIh3DTk95VrA_dh20eNQsC3-pBY/s2244/SecretChurch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2244" data-original-width="1416" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjESo-kMS3sF51tYxdOkf-yp8pgOuuJt4A33mpU9xKh1hN00wNtE96-eoSz02SUZiVYZ6gbYK5J7Vw77qqr10JN-5hVsoQfQ_FGufzIJ3Z9LKjwYsKxAjNTf3zcto3F1JG2nGbXqxS-EiNqM9U9FZ22lqmV6yyPJhQGZjIh3DTk95VrA_dh20eNQsC3-pBY/w126-h200/SecretChurch.jpg" width="126" /></a></div></td><td><p><i><b><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/51582376-the-secret-lives-of-church-ladies" target="_blank">The Secret Lives of Church Ladies</a><br /></b></i>Deesha Philyaw</p><p><b>This is: </b>exactly what the title promises: a collection of stories depicting the secret lives of church ladies (as long as you interpret the "church ladies" part loosely, at times).</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> it is clearly a collection of stories that belong together — rare in many short story collections! — and the writing is excellent. Philyaw has incredible empathy for the characters she writes about.</p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> writers like Toni Morrison, who address Black realities head-on with no holds barred, but with a more forthright and less ephemeral tone than Morrison often takes.</p></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRPf6TkcO9OM1pf68xZ-fF8KqJ6S9DE9HQBRGdkH29j-_noTZBzlyB1jpToWGnuUweTLdrQLqavesDGARSuTTEoraOA1NEhUeGlpUXn_SlE-m2DXgnuxsvhOWIaeA2dOSXARKjeor7eml7CQK9dhUewD3BwoWOQ9Vh3liqJkTzV72pKXomjzwKB9AtnKLb/s400/UpToSpeed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRPf6TkcO9OM1pf68xZ-fF8KqJ6S9DE9HQBRGdkH29j-_noTZBzlyB1jpToWGnuUweTLdrQLqavesDGARSuTTEoraOA1NEhUeGlpUXn_SlE-m2DXgnuxsvhOWIaeA2dOSXARKjeor7eml7CQK9dhUewD3BwoWOQ9Vh3liqJkTzV72pKXomjzwKB9AtnKLb/w131-h200/UpToSpeed.jpg" width="131" /></a></td><td><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62049693-up-to-speed" target="_blank">Up to Speed: The Groundbreaking Science of Women Athletes</a></i></b><br />Christine Yu<p></p><p><b>This is:</b> the one nonfiction entry on this year's list!</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> it covers a topic that is extremely important to me — the research that exists (and does not) about female athletes — but which, to my knowledge, has never before been compiled in such a complete and approachable manner.</p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> learning remarkable facts about the sports bra (it originated as two jock straps!), women's knees (and their considerably higher risk of ACL injuries!), and more.</p></td></tr><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpiD1P3FlE2zh_k41Hlbc3M3Gfsdw7U6vsbwoCdP_RsKsYGwxxWMq8CJlzLbK498vCfHfDEmBRsieXpzUGy7PtNlx1NkO3yHZ0uO8iobkZOljEMoS6yyDHsSLnhwegkLyKdCIE6eC0cYY2A1dsDnjZqoYppf2_ecuj4W8TIcxfa4ygRZjLHP20jVCrEasU/s2550/Execution.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2550" data-original-width="1678" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpiD1P3FlE2zh_k41Hlbc3M3Gfsdw7U6vsbwoCdP_RsKsYGwxxWMq8CJlzLbK498vCfHfDEmBRsieXpzUGy7PtNlx1NkO3yHZ0uO8iobkZOljEMoS6yyDHsSLnhwegkLyKdCIE6eC0cYY2A1dsDnjZqoYppf2_ecuj4W8TIcxfa4ygRZjLHP20jVCrEasU/w132-h200/Execution.jpg" width="132" /></a></td><td><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/57773248-notes-on-an-execution" target="_blank">Notes on an Execution</a></i></b><br />Danya Kukafka<p></p><p><b>This is: </b>a literary novel (not a thriller) about a serial killer that employs multiple perspectives and multiple timelines.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> it includes the killer's perspective, which helps build empathy for him without ever making him a sympathetic character.</p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> multiple-perspective novels that deal with difficult topics. (Also you need to be ok with second-person POV, i.e., "you.")</p></td></tr><tr><td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh07vg6itmgrJ3wmfvKHpbhpGGCVSbJDaDwEBKB_ARvce3dESB-UZvklv73G5lrBkiaUmmb8trFIhvVVTUDL3ianvOezfqBGtyzP4stprx6TtB_vOSyQDEPWNDd9fOHwFk1KxrQSf9eE9SZzv9aXwOKOewB9YjX0ns4zryYPR2VebIHtB2UiK4HxKEI5uYb/s400/DemonCopperhead.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="264" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh07vg6itmgrJ3wmfvKHpbhpGGCVSbJDaDwEBKB_ARvce3dESB-UZvklv73G5lrBkiaUmmb8trFIhvVVTUDL3ianvOezfqBGtyzP4stprx6TtB_vOSyQDEPWNDd9fOHwFk1KxrQSf9eE9SZzv9aXwOKOewB9YjX0ns4zryYPR2VebIHtB2UiK4HxKEI5uYb/w132-h200/DemonCopperhead.jpg" width="132" /></a></div></td><td><p><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/60194162-demon-copperhead" style="font-weight: bold;" target="_blank">Demon Copperhead</a><b><br /></b></i>Barbara Kingsolver</p><p><b>This is:</b> a modern retelling of David Copperfield, set in opioid-riddled Appalachia.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> it's written by Barbara Kingsolver (a master) and examines heavy topics (trauma, foster care, poverty, abuse, drug addiction) through a realistic yet hopeful lens.</p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> sprawling novels told by a complex yet likable character.</p></td></tr><tr><td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiASWLuU1xzSpysm7vjiBE0Kqw5MD7xn77fkDIVg_NfW6gz2muVRZzfbZ9zt2aVYVCC6Log55XoZk9MfzAff2UD2sHKW3mDg99FUM_lIcuHVvZnXfWcnfjXzkRo5Qa3nk2nUwGcWM4xmMGxLybfTzjGBRDmw6Z0kTEhPUEtn_7A_3wxnxS5ES1xreB9VUND/s400/Tomorrow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiASWLuU1xzSpysm7vjiBE0Kqw5MD7xn77fkDIVg_NfW6gz2muVRZzfbZ9zt2aVYVCC6Log55XoZk9MfzAff2UD2sHKW3mDg99FUM_lIcuHVvZnXfWcnfjXzkRo5Qa3nk2nUwGcWM4xmMGxLybfTzjGBRDmw6Z0kTEhPUEtn_7A_3wxnxS5ES1xreB9VUND/w131-h200/Tomorrow.jpg" width="131" /></a></div></td><td><div><i><b><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/58784475-tomorrow-and-tomorrow-and-tomorrow" target="_blank">Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow</a><br /></b></i>Gabrielle Zevin</div><p><b>This is:</b> a coming-of-age novel (where the characters keep coming of age all the way into their 30s) about friendship, love, and video games.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> it so perfectly demonstrates that humans are both knowable and unknowable, and there are many sides to every story.</p><p><b>Read this if you like: </b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24612118-fates-and-furies" target="_blank">Fates and Furies</a></i> and other novels about complex characters struggling with the harsh realities of life and their relationships with one another. (Note: you don't have to be a gamer to enjoy this novel!)</p></td></tr><tr><td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSmNzJBhGNiAReqcu4vU80OS6wjMbiTcbeKSLnDP2krW_9GzdliXaYCu2xN1GxQ8LhF0252NKunLNdiGrs8dEeUZVcWFSSgCas0gIrqprVOjegvcaMH6c_BnAhh_D2Qmr6rsBzqAZLJZUZxdQNXLoAXVSR4pFfgScSOxdxhPLwVkZKqNY8qnXgfJ7WnK0v/s1571/WhatAreYouGoingThrough.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1571" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSmNzJBhGNiAReqcu4vU80OS6wjMbiTcbeKSLnDP2krW_9GzdliXaYCu2xN1GxQ8LhF0252NKunLNdiGrs8dEeUZVcWFSSgCas0gIrqprVOjegvcaMH6c_BnAhh_D2Qmr6rsBzqAZLJZUZxdQNXLoAXVSR4pFfgScSOxdxhPLwVkZKqNY8qnXgfJ7WnK0v/w127-h200/WhatAreYouGoingThrough.jpg" width="127" /></a></div></td><td><p><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/51152434-what-are-you-going-through" target="_blank">What Are You Going Through</a></i></b><br />Sigrid Nunez</p><p><b>This is: </b>a short novel that somehow manages to fold in many challenging topics — climate change, terminal illness, failed relationships, and euthanasia to name a few.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> the writing is delicate yet tight, the topics are thought-provoking, and the narrator feels like someone I surely must know.</p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> to sit with a character who feels like a real person as they go through a very difficult life experience. </p></td></tr></tbody></table><a href="https://havingathink.blogspot.com/2022/12/top-10-books-of-2022-and-who-should.html" target="_blank">Last year,</a> the common features among my top-ten books were: translated, set outside the U.S., and dystopian. This year, many of the books I loved shared these commonalities:<br /><ol><li>Written by women (8 out of 10 titles!)</li><li>Follow children or young adults as they develop</li><li>Examine death</li></ol><p></p><div>Hoping for another great collection of titles in 2024!</div>ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-87172672966617210412023-07-30T19:52:00.000-04:002023-07-30T19:52:03.124-04:00American Assholes in Mongolia<div>I didn’t go to Mongolia to be the American asshole.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don’t think anyone goes abroad with the intention, right from the outset, to be a rude foreigner. However, if you’re like me, you are downright terrified of being perceived as such. You tiptoe around museums and slink into restaurants wondering how obvious it is that you don’t belong and whether you’re already doing something wrong. (Spoiler: If you’re white in Mongolia, it’s already clear you don’t belong.) You internally shudder every time you try to pronounce your tour guide’s name, imagining how many internal sighs she must be heaving. With your driver’s name, you don’t even make the attempt; you just smile, nod, and say thank-you, aka “bye-shla” (which you are 83% sure has a guttural, back-of-the-throat sound somewhere in there) a lot. You wonder if Mongolians assign bonus points for trying to pronounce their language, or if they’re more like the French and would prefer you to pry off their fingernails.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_mPvQS_2jnXMlalfmnOhbi8qvpE5cFx_k93eO6K09oRg85vqjyaURLxXJgpyLtnz_R41reHihscfU6WQP04ZikyIkr-YCr5-l9HLCei4Vq8ntYOGZlp-3AFdl0sIw90XBFneLmwY8uhKgWc4SW0_AWwB-ge8NPrmV6NKsRPq1j0Gc1zmeLb7yoLQcnynJ/s4032/mongolia1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_mPvQS_2jnXMlalfmnOhbi8qvpE5cFx_k93eO6K09oRg85vqjyaURLxXJgpyLtnz_R41reHihscfU6WQP04ZikyIkr-YCr5-l9HLCei4Vq8ntYOGZlp-3AFdl0sIw90XBFneLmwY8uhKgWc4SW0_AWwB-ge8NPrmV6NKsRPq1j0Gc1zmeLb7yoLQcnynJ/w400-h300/mongolia1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Needless to say, I spend a lot of my time abroad trying not to be the American asshole. Mongolia was no exception. And that’s why, when one of my merry band of friends started traipsing up the side of a very steep, grassy hill in Hustai National Park — on her way toward some very far-away wild horses that apparently had once been almost extinct — I had a few reservations. We’d arrived in a car, driven along one of the many, many dirt roads of the Mongolian countryside by the driver whose name I could not pronounce. We’d passed a few other cars and vans inside the park, but I’d seen none of their passengers go more than a few feet away from the vehicles. Clearly no one was here to police us; the entrance to the park was little more than a welcome banner and a very weathered-looking list of rules in spotty English. Still, was this something we were allowed to do?</div><div><br /></div><div>So, I asked our tour guide — the Mongolian native whom we’d paid to tell us if we were about to do something stupid, dangerous, or just plain rude.</div><div><br /></div><div>“No no, go ahead,” she said, waving at the hill. “It’s okay.”</div><div><br /></div><div>With that reassurance, I high-tailed it up the hill after my friend. Soon all five of us tourists — four Americans and a Czech — were on the hill, closer but still craning our necks and squinting through camera lenses to see the horses, who, I will say, appeared entirely unbothered. One friend had brought a fancy camera with an even fancier telephoto lens, which he set up on a tripod and allowed us to look through. The only downside to this adventure (or so I thought at the time) took place when we traipsed back down the hill and I fell into a muddy creek. But that’s not the point of this story.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our driver was the one who had spotted the horses, so it was no surprise that the next time he stopped our car, he had spotted more wildlife, this time animals called red deer. Like before, we all got out of the car and started up the hill (a new one) to get close enough to see the deer through our friend’s fancy camera lens. The deer were harder to spot than the horses, so after a few sub-par sightings, I decided to turn and head back to the cars. The others stayed a little longer, so I was ahead of them when I reached the bottom of the hill. There, I found another van parked behind our car and several older white people standing in front of it, staring up the hill. As I got closer, I heard a very distinct “assholes” enunciated, albeit with a European accent, from one of the men. Suddenly I was sure they were looking at me.</div><div><br /></div><div>No sooner had I reached our car, when one of the women from their party stepped in front of me.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Excuse me,” she said, frowning. “I must say something.”</div><div><br /></div><div>They had been talking about us. My heart dropped.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTC6kAqqiyXI1R5QQg0CyM2BW77LYMBHHXIFZyFz3LFzliK87MCmJMg8ZcfS9EMEVakId4ZDceAL0RF6kqi_7bAMfdhNODZJtXBFJWRC0SDRWoFAG9NFe7ApSDZru8CmaTJxjkkV8q11NPNjoR88mYt6MERJtxi4yGSuCSFePglOq8qe0tCCHcw6TTy61P/s4032/mongolia2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTC6kAqqiyXI1R5QQg0CyM2BW77LYMBHHXIFZyFz3LFzliK87MCmJMg8ZcfS9EMEVakId4ZDceAL0RF6kqi_7bAMfdhNODZJtXBFJWRC0SDRWoFAG9NFe7ApSDZru8CmaTJxjkkV8q11NPNjoR88mYt6MERJtxi4yGSuCSFePglOq8qe0tCCHcw6TTy61P/s320/mongolia2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>“I come here every year, and I am just appalled. You all walk up there, bother the animals. It ruins things for everyone. Now the animals will not come closer. We will not see them maybe next year. It is ruined for everyone because you do what you like. This is very rude. It makes me very angry.”</div><div><br /></div><div>She was glaring at me. Her voice was raised. Oh my god, she was mad at me. Me, the American. I was furthering the stereotype. She thought we were all assholes! I wanted to crawl under the car. But I didn’t.</div><div><br /></div><div>“It makes me so angry. You all have made me angry,” the woman repeated, louder this time. </div><div><br /></div><div>“Understood.” That was the best I could do, as far as responses go. I felt ashamed, and also mad about feeling ashamed, and I thought I might start crying. Thankfully, with one last glare, she turned back to her comrades, who all had expressions on their face that were a cross between sneers, frowns, and suppressed laughter. They’d be talking about this the rest of the night, most likely. Those asshole Americans.</div><div><br /></div><div>After taking a while to compose myself, I finally shared the encounter on our ride out of the park. The reactions were what I’d expected: indignation, exasperation, a little defensiveness. Everyone was sure we had been in the right and that those bossy Europeans were out of line. Upon reflection, that’s what I thought, too. But isn’t that what Americans, or perhaps even humans, always think? How would we know if we’d been in the wrong? We weren’t children trying to “get away with” something; we wouldn’t have done anything we thought was actively harmful. Getting yelled at by a stranger didn’t change our minds one bit.</div><div><br /></div><div>This encounter clearly sticks with me. Maybe it’s because of the aforementioned terror of being perceived as the American asshole. Maybe it’s because I have an extremely thin skin and can’t handle getting yelled at by anyone, even a complete stranger. But maybe it’s because I am never quite sure how money shifts power dynamics. We were paying a lot to be there. Did our tour guide tell us what she thought we wanted to hear? Rationally, I doubt it; I think she’d have made us follow the rules if such rules existed. But emotionally? Emotionally I’m still afraid we did the wrong thing, simply because someone told me so in a loud, angry voice. I don’t know what that says about me, but it doesn’t seem great.</div>ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-58083056169038094572023-05-20T21:17:00.000-04:002023-05-20T21:17:47.300-04:00This Is Not About Botox<p>Everyone I know has gotten Botox.</p><p>Okay okay, not <i>everyone</i>. Certainly no man in my life has gotten Botox (or if one has, he hasn’t admitted it). And there <i>are</i> a few women who I can pretty confidently say haven’t gotten any injections. But note the “pretty confidently” disclaimer—a few years ago, I would have made this declaration with certainty. “So-and-so is the last person who would get a bacterial toxin injected into their face,” I might have said. Well guess what? It turns out that the last person has been injected . . . multiple times. So, in my thirty-seventh year of life, as I look in the mirror and try not to be too mad at my teenage self—who cared nothing for cleansing or exfoliating or, honestly, sunscreen —I’m beginning to wonder whether I too am going to part with several hundred dollars every few months to have neurotoxins injected into my face. Is that the going price of female self-worth these days?</p><p>Because here’s the thing: my vanity—which comprises my many insecurities mixed with some baked-in, repressed misogyny—can weather someone else’s good genetics. I call this “luck.” The gal whose hair looks perfect in any condition, rain or shine? She’s lucky. The runner flaunting chiseled abs just three weeks after giving birth? Pure luck. The 45-year-old who has never had a wrinkle in her life? Well. I would have said she’s lucky, but now I’m not so sure. And if it’s not luck, it might be a competition—one that I am currently losing.</p><p>Don’t misunderstand; I’m not so neurotic as to think that having the Most Youthful Skin confers some sort of prize. I left that level neuroticism behind in my teenage years, along with my obsession with being Tannest of Them All. However, I’m not so naïve as to think that the appearance of aging, when no <i>one else is aging, </i>won’t have negative consequences.</p><p>Here in America, being old is bad, and being an old woman is worse. One of the only power cards women have to play is their sexuality, and they can only play that card while they’re young. Older women get less respect—and if you don’t want to admit this, you have to at least recognize that they get fewer favors. A nubile teenage girl barely has to smile to have men, perhaps several men, give up their seat for her on a crowded bus. A pregnant woman in her twenties or even thirties will have the same request fulfilled by someone without complaint. But a woman in her sixties wearing slightly smudged glasses and carrying a shopping bag? <i>Senile, probably homeless; maybe if we ignore her she’ll stop asking.</i> Don’t tell me this isn’t real; I’ve seen it.</p><p>Now, you might be thinking, “But Allison, men are not the only ones with power. Women could give up their bus seat, too.” And surely women don’t have these same biases, right?</p><p>As a sample size of one, I know I do. I am impressed by smooth, youthful, spotless skin just the way society has trained me to be impressed. Men claim they don’t notice things like skin or wrinkles, but the reality is that they are noticing; they just see whole face, the whole body—the forest. It’s us women who see the trees . . . and the branches on the trees and the leaves on the branches and the spines on the leaves. And then we dig down in the dirt to see what’s going on with the roots, because those leaves are so lush and green and perfectly shaped, how did they get like that? Nature? Yeah right.</p><p>Thus far I’m a holdout. I have not gotten Botox. Or a chemical peel. Or a laser facial. But I did buy some serums and creams. I’ve worn a drugstore facemask or two. I’m very aware of the crow’s feet blooming at the corners of my eyes and the sun spots appearing on my cheeks and the acne scars that no longer fade after I’ve lost the battle and picked that pimple open. I think what bothers me most is the fact that I wouldn’t hate these features if I saw them on everyone else. If the playing field felt even (despite a few lucky genetic anomalies) and we were all aging, if not gracefully, at least together, it would feel acceptable or at least inevitable that wrinkles are coming, gray hairs are coming, a few extra pounds are coming, <i>and it’s okay. </i>It means we’re lucky to still be alive.</p><p>But other people have turned this into a contest—to see who can profit off the appearance of youth for longer. And I really, really hate losing.</p>ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-27888585000969544742022-12-16T21:17:00.001-05:002022-12-16T21:17:50.493-05:00Top 10 Books of 2022 - And Who Should Read Them<p> Apologies to all who come here for running content—or content at all. I've neglected this blog for over a year now, much to my dismay. I <i>have</i> been busy writing, but nearly exclusively for other people (the exception being—sort of—my articles in <i><a href="https://www.runnersworld.com/author/219453/allison-goldstein/" target="_blank">Runner's World</a></i>).</p><p>I've also been busy reading. I read a whopping 55 books this year, probably 56 by the time the year is done . . . and that's not counting the unpublished manuscripts I read as part of my local writing group. I love discussing books and recommending them to others, so when a friend asked me for my "top 10 of 2022" I thought, <i>You know, I should write this as a blog post. </i>After all, book recommendations are personal! I can't just blindly recommend books with no context.</p><p>Therefore, I've created this quick recap of my favorite 10 books I read in 2022. It includes "what" the book is about, why I liked it, and who I think would most enjoy reading it. The books are listed roughly in the chronological order I read them. (Apologies for any typos; I'm done editing for the day.)</p><p><br />
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<th style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/56382367-but-you-seemed-so-happy" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkd5-N8gicA_5mTGCs8hY7DAvM4GcbLSx03BtzEaKYqALX1pk3Oa071U4s2_urnDcgjooJ5uBObyNq8SETyKsAK9u-_a8ttx0QlPrNKgXyO6qm6AdzRqQTZiez9d9p2ecXtKfY96dqJyY5OenxFUnGZeUcCVwhQakry3nXRySKfBD2lciNJtPdUfZxQw=w133-h200" width="133" /></a></div><br /></span></th>
<th><p style="font-weight: 400; text-align: left;"><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/56382367-but-you-seemed-so-happy" target="_blank">But You Seemed So Happy: A Marriage, in Pieces and Bits</a></i></b><br />Kimberly Harrington</p><p style="font-weight: 400; text-align: left;"><b>This is:</b> a memoir, written more like a collection of essays. The topic is the author, Harrington's divorce.</p><p style="font-weight: 400; text-align: left;"><b>I liked it because: </b>while I am not divorced, I related to much of what she had to say about the imbalances (and frustrations) of a heterosexual relationship. It's also funny without poking fun, and poignant without being saccharine.</p><p style="font-weight: 400; text-align: left;"><b>Read this if you like:</b> books about feminism, especially essay collections like Jia Tolentino's <i>Trick Mirror</i>; mother/wife memoirs</p></th>
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<td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/55145261-the-anthropocene-reviewed" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="2550" data-original-width="1688" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0RNRE26AEShT_NItLIWDQQv4g-4DS1Kd4heR4R8g80UlWZ0-btwuuIs61UbosOi_QpUVjgQ7uHstZHDW4_ZPmOBz3nBz0SQEllFZmUQcKF6PAk418A9QtyDLT5PCI31MqR6dE2nljRuY0-CArBw5XprmmK93Txu2C2unPoTh_I0rsaLKRYn8KC_QNOQ=w133-h200" width="133" /></a></div><br /></td>
<td><p><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/55145261-the-anthropocene-reviewed" target="_blank">The Anthropocene Reviewed</a></i></b><br />John Green</p><p><b>This is: </b>an essay collection about the most random assortment of things, each of which turns into a commentary on society and on the author himself.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> I was impressed by Green's ability to start with what felt like a random "thing" (Scratch 'N Sniff Stickers! Piggly Wiggly!) and then somehow weave his personal experiences, historical anecdotes, and cultural/societal observations into a coherent, fully self-contained essay.</p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> essay collections; memoirs; self-deprecating writer dads.</p></td>
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<td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52696537-if-i-had-your-face" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="461" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIueQNLEqtSwCRoyQQ7_WqmdK4xwwXaYWo3Y-Eko2_BiBQd3CbjMRWooZmI983sE1t0BSvjBJHnPZ1rUD7HyJWJkVnL9w-CHG3RZ978KMPd78-60v88EuxExd7kpd46ElJEVmZID-m9mwapaNFRLHgyq6ff3W6h7Cxibv8V_2akhrBv9sj1zo3KpmNAw=w132-h200" width="132" /></a></div><br /></td>
<td><p><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52696537-if-i-had-your-face" target="_blank">If I Had Your Face</a></i></b><br />Frances Cha</p><p><b>This is: </b>a novel about four South Korea women navigating impossible beauty standards and harsh economic realities.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> it's not only a compelling story, but I learned a lot about South Korean society without feeling like I was being "taught."</p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> novels told from multiple points of view; women-centric novels; learning about life outside the US.</p></td>
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<td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35036409-my-brilliant-friend" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="287" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAcOyl9kEUTXc-XnFmkOlDeWBKNMH3JWiV2WcaDufVyK6S_lHG8uQTNMMny5Yc3MTh3-pS3r4OUjD6YteP4Lw9VsfrXVLu9_fb-c3CSW2kKVIjmTJ586RsjbE2KFDT1pHctGINLU_1BitK3jnYKkSSMOE9RZwu5TGTL9NsPNjflMyVdJ22n68qrFC-NQ=w127-h200" width="127" /></a></div><br /></td>
<td><p><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35036409-my-brilliant-friend" target="_blank">My Brilliant Friend</a></i></b><br />Elena Ferrante, Translated by Ann Goldstein</p><p><b>This is:</b> a novel set in the 1950s about two female friends and their poor, close-knit community in Naples, Italy.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> it's rare to read a book told in first person that is actually about another character. This book is narrated by Elena, but it is really about her friend Lila. The friendship is complicated, just as all real friendships are.</p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> character studies; coming-of-age novels; books about female friendships. (One Goodreads review perfectly described it as, "Anne of Green Gables if it was set in a rough Italian neighborhood and written by Donna Tartt.")</p></td>
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<td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/58437521-the-candy-house" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="2125" data-original-width="1400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXXosimmBuL6BAMhOv8RG1_c-dlIkmqZ34fy4DN-xYA-Ks_RrW4LH06giozffAaw8lqFDLSiHPQBWBzUHuV8mpWVxa0eTvO1030Oqm_rslE10EwrIjI053qfLY0QvmQWPCpS0F0iMisg9pq6tgmBDbHMSMLZCmZz774B3tBO2IWGig69_IN9qBs3xqIQ=w132-h200" width="132" /></a></div><br /></td>
<td><p><i><b><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/58437521-the-candy-house" target="_blank">The Candy House</a><br /></b></i>Jennifer Egan</p><p><b>This is: </b>a slightly futuristic novel, told from multiple interlinking perspectives, where social media has evolved to capture and preserve one's memories and, in turn, allow access to others' memories.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> the premise itself is interesting (and raises all sorts of questions around privacy!), but the fact that it is merely the glue that holds all of the intricate character stories together is even more remarkable.</p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> <i>A Visit From the Goon Squad</i> (its precursor); novels told from multiple points of view; George Saunders's <i>Tenth of December</i>; Lily King (writing style); thinking about the moral/ethical/social implications of social media.</p><div><br /></div></td>
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<td><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/58065033-lessons-in-chemistry" style="clear: left; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="2775" data-original-width="1838" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfGEkWl68fRdbx4phdr7Gkn5Wt61nDGbnh2URM7gatRGjqX63oIj0rfjB7XFD1pL9KaPVumSfoxBknKDcUA-R8IaDQ6WEchGtGaZ7hm2pw8DsfBqCtxQCp6_mU4XVQplALTM4iIECKhDycrOavB3fZ566bM-lnRaTatY1EWTIidWsxRSXakaYyEhjhPw=w133-h200" width="133" /></a></td>
<td><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/58065033-lessons-in-chemistry" target="_blank">Lessons in Chemistry</a></i></b><br />Bonnie Garmus<p></p><p><b>This is:</b> a novel set in the 1960s about a female chemist who struggles against the sexism of her time. Oh, and she falls in love. With another chemist.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> it's lighthearted and feel-good while having substance. Yes, there is a romance, but the real meat of the book is the protagonist, Elizabeth's efforts to fully be herself in a world that wants to put women in boxes.</p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> Gail Honeyman's <i>Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine</i>; Maria Semple's <i>Where'd You Go, Bernadette; </i>"chick lit" that doesn't make you want to claw your eyes out.</p></td>
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<td><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52879286-humankind" style="clear: left; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgP3cSU6QgjRrpYXlX208HaMU1pbJ4Z_CfBX9pyNPyz6sn39cV7BZb-38IxFk-lps6jupSM_vmucwGRD6U5V9E_S4PlBJcJ4UWY6SjwmWDmWzCj_tFMmk_hDF-sLpvgUktVMKeX66nC8vZT8ko2Jc5sE6d210xzrS6xyiDb77dAjvpCcLjkldNu7rMxQ=w133-h200" width="133" /></a></td>
<td><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52879286-humankind" target="_blank">Humankind: A Hopeful History</a></i></b><br />Rutger Bregman, Translated by Elizabeth Manton and Erica Moore<p></p><p><b>This is: </b>a nonfiction book that argues that humans can, in fact, save ourselves because we are inherently good.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> it is the first book I've read that acknowledges that we humans have made a mess of things but doesn't self-flagellate or blame some "foreign other" for our woes. Instead, it offers a sense of origin for all our doom and gloom, clears up some misconceptions, and offers a nice fresh breath of hope and optimism. </p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> nonfiction that doesn't make you feel like the world is about to end.</p></td>
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<td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/53487237-a-swim-in-a-pond-in-the-rain" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1056" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgdsqspsST_VgkU8bCBN2x1t_4_XNywK-UZ3it1CI1xZ7ld4QvDcQ5aSzSTC6PILwUgtSi35u6bVt_nwoHgTWD_SoJloPVJSEY5on643sezGCQsPSxgRsbDOtWlMFrFdmkxirKtdmnXgrwHhmpB0gr5v5Z1JxY56znxy2KPx7KvZQ71sUOg4FezxGUVQ=w132-h200" width="132" /></a></div><br /></td>
<td><p><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/53487237-a-swim-in-a-pond-in-the-rain" target="_blank">A Swim in a Pond in the Rain: In Which Four Russians Give a Master Class on Writing, Reading, and Life</a></i></b><br />George Saunders</p><p><b>This is:</b> an MFA writing class, as taught by Saunders, but in book form. He "teaches" seven short stories by bigshot Russian authors, namely Tolstoy, Chekhov, Turgenev, and Gogol.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> I've always wanted to get my MFA! Also, I like Saunders's writing, and I like to discuss and analyze literature with other readers. This hit every point.</p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> Russian literature; George Saunders; learning about the craft of writing.</p></td>
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<td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/53773242-what-strange-paradise" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOg4o_aod8N8jzntHN1ki0E6_KkurduYlr7KFEFJmKvixjKysYWSZpVu6fKpuKvwWG-3IYggmN62m3g3zjfTXSyc4ujE2uKGHjbNGZ23Fl2gN0Z-JBt7OXiYHmBUk3GG55cEUhEHRNfwY7jbqyZ-JeEnkC55A_EfdNvetPzPfrRd0RPBzb28k6RR8cUw=w133-h200" width="133" /></a></div><br /></td>
<td><div><i><b><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/53773242-what-strange-paradise" target="_blank">What Strange Paradise</a><br /></b></i>Omar El Akkad</div><p><b>This is: </b>a slim novel about a nine-year-old Syrian boy who washes ashore a small, insular island, and the teenage girl Vanna who attempts to rescue him.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> El Akkad has made a topic that we would like to ignore (refugees and their plight) the subject of a beautifully written book about children. It is a book that stuck with me.</p><p><b>Read this if you like: </b>Chris Cleave's <i>Little Bee</i>; books set on islands or in very small worlds; books about immigrants and refugees.</p></td>
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<td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/37004370-the-memory-police" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="296" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj36YUXf1PKi_LE_xuuVcvAF7SBX-daKQnma9u-fx6j_wL3cFFNTV_tLtgwLb-ieYzS3HI4BWU8PMa6uR5iZGZl-iR68ys5Fd_Ka1MWvnaztmQ-EIDRb4B44RW5bs-rwaT3vDXN2RZ_1HCY0h-xUMu4c1lX3Pj8GgNiWH181ZbldAcVt_TO4w3FR0sK_A=w132-h200" width="132" /></a></div><br /></td>
<td><p><b><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/37004370-the-memory-police" target="_blank">The Memory Police</a></i></b><br />Yōko Ogawa, Translated by Stephen Snyder</p><p><b>This is: </b>a dystopian novel about an island where items are disappearing, along with any memories of them. But a few people can still remember, and this is not allowed.</p><p><b>I liked it because:</b> it's gorgeously yet tightly written and extremely thought-provoking.</p><p><b>Read this if you like:</b> Japanese writers like Kazuo Ishiguro and Haruki Murakami; dystopia; magical realism.</p></td>
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<p></p><p>And now that I've written all of these mini-reviews, I've recognized a few trends. In 2022, I tended to most enjoy books that were:</p><p></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>Translated</li><li>Set somewhere outside the U.S. (and/or on an unnamed island)</li><li>Dystopian</li></ol><p></p><div>I'll have to do this little review annually moving forward to see if I discover more trends in my own preferences!</div>ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-2079499158645961992021-11-18T18:14:00.004-05:002021-11-18T18:14:36.832-05:00NYC Marathon - 50th Anniversary Edition<p><br />This marathon was meant to be an experiment.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhvU5DDqVD75UU1ndvfdeGI6EizNyZg0ST8-Nvgwy_qrBA0VBfNn69S3-jY47zYpT0QDNlLDCGWn9LWXNan7UmoIaEm6gecFdYu5jrlUEBj59gLGtRQFqkM4qEN7ErMsmdJw4mnmgW95b/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Photo credit: John Tran" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhvU5DDqVD75UU1ndvfdeGI6EizNyZg0ST8-Nvgwy_qrBA0VBfNn69S3-jY47zYpT0QDNlLDCGWn9LWXNan7UmoIaEm6gecFdYu5jrlUEBj59gLGtRQFqkM4qEN7ErMsmdJw4mnmgW95b/w400-h266/JohnTran2.jpg" title="Photo credit: John Tran" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit: John Tran</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Eight weeks ago, <a href="https://havingathink.blogspot.com/2021/09/survival-of-shawangunks.html" target="_blank">I raced the Survival of the Shawangunks (SOS) Triathlon</a>. It was my "A" race of the season, which means it was the race where I cared most about doing my best. I put all of my physical and emotional energy into preparing for it, which for me meant that the fallout after the big day was significant. It always is.</p><p>I know full well that fitness doesn't just "vanish" after a few days (or a few weeks) off. Yet somehow, perhaps because I put so much mental and emotional energy into these races, when I try to return to training, it is an uphill battle. I say all of this because after SOS, I took a week to recover (and heal the mega-blisters on my feet), a week to ease back into bodily movement, and the next thing I knew, I had six weeks until the NYC Marathon—and it felt like I was starting from square one. This was, of course, untrue; I had built plenty of fitness over the course of triathlon training. It just wasn't the "durability" fitness forged from twelve-mile workouts or twenty-mile long runs.</p><p>So the experiment was this: How well could I translate my "overall" fitness into marathon-specific fitness in six weeks? And really, I only had <i>four</i> weeks, because tapering for a marathon is a two-week affair. You have to let the body really heal and stock up on glycogen before you push it for 26.2 miles!</p><p>To make this endeavor even more complex, my work life was really becoming an issue. Big projects were ramping up, and every client seemed to need increasing amounts of time and attention. Ultimately this meant I sacrificed the "little things" in training. I continued to do my pre-run warmup routine (getting older comes to demand this) and did push-ups and planks two or three times a week, but over those six weeks, I failed to lift a single weight, and I committed maybe half an hour in total to drill/form work. I did a brief recovery routine most nights before bed, but I no longer counted the hours of sleep I would get before a workout or stressed over what I was eating.</p><p>Suffice to say, it was an imperfect buildup. I knew I didn't have enough miles in my legs. I felt lucky to have squeezed in a single twenty-mile run, whereas before other marathons of late, I've done at least three runs of that length. When someone would ask me, "What finishing time are you hoping for?" I replied that I would be satisfied with breaking three hours. Yes, I was hoping to run a bit faster, but what I absolutely did not want to do was feel pressured (by myself) to go out at a pace I could not sustain and have a miserable race. I ran this marathon back in 2013 in a time of 3:18:53, and all I remember is the struggle-fest that was Fifth Avenue. I wanted some new memories.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn131XlGeM6wz_vdBG_bhoogHUGLr2FdAfhBPfYduS4fLBGXzm9iwlq9O4t57wVegc-Z-H9LArH9RFXroMZMa2M06qolegDIXsQ354xb8dLeVE5lhJNVqpfno2rQ9plmSGD1Yl4Xx-tqsj/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn131XlGeM6wz_vdBG_bhoogHUGLr2FdAfhBPfYduS4fLBGXzm9iwlq9O4t57wVegc-Z-H9LArH9RFXroMZMa2M06qolegDIXsQ354xb8dLeVE5lhJNVqpfno2rQ9plmSGD1Yl4Xx-tqsj/w240-h320/IMG_7024.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Back in 2013, I rode the 5am Staten Island ferry to the start, wore as many warm throwaway clothes as I owned, and sat alone in the dirt on top of a black trash bag. This is what tens of thousands of runners do before every NYC Marathon, and it's what I've done before most of my 11 marathons. This year, however, I qualified to be part of the sub-elite starting group. It meant I received much of the same treatment as the professionals did: I got to ride a charter bus from midtown Manhattan to Staten Island. I got to spend the hour leading up to the race indoors at the Ocean Breeze athletic complex, where there were free bagels and bananas and Gatorade, and a track where you could jog to warm up. I got to put my warm clothes back into a bag that someone would drive to the finish line for me. And I got to be very close to the starting line when the national anthem played, the starting cannon (yes <i>cannon</i>) went off, and Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York" filled the air. All in all, it was pretty cushy. 10/10 would recommend.<p></p><p>And then there was the race.</p><p>For starters, I forgot how steep the Verrazzano Bridge is. My first mile was 7:15. The second was 6:08. I'll let you guess which was "up" and which was "down."</p><p>Coming into Brooklyn, I felt a wave disappointment. Where were the crowds? A few people were scattered on street corners here and there, but it felt nothing like the bedlam I recalled from 2013. (Fortunately, happy chaos was awaiting just a few miles down the road.)</p><p>After the first 5k, my nerves calmed down and I settled in with E___ and V___. E___ is my teammate; she had just run the Boston marathon and was hoping to improve her time from that race. I figured if I could help get her within striking distance, that would be a good use of my run. I had no idea what time V___, who I'd encountered at other NYC races, was intending to run, but the fact that she came back to us in the third mile and announced that she needed to rein in the pace seemed like a good sign. We became a pack of three.</p><p>Shortly after our pack formed, a tall, overenthusiastic guy named K___ pulled up alongside us and announced that he was hoping to "set the world record" for the number of high-fives on the course. This may sound sweet, and in another context we might have humored him, but then he continued to try and make conversation ("What are your names? Where are you from?") while proceeding to veer in front of us so we had to stutter-step to keep from tripping over him. I could read the same thoughts behind each of our polite, strained smiles: <i>Go away</i>. Eventually he did.</p><p>Around the 10k mark, my left foot started to throb. This is a familiar sensation I've battled for several years. After doctor's visits, x-rays, MRIs, and physical therapy, the long and short of it is that I have a neuroma (an inflamed nerve), and the best I can hope to do is "manage it." This summer gave me the longest pain-free reprieve I've had, but in those few weeks of marathon training, the neuroma reared its ugly head. I had been hoping I could get through a good chunk of the race before it became a problem, but alas, here we were. Luckily (or not), I have experience mentally preparing for this pain—I've had to learn how to expect and accept it in every one of my last three marathons (the Olympic trials and my qualifying marathon included). And so when it started to feel like I had a golf ball emerging from the underside of my foot, I heaved an inward sigh and began the process of diverting my attention.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUFyLXACK3LKIOJOsFYD1eWHNFzP_NPlDBBniHGKGVSW3ceaUJWaVT123zwEiRXd46JBrTB1f9xbsRcvKiGOqSDnbS17TiIzUolpdzD4nqTho9O1jB1djk5zkMWmjrQ81c-0z9L6asFFIf/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUFyLXACK3LKIOJOsFYD1eWHNFzP_NPlDBBniHGKGVSW3ceaUJWaVT123zwEiRXd46JBrTB1f9xbsRcvKiGOqSDnbS17TiIzUolpdzD4nqTho9O1jB1djk5zkMWmjrQ81c-0z9L6asFFIf/" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit: Ben Gross</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Smiling and engaging with the thickening crowds was one way to distract myself. I read hand-drawn signs, made eye contact with children, and gave a "thumbs up" to anyone who looked like they were directing cheers my way. I also kept my eyes peeled for people I might know. Most of the people I was expecting to see were waiting for me on First Avenue, but I did see a few friends in Queens. This is the home-court advantage of the NYC Marathon: There's no energy boost quite like seeing someone you know rooting for you.</p><p></p>The Queensboro Bridge was also longer than I remembered.<p></p><p>Because I was running with E___ and V___, my attention was consumed by making sure we all had enough space. It takes no small amount of coordination to dodge NYC's numerous potholes and snatch tiny sloshing paper cups out of volunteers' hands, all while speeding up or slowing down to make room for your running companions. All in all, we did a fairly good job, right up until we reached First Avenue. That's the point in the race when the crowds get insane. The noise is pressing and constant, and it's virtually impossible not to get swept up, at least a little bit. I know better and I still dropped a 6:30 mile heading into the Bronx. This is when I lost E___. Someone hopped in to run with her, and I thought, <i>Well, I guess she has what she needs now</i>. This would be our point of departure: she'd run her race, and I'd run mine.</p><p>V___ and I stayed together until we hit the Williams Avenue Bridge. (Yes, another bridge. There are five of them in total.) By the time I was in the Bronx, I was alone.</p><p>It was not the best part of the course to run alone, because I knew the pain was coming for me on Fifth Avenue, and I was still wondering if I'd gone out a tad fast. I had intended to take the race out in 6:50/mile pace, cut down a bit at the halfway point, and then try to hammer home the last 10k. By mile 20, I knew there was going to be no "hammering home." If I could sustain the pace I was going, that would be a success.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiafXYYHgxTU7pacbUuIZedMoP57y48KblARlRsOV5s2vCm7voeZxI0qcvpySiJSWO3C4lzZ-HVuzGZwSS0afLnGXu8mIE08ilPBNLcX-16KX2mNyYgcmunRuNXmKjAk6cHQST5Gcv4Yz_m/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiafXYYHgxTU7pacbUuIZedMoP57y48KblARlRsOV5s2vCm7voeZxI0qcvpySiJSWO3C4lzZ-HVuzGZwSS0afLnGXu8mIE08ilPBNLcX-16KX2mNyYgcmunRuNXmKjAk6cHQST5Gcv4Yz_m/" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit: Kiersten Johnston</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Fifth Avenue is painful because it is uphill. If you were to look at it, you'd barely notice, and if you were to stroll down the sidewalk, you'd be hard-pressed to call it a hill. At mile 23 of a marathon as challenging as New York, however, that slight incline makes you want to chop your legs off and beat someone with them. It <i>hurts</i>. And I was hurting good when I saw a woman up ahead of me in a backwards baseball cap. <i>She looks fast</i>, I thought. <i>I probably won't catch her.</i></p><p>She also didn't look like she was hurting the way I was. As we ran down the street, she kept lifting her arms, trying to get the crowds—which were irritatingly quiet—to pump us up. I found myself joining the effort, giving a double thumbs-up as I ran in the hopes that these people would give us some energy. Why were they standing there if they weren't going to cheer?!</p><p>When we turned into Central Park, I felt a wash of relief. This was familiar territory. I knew this road. I had run it many, many times. I knew its dips and its divots, and the fact that it would eventually veer downhill. I was very much looking forward to that.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYShZjY3MhcNDiqd5nqToI05cRHGTA_NY2p_b6Cjv3HpZtimBWRYh9Z-YCTfowgAUPTn6yyUey2KwVUHDkmBNLHOhuVdBk0iv6ttZzWjAKyWhCxHOkprw4jYt7CljdWTnsHaqg3fRbLkWD/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1126" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYShZjY3MhcNDiqd5nqToI05cRHGTA_NY2p_b6Cjv3HpZtimBWRYh9Z-YCTfowgAUPTn6yyUey2KwVUHDkmBNLHOhuVdBk0iv6ttZzWjAKyWhCxHOkprw4jYt7CljdWTnsHaqg3fRbLkWD/w267-h400/EmiliaBenton-Husband.JPG" width="267" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit: Emilia Benton's husband</span></td></tr></tbody></table>And then I heard a scream—a literal scream—of excitement. My teammate C___ had leapt out from the sidelines and was sprinting alongside me, shouting her head off. She was supposed to have run this race but had held off for health reasons. She had every reason not to be here, and yet here she was, running alongside me, telling me how strong I looked and to <i>go, go, go</i>. I reached out for her gloved hand. Her enthusiasm and energy renewed my gratitude for everyone I had seen along the course: so many former teammates and current teammates and running partners and running friends and friend-friends, and even my partner R___, who was feeling under the weather. I was so grateful to be here, doing this thing.<div><br /></div><div>This thing that f-ing <i>hurt</i>.<p></p><p>Those miles in Central Park feel like the end of the race. It feels like because you know where you are, and because you know where the finish line is in relation to where you are, you're nearly done. But you are not. You have to leave the park and go <i>back</i> onto Fifth Avenue for a little more uphill agony before going back <i>into</i> the park for one final, proper hill. I forgot about that part.</p><p>It felt like I was running so slowly I was moving backwards, and yet I'd left baseball-cap girl behind in the park. Turning onto Fifth Avenue, I came up alongside another girl. I fully expected her to surge, yet somehow my leaden legs carried me past her. I saw another one up ahead. <i>Get behind her, </i>I told myself. <i>Get closer.</i> I passed her, too.</p><p>I had wanted to race the end of this marathon, and here I was, racing it. But it didn't feel like racing. It felt like "surviving better." As I entered the final stretch, I survived better than a man I had seen at the beginning of the race, who had asked whether it was okay to cross to the other side of the street to see his family. (I'd said yes, so apparently I'd been right!). I survived better than a tall man with a weird gait and a short man sweating profusely. I tried with all my might to lift my knees, because the finish line was <i>right there.</i> I came up alongside a man in a neon green shirt, but there were still too many yards left, I'd kicked too soon. Right at the finish line, Mr. Neon Green Shirt shouldered past me.</p><p>"Good job," I grunted as I catapulted over the finish line, wobbled to a stop, and put my hands on my knees.</p><p><i>Didn't want to get chicked</i>, I thought. And I smiled wide for the camera.</p><p><a href="https://results.nyrr.org/event/M2021/result/491" style="text-indent: 48px;" target="_blank">2021 New York Marathon Marathon Race Results</a></p><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-indent: 48px;"><br /></div><table align="left" border="2" style="text-indent: 0px;"><tbody><tr><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;"><div><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Race Length</span></div></div></th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Finishing Time</span></div></th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Average Pace</span></div></th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Overall Place</span></div></th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Gender Place</span></div></th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">W35-39 Place</span></div></th></tr><tr><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">26.2 mi</span></div></td><td align="center" valign="center"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">2:53:44</span></td><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">6:38/mile</span></div></td><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">351 / 24,944</span></div></td><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">43 / 11,394</span></div></td><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">10 / 1,603</span></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div></div>ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-91161684523486837172021-09-16T17:59:00.008-04:002021-09-18T13:22:10.931-04:00Survival of the Shawangunks<div>“You are a survivor”</div><div><br /></div><div>That’s what they say to you at the finish line of Survival of the Shawangunks, aka SOS, a triathlon that involves biking 30 miles and then alternatively running and swimming for a total of 18 and 2.5 miles, respectively. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I’m not sure I want that designation. I didn’t “survive” the race. </div><div><br /></div><div>Surviving would have been showing up so un(der)prepared that finishing was the accomplishment. And sure, anything can happen in a race (especially a race as crazy as this one), so there are reasons a fit, trained person might not finish. However, I felt confident going in that finishing was not going to be the challenge. The challenge was going to be getting the most out of myself and dealing with unexpected issues quickly and effectively. Because in a race with as many changeups as this one, with as many elements that I simply could not practice in training, there were bound to be at least a few issues. </div><div><br /></div><div>And there were.</div><h4 style="text-align: left;">Bike: 30 miles</h4><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Biking has been and perhaps will always be my weakest discipline. In fact, two months out from this race, I was concerned with whether I would be able to finish the 30 miles within the 2:15 cutoff time. The course starts out along flat cornfields and progresses into some rolling hills—right up until the last five miles, which are. All. Up. Hill. </div></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRcWu3J0q7J2z78nHmyXOMlK9WPHBua6iWJaMDlQmUkQTbnKWtoQGD4RmCcHKuIx2kyDsdVt2CM63G2q-tLCIpq06eKZmBm7aqBPd2atOawibYRIW9udf1sQQN64vD2u8aROKlBb04Jopc/s2048/Bike.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRcWu3J0q7J2z78nHmyXOMlK9WPHBua6iWJaMDlQmUkQTbnKWtoQGD4RmCcHKuIx2kyDsdVt2CM63G2q-tLCIpq06eKZmBm7aqBPd2atOawibYRIW9udf1sQQN64vD2u8aROKlBb04Jopc/s320/Bike.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>These hills were problematic for me on several levels. First, there’s the regular old speed issue: The slower you go, the worse you’ll place. And when it comes to triathlon, being slower on the bike is extra-disadvantageous because the longest leg of any triathlon is always the bike. Second, I’m not a great bike handler. In other words, when I’m climbing a hill, descending a hill, avoiding a pothole, turning, or doing virtually anything that requires attention or effort, I do not release my grip on the handlebars. And when my hands are thusly occupied, they can’t do things like rip open a packet of Gu or retrieve a water bottle—both of which would be essential to keep my internal reserves stocked up for the grueling running/swimming miles ahead.</div><div><br /></div><div>The solution involved several gear-based adjustments devised by my friends/coaches/mentors J___ and N___. They lent me J___’s much lighter (much more expensive) road bike, which had more gears available, which meant that I could keep my legs turning over on those climbs. They also lent me their hydration backpack so I could drink from the little dangling rubber “straw” that loops over your shoulder on my ascent rather than groping around for the water bottle cage that’s screwed in lower on the bike. It’s a good thing I had that backpack, too, because around mile 19 I accidentally dropped my regular water bottle as I was trying to get one last sip before the hills. (See? Terrible bike handler!)</div><h4 style="text-align: left;">Run One: 4.5 miles</h4><div>The bike segment of this race concluded with dismounting and clopping across an asphalt parking lot to where we had to rack our bikes. (For anyone who has never worn bike cleats, imagine you are wearing one-inch heeled shoes, only the raised part is under your toes rather than your heel. That’s what it’s like trying to walk on flat ground in bike cleats.) At the bike rack, a plastic bag containing my swim/run gear awaited. I don’t like to make lots of mid-race choices if I can help it, so my gear was minimal: sneakers, swim cap, and goggles. I stuffed my bike cleats, helmet, and gloves into the bag, donned my running shoes, and set off with cap and goggles in hand. (I eventually stuffed them between the strap of my sports bra and my shoulder, which is where I stowed them on every run thereafter.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I’d practiced very few bike-run transitions (otherwise known as “bricks”) in training, so I wasn’t sure quite how I’d feel at this stage of the race. I knew the course started uphill, so even if I felt “good” I knew I wouldn’t be running fast. To my surprise, I ran the first few miles at a mid/low 7 min/mile pace, and I felt fairly in control. Of course, then the hills kicked. The iconic “Cardiac Hill” occurs in that first run, so my pace slowed, but I’d been expecting it, and all in all I didn’t feel terrible—which made me optimistic for the remaining several hours of racing.</div><h4 style="text-align: left;">Swim One: 1.1 miles</h4><div>One of the things that makes this race unusual is the fact that you have to bring your shoes with you into the water. No other triathlons require this, because the swim is always first; you go in shoeless, come out shoeless, and then put shoes on for the biking and running segments. In SOS, you run to a lake, swim across that lake, and then get out and run again . . . to another lake. You do this three times. Therefore, if you plan to run wearing shoes, you need to bring them with you across those lakes.</div><div><br /></div><div>How you do this is entirely up to you. Some people carry dry bags, others stuff their shoes into the zip-up section of their tri suit. My plan (courtesy of race veteran “Dr. Mike”) was to stuff the shoes up the back of the legs of my tri suit. If you want to try this at home, take a sneaker and hold it against the back of your thigh, toes pointed toward your butt, sole out. Now imagine you’re wearing spandex shorts, and jam the shoe in between the shorts and your upper thigh so they’re nice and snug and ready for a swim. That was the strategy, and it worked! The most difficult part was getting the shoes on and off my feet. In this first swim, it wasn’t so bad, because I was still wearing socks, which I had worn on the bike. (Pro tip: Don’t try to swim in socks. I gave it a shot, but after a few hundred meters I had to shed them. They somehow really impair your kick!)</div><div><br /></div><div>This first swim was the longest and in the coldest lake. It was made even more challenging by two additional factors: First, the water was choppy. Like, really choppy. Ocean-swim choppy. The waves made breathing difficult, but it made sighting (the process of lifting your head to see where you’re going) almost impossible. And second, sighting was already difficult because there were no buoys. Usually in open water swims, there are bright orange, red, or yellow buoys floating in the water that you use in order to ensure you’re swimming in the right direction. However, in this lake there were only two buoys: one where you enter the lake, and where you exit a mile away. Suffice to say, I did a fair amount of breast stroking to get my head high enough to find other swimmers I could swim toward. Being half a mile from shore and unable to see what direction to swim is not great, especially in the middle of a race!</div><h4 style="text-align: left;">Run Two: 5.5 miles</h4><div><br />The second run was probably the most enjoyable due to what wasn’t happening yet: I wasn’t feeling tired, and I wasn’t developing blisters. Also the terrain of this run was generally gentler, the path smoother, and the inclines and declines less steep. (Although again, I wasn’t as tired yet, so don’t quote me!) </div><div><br /></div><div>It’s on this run that I caught up with people from the SOS “camp” I had done a month prior, all of whom I’d judged to be formidable athletes. It felt good to breeze past them while feeling in control. <i>The third run is going to be the tough one, </i>I reminded myself as I pranced downhill. <i>That’s where the real race starts.</i></div><h4 style="text-align: left;">Swim Two: 0.5 miles</h4><div>Before I could get to that “tough run” though, I first had to get through the second lake swim. This one was much easier than the first, by virtue of the fact that the water was warmer and there was a yellow rope strung straight across the lake, from the entry point to the exit point. What I should have done was keep my head down and breath to my right for the whole swim so I could navigate using that yellow rope, but I was too stuck in “open water swimming” mode and kept lifting my head to look in front of me, even though there was no need. Definitely something I’d do differently next time</div><div><br /></div><div>I passed one swimmer about halfway across, and I was three quarters of the way when a man blew by me. By the time I thought “maybe I can draft off of him” he was a whole body length in front of me—too far to catch any useful draft. I knew who it was: A___, who had been part of the camp, who had shared all of his tips and tricks, and who had said in no uncertain terms that swimming was his best discipline. I was impressed, because it’s not like I’m a particularly slow swimmer, and the guy is at least in his 60s. But I knew I’d catch him on the run. And I did.</div><h4 style="text-align: left;">Run Three: 8 miles</h4><div>The third run was THE run, in my mind. This was the leg of the race I really wanted to nail. It was far enough into the race that I could be sure everyone would feel miserable, and yet it was flat enough that I knew I could run it well if I did things right.</div><div><br /></div><div>As it turns out, most of the eight miles was not just flat, but downhill. In fact, the very beginning of the route was steeply downhill, to the point of causing some serious quad damage as you try to keep from tumbling ass-over-teakettle. Thankfully that decline only lasted maybe half a mile before the pavement leveled out and transitioned back to groomed trail, and then I was off.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I was passing the real competitors. How did I know? Well some of them had their last names on the backs of their tri suits. That’s a sign someone’s at least taking triathlon seriously, right? Also they were all running; only one man I passed started walking, and when I saw him do it, I yelled at him to “please come along, I need company!” (He declined.) And finally, I was running fast—or at least faster than I’d expected. My plan was to run by feel, whatever a “marathon effort” should be. But thanks to the gently descending terrain, my watch told me I was cruising at a sub-7 min/mile pace. After four-plus hours of exercise, that wasn’t too bad!</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg2w1SgKY0HS_DMPB7QLIB5d8gkrjQt_I7jiTBBl0V_JCbZe8Qt36ikHTkSjmy82JLafzgfWThExOvAuDZl0U4ZH9CK5yGFvkTcyhCa_a4UycpZQ4frEx7TbEnQQ0nCBUEhr0PToWdXj9y/s2048/Run+2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg2w1SgKY0HS_DMPB7QLIB5d8gkrjQt_I7jiTBBl0V_JCbZe8Qt36ikHTkSjmy82JLafzgfWThExOvAuDZl0U4ZH9CK5yGFvkTcyhCa_a4UycpZQ4frEx7TbEnQQ0nCBUEhr0PToWdXj9y/s320/Run+2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div></div><div>About midway through this run, the trail wound past a popular climbing area. I darted around climbers who moved along the path in slow motion and cheered the way stoned Brooklynites might—with breathy, mid-octave voices that indicated they had no idea what was going on but that they were in good spirits and were happy to acknowledge my passing by. After leaving those khaki-clad groups behind, there were long stretches where I saw nothing but trees, rocks, and dirt . . . until eventually I glimpsed a woman with blond braids up ahead. Generally speaking, I’d passed a lot more men than women, so seeing her got me excited—another competitor! But soon the trail began ascending, and any ground I was gaining became moot; she vanished into the trees. I never glimpsed her again.</div><div><br /></div><div>This ascent was the second named hill of the course, aptly called “Godzilla.” More than one person had told me they intended to walk it “so they wouldn’t cramp.” I was skeptical of the wisdom of this, so I asked a friend who had won the race a few years prior if he’d walked Godzilla. His response (after a multi-second pause to make sure I was serious) was, “Maybe I walked for a second to gather myself, catch my breath. But then I kept running.” </div><div><br /></div><div>All of this is to say, I hadn’t decided what I’d do on this hill before I set out, which left me straddling the two strategies: I would run (which on that gradient is more like a shuffle), then choose a tree or rock ahead, and give myself a walk break. A few steps into the “break” I’d get annoyed and choose another landmark which, when I reached it, would be when I had to start “running” again. I proceeded thusly up the never-ending hill, alternatively lambasting myself for losing sight of Blond Braids and telling myself that it didn’t matter because I wasn’t going to win this race anyway. (Plus what royally pissed me off was that I couldn’t even win this segment of the race. There is an award for “fastest third run,” but it’s an overall award, not gendered. And I might be a fast runner, but I’m not dude-fast.)</div><div><br /></div><div>The other, progressively louder thread going through my head at this point was <i>f*ck my feet hurt</i>. My left foot had hurt from the start of the run, but I was now 100% confident that I’d developed blisters on the arches of both feet. I’d naively hoped that by doing a fair amount of my training runs sockless and putting waterproof Band-Aids on my heels, I might avoid damaging my feet. Alas, the best I could hope for was that at lake number three, the blisters wouldn’t burst while I wrenched my shoes off or jammed them back on.</div><h4 style="text-align: left;">Swim Three: 0.5 miles</h4><div>By the third swim, I was feeling a little delirious (this is five hours into the race, after all), and I was excited to get this last swim done. Entering the lake required sliding under a fence and down a dirt embankment, so by the time I hit the water, I still had my sneakers on. I had real trouble getting them off, which I first attributed to doing it in the water and then to my woozy state. Only after a good thirty seconds of failure did I realize that I’d forgotten to loosen the laces.</div><div><br /></div><div>With that problem solved, I stuffed the shoes into the legs of my tri suit and dolphin-dove in . . . only to feel sudden stabbing pain as both of my calf muscles seized up. <i>Not now, </i>I thought as I flexed my toes to ease the cramps. I’m so close to the end. Not now. The cramps would not let up. With every tiny flutter kick, my calves tightened from the back of my knees to my ankles, and so I did my best to move my legs as little as possible while dragging my body forward with shoulders made of lead. (No one warns you how tired running can make your arms and shoulders!) The farther I swam, the louder the voice in my head shouted, <i>What are you going to do? How are you going to get up that last hill?</i></div><h4 style="text-align: left;">Run Four: 0.7 miles </h4><div>The last run may have loomed large in my mind, but before I could attempt that, I had to get out of the water. It was no small feat. Balancing on sore calves atop yet another rock submerged in lake water, I did my best to shove my wounded feet into sopping shoes before scrambling up a rocky wall. (That’s right, there’s veritable rock climbing in this race!) At the top I stared around in a frantic daze until a volunteer finally pointed the way forward, and onward I went, alternatively shuffling and walking, panting all the while. Blond Braids was gone, and I knew the pros had finished eons ago, and there was no one behind me, so I made an effort, but I know myself, and it wasn’t all-out.</div><div><br /></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6-fhZt9o6qnZDeDTnKD-ur5BQqowx1RZg6WKV05jzSnGaWultRo4Tz61NZr_T7OIYZ6ysFFjfDvwDwUxzulbgalAoxW8ti2UEJnFLBg5WcEb0AOj2kynGGHqJmQoSoV03gQvBQduqWeLp/s2048/IMG_4621.HEIC" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6-fhZt9o6qnZDeDTnKD-ur5BQqowx1RZg6WKV05jzSnGaWultRo4Tz61NZr_T7OIYZ6ysFFjfDvwDwUxzulbgalAoxW8ti2UEJnFLBg5WcEb0AOj2kynGGHqJmQoSoV03gQvBQduqWeLp/s320/IMG_4621.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Thanks K___ for convincing me to do this wacky race!</span></td></tr></tbody></table>My feet hurt. The chafing inside my suit hurt. But I felt calm. I was almost done.</div><h4 style="text-align: left;">The Finish</h4><div>When finally glimpsed the timer at the top of the peak, I thought there might be a mistake. I had told anyone who asked that I’d be satisfied with a sub-6-hour finish time. But the clock I was seeing read 5:20-something. My frazzled brain tried to reconcile these numbers, but the fact was that I’d actually started later than what that clock was calculating (my age group had started three minutes after the official start), meaning I’d gone even faster.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then it was done. I crossed the finish line. Someone handed me a towel. Someone else handed me a medal. I waited for a feeling: of excitement, relief, pride, anything. I was among strangers on a mountaintop. I’d done a ton of work to get here, but that work was what had mattered; this was just the outcome.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think what I was feeling was contentment.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="MsoNormal"><div><b><a href="http://results.prtiming.com/Results.aspx?CId=17063&RId=349" target="_blank">SOS 2021 Race Results:</a></b></div></div><style type="text/css">
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</style><br /><table class="tg" style="text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><th class="tg-031e"></th><th class="tg-e3zv">Time</th><th class="tg-e3zv">Pace</th><th class="tg-e3zv">AG Place (F25-29)</th><th class="tg-e3zv">Gender Place (F)</th><th class="tg-e3zv">Overall Place</th></tr><tr><td class="tg-e3zv">Bike</td><td class="tg-031e">1:58:25</td><td class="tg-031e">15.2 mph</td><td class="tg-031e">5 / 8</td><td class="tg-031e">42 / 52</td><td class="tg-031e">130 / 145</td></tr><tr><td class="tg-e3zv">Run1</td><td class="tg-031e">35:07</td><td class="tg-031e">7:48 min/mi</td><td class="tg-031e">1 / 8</td><td class="tg-031e">2 / 52</td><td class="tg-031e">7 / 145</td></tr><tr><td class="tg-e3zv">Swim1<br /></td><td class="tg-031e">30:40</td><td class="tg-031e">1:35 min/100 yd</td><td class="tg-031e">3 / 8</td><td class="tg-031e">12 / 52</td><td class="tg-031e">34 / 145</td></tr><tr><td class="tg-e3zv">Run2</td><td class="tg-031e">41:22</td><td class="tg-031e">7:31 min/mi</td><td class="tg-031e">1 / 8</td><td class="tg-031e">1 / 52</td><td class="tg-031e">3 / 145</td></tr><tr><td class="tg-e3zv">Swim2<br /></td><td class="tg-031e">16:39</td><td class="tg-031e">1:53 min/100 yd</td><td class="tg-031e">2 / 8</td><td class="tg-031e">9 / 52</td><td class="tg-031e">23 / 145</td></tr><tr><td class="tg-e3zv">Run3</td><td class="tg-031e">55:46</td><td class="tg-031e">6:58 min/mi</td><td class="tg-031e">1 / 8</td><td class="tg-031e">1 / 52</td><td class="tg-031e">2 / 145</td></tr><tr><td class="tg-e3zv">Swim3<br /></td><td class="tg-031e">14:08</td><td class="tg-031e">1:45 min/100 yd</td><td class="tg-031e">2 / 8</td><td class="tg-031e">11 / 52</td><td class="tg-031e">45 / 145</td></tr><tr><td class="tg-e3zv">Run4</td><td class="tg-031e">6:19</td><td class="tg-031e">9:01 min/mi</td><td class="tg-031e">2 / 8</td><td class="tg-031e">9 / 52</td><td class="tg-031e">25 / 145</td></tr><tr><td class="tg-e3zv">Overall</td><td class="tg-031e">5:18:34</td><td class="tg-031e">N/A</td><td class="tg-031e">2 / 8</td><td class="tg-031e">6 / 52</td><td class="tg-031e">22 / 145<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div>ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-33073931485095987712021-09-11T19:57:00.000-04:002021-09-11T19:57:14.655-04:00SOS Pre-Race: Switching Things Up<div>I’m racing <a href="https://www.sostriathlon.com/" target="_blank">a triathlon</a> tomorrow. Surprise!</div><div><br /></div><div>Truly, it’s been a season of surprises. </div><div><br /></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiU0c1b4DuCVe-sZw7_rMYM9QQY1q5OwT7maRHpco6vFU-mgjv4qWbKkMjYVwHrTr0Ig1KTeMPke5IAedxICBN6UkGVkZ5d__JpWkL7OhpjK0mbwmytGyUvjQYXd7um4XAdJT-lNWXOIdo/s2048/IMG_4368.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiU0c1b4DuCVe-sZw7_rMYM9QQY1q5OwT7maRHpco6vFU-mgjv4qWbKkMjYVwHrTr0Ig1KTeMPke5IAedxICBN6UkGVkZ5d__JpWkL7OhpjK0mbwmytGyUvjQYXd7um4XAdJT-lNWXOIdo/w320-h240/IMG_4368.HEIC" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Tri Camp" (aka course preview)</span></td></tr></tbody></table>For the first time ever, or at least in a very very long time, I enjoyed the act of training more than the prospect of the race. Now don’t get me wrong—if the race were cancelled (god forbid), I’d be pretty displeased; it’s what has kept me focused on and committed to training all this time. (I do not know how people push themselves without this sort of goal. Kudos to those who can!) Yet as the months ticked by, I realized that more than performing well on race day, I was generally looking forward to fitting this training into my life. It’s a jigsaw puzzle, but I was just generally excited to see how my body would respond to this new endeavor. Would swimming exhaust me so that my run immediately afterward was a slog? (Yes, initially, but as I got fitter the swim actually helped get me loose for the run!) Would biking ever get any easier? (Yes and no: I hate it less, fear it about the same, and am marginally better than when I started, but no one would ever mistake me for a “cyclist” or probably even “triathlete.”) Would running less mileage mean losing running fitness altogether? (No. Although how this translates to an actual running race remains TBD.)</div><div><br /></div><div>A lot of this was surprising to me—I really tried to go into the experience with a mindset of “if I wind up feeling unfit or generally weird or lonely, it’s okay,” but I’ll admit it: I was nervous. Instead I got more (mostly) welcome surprises. A few worth mentioning:</div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Despite putting in at least as many overall training hours as when I’m marathon training, I felt about a third as “beaten down” throughout the four-month training cycle. I know everyone talks about what a “toll” running takes on your body, but I’ve always thought that immensely exhausted, can’t-lift-my-feet feeling was the price of fitness. (After all, back in college when I was swimming doubles and lifting two to three times a week, I could barely drag myself up and down stairs, and I fell asleep in nearly every dark, auditorium-style class.) My “undercarriage” is less pleased with me, and I’ve chafed and blistered in brand new places, but I’d be lying if I said I missed that feeling of utter eyelid-slamming exhaustion around 2pm every day.</li><li>Training alone is not as miserable as I expected. In the past, whenever I’ve had to do hard running workouts alone, I’ve struggled. Not all the time, not to the same degree every time, but more often than not, I failed to hit the prescribed workout 100%. This has trained me to avoid working out alone if at all possible. Yet if you think trying to find a running partner who can run your pace and is willing to run your workout at your (or their) preferred time is hard, try finding someone who is your swimming pace, interested in doing your swimming workout, and can arrive at the same (probably inconveniently located for one of you) pool at the same (very narrow window of) time. Seriously, I dare you. Try it, and then report back. Needless to say, I did every single swim set—and about 90% of my biking and running workouts—alone. And it actually wasn’t that bad.</li><li><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGW3xwyBTrQA-2kQEnYxVcLkt0RBUMeaERxJj67_9b8jA8eP3v1dqZRvRSi_K7_mt3n8dqtGYS4yMMgf9yNGbKhSyl0I9eqFS8CRReW20yzupFmqQUEfOLwnenNXADDhZ3nkVS-TADGScx/s800/IMG_6369.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="639" data-original-width="800" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGW3xwyBTrQA-2kQEnYxVcLkt0RBUMeaERxJj67_9b8jA8eP3v1dqZRvRSi_K7_mt3n8dqtGYS4yMMgf9yNGbKhSyl0I9eqFS8CRReW20yzupFmqQUEfOLwnenNXADDhZ3nkVS-TADGScx/w320-h256/IMG_6369.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">So grateful for the guidance and generosity of friends.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>One reason it wasn’t that bad is because most of these workouts were effort-based. “Run 15 minutes at 85%” is not something I’ve done much of, nor is “swim 5x75 hard with 30s rest between each.” I’m used to knowing what pace I’m targeting and trying my darndest to hit it. Those paces, of course, are all numbers, which means you either nail them or you don’t. It’s pretty black-and-white: If you don’t, you failed. But when there are no numbers to hit, you can’t really fail. So this was, if nothing else, a nice vacation away from that little gremlin at the base of my brain who likes to pipe up right when I’m really hurting and declare, “You suck. You will never be able to do this. Every success you’ve ever had was a fluke. This is the real you, and the real you can’t do shit.”</li><li>Another reason working out alone wasn’t so bad is because in two of the three sports (i.e., biking and swimming), I essentially was starting over from zero. A year of COVID meant a year of no swimming, and anyone who knows me knows that I don’t ride bicycles if there is any viable alternative. This means that even in the case where I do have a past self to compare to (I swam collegiately . . . it’s a long story), I know the amount of work that past performance required, and I know that I’ve barely done a fraction of that work. Therefore, I cannot compare to that swimmer. And while I’ve done triathlon before, I’ve never put in any real bike training effort. Therefore it was like being new in these sports, and everyone knows that being new in a sport is the best because improvements are visible in short order, and seeing progress is motivating.</li><li>The last surprise was how flexible I learned to be. Sometimes pools simply were not available when I wanted or expected. (I showed up at a pool more than once only to have the gates locked, no humans in sight.) Bad weather also played a bigger role, as it’s inadvisable to bike or swim outside during, say, a thunderstorm. In these situations, I did my best to be resourceful, but sometimes you just cannot do what you planned. So call it maturity (the gremlin would call it laziness), but for whatever reason, I increasingly found myself being okay with these changes of plans. I hope I can maintain this outlook, because it’s so, so liberating.</li></ul></div><div><br />Of course, there was one final surprise that was not so great. The fact of the matter is that I cannot seem to make it to the start line of a big race without some sort of crisis happening. This time it wasn’t my mother, father, or sister, it was my cat.</div><div><br /></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobpYHxD9Irojs1X2opvLT0bBH9Lh4B2MH-fl_CRsxQQTdBPTckN9a4Zadha19o8rs1-BxKh4PGyY5CdFTABIUl4wMdDiJzAs61fvcuMZA09OQnugA1ODSXlXnstdKMp_nb8lUkL5YlBwp/s2048/IMG_6357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobpYHxD9Irojs1X2opvLT0bBH9Lh4B2MH-fl_CRsxQQTdBPTckN9a4Zadha19o8rs1-BxKh4PGyY5CdFTABIUl4wMdDiJzAs61fvcuMZA09OQnugA1ODSXlXnstdKMp_nb8lUkL5YlBwp/w150-h200/IMG_6357.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I think we'll keep her.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>For those of you who have never owned a pet, you’re probably rolling your eyes. I get it! I didn’t birth this creature; it doesn't share my DNA. For those of you who are pet owners, however, I think you’ll understand that when I say my cat started throwing up last weekend and then did not eat or drink for an entire week, when she curled up in corners on soft surfaces and barely moved day or night, it was a crisis. Tabouli is four years old. She can’t tell us what is wrong, can’t point to where it hurts. And, as I learned on one trip to the vet (there were two in a matter of three days), cats are really, really good at disguising pain. (It’s apparently some sort of survival mechanism?) Thirteen hundred dollars, four stressful Uber rides, three “shot in the dark” medications, two teary breakdowns, and a whole lot of useless googling later, she magically started eating. The day before I left for this race, she went over the wet food bowl, which we kept refreshing, and took a bite. And another bite. And eventually that little spoonful of wet food was gone.</div><div><br /></div><div>Relief is not something that is added to a person, it’s a release—like a balloon letting out helium, or whatever bad breath huffed into it. So I had about twelve hours to be a saggy, deflated balloon, and now I’m filling back up with nervous excitement. I don’t think I’ll be as full as I might have been, but I can feel the lift. That’s why we do these races: for the flutters of anticipation, and the battle on the course, the triumph at the end. I’m aiming for the finish line of the SOS Triathlon (and if you don’t know what it is, it’s worth <a href="https://www.sostriathlon.com/course" target="_blank">a quick read</a>). There’s no guarantee I’ll make it to the end, and certainly no guarantee of how I’ll place. But that’s why we race.</div><div><br /></div>ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-43395431525321695872020-05-17T21:14:00.002-04:002020-05-17T21:19:56.580-04:00The Olympic Trials MarathonShe might never know it, but Ali Feller gave me the permission I needed to finally write this recap.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAs8-GKgLhkIfNRYuPgeGmD6NneIOQSceDFTVJl6u6D0ugm0T7Tfnnzs00FPv4vFefSe-8G1GpwyeWuUyYm0vN72Jqy3n-Aw0I9Xl5eS1QjSnBYvkZdwA6USaBtxbmhcxP9RJP4I5IkoZX/s1600/JZ-dpnyc-58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAs8-GKgLhkIfNRYuPgeGmD6NneIOQSceDFTVJl6u6D0ugm0T7Tfnnzs00FPv4vFefSe-8G1GpwyeWuUyYm0vN72Jqy3n-Aw0I9Xl5eS1QjSnBYvkZdwA6USaBtxbmhcxP9RJP4I5IkoZX/s320/JZ-dpnyc-58.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit: Johnny Zhang</span></td></tr>
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Ali is the host of the immensely successful podcast <i><a href="https://www.aliontherunblog.com/" target="_blank">Ali on the Run</a></i>, and in a recent episode, she <a href="https://www.aliontherunblog.com/2020/04/22/ali-on-the-run-show-231-jay-holder/" target="_blank">interviewed Jay Holder</a>, Director of Marketing & Communications at the Atlanta Track Club (ATC). Without shame–and perhaps, more importantly, without COVID apologies of any sort–she and Jay went straight back to that last weekend in February, when the Olympic Trials marathon happened, and talked about it with abandon. I loved every second.<br />
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It's been two months now since the trials, and I've wanted to write about the event. But I haven't. First I needed a week to settle down. Then I needed a week to process. And then . . . a worldwide pandemic happened. Ever since, I've been paralyzed by the fear that it's too self-centered, or tone deaf, or downright irrelevant to write about a happy, once-in-a-lifetime occasion like the Olympic Marathon trials.<br />
<br />
But then I heard Ali's podcast, and her enthusiasm for the event took me straight back to that weekend. So I figure if she didn't even run the race and is still that excited to talk about it, and if I enjoyed listening, maybe this blog post will offer a reprieve from the "will we survive?" mentality of the media we're consuming every single day.<br />
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If I'm going to recount the experience of running the Olympic Marathon Trials, I want to begin with the weeks leading up to the whole event. Obviously I was training, but unlike many of my competitors, my goal was not to build fitness. Qualifying in Philly had taken everything out of me, and as stoked as I was about the upcoming weekend's experience, I was not excited to actually run a marathon. So leading up, I just needed to stay fit enough to compete without breaking down.<br />
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Yet while the training may not have been exciting me, the ever-mounting hype was simply unavoidable. And it was infectious. For the first time in my life, I was being sought out for <i>my</i> opinions, <i>my</i> words, <i>my</i> likeness based on something I'd achieved. Usually I'm the one on the question-asking end of the conversation, but now people wanted to <a href="https://tempojournal.com/article/the-road-to-atlanta/index.html" target="_blank">interview me for articles</a>. They filmed me for a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wYiF5b08738" target="_blank">television segment</a>. Put me on their <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/B5sM_VPH9Eb/" target="_blank">Instagram feed.</a> Included me in their <a href="https://www.personalrecordpodcast.com/podcasts/dreamsdocometrue" target="_blank">podcast</a>. (Okay, full disclosure, I was on the podcast <a href="https://www.personalrecordpodcast.com/podcasts/2017/12/29/allison-goldstein" target="_blank">earlier</a>, but that's because the host is my friend, and he needed someone to help him practice.) I have never, ever felt this much like a celebrity. And, knowing that I will almost certainly never experience this again, I said yes. Yes, take my photo. Yes, ask my opinion. Yes yes yes!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTtcXsby2s2u8Ww2KdjBimwHNaHWCD5s-yrfAdW6qkvRak_2OG-hdeCaYoSYEZTvVSf7q3YOWQaeHjztf9W80FIiUQOVEWDyIeJnvJ7IP4cTk8gjUyBJJ6aVEQ-COi1c0fqOuqyvYBG4Dr/s1600/87777993_10223362641040012_2810040979711590400_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTtcXsby2s2u8Ww2KdjBimwHNaHWCD5s-yrfAdW6qkvRak_2OG-hdeCaYoSYEZTvVSf7q3YOWQaeHjztf9W80FIiUQOVEWDyIeJnvJ7IP4cTk8gjUyBJJ6aVEQ-COi1c0fqOuqyvYBG4Dr/s320/87777993_10223362641040012_2810040979711590400_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit: Ben Ko</span></td></tr>
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Fast-forward to the weekend of the event. The best way I can describe the experience is that it felt like stepping onto one of those moving walkways and never getting off. From the moment we set foot in the Omni hotel, the energy was thick, palpable, high-octane, and unrelenting. I couldn't leave my room without tripping over someone I knew, or had heard of, or wanted to meet. Every hallway was loud, and everyone was always in motion, going <i>somewhere</i>.<br />
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Initially I'd thought that I'd have a decent amount of downtime. However, there was just so much to do! Between eating meals and attending events the ATC was putting on for us athletes, I had to sort out what, exactly, I was going to wear for the race; go and get it approved by a race official (including my shoes, which were measured using what looked like some sort of laser); decorate and drop off my water bottles (where I ran into none other than professional runners Steph Bruce and Allie Kieffer, decorating <i>their</i> water bottles); and attend mandatory athlete briefings. Oh, and I'd also planned to meet up with a few friendly and professional contacts, see my teammates, and eat dinner with my parents. So yeah. There wasn't time for much else.<a href="#*">*</a><br />
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As with everything else that weekend, the race was nothing like any other race I've ever run. Part of it was me.<a href="#*">**</a> At most marathons, I am dialed in. While I'm running, I see little and hear even less. At this race, I saw everything and heard everyone. The crowds were insane. They were louder than I've ever heard . . . and I've run the Chicago, Boston, <i>and</i> New York marathons. Plus, these crowds were so much closer. The out-and-back course meant that fans could line both sides of the street, and the onslaught began immediately at the start line and extended for two straight miles, maybe more. In that pack were family and friends. And sure, many of them were there to see the race, the spectacle, but they were also there to see me. I can't quite explain what that feels like. I guess it feels like love.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rl5DnbjqTJ2O78vRCHDyyxEcC7VKmnyUA7vzq7R_PmbcHFrV8oDBew0kigX2n0TlHr3eyCeS94PT6-4gN7dSYhKuocY5FGmcF6jNNA3indFyEvJY0VseMkkP_qsM9Xj2z384Zw-SlZTz/s1600/ea5b2eb1-2fa6-48ee-9837-700526f9b5cb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rl5DnbjqTJ2O78vRCHDyyxEcC7VKmnyUA7vzq7R_PmbcHFrV8oDBew0kigX2n0TlHr3eyCeS94PT6-4gN7dSYhKuocY5FGmcF6jNNA3indFyEvJY0VseMkkP_qsM9Xj2z384Zw-SlZTz/s320/ea5b2eb1-2fa6-48ee-9837-700526f9b5cb.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit: Kelly Kilgour</span></td></tr>
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I saw my ex-teammates first, screaming their heads off, phones out, signs up. These are women who were some of my first New York running friends. They bought plane tickets practically the day I qualified. "Wouldn't miss it," they told me. "We're so proud of you."<br />
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Then I saw current teammates–women who had poured their hearts out to hit the trials standard just a few months ago and come up short. These women weren't slower than me. On any given day, they'd be the ones running this race, and I'd be the one on the sidelines. These women (and their partners) had flown to Atlanta late the night before; they were going to cheer themselves hoarse at this marathon; and then they were going to get back on a plane, all so they could run a 5k the next day back in New York. Those are the kind of teammates I have. They're the kind of teammate I aspire to be.<br />
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Next up was my family. It's important to note that my parents haven't seen me run a marathon since my very first race back in 2009. I genuinely wasn't sure, if I qualified for this trials, whether they'd attend. But there they were: my dad with his goofy homemade sign, my mom bundled in her puffy bright red coat, hollering and smiling and just looking so happy. And right there next to them was the single-most steadfast guy who has been with me through my good races and my bad, who has cheered for me in the heat and the rain, who really truly has helped me get here, whether he acknowledges it or not.<br />
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I saw my neighbors–runners in their own right, and who have been amazingly supportive–cheering like crazy and snapping photos left and right. ("You're doing it!" one of them screamed when I passed them around mile 20-something, almost certainly looking like death. Has a truer cheer ever been cheered? It was exactly the right thing to say.)<br />
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There were my two high school friends, neither of whom has a particularly strong interest in running, but who came anyway, for no other reason other than to make signs and stand outside for a bunch of hours to show me they love me.<br />
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There was my coach, who was probably the happiest I've ever seen him, smiling and waving and cheering me on.<br />
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And then there was one last teammate. This is a woman I haven't known for very long, but who I will never forget. She had qualified for the trials at the New York City marathon, more than a year in advance, but right before the trials, she suffered a knee injury that required surgery. While at first she was hopeful that she'd still be able to race (and cross-trained accordingly–that is, more than any sane human would), as the day drew near, her hope was stripped away bit by bit. At first, her goal was just to finish the race, then just to make it halfway, then a mile. Finally, she settled for the start line, making it 2 minutes and 40 seconds into the race before bowing out. Maintaining hope and optimism throughout that ordeal is impressive enough, but it's what she did after that 2 minutes and 40 seconds that really shows you who M___ is and why I admire her so much: She took her disappointment and her swollen knee back out onto the course and cheered on her teammates <i>for the rest of the race.</i> I genuinely couldn't believe it on that final lap, when I was hurting so bad and in one of those "please just let me stop" phases, and I saw her standing in the road screaming her head off. Because I knew how she must feel–torn between devastating disappointment for herself and excitement and pride for the rest of us. Plus the exhaustion of standing and cheering for three-plus hours. Plus the pain of a swollen knee. And I was almost certainly pulling up the rear on her "cheer list" . . . yet there she was, cheering just as hard for me as for anyone who came before me. I can't quite express how much that meant to me.<br />
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I'll tell you what: I didn't stop running.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-vprEg84czw5RHcRbfJsBBH9fVGspCBb0NIMPzopnrsI_2HxOS-HWPGF56TLk2VLKgmLWhuLYDLns1Rtl3vwd4pHvbVzKqsNK6LR4CKg6Bc6O74YpOVXViYZ8lpI9MZ0rmmRiochFLsr/s1600/DSC04387.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-vprEg84czw5RHcRbfJsBBH9fVGspCBb0NIMPzopnrsI_2HxOS-HWPGF56TLk2VLKgmLWhuLYDLns1Rtl3vwd4pHvbVzKqsNK6LR4CKg6Bc6O74YpOVXViYZ8lpI9MZ0rmmRiochFLsr/s400/DSC04387.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit: Andrew Dearling</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;" id="*">* Honestly, it was all such a whirlwind that the best choice I made was, race morning, spending the final thirty minutes alone in my hotel room, earphones in, starfished across the king bed. (Song of choice? <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulsLI029rH0" target="_blank">"Wait for It."</a>)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">** And part of it was the course and the conditions. 1,389 feet of elevation? 20mph gusts of wind? Nope, definitely never did that before.</span>ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-15506352300827952182020-02-28T21:00:00.000-05:002020-02-28T21:00:39.904-05:00This Is Not a Victory Lap<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzW7aij-ihH1nyRjDy_QS4tbb6hIZIRDz7iftnRRoOjWku5kZqZPpQb1WmPLdkSmjc_fgPP1xDnWKAbJQ-n77YzHLcRvCAGFY3yDH-nDNaQfyEtDK9u9hTOcy65pgmgB0qLvUiONdpLX85/s1600/IMG_4433.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzW7aij-ihH1nyRjDy_QS4tbb6hIZIRDz7iftnRRoOjWku5kZqZPpQb1WmPLdkSmjc_fgPP1xDnWKAbJQ-n77YzHLcRvCAGFY3yDH-nDNaQfyEtDK9u9hTOcy65pgmgB0qLvUiONdpLX85/s200/IMG_4433.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Me + Teammate at Finish Line PT</span></td></tr>
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It's the eve of the Big Event. The one I trained and sacrificed and lost sleep to attend. The Olympic Trials Marathon. I did everything in my power to get here, and now the moment is at hand and I simply don't have the words. I don't know what to say.<br />
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I thought about writing about shoes. For those who don't know, there's this whole shoe controversy going on, where Nike has innovated a shoe that may give runners an advantage. It costs an arm and a leg. Here at the trials, they gave out their new alpha-shoe (aptly named) to every trials competitor for free, and suddenly runners are throwing the "nothing new on race day" rule out the window. The competitor in me also wants to wear them tomorrow because "everyone else might be wearing them and getting an advantage" but this time, unlike in Philly, the competitor isn't winning. The voice inside me that says, "You already have feet problems, you don't know what these will do to your feet. Live to fight another day" is winning. And also, I'm sick of the Great Shoe Debate.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfS5S_ZqiwUwIxn3UDXG0jZRDlWIVbNPKXQ8oq2qOTQTZSOmZxBvHabbnsvQuWa3P5JGwtIc3XnYWLteyAIO-8b0XJEGTzoET1r7fx7HOiIBLJ_rN46-xgR8ua6-jPngt9g9ay85ix3il7/s1600/IMG_6090.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfS5S_ZqiwUwIxn3UDXG0jZRDlWIVbNPKXQ8oq2qOTQTZSOmZxBvHabbnsvQuWa3P5JGwtIc3XnYWLteyAIO-8b0XJEGTzoET1r7fx7HOiIBLJ_rN46-xgR8ua6-jPngt9g9ay85ix3il7/s200/IMG_6090.HEIC" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Yep that's a jacked-up foot</span></td></tr>
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So I thought about writing about what it was like to train amidst other qualifiers for this race. And here's the thing: when it comes to locals who qualified for the Trials, it's the top of the top in NYC running. Only the best get to go to this race, so those are the people training together, and suddenly, whether it's the short turnaround after Philly or lack of talent or whatever, I'm not keeping up. I literally cannot do the workouts these other women are doing, and it's frustrating. It's not that I feel competitive with them, it's more that I feel left out. Or like I should be able to join in, but for some reason can't hack it. It's kind of insane to feel this way, when I achieved my goal! I get to go to this amazing event that I qualified for! And yet. There's always "and yet."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNWmBdL4otsRDkiWYs3V2D0fx-sBTCv3A7eRbluJiR9K-Mr4T_sm8lwyy8Ux0pOAG4k4EISVqlJpaaD-uzxXxlNJNPqdQO8_YQsjn0ja4aPtt3uY28pwjiO_wz8VO_Cm89H8oieLyfjc7D/s1600/IMG_0147.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNWmBdL4otsRDkiWYs3V2D0fx-sBTCv3A7eRbluJiR9K-Mr4T_sm8lwyy8Ux0pOAG4k4EISVqlJpaaD-uzxXxlNJNPqdQO8_YQsjn0ja4aPtt3uY28pwjiO_wz8VO_Cm89H8oieLyfjc7D/s200/IMG_0147.HEIC" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">More very professional-looking bottles</span></td></tr>
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That's all a little depressing, however, when this really should be a celebration. So the thing I'm going to write about is the idea of a marathon being a celebration. For all of those who heard me talk about how I'm not in the best shape, and I'm not going to PR or even come close, I know you meant well when you said this but I have to make something very clear: The Olympic Trials Marathon Is Not a Victory Lap. A victory lap is a 400m jog with a flag draped over your shoulders, smiling and waving to fans. A marathon will never, ever be a victory lap. Even if I run the very slowest we're allowed, which for women is 3:14:59-pace at mile 16 (or else we get removed from the course), it's still not going to be a walk in the park. This course is hilly. And 26.2 miles long. I will try to smile and wave the best I can, but make no mistake: it's still a race. I'd still like to perform to the best of my current ability.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEior8hVwvcfAnlae66ZSlKnNbySM3UC0DwW6HC32gqL4hFp0yBIUy-gqnHPrjKdtEWmAy7KIo4l2whDJBI0Gge1NqITjAvXi7auwf4Qr38cmqMq_aoKSKprsVEPkgYaEvRUNoShdPc8oTRH/s1600/IMG_8212.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEior8hVwvcfAnlae66ZSlKnNbySM3UC0DwW6HC32gqL4hFp0yBIUy-gqnHPrjKdtEWmAy7KIo4l2whDJBI0Gge1NqITjAvXi7auwf4Qr38cmqMq_aoKSKprsVEPkgYaEvRUNoShdPc8oTRH/s200/IMG_8212.HEIC" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Someone really likes the new DPNYC gear!</span></td></tr>
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Therefore, I ate my white carbs today, and paid attention to hydrating, and stayed off my feet, and took Zicam . . . and tomorrow I'm going to go out there and experience what it's like to run in the Olympic Trials. I'm going to stay present. I'm going to bring with me, in spirit, all of the people who I know tried so incredibly hard to do this tremendous thing, because they deserve to be here, too. I'm going to bring all of the luck-wishers and cheerleaders and supportive friends and family I have with me. And it's going to be painful and hard, and I'm going to get frustrated on the uphills, but I'll also be excited when I pass someone, and even more excited when I see people I know on the side of the course, yelling their heads off. Because this is the marathon.ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-69866800779815591702019-12-03T10:32:00.000-05:002019-12-03T10:56:58.470-05:00Philly Marathon Race Recap: How to OTQ*<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Step 1: Stay with a non-runner.</b> In this case two of them, your cousin and his wife. Answer questions like "How many marathons have you run this year?" and "What pace are you going to run?" and "Are you going to win?" Also enjoy some really, really good home cooking.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0qJTL2m6aI3Q5qjKlie1-ckdGCo6Bz2N1AECPYobvsoyrqfal5880vRHRfd90Xgig2lCPUg5Dghc08XnRj53MrMWj1R_53OaUsH1IwoXV3urb81ege1dS7M2GRfrpAznfTeHIIZAvQlLv/s1600/IMG_3280.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0qJTL2m6aI3Q5qjKlie1-ckdGCo6Bz2N1AECPYobvsoyrqfal5880vRHRfd90Xgig2lCPUg5Dghc08XnRj53MrMWj1R_53OaUsH1IwoXV3urb81ege1dS7M2GRfrpAznfTeHIIZAvQlLv/s200/IMG_3280.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Good-luck flowers!</span></td></tr>
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<b>Step 2: Receive surprise flowers</b> (and totally mis-guess who they are from). Remember, for the first of many times this weekend, just how wonderful your friends are.<br />
<b>Step 3: Lose your race bib.</b> There are many ways you can do this, but one surefire way is to put it in your training partner's identical backpack<a href="#**">**</a> after you take a photo together at the race expo. Make sure to tear your whole room apart in a panic before thinking to call her and having your fears eased.<br />
<b>Step 4: Watch The Lion King.</b> Followed by an Iliza Shlesinger Netflix comedy special. All while eating white bread and Trader Joe's Scandinavian Swimmers. (After being fed a personal dinner of spaghetti with marinara while everyone else ate steak and brussels sprouts.)<br />
<b>Step 5: Wake up at your usual "workout wakeup" time. </b>Eat a banana and dry Honey Bunches of Oats, just like you always do. Pack a Picky Bar for later.<br />
<b>Step 6: Squeeze into an over-crowded, muddy "elite" tent,</b> along with all of the pacers for the race, and also Meb Keflezighi and Des Linden, who you will not get a photograph with, because there are only ten minutes left and you need to get to the start line.<br />
<b>Step 7: On the start line, look into the faces of women you know</b>, three of whom were your training partners for the past six months. Let yourself feel excited--this adventure is about to begin.<br />
<b>Step 8: Smile at the rain gods</b>, because they are smiling at you. The rain has stopped. The race gun goes off. It's time to get down to business.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaHXBXauam5-ZZbEa04VZy0gsbLU9xcQqa9kTS8gaf7svJB3ZpllTjBWD-HEfOYr0asxEx7ou6b1LJIpQuLwKlw8Sy-o550bFpQtsLpo4lIH1w5HALVFyGnil2rcWsjOkF0p0ro_wHoLXM/s1600/IMG_1033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaHXBXauam5-ZZbEa04VZy0gsbLU9xcQqa9kTS8gaf7svJB3ZpllTjBWD-HEfOYr0asxEx7ou6b1LJIpQuLwKlw8Sy-o550bFpQtsLpo4lIH1w5HALVFyGnil2rcWsjOkF0p0ro_wHoLXM/s200/IMG_1033.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">These look "elite" right?</span></td></tr>
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<b>Step 9: Grab your very first "elite" water bottle ever. </b>Try not to fall over the other eight women going for their bottles at the exact same time on the exact same table. Make sure you snag that yellow pipe cleaner "handle" you duct-taped on for its snagability. Try to get back to your pace group in one piece. Discover that you have chosen a very stiff bottle, which was a mistake; now you must attempt to suck the liquid out while still breathing oxygen and maintaining pace. Eventually pull off the gu you taped to the bottle (with some really lovely pineapple-adorned duct tape) and pitch the bottle to the side of the street, where it proceeds to explode.<br />
<b>Step 10: Avoid the giant puddles.</b> Or at least try, because anything could be down there. No need to twist an ankle this early.<br />
<b>Step 11: Get to the top of the One Big Hill In The Race</b> without getting totally dropped. Catch back up to the pack. Let your breathing return to normal. Finish your gu.<br />
<b>Step 12: Notice that one of your teammates is gone.</b> Maybe not gone, maybe just a few meters back. But this is not the time for feelings. You've just come past the halfway point. Refocus. Keep running.<br />
<b>Step 13: Almost trip your coach.</b> Several times. Profusely apologize. Then almost get tripped by the girl running directly behind you several times. Must still be a tight pack.<br />
<b>Step 14: Greet your friend and teammate</b> as she hops into the race. You might only get a word or two out, but that's okay--she knows how you feel, because she's already done this many, many times.<br />
<b>Step 15: Wonder if your attempts at "drafting" are working.</b> It is very unclear whether, as the tallest woman in this group, running behind your friend and your coach--two extremely slender average-height runners--is helping at all. Figure that in this headwind, anything is better than nothing.<br />
<b>Step 16: Perform the running equivalent of elbowing a competitor out of the way</b> to resume your place behind your coach. This is <i>your</i> pacer. If she wants to come along, she can run behind you.<br />
<b>Step 17: Arrive at the turnaround cone.</b> Decide it's too slippery and you're too tired to make the turn. Stop running. Step around the cone. Then hurry to catch back up.<br />
<b>Step 18: Glimpse another training partner</b> still headed "out" toward the cone. Try to guess how far back she is. Assume it can't be very far, but your mental faculties are starting to fail. Hope she is rallying for the final push.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnCIIlO3g2hM_gQ4j6m-fqRqXDiwAO0NvCsSqzb42r6s8mcENHNPcMykEKC3zgfKSh20Mate4SRZ7wkqrxYn3hr0H6BdGoFUqnP7Lx-jKLUcP4V9HNgpYbb31ILC57MIS9q53RXvbthkJ/s1600/IMG_4127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1526" data-original-width="1600" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnCIIlO3g2hM_gQ4j6m-fqRqXDiwAO0NvCsSqzb42r6s8mcENHNPcMykEKC3zgfKSh20Mate4SRZ7wkqrxYn3hr0H6BdGoFUqnP7Lx-jKLUcP4V9HNgpYbb31ILC57MIS9q53RXvbthkJ/s200/IMG_4127.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The finish line is near. </span></td></tr>
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<b>Step 19: Reach mile 21.</b> Remind yourself, in a somewhat happy-yet-pain-filled fog, that this is the farthest you've ever run at this pace. Refocus on mile 22.<br />
<b>Step 20: Lose sight of your coach</b> at the next water table. He had said he would grab water for your training partner. Is he coming back? Nope, because he shouts to go ahead. You're on your own from here on out.<br />
<b>Step 21: Arrive at Mile 23.</b> Check your watch. Still on pace. You know, despite the dead-hurt feeling in your legs, that you can hold this for three more miles.<br />
<b>Step 22: Start feeling emotions swell</b> at the base of your throat. Shut that shit down. There are still three miles left to run. Anything could happen.<br />
<b>Step 23: Arrive at Mile 24. </b>See a familiar uniform up ahead. It's a woman you know. You haven't seen her all race, which means she went out hard. You have two miles. Keep going.<br />
<b>Step 24: Vaguely register Mile 25.</b> It hurts so bad, but you are gaining ground. Now it's a race.<br />
<b>Step 25: Pass her on the final uphill. </b>(An uphill!) Grunt what you hope sounds like encouragement, because this is a fellow New Yorker<a href="#***">***</a> and you're both definitely going to make this 2:45 cutoff, so you might as well help each other get there. But you're also not slowing down.<br />
<b>Step 26: Cross the finish line.</b><br />
<b>Step 26.2: You did it.</b> You are going to the Olympic Trials.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh53UPvayIBIcI7ChTmQmh1Z2SVWJHQfv3x9FWWEZhJ5imW_vdftbeCb_i9eTXc9OetxjQT626vttXxwSynNf3w1pfdHbMZZne6t0rqsQAIEuwRN4iJQresc4UxBQVbj5a89dshiSceB70I/s1600/IMG_4132.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh53UPvayIBIcI7ChTmQmh1Z2SVWJHQfv3x9FWWEZhJ5imW_vdftbeCb_i9eTXc9OetxjQT626vttXxwSynNf3w1pfdHbMZZne6t0rqsQAIEuwRN4iJQresc4UxBQVbj5a89dshiSceB70I/s320/IMG_4132.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Amazing training squad & coach.</span></td></tr>
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<a href="http://live.xacte.com/templates/philadelphiamarathon.com/for-runners/race-results/" target="_blank">2019 Philadelphia Marathon Race Results</a><br />
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<table border="2" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0px;"><tbody>
<tr><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Race Length</span></div>
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</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Finishing Time</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Average Pace</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Overall Place</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Gender Place</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Age Group Place<br />(F30-34)</span></div>
</th></tr>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">26.2 mi</span></div>
</td><td style="text-align: center;" valign="center"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">2:44:11</span></td><td style="text-align: center;" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">6:15/mile</span></div>
</td><td style="text-align: center;" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">107 / 10,064</span></div>
</td><td style="text-align: center;" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">5 / 4,220</span></div>
</td><td style="text-align: center;" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">1 / 651</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">* OTQ = Olympic Trials Qualify. For women, this means running a marathon in two hours and forty-five minutes or less. For men, . . . I don't know (2:18 I think?), but it doesn't matter, because this procedure won't apply.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a name="**">**</a> Thanks again to Nike's Project Moonshot program. The backpack I received as part of the program is my new favorite (and I carry a <i>lot</i> of backpacks). However, it is others' favorite as well, which can be the source of such confusion.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a name="***">***</a> Okay, okay, okay. She lives in New York. I am a Jersey Girl. But we both run in New York, so I'm standing by my "fellow New Yorker" terminology here.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
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ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-55153471987096528052019-11-22T14:46:00.000-05:002019-11-22T14:46:29.673-05:00Pre-Philly: Peaks and Valleys of the 2019 Fall Training SeasonAs I was thinking about what I wanted to write in this season recap, I started wondering why I wanted to write it at all. What drives us to share pieces of ourselves on a blog, or Instagram, or wherever? What drives <i>me</i> to share this specific piece of myself before every race? After all, it's not like my story is unique: sure the road felt long, but it feels long every time. Heck, everyone's road to the marathon feels long. And sure, there were bumps along the way, but everyone has bumps (or hills, or mountains). I guess that's exactly why I like writing these: because I like stories, and I like relating my story to other people's stories and finding the humanity in it all.<br />
<br />
Also, it's super-important for me to write this all out pre-race, because after the race, it's far too easy to slot things in where they may or may not belong. The whole story gets framed by the outcome: "Oh, she didn't make her goal, but look at all the obstacles she faced," or, "Wow, look at all of those challenges she overcame to accomplish that, how impressive." But we're supposed to focus on the <i>process</i>, right? So regardless of what the finish line holds, here is a look at my <i>process</i> of getting to the start line, and the peaks and valleys I encountered along the way.<br />
<br />
<b>Peak: Training Group</b><br />
My whole life, I've wanted to be part of a team. I love working together, side-by-side, with others for a common goal, and I also love competition. Prior to this year, I knew of other women who were pursuing the same goal as me, but we were all doing it separately, in our own time, in our own way. Some of us did come together to form <a href="https://www.instagram.com/distanceprojectnyc/" target="_blank">an official team</a>, which I love, but that still didn't solve the issue of day-to-day togetherness. For every workout, I was texting everyone I knew, looking for people whose schedules might align with mine. And honestly? That level of uncertainty (especially when my whole job is already filled with <a href="http://havingathink.blogspot.com/2016/05/stuffed-or-starving-conversation-from.html" target="_blank">constant uncertainty</a>) got exhausting. Luckily for me, my coach could tell, or maybe he had wanted to form a training group all along, and this was his chance. Either way, it worked out for both of us. By some miracle, I found perhaps the only two other women in all of NYC who were going for the same goal and didn't already have a coach. Together with another friend who was already being coached by J___ (my coach), we joined forces and formed our own little training unit.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhJsptr15Oz_UlB39Kjt0UhNbSl9gZMYrOJN7JF1Y-L6mvU8rB64uhjZz7nV3qrhQKykBdufc2jKe8EziDIQ-3YpfBboP-LnziO9__fn_F7hrjQAbPzdcOpNzBmoyFCfxcfiCXrfqb1M8v/s1600/race_4239_photo_68389127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhJsptr15Oz_UlB39Kjt0UhNbSl9gZMYrOJN7JF1Y-L6mvU8rB64uhjZz7nV3qrhQKykBdufc2jKe8EziDIQ-3YpfBboP-LnziO9__fn_F7hrjQAbPzdcOpNzBmoyFCfxcfiCXrfqb1M8v/s320/race_4239_photo_68389127.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Staten Island: Not my best</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Incidentally, four turned out to be the perfect number. Every Wednesday and Saturday, rain or shine, two, three, and sometimes all four of us got together and ran an identical workout. Of course, it never looked identical; inevitably one of us would be having a good day or a bad day, and we would wind up strung out, not so much running "together" as running after one another. But having that steady group of women to reliably meet for the hardest workouts of our lives . . . it made a difference. It was something I knew I needed, I got it, and I couldn't be more grateful.<br />
<br />
<b>Valley: The Comparison Trap</b><br />
Of course, if you train alongside your peers and you all have same goal, there is no avoiding comparison. <i>Why can't I keep up with her?</i> or <i>When am I going to be the one having a good day?</i> were thoughts that circled round and round my mind in those first weeks (months?) of training. I wasn't keeping up. I got dropped over and over on those initial runs, and it was killing me. After all, this whole thing <i>had been my idea</i>! And here I was, not leading the pack, but pulling up the distant rear. Frustration was the least of it. I not only questioned my fitness, but I questioned my potential, whether I was "cut out" for this, and if I'd ever find running "fun" again.<br />
<br />
<b>Peak: Therapy</b><br />
Around the beginning of summertime training, I finally bit the bullet and started seeing a therapist. Part of me is a little embarrassed to admit this, because it feels like a luxury, an upper-class indulgence. I wasn't <i>sick</i>. I wasn't depressed, or hearing voices, or about to commit an act of violence. And it was not cheap. But I was rapidly losing enjoyment in this activity that I had loved for so long, and that loss of enjoyment felt out of my control. I <i>wanted</i> to enjoy running. I remembered what it felt like to enjoy running. And yet, by the time I got to the starting line of the New Jersey Marathon this past spring, I was decidedly not having fun. <i>It's a hobby</i>, I told myself, <i>so if it's not fun, what's the point?</i><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiewT9_FGBdw9UiVMOKBnJ3_YalmOqKGmKJOLxKU8hJwdZ6cDGSRx7D2pqGrcOrNqsLX3R1HEHzTSleDAw8uCADcY40-ZKpnnZ2GDAYKG5hJxulPUCbZXBcI9iyLxazFXG2oCXHXB9ddhpv/s1600/Wilder+SMALL+Group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiewT9_FGBdw9UiVMOKBnJ3_YalmOqKGmKJOLxKU8hJwdZ6cDGSRx7D2pqGrcOrNqsLX3R1HEHzTSleDAw8uCADcY40-ZKpnnZ2GDAYKG5hJxulPUCbZXBcI9iyLxazFXG2oCXHXB9ddhpv/s320/Wilder+SMALL+Group.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Wilder Lab run</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I could have quit. That would have been the easiest thing to do. But I didn't want to quit, because I still didn't understand what had gone wrong. I knew that I was the only one putting any pressure on myself, and that the trick was to "enjoy the process" and "forget what other people think" and "not take it so seriously." I just couldn't <i>do</i> any of those things. And so, upon the recommendation of a friend, I found someone who I hoped could help.<br />
<br />
I've learned a lot from this therapist (although I no doubt still have a long way to go), but one of the most freeing things she said to me during our first few conversations was, "What's so bad about comparison? You're a competitor. That's part of competing." I think we're often told that "good" women are supposed to selflessly and enthusiastically cheer for one another 100% of the time, and that when we size ourselves up against one other, that makes us "bad" or "unhealthy". But I've learned that I'm not wishing anyone ill, I'm merely demanding more of myself. And it's a sport, for goodness' sake! It's okay to want to win. Winning cannot be the only thing, of course, and "winning" in practice is basically meaningless, but the permission those words gave me was such a relief. <i>Go ahead. Compete.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Valley: More Therapy</b><br />
So they say "it takes a village". . . . Not only did I commit to seeing a mental health therapist through this training cycle, but I also committed to doing whatever I possibly could for this foot of mine. (If you're not up to speed, I have a neuroma [i.e., an inflamed nerve] in my left foot. It reared its ugly head <a href="http://havingathink.blogspot.com/2019/05/new-jersey-marathon-recap-falling-short.html" target="_blank">prior to the New Jersey Marathon</a> and hasn't gone away.) I diligently went back to my physical therapist every other week and practiced a whole host of what continue to feel like futile foot/ankle/calf stretches.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=9210478216695533156#*">*</a> I also resigned myself to seeing an acupuncturist on the alternating weeks, so she could put a heating lamp over my foot and proceed to stick needles into it. (If anyone ever tells you acupuncture isn't painful, they definitely have not had any foot treatments.)<br />
<br />
Did any of this stuff work? I guess so, because the pain has been more manageable this time around. But, as I've learned in therapy, a fair amount of the pain is in my head, too.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=9210478216695533156#**">**</a> So I guess you could say "everything" is helping? Whether an MRI would show it or not.<br />
<br />
<b>Peak: Wilder Lab</b><br />
In early September, with training and multiple therapies fully underway, I took a break to go to a retreat. I had registered (and paid) for this retreat many many months ago, and now, with the prospect of missing training looming in real time, I second-, third-, and fourth-guessed if this was a good idea. I had already been to a Wilder Retreat—could this one possibly live up? And wasn't sticking to training more important than indulging in a "vacation"?<br />
<br />
I shouldn't have worried. The Wilder Lab turned out to be even more magical than the Wilder Retreat. Within the span of 72 hours, I felt so close to the ten other women on retreat—all of whom had started out as perfect strangers—that they could have been my best friends. And yes, we ran (it's a running + writing retreat), but the running was more "movement as medicine" or "movement for exploration,"<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=9210478216695533156#***">***</a> neither of which I've done, at least intentionally, in what felt like a long time.<br />
<br />
<b>Valley: Sister in ICU</b><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVIrojVp12k6YWDAx6HeuP4hyphenhyphenXRTKrR3Rokzbkwvy1BzyPHA6xHFgukYj1cf-WNPfEvzgoTbjDTOFqJ78xv9FY6lITvBE3K8QWPOIA0o0WqTW-gBMIRb1YSE0dzA-Cr6A7aoBkOstBA_t/s1600/me+and+amy.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1203" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVIrojVp12k6YWDAx6HeuP4hyphenhyphenXRTKrR3Rokzbkwvy1BzyPHA6xHFgukYj1cf-WNPfEvzgoTbjDTOFqJ78xv9FY6lITvBE3K8QWPOIA0o0WqTW-gBMIRb1YSE0dzA-Cr6A7aoBkOstBA_t/s320/me+and+amy.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Me & my sister</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unfortunately, when I returned to life on the east coast, I didn't get to bask in the afterglow from the retreat for long. A day or two after I returned, I got a call that my sister was in the hospital. Again. <a href="http://havingathink.blogspot.com/2018/10/pre-hartford-2018-year-long-recap.html" target="_blank">Around this time one year prior</a>, she'd had a heart attack and now, this year, something weird was happening with her red blood cell count. Fortunately, my parents were in town this time and could take the brunt of it as her health rapidly declined. She wound up in the ICU, where she stayed, fighting for life, for over a month.<br />
<br />
It's hard to describe what this feels like if you haven't been through it yourself. My little sister might die, and there was quite literally nothing I could do. Should I be there? Did I even want to be there? She was unconscious, so she certainly wouldn't care either way. Yet my parents were there, and I felt I needed to at least support them. So on the weekend when we were supposed to have held my sister's bridal shower, I flew home to Pittsburgh and drove with my mom to Cleveland, where my dad was literally camped out at my sister's bedside.<br />
<br />
Suffice to say, being there did not make me feel better. It's hard to say if it made me feel worse. What I definitely did feel was guilty, though, because at the end of the weekend, I was scheduled to run a 10k. And despite everything that was going on, I still intended to race it.<br />
<br />
<b>Peak: The Great Race 10k</b><br />
I had initially signed up for the Great Race 10k because my training partners were all racing a 10-miler back in New York that weekend, so when I knew I'd be in Pittsburgh for the bridal shower, I decided to capitalize on the opportunity to race <i>something</i>, even if it wasn't a full ten miles. Now, though, my emotions were all over the board, so while I was still going to run this race, I reframed the whole thing as "practice." It was an experiment of sorts: Could I get into race mode amidst all the turmoil?<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNLF1ry63RrXm_zDc1aD29HcJqe1WhZlfop9ecThEXxvP40bvNehkPeBIg8XYylhYc46shyphenhyphen3M-nlToCQ75yUKB0KuI0B2Mek0uIYA5BbhiK9ArJt9E1UMiWp8Yyy0yw1euPPj87RDv47V/s1600/10k+MikeMe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNLF1ry63RrXm_zDc1aD29HcJqe1WhZlfop9ecThEXxvP40bvNehkPeBIg8XYylhYc46shyphenhyphen3M-nlToCQ75yUKB0KuI0B2Mek0uIYA5BbhiK9ArJt9E1UMiWp8Yyy0yw1euPPj87RDv47V/s320/10k+MikeMe.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">At the Great Race 10k</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It could have been any of a hundred tiny things, from the warmup drills to the <a href="https://www.heartmath.org/articles-of-the-heart/the-math-of-heartmath/heart-focused-breathing/" target="_blank">heart breaths</a> I was trying to practice, but something worked. I had a great race. It was one of those races where by halfway, I was starting to pass women without any extra effort. Even the hill at mile five couldn't stop me. I was hurting and not caring, and when I came within sight of the finish line and a man tried to pass me, I kicked into that extra gear where it literally feels like flying, and blew him away. This feeling—this is why I run. It's rare and special and absolutely intoxicating. It's what I had been searching for this whole time. And while I haven't felt it on a single day since then, I am comforted to know it might be there, waiting for me, just around the corner.<br />
<br />
<b>The Rest of the Story</b><br />
I don't want to end on a "valley" but it would be misleading to end this recap with the highest of highs. Because my very next race, the Staten Island Half Marathon, was a huge disappointment. I had ambitions to PR, or at least come within spitting distance of my best time, but halfway through the race, an inexplicable feeling of sadness came over me. I crossed the finish line and cried. I wasn't crying over my race time, although I was definitely not pleased with that. I was crying because I had asked my body to do something, but then this feeling, something I could not see or name, took over. I'm still working on how to prevent that from happening again.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, as of this post, my sister is finally out of the hospital and recovering at home. She still has a very long road ahead of her, but she has a loving fiance, a supportive family, and a stubbornness I could never dream of matching. So I have to trust her to take care of her.<br />
<br />
And now it's about time for this race: this adventure. It's uncharted territory. Lots of exciting "first times" coming up: first time using "elite" water bottles, first time trying to race with a group, first time going into a marathon with the full acknowledgement that I very well might "blow up" before the finish line. The prospect of pain is scary, but the prospect of finding out what I can do is exhilarating. All I can say now is, "We'll see." Whatever happens, I'll be as surprised as anyone else.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="*">*</a>Big thanks to Nike's Project Moonshot, without which I would have spent considerably more money on these physical therapy appointments.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="**">**</a>I swear, psychology is like voodoo. I came into the office one week, literally crying about my foot. It hurt so terribly, and I had been spending all this money and doing all these things to help it . . . the whole running endeavor just felt futile.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">"It's because [XXX] is making you hyper-aware of your body," the therapist told me. "And you're anticipating the pain. So look right at it: Yeah, your foot is going to hurt. But the doctors told you it isn't going to cause permanent damage, right? So okay, it's going to hurt, and it's not going to stop, and that's the choice you're making. Own it." She was right. A week later, the pain went back to its normal level. Just like that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="***">**</a>And man did we explore. Two women and I got so lost on one of the runs, we started negotiating what we would do if the sun started setting (because it was already pretty chilly, and none of us had food or water). Ultimately, we had to hitchhike to a town a full hour from camp, we were <i>that</i> lost, but we made it out alive!</span>ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-44813770948893031992019-05-23T18:51:00.001-04:002019-05-23T19:12:38.635-04:00New Jersey Marathon Recap: Falling Short and Getting UpWell, I did not meet my goal. And disappointment is definitely a <a href="http://havingathink.blogspot.com/2019/04/big-goals-big-feelings-pre-jerseyspring.html" target="_blank">Big Feeling</a>.<br />
<br />
Those first few hours after the race, it was easy to mistake disappointment for devastation. I had put in so much work and gone, objectively, nowhere. 2:50:58 is thirty-three seconds slower than my time in <a href="http://havingathink.blogspot.com/2017/10/portland-marathon-recap-3-win.html" target="_blank">Portland</a> two years ago. It’s six minutes off of what I need to run to go to Atlanta next February. As I collected my gear and walked to the shuttle and drove to the hotel and stood in the shower and finally flopped down on the queen-sized bed with my fists to my face, I couldn’t stop wondering, “Why did I even bother?”<br />
<br />
It’s a foolish question, of course. Anyone who competes at anything knows the answer. I was just disappointed. I still am.<br />
<br />
The race really hurt. Not in that “I pushed myself to the physical brink” hurt, where you “give a race everything you’ve got.” I mean yes, it hurt that way, too, but my left foot, which had been plaguing me in the weeks leading up to the race, really, really hurt. This was not a surprise. Given the preceding weeks, I knew it was a question of <i>when</i> it would start to hurt in the race, not if. The answer was around mile 8.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihgH_AUJbgYNOkK-mNxQ4ZPrKTR-VLGsP0zkdaboxN16HjxW5rbZUI34lCi3O-iQM45xK1xcc969f6NQPv6f_gEVRo0u_fcNIiTBn0atjfQNtxu29tqwiMEX8AC0TokJaGdsR_PXdydPMr/s1600/Photo+Cred_CheerEverywhere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihgH_AUJbgYNOkK-mNxQ4ZPrKTR-VLGsP0zkdaboxN16HjxW5rbZUI34lCi3O-iQM45xK1xcc969f6NQPv6f_gEVRo0u_fcNIiTBn0atjfQNtxu29tqwiMEX8AC0TokJaGdsR_PXdydPMr/s320/Photo+Cred_CheerEverywhere.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">That's Mr. Ironman there on my right. Photo cred: CheerEverywhere.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mile 8 was around the time I started to get sad, too. I had started the race with a small pack of runners, but when it became clear that we weren’t going to run much faster than 6:30s, I tried following a guy wearing a backwards Ironman cap when he broke away. Yet by mile 8, he and I hadn’t picked up the pace by more than a second or two, and I didn’t need to do much mental math to know the race was not going to turn out the way I had hoped. My plan had been to run as close to 6:20s as possible for the first 18 miles while staying “comfortable,” and then to try to hammer the last 8 miles hard enough to get under 2:45:00. I was already more than a minute off track for the first part of that plan. And the pain in my foot was ramping up.<br />
<br />
Three miles later, the half marathoners funneled away toward their finish line, leaving the few remaining marathoners strung out single file down a long, straight road. Ironman guy had broken away from me, and the effort it would take to catch up felt like too much. <i>Should I even keep running? </i>It felt bizarre to be asking myself that question as my feet continued to turn under me, but I couldn’t shake the thought: <i>I could just drop out. No one would care.</i><br />
<br />
I kept running, forcing myself to put in 1-minute surges at the twelfth and thirteenth mile markers. The little hope inside that refuses to die insisted. <i>It might help. You could turn things around.</i><br />
<br />
I lapped my watch at mile 14. It read 6:40.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>F*ck this. My foot f*cking hurts. The goal is long gone. Why am I even doing this?</i><br />
<br />
Yet even as my brain was sinking toward despair, I reached into my shorts for the gel I was supposed to eat at mile 14. <i>Maybe it will help</i>, whispered the little hope. <i>Calories. Caffeine. You never know.</i><br />
<br />
I kept running. My foot kept throbbing. I think a man passed me, maybe two or three. Otherwise I saw almost no one until I got to the boardwalk at Asbury Park, around mile 17. I was maneuvering up onto the wooden planks when two women went charging past me in the other direction.<br />
<br />
<i>Olympic trials qualifiers, </i>I thought numbly as a third woman went whizzing by.<i> I am so far behind.</i><br />
<br />
Yet by the time I hit the turnaround cone at mile 19, something inside me had shifted. Thoughts of dropping out were gone. I had come this far; I was going to finish. The foot pain had sort of plateaued, but my right hamstring was getting tired. <i>I’m compensating. </i>It was a strange realization, because it made no difference. My foot hurt. Nothing I could do about that. My hamstring was tired. Oh well. My feet kept turning. My hands kept snatching cups of Gatorade. My eyes kept peering into the distance to glimpse the next mile marker.<br />
<br />
“Never quit,” they say.<br />
<br />
“If you believe, you can achieve.”<br />
<br />
“You have to want it bad enough.”<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFPikJrPbBZHSwy8S42hyphenhyphenqLXFyNg7tUcfosb6ZVnOpHM4LeIeB0ZHSc4kp6H4QrFdzmon35QLZce5wKrbIOjsw3Tk91jJZ9LfUxB92hxTSbYPlonukNb9rvWWYau366VK3SoczMhmTDdet/s1600/Photo+Cred_Kai+Ng.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFPikJrPbBZHSwy8S42hyphenhyphenqLXFyNg7tUcfosb6ZVnOpHM4LeIeB0ZHSc4kp6H4QrFdzmon35QLZce5wKrbIOjsw3Tk91jJZ9LfUxB92hxTSbYPlonukNb9rvWWYau366VK3SoczMhmTDdet/s320/Photo+Cred_Kai+Ng.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Don't be fooled; that's 75% of the crowd on the whole course.<br />Photo cred: Kai Ng.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There is something to these sayings. They are meant to motivate you, to push you forward when society, and bullies, and your own brain tell you no, you can’t. And yet there are times when quitting is the smarter choice. When believing and wanting are not enough.<br />
<br />
I wanted this 2:45:00 bad enough to invest incredible amounts of time and energy. To work on eating the right things and sleeping the right amount and doing little stretches and recovery exercises that I absolutely positively did not want to do. I wanted it enough to go to the weight room and to the pool and to parks and roads all over the city to run in the cold and the heat, the rain and the snow. I wanted it enough to do these things for months on end, and I know plenty of other women who “want” it just as bad. Some of us get it. Some of us don’t.<br />
<br />
I carried my disappointment with me for a good majority of that marathon, and I’m carrying it with me now. But after letting time and space do their thing, I have also dug out a few nuggets of pride. I did not drop out. I desperately wanted to, but I did not. And while I may not have successfully adhered to my race plan, I adhered to my nutrition plan. I choked down my gels and gulped water and Gatorade on schedule, no matter how futile. And as terrible and sad and hurting and lopsided as I might have felt, I did not crash and burn. I held on and ran the second-fastest marathon of my life. So there is a silver lining. Or maybe at least a copper one.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 48px;"><a href="https://www.athlinks.com/event/5179/results/Event/750766/Results" target="_blank">2019 New Jersey Marathon Race Results</a></span></div>
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<div style="text-indent: 48px;">
<br /></div>
<table align="left" border="2" style="text-indent: 0px;"><tbody>
<tr><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Race Length</span></div>
</div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Finishing Time</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Average Pace</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Overall Place</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Gender Place</span></div>
</th></tr>
<tr><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">26.2 mi</span></div>
</td><td align="center" valign="center"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">2:50:58</span></td><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">6:32/mile</span></div>
</td><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">29 / 2,316</span></div>
</td><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">4 / 864</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-37822612844133076802019-04-26T14:20:00.000-04:002019-04-26T14:20:30.477-04:00Big Goals, Big Feelings: Pre-Jersey/Spring 2019 Recap<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I listen to a lot of
podcasts. Some are about running, some are sort of about running, and some have
nothing to do with running. One of my current favorites, <i><a href="https://pickybars.com/blogs/the-scoop/work-play-love-podcast" target="_blank">Work, Play, Love</a>, </i>falls into all three categories.
On this podcast, the two hosts, Lauren Fleshman and her husband Jesse Thomas, answer
listeners’ questions about their business (Picky Bars), their sports (running
and triathlon), and their relationship (including kids). On an episode that
aired a few months ago, a question came up that had to do with setting goals
and mentally preparing for success and failure. I don’t remember much more
about the question, but I vividly remember Lauren’s answer: when you sign up
for big goals, you sign up for big feelings, too. </span><br />
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV_lqhhbxuvanQmuQ_3lBnoZAbfi_npeHRW_PH6P-OF7Y1IXo4zfGl35KIo5PK1aTJ1pgHdBD03DctBOuTXCxFDKnue9l6_8oQhCsHLVG5CI_Fc_3ZdTZxVXZ4tSGMznnoGfyqlnd84pPg/s1600/NYCHalf_March_2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1157" data-original-width="1600" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV_lqhhbxuvanQmuQ_3lBnoZAbfi_npeHRW_PH6P-OF7Y1IXo4zfGl35KIo5PK1aTJ1pgHdBD03DctBOuTXCxFDKnue9l6_8oQhCsHLVG5CI_Fc_3ZdTZxVXZ4tSGMznnoGfyqlnd84pPg/s320/NYCHalf_March_2019.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">NYC Half Marathon. Andy (front) is having way more fun than I am.<br />Photo: CheerEverywhere</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That statement has been a
scrolling marquee in my brain this entire training cycle: B-i-g
G-o-a-l-s, B-i-g F-e-e-l-i-n-g-s. It’s a reminder, a warning. <i>Feelings
are coming. Prepare yourself</i>. And now that I’m just a few days away from
The Race that I’ve been training for, those feelings are coming out in full
force.</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">If it’s been said once, it’s
been said a thousand times: the marathon doesn’t owe you anything. You can put
in countless hours of work over days and weeks and months. You can eat the
right things, do the right exercises, run the right paces, train on the right
terrain, hire the right coach, get the right sleep, buy the right gear, choose
the right course. . . . You still aren’t guaranteed squat. And that’s scary
enough under normal circumstances, but this time, I feel like I’ve invested so
much more. I’ve tried incredibly hard to do All The Right Things. I cut way
down on desserts and alcohol, and I focused on eating nutritious food both
before and after workouts. I prioritized sleep. I passed up very tempting vacations
with very good friends. I vigilantly performed strength sessions twice a week,
committed to “recovery” activities<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=9210478216695533156#recovery">*</a> at least once if not twice a day, kept a
hand-written training journal, and actually stretched. <i>Give yourself
the best shot</i>, I kept telling myself as I shelled out hundreds upon
hundreds of dollars for preventative physical therapy (when my foot started
hurting) and for acupuncture (to manage ongoing lower back issues). <i>Just
get to the starting line.</i></span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now the starting line is almost
here, and I’m scared of the pain that I know is coming. Scared of the Big
Feelings that await me if I fail.</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">About a year ago, in an episode
of the <i><a href="http://www.aliontherunblog.com/" target="_blank">Ali on
the Run</a> </i>podcast, the host (Ali Feller) talked about being scared to
fail at something she really, really cared about. She was scared because,
according to her, she had never failed at anything she wanted that badly
before. At the time I thought, <i>Huh, I don’t think I’ve ever failed at
anything important to me, either</i>. But the thought nagged at me, until
eventually, I remembered something.</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I was in high school, I
wanted very badly to go to Governor’s School. Governor’s School is a summer
program where the best and brightest students in the state of Pennsylvania go
off to a college campus and study their “specialty field” with other equally
gifted students. A friend of mine (who is now a professional Broadway musician)
had gotten into the Governor’s School for the Arts in music, and when we
visited her that summer, I immediately knew I had to attend. Everyone seemed so
smart, and the campus was so beautiful, and the activities all looked so fun,
and the performances were so amazing. It just seemed like a mecca for
creativity and advancement—a place where the best went to become even better.
And within my high school, I was arguably the best creative writer. At the very
least, I was the most decorated. Plus, I had never failed at anything. I would
apply, and I would get in, and I would have the best summer of my life.</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeHLhRL61jqispfGX4Us449lB_QGFckSYx6PCwv9SupdEhEwX240ow4N905V438RfS1s3go9Y2DsY7N9FEPWKf6l8uvtbMn9cid83zhL9iUCJ6_4f3_gaYOS44Z05VQJOcNqtgtEWszmNT/s1600/Jan19_Armory3k.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeHLhRL61jqispfGX4Us449lB_QGFckSYx6PCwv9SupdEhEwX240ow4N905V438RfS1s3go9Y2DsY7N9FEPWKf6l8uvtbMn9cid83zhL9iUCJ6_4f3_gaYOS44Z05VQJOcNqtgtEWszmNT/s320/Jan19_Armory3k.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Early season track 3k. Got beaten handily by Allison (behind me).<br />Photo: L. Sillen.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The spring of my sophomore
year, I received my first rejection letter. Just one piece of paper, folded
into crisp thirds inside a standard envelope. It was a form letter. I was lucky
they had even bothered to insert my name. In my junior year, I received a
second, identical letter. Seniors were not allowed to apply.</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The reality was crushing. My
writing wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t good enough. And all this time, I had
thought I was great. People had told me I was great, talented, special. But
these canned, impersonal letters showed me that I was living in a very, very
small pond. I couldn't even beat out students in the paltry state of
Pennsylvania. It was devastating.</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The only tiny consolation I had
was that no one else knew about my failure. I think I might have told my
parents and maybe my best friend that I had applied to Governor’s School, but I
honestly don’t remember telling them I’d been rejected. I kept those rejection
letters in my top dresser drawer, where no one would ever see them, and
eventually they were smothered in socks and threadbare T-shirts, and I put the
whole thing behind me—so far behind me, that I forgot about the event entirely.
Until now.</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now I’m older and, if not
wiser, certainly more realistic. I don’t have the luxury of assuming I’ll
succeed, because I know better. I know what those Big Feelings are like, and how
heartbreaking it is to come up short.</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Yet as I was spending all the
hours doing All The Things, I couldn’t help but imagine the other types of Big
Feelings, too. The kind where if everything clicks, and my legs feel fresh, and
the weather stays cool, and my stomach cooperates, and I have runners I can
hang with, and my brain shuts up, I will get to mile 26.19 and look up at the
clock and . . . cry? Or maybe I will smile. Maybe I’ll give a fist pump, or I
could fall dramatically to the ground. I’m a writer—I’ve come up with a lot of scenarios.
The important thing is that this moment will be one of the very few when I feel
complete, genuine pride.</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">However, there are no
guarantees; that’s the gamble we take with Big Goals. So in the last few days
before this race, my job is to find pride in what I’ve done to get this far and
to express gratitude for those who have helped me along the way. This time last
year, I was just returning to running after three months off. I am so grateful
to have stayed “in the game” since then, and proud of the patience and persistence
it’s taken to rebuild fitness. I have a ton of people to thank, but the short
list includes my coach J. Lakritz; my PT A. McGinnis; my acupuncturist S. Park;
my “unofficial” teammates (Justin’s Joggers and beyond!); my ever-supportive fiancé;
and the many friends who are always in my corner, no matter if I’m running
fast, slow, or not at all.</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Finally, it wouldn’t be a
season recap without some highlights, so here are just a few:</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglCJUShw1KrhnE6Uv7KsgnpjS2DAHy2yVJFZL49HEjoEAhDjzHXZBmcCOzDxAqWhmv3zfLboBb4nex9pzpYHnWywqNaHKlJGIewiMlCdOf_TlcDvdxMybl6P7G8kjlG6tbk0NFwRvKZzGs/s1600/dpnyc.GIF" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglCJUShw1KrhnE6Uv7KsgnpjS2DAHy2yVJFZL49HEjoEAhDjzHXZBmcCOzDxAqWhmv3zfLboBb4nex9pzpYHnWywqNaHKlJGIewiMlCdOf_TlcDvdxMybl6P7G8kjlG6tbk0NFwRvKZzGs/s200/dpnyc.GIF" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Biggest Change</span></b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: <b><i>Joining <a href="https://www.instagram.com/distanceprojectnyc/">Distance Project NYC</a></i></b>.
Historically, all of my sporting endeavors have been as part of a team, and
there’s a reason for that. I like to contribute to something larger than
myself. I like rooting for others and having them root for me. So by “running
unattached” for the last two years, I’ve missed out on that camaraderie.
However, being teamless also been good for me, because the lack of structure
and built-in running partners has forced me to broaden my running circle . . .
and ultimately led me to help start DPNYC, where I’ve met even more
accomplished, speedy, enthusiastic women.</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Toughest Run: <i>Long run,
in Guadeloupe</i></span></b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. I had
envisioned running along flat sandy beaches. Instead I wound up on unevenly
paved, extremely narrow residential roads that were literally built into the sides
of cliffs (and not the pretty “ocean view” sides, either). Also it was 80
degrees and humid, and I drank zero water throughout the entire run. (Yes, this
does make me an idiot.) In the last half mile, I proceeded to trip, skin my
knees, and tear my shorts. What’s the French word for “fury”?</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Most Helpful Tool: <i><a href="https://pickybars.com/collections/books" target="_blank">Believe Training
Journal</a></i>. </span></b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There
is something about writing by hand that affects me in a way typing never will.
The prompts in this journal and the routine of writing in it helped me to
mentally focus each week-long block of training and (I think!) grow as an
athlete.</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Favorite Race</span></b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: <b><i>Gridiron 4 miler</i>.</b> I ran
this race early in the season and it went better than expected. I took a risk
by approaching it with a “go out hard and hang on” attitude (not my preferred
racing style!), but I still managed to finish hard and pass other women. Can’t
ask for more than that.</span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" id="recovery" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">*</a><span style="font-family: times, times new roman, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">My recovery activities (and these vary by athlete) include: <a href="https://www.runnersworld.com/health-injuries/a20812623/how-to-use-a-foam-roller-0/" target="_blank">foam rolling</a>, <a href="https://www.gq.com/story/the-massage-tool-for-easy-recovery" target="_blank">Hypervolting</a>, and <a href="https://www.crossfitinvictus.com/blog/the-wonderful-world-of-voodoo-floss/" target="_blank">voodoo banding</a>, often interspersed with text messaging, Instagram, Twitter, and Netflix. Still testing whether the media additions confer any advantages; stay tuned.</span></div>
</span>ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-89335841522710652892018-11-10T11:34:00.000-05:002018-11-10T11:34:03.264-05:00Hartford Marathon Recap: A Glimpse into "Elite" Marathoning<br />
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Let me begin by making something clear: I am not an elite marathoner. Shalane Flanagan is an elite marathoner. Desiree Linden is an elite marathoner. Me? I’m sub-elite at best, and even saying that, I cannot help but think of at least ten women whom I know on a first-name-basis, who live within a few miles of me, and who could kick my ass at a footrace of literally any distance tomorrow morning.</div>
<br />
However, according the Hartford
Marathon's standards, I was “elite” enough for them. And if they wanted to give me free
entry into a race I was already intending to run, I certainly wasn't going to
say no.
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Of course, as I was applying for “elite” status, I quickly
discovered that the race had an even higher tier than elite, which they called
“New England’s Finest.” If you, as a woman, ran a 2:55 marathon or better and
lived in New England or New York, you could apply to receive travel
reimbursement of up to $150, a free hotel room, and the opportunity to win
considerably more prize money than the rest of the elites. (Take, for example,
first place: the NEF runner would receive $6,000, while the regular elite could
only earn $1,000.<a href="http://www.havingathink.blogspot.com/2018/11/hartford-marathon-recap.html/page#star1">*</a>)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR87HrgpjPkrwO-fmziv7lmHohBFSJDXZuUilaWP40-ZJprRlEHCZIysTa7zGYcQEfwyc_vIr28F506lxr5Ok8i_2HlchyTT6AauJOIJAx9iLxHOvW9uocD-0eWUCIFxa2o-d_8Kgc2rVE/s1600/FinisherPhoto3.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="984" data-original-width="708" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR87HrgpjPkrwO-fmziv7lmHohBFSJDXZuUilaWP40-ZJprRlEHCZIysTa7zGYcQEfwyc_vIr28F506lxr5Ok8i_2HlchyTT6AauJOIJAx9iLxHOvW9uocD-0eWUCIFxa2o-d_8Kgc2rVE/s320/FinisherPhoto3.tiff" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">I think this is the finish. But I'm honestly not sure.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Alas, while I did run <a href="https://havingathink.blogspot.com/2017/10/portland-marathon-recap-3-win.html" target="_blank">a sub-2:55 marathon last year</a>, and
while I can literally see the World Trade Center from my apartment window (and spend
more time running in New York than I do in New Jersey), I do not actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">live</i> in New England or New York.
Therefore, despite my beseeching email to the race director, I was relegated to
elite status. (Yes, yes, poor me. Merely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">elite</i>.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I did get as part of the elite program was access to a
tented area beside the finish line where I and the other NEF/elites could put
our gear. The morning of the race, my friend and wonderful weekend host A___
and my fiancé R___ escorted me to that tent, which turned out to be not so much a clean, heated haven, as I had envisioned, but instead consisted of two rows of
folding chairs and a folding table laden with safety pins, a case of water, and
a box of bananas, all set up atop some already-soggy grass. (But hey, we had a tent, which was a lot nicer than standing out in the rain!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After quick hugs and mutual wishes of “good luck,” A___ and R___ departed,
leaving me feeling incredibly out of place as I hunched over my folding chair and watched all of the svelte runners arrive, looking like they knew exactly what
they were doing and wearing matching warmup kits to boot. I, meanwhile, was
wearing men’s sweatpants from Marshall’s and a free jacket I got at a race in
Massachusetts last year. (I had meant for them to be my throwaway clothes, but
apparently a volunteer was assigned to collect the NEF/elite runners’ warmup
clothes at the starting line and take them back to the tent for us. Who knew?)
Just as I checked my watch for the twelve-hundredth time and decided that 7:02am seemed like the perfect time to start tucking gel packets into my shorts, a
woman in the next row of folding chairs made eye contact with me and smiled. After we
exchanged a few pleasantries (yes, the weather was a little gloomy, and the
grass beneath these chairs was awfully soggy, but hey, at least we wouldn’t be
too hot!), she asked what I was going to do to warm up and would I mind the
company? This was her first marathon, so “she didn’t know what marathoners did
to warm up.” I invited her along on my one-mile warm-up jog, and as we trotted away, she asked what time I was
hoping to run. I said anything under 2:55 would be a success. When I returned
the question, she said she was hoping to OTQ (which is short for "Olympic Trials Qualify," meaning running under 2:45:00). <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hmm</i>, I thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s a bit
ambitious for a first marathon.</i> But when she followed that up by saying she had recently
run a 1:16 half marathon, my skepticism vanished.<a href="http://www.havingathink.blogspot.com/2018/11/hartford-marathon-recap.html/page#star2">**</a><br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After finishing our jog, we parted ways. I had been told we’d
be “escorted” to the starting line, but as I started seeing more and more runners
leave the tent on their own, I decided that I must have been misinformed and jogged out toward the throngs of runners. When I finally found the starting line, I simultaneously ran into
C___, a friend of a friend whom I’d met once before on a run in Connecticut. We
hugged, at which point she said that since it was her first marathon, she just wanted
to break three hours. (Just!) Then she inevitably asked what I wanted to run,
and when I told her I was aiming for 2:55, she declared, “Perfect! We can run
together, then.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the gun went off, my competitive brain got hostile. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">She’s totally crashing my marathon</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now I’m going to feel like I have to stick
with her, instead of running my own race. What if she goes out too hard? What
if she feels good? What if I feel good? </i>I tried to reason with myself that
if she started throwing down 6:15s in the first half, I’d just let her go and
try not to let it bother me. On the other hand, if I felt good and she was
flagging, I could leave her at mile 20. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">She’d
better be flagging</i>, warned the competitive voice. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s her first marathon. You aren’t going to get beat by a first-timer
are you?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Within the first few miles, all the OTQ women were long
gone. Sure, there were a few men around, but otherwise it was frankly just me
and C___. She seemed fine, and I seemed fine, and so we carried on, with her
informing me at every mile marker exactly how fast her watch said we were running. (She
was using the GPS auto-lap, while I was manually lapping my watch, so her announcements
came earlier and earlier as the miles clicked away—exactly the reason I'd chosen <i>not</i> to use auto-lap.) We ran on a narrow park
path and up along a highway. We ran beneath a bridge underpass where her family
was screaming her name, and through a downtown stretch where R___ was screaming
mine. On the uphills, she forged ahead, and on the downhills I sped past, but
for the most part we ran stride for stride, taking turns going ahead of one
another at water stops. (That is, except at three water stops where there were “elite
runner” water tables. At those, she grabbed her pre-placed water
bottle, and I ran straight past to grab a regular Dixie cup from a volunteer.
Nothing new on race day, right?)<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7J-HlLxy6nL3u4a3RXMk5he1aya2Gc0P3y_gdntTDbapJR_PDt-MWMpTFTJx04rxLFQiBbzDpOa9urOJJ4G82BB-8iESxZ72Gcgf6zfMM9MY9oN-iC-fhtVWXKzuTNc5pt8gdS2g84TCq/s1600/MeJustin-lookingcold.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="1002" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7J-HlLxy6nL3u4a3RXMk5he1aya2Gc0P3y_gdntTDbapJR_PDt-MWMpTFTJx04rxLFQiBbzDpOa9urOJJ4G82BB-8iESxZ72Gcgf6zfMM9MY9oN-iC-fhtVWXKzuTNc5pt8gdS2g84TCq/s320/MeJustin-lookingcold.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">A rare photo with the "Dalai Lama" of running.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, my “ideal day race plan” had been to run 6:35-40 per mile for
the first 10 miles, 6:30-35 for the next 7, 6:30s for the next 5, and
anything sub-6:30 for the last 4+. However, the terrain was so uneven throughout
the race and, quite frankly, I was so caught up in the fact that this girl was
sticking to me like glue, that somewhere around mile 15, I abandoned that
plan. My reasoning was as follows: (1) Nothing in my training indicated that
I’d be able to negative split with this kind of precision. (2) If I picked up
the pace significantly, C___ might not come with me, which would mean two
things. First, I’d have to run the rest of the race literally by myself
(because the annoying man who decided to sit on our heels starting at mile 8
was clearly not going to run beside me), and second, if my "wheels came off," I
would have to watch C___ fly right past me. And call me a wimp, call me a coward,
but I just did not want that to happen. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Better to
outkick her at the very end</i>, I thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">After
all: you know the kind of fatigue that’s coming. She doesn’t.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fact somewhere right around where fatigue was starting to set in, we
reached the second “elite” water bottle table, and C___ dropped her
bottle. I saw her do it, and immediately thought <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now what do I do?</i> I could pick up my pace and try to drop her. I
could simply keep going and see what she would do. Or I could slow down a
little and look over my shoulder to try and encourage her to join me again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You don’t know this
girl,</i> my competitive brain said. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You
don’t owe her anything.</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yeah, but if that were
you, you’d want the other person to wait for you</i>, said my rational brain. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And what’s a few extra seconds? It’s not
going to make a difference in the ultimate outcome of your race.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I slowed down a beat and kept looking over my shoulder
until I heard her footsteps again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Around mile 19, we passed one of the OTQ girls. She looked
absolutely miserable. “Come with us!” I tried to shout, but I was getting cold
and my lips weren’t really functioning, so I doubt she heard me. And speaking
of things not functioning, I spent all of miles 20 and 21 trying to get a gel
out of my shorts pocket with fingers that absolutely would not cooperate. By
the time we hit mile 22, my shorts were twisted, my shoulders were tired, and I had completely given up hope of getting that gel out—at which point C___ asked, “Do
you want a gummy?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">See, this is why you
were right to wait for her</i>, my rational brain said as she handed over one
of her shot blocks (which is basically a giant cube-shaped gummy bear). My competitive brain had absolutely no comeback to that one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, it had plenty to say when, a few hundred meters later, the man who had been running one step behind us the entire time finally started taking off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Go with him!</i> screamed
my competitive brain. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You can’t just let
him beat you after he used you all that way!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But we were still four miles out from the finish line, and I
just did not feel spry enough to match the move.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s okay</i>, said
my rational brain. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Another time, another
guy. You can go next time. This time, in this race, just hang on until 25.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so I did. At mile 25, I saw what looked like an old man
up ahead of us, near what looked like a gas station. He didn’t seem to be
moving particularly quickly, and some guy C___ knew had just jumped onto the course
to help her out. Neither he nor she said a word to me, so I figured all bets were
off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Time to go.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pushed as hard as I could up the highway ramp that led back
into downtown Hartford. I suffered through the downhill that came next. I tried
to turn a wince into a smile when I passed by A___ and R___, all without turning my head, because I had to focus. I couldn’t let up, and I didn’t dare
look back. C___ might be there, and I needed all of my energy to move forward. If I got out-kicked by the first-time
marathoner who “just wanted to break three hours,” I’d never, ever forgive
myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the finish line finally came into sight, I couldn’t hear anything but my own footfalls, and there was nothing
in front of me except that big, unforgiving clock. Suddenly it was all very real: if I didn’t push for these last 200 meters, I was going to finish with a 2:54 to my name, and damn
it, I might have traveled a long way to get here, but I was better than 2:54. So
I kicked as hard as my weary, beaten legs could kick.<br />
<br />
And, as it turned out, those legs didn't let me down.<br />
<span style="text-indent: 48px;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: 48px;"><a href="https://www.athlinks.com/event/1581/results/Event/695076/Course/1127404/Results" target="_blank">2018 Hartford Marathon Race Results</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-indent: 48px;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" border="2" style="text-indent: 0px;"><tbody>
<tr><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Race Length</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Finishing Time</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Average Pace</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Overall Place</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Gender Place</span></div>
</th></tr>
<tr><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">26.2 mi</span></div>
</td><td align="center" valign="center"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">2:53:58</span></td><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">6:39/mile</span></div>
</td><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">27 / 1,560</span></div>
</td><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">5 / 635</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="Star1">*</a> Not that I had any dreams of winning, the race, mind you, but prize money extended down through eighth place, and given the previous years’ finishing times, finishing somewhere in the top eight seemed possible.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="Star2" style="font-style: italic;">**</a> This woman went on
to not only OTQ—by nearly 4 minutes, I should add—but she also <i>won the entire race</i>.
Guess my warmup routine was sufficient....</span><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-79669485127582136432018-10-11T19:14:00.002-04:002018-10-11T19:14:35.811-04:00Pre-Hartford: 2018 Year-Long Recap<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqKwMRs2ducMbFZX_zDzgfBz_9DnswiC6ko8NBBf-EGl78uHDXgNdmPwEWChZBF7Dp1fI8fv6_maj7wg8_3P8fWRopGGl7YhXlSRqYAtwJPKeNkvtZXlcuTZGJWqi1OmYejDH1c5h3FsV/s1600/PhysicalTherapy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqKwMRs2ducMbFZX_zDzgfBz_9DnswiC6ko8NBBf-EGl78uHDXgNdmPwEWChZBF7Dp1fI8fv6_maj7wg8_3P8fWRopGGl7YhXlSRqYAtwJPKeNkvtZXlcuTZGJWqi1OmYejDH1c5h3FsV/s320/PhysicalTherapy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pro tip: pretend you're actually exercising by doing your PT at a gym.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
They say "don't take things for granted," but we inevitably do. So let me start this off by saying how grateful I am to even be writing a pre-marathon season recap. Just getting to the starting line this year is a triumph on its own.<br />
<br />
But I'm getting ahead of myself.<br />
<br />
Let's start back in January. As of the first of the year, I was sidelined with an "overuse" injury called patellofemoral syndrome. If you happen to be a physical therapist, you'll recognize that this isn't a break, or a strain, or even anything specific; it basically means I was having pain around my knee, mostly likely caused by inflammation. The trick—and what my physical therapist and I worked on over the next several months—was to determine <i>why</i> I was having pain and to train my body to move in a way that would stop causing said pain. For everyone who's not a physical therapist, all you really need to know is that bending my knee hurt. So running was out, along with biking, erging (rowing), elliptical-ing . . . it even hurt to walk. Also, stairs were especially painful, which, as anyone who lives in or around New York City knows, was especially problematic in terms of getting anywhere. However, luckily for me, my fiance and I had moved to a building with an elevator in late 2017, so at least I no longer faced three sets of stairs anytime I wanted to leave the apartment. That was one silver lining, and the fact that I could still swim freestyle without pain was another. So from January until April, I went to the pool 4-5 times a week and spent the rest of the time dutifully practicing PT exercises and trying not to feel too much FOMO as I watched everyone else get fitter and faster.<br />
<br />
During this four-month span, I was faced with a hard choice. At the end of 2017, I was accepted to attend <a href="http://www.wilderrunning.com/" target="_blank">Wilder</a>, an all-women's running-writing retreat hosted by retired professional runner Lauren Fleshman. Anyone who knows me knows how excited I was to be accepted—this retreat was practically made for me!—but given that the event was scheduled for Memorial Day weekend, I was now faced with a tough choice. Should I pay the rest of the deposit and buy a plane ticket, gambling on the fact that I'd be healthy enough to run by the end of May? Or should I save my money, give up my spot, and hope to be accepted into a future retreat?<br />
<br />
With the encouragement of my physical therapist (who also happens to be my coach), I took the gamble, and lo and behold, by the end of May, I was finally running again. (Albeit very low mileage and with a lot of huffing and puffing . . . but I was putting one foot in front of the other with minimal pain!) Suffice it to say, that weekend in Sisters, OR, remains a highlight of my year. I met amazing women, communed with nature, and basked in a sense of security and freedom that I rarely, if ever, feel. It's hard to summarize the experience in a few short sentences, but the whole weekend was an important reminder that I don't always need to have an agenda. Every word I write does not need to be an act of performance, and every run I go on does not need to be in service to larger goal.<br />
<br />
That said, I was still eager to get back to training for my "larger goal," so when I returned to New York (okay, okay, New Jersey), that's what I did. And man, was it humbling.<br />
<br />
Fast-forward to the end of July, when I ran my first race of the year. It was a low-key 5k in Brooklyn's Prospect Park, and I knew I wasn't in shape to do anything impressive. In the end, I was pleasantly surprised to come in under 19 minutes, and, thanks to very few other women showing up for the race, I won. Two weeks later, I ran the exact same race . . . almost 30 seconds slower. This was yet one more slice of humble pie, but, to take this metaphor much farther than it needs to go, I got a scoop of ice cream with it this time: at mile 2, a man-woman duo started to pass me. I huffed something along the lines of "good job, go" and then the woman turned and invited me to "come with us." This was somehow exactly what I needed to hear, because I kept pace and wound up out-kicking her and another woman at the end, for second place. All of a sudden, I could feel that old love of competing nudging me. <i>That was exciting. Can we do that again?</i><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFLOMV0ZZYi8D5C4eYNNf1wzjW1CzIYIY01g7WNvIoypRzeVeKIrhQV7yjrZBzSPd0kVlcSJkq7gg718rvPllRmstWfalh5nVr8V5fULu7JPQl7fB8vnpxkm7LS1883vQ03I2VpzHg9Rkf/s1600/Wilder-LaurenFleshman2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFLOMV0ZZYi8D5C4eYNNf1wzjW1CzIYIY01g7WNvIoypRzeVeKIrhQV7yjrZBzSPd0kVlcSJkq7gg718rvPllRmstWfalh5nVr8V5fULu7JPQl7fB8vnpxkm7LS1883vQ03I2VpzHg9Rkf/s320/Wilder-LaurenFleshman2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Still can't quite believe this trip was real. That's Lauren Fleshman, in the flesh!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I had just started searching for more upcoming races when, the next week in August, disaster hit. I got the call that my sister had been rushed to the hospital, and since both of my parents had just left on a cruise to Alaska, I was the family member left in charge. Without getting into the details, my attempt to "get to Cleveland ASAP" involved two separate trips to La Guardia airport and half a night spent in the Port Authority. To make matters worse, cruise lines still apparently communicate using smoke signals and carrier pigeons, so by the time I arrived at the hospital, two days had passed since I first got the call, and I had only just reached my parents to tell them what had happened. I spent the rest of the week in and out of the hospital, so needless to say, not much running took place. <br />
<br />
The good news is that by the time I was able to leave my sister's bedside, I had an excellent distraction lined up: the <a href="https://havingathink.blogspot.com/2018/09/hood-to-coast-recap-teamwork-and.html" target="_blank">2018 Hood to Coast relay</a>! It was a dirty, smelly, stressful race . . . with really awesome people. If you want more details than that, you can get them <a href="https://havingathink.blogspot.com/2018/09/hood-to-coast-recap-teamwork-and.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
September thankfully calmed down, although it was still not smooth sailing: I tweaked my neck, and as soon as that was fixed, I got sick, and on top of all of that, a lower back problem I'd been trying to manage since springtime finally insisted that it would no longer be ignored, so I grudgingly went back to PT (although thankfully I was still able to run).<br />
<br />
Also, it was during this month that I ran the second-worst half marathon of my life. This pattern is apparently pretty standard for me: before my each of my last two marathons (<a href="https://havingathink.blogspot.com/2016/09/berlin-marathon-training-season-in.html" target="_blank">Berlin</a> and <a href="https://havingathink.blogspot.com/2017/10/pre-portland-fall-2017-season-recap.html" target="_blank">Portland</a>), I had an "all is lost" moment when I seriously questioned whether I'd be able to run the upcoming marathon at all, let alone as well as I wanted to. This year's "buildup" race was no different, complete with bitter tears of self-rage and utterly shaken confidence. But this is also my year of attempting to re-frame what happens to me, so I did my best to take away some positives: I did not drop out of the race (despite an overwhelming desire starting at mile six), I (miraculously) did not walk, and I got lots and lots of practice with my various mental strategies (ignoring my watch, remembering to be grateful, listening to my breathing, telling the doom and gloom voice in my head to "STOP").<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjylA8Hqyh5lfOFSAVBOSA7wFJwhBvQTav4Tduo2vzfkeQUzv_Uz8kHbda8qAwe3aUCsBJlSAcOTMlwOKRQhUrqxPZWuQItBQSmCM3N8vOuJJUlB8Ku_9CZjH_8DM-XC2WwZYppXZnp2Su6/s1600/newporthalfmarathon-painface-Sept2018.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="648" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjylA8Hqyh5lfOFSAVBOSA7wFJwhBvQTav4Tduo2vzfkeQUzv_Uz8kHbda8qAwe3aUCsBJlSAcOTMlwOKRQhUrqxPZWuQItBQSmCM3N8vOuJJUlB8Ku_9CZjH_8DM-XC2WwZYppXZnp2Su6/s320/newporthalfmarathon-painface-Sept2018.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">If you look up "anguished emoji face," this is what you'll find.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And here's the thing about reframing: it doesn't always work in the short term (as can be deduced from conversations like, "Allison, you'll come back from this mandatory rest stronger!" <i>STFU. <u>You</u> try not running and see how strong you get</i>), but in the longer term, I think it is helping. I really am grateful to run again. I'm grateful to my training partners (both new and old) for their constant enthusiasm, and to my coach for his limitless patience and optimism. I also focused on one of the few controllables in my life this year, my diet, and while it's hard to say if it has helped in any measurable way, experimenting with a farmshare has been fun, and eating more fruits and vegetables can never hurt!<br />
<br />
All told, I wouldn't say I'm any sort of "new athlete." I didn't come away from this year's challenges with stronger muscles, a leaner frame, or an ironclad mindset. But I'm working on that much-lauded "process" mindset, and one thing I can say for sure: I really did enjoy putting in the work.<br />
<br />
We'll see what that's worth on Saturday.ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-50483076984782560552018-09-24T19:10:00.002-04:002018-09-24T19:10:49.820-04:00Hood To Coast Recap: Teamwork and Traffic JamsAlmost exactly one month ago, I ran the Hood to Coast relay as the twelfth member of the North Queens Runners (NQR) team. Whenever I tell anyone about this, the number one question I get is, "Was it fun?"<br />
<br />
Honestly, I'm not sure.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9crBitnfZsJMq5KCUHlbjbP28E_iR8kE9WXrM8YCnUOuUPAClS5ZO9yHuUbtMbGfIaCsLlZFHAa07nH3Gkd9WP9aBvXSIc8cWe7jyc1Zk7flCpWRyCkK4oRSL8wg1ivohsMzn-oczDSO_/s1600/IMG_0120.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9crBitnfZsJMq5KCUHlbjbP28E_iR8kE9WXrM8YCnUOuUPAClS5ZO9yHuUbtMbGfIaCsLlZFHAa07nH3Gkd9WP9aBvXSIc8cWe7jyc1Zk7flCpWRyCkK4oRSL8wg1ivohsMzn-oczDSO_/s200/IMG_0120.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Carly & Garen, Leg 6</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For those of you who don't know what <a href="https://hoodtocoastrelay.com/htc/" target="_blank">Hood to Coast</a> is, let me summarize: on the second-to-last weekend of August, 1,000 teams of 12 runners each (split into two vans of six) start at the top of Mount Hood in northern Oregon and run 199 miles across the state to Seaside, i.e., the Pacific coast of Oregon. Each of the twelve runners runs ~15-18 miles, split across three legs of the relay, which are run in rotation, equalling 36 legs in total. If your team is walking (or running very slowly), your first runner starts at the crack of dawn on Friday, with each subsequent sendoff containing progressively faster teams. If your team wins, you will finish in about 17 hours. If not, the cutoff time to complete the relay is 36 hours. There are very few rules: you can eat and drink whatever you want, drive (almost) whatever you want, and wear whatever you want (unless you are running at night, in which case you are required to wear an LED light vest and a headlamp).<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Running a relay like this was an entirely new experience for me, and I think when we have new experiences, rare experiences, or experiences we've invested a lot of time and money into, we expect (and others expect us) to "have fun." No matter how we feel during the event itself, we tend to revise our story afterward in order to make it seem like it was a <i>total blast</i>. After all, our audience probably didn't have this experience, so the least we can do is give them the best highlights, right?<br />
<br />
Well, this is going to be the best <i>and</i> worst highlights.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
First I want to say that I am very glad to have had this experience. I really enjoy new challenges, and I've certainly never run what amounted to approximately three 10k races in 24 hours, nor have I spent 24 hours with the same seven people in one van. I also love contributing to a team, and this team was especially great; everyone on NQR was enthusiastic and supportive, while also intent on giving their best effort toward our goal of winning the mixed division (i.e., teams with at least six women). Finally, I love competing, and I was surrounded by competitors, and we were working together toward a shared goal. That was really fun.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPFfnsyNRsKy6GB6XAmCxk6YiPkzmerY-BjppAfdMEjpL3XqN3bHwMuSi0hhkIj053WNNarBjfEcSOpMij2Gcr88shGbzfBUk2hPGzgD2k6HgQixeupkg5glJ7s_ApecMlk7W1cOaITtD/s1600/IMG_7368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPFfnsyNRsKy6GB6XAmCxk6YiPkzmerY-BjppAfdMEjpL3XqN3bHwMuSi0hhkIj053WNNarBjfEcSOpMij2Gcr88shGbzfBUk2hPGzgD2k6HgQixeupkg5glJ7s_ApecMlk7W1cOaITtD/s200/IMG_7368.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Literally stretching my legs</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
However, there were a lot of parts that were not so fun. There were things I expected to be unpleasant, like wearing perpetually sweaty, smelly clothes; eating room-temperature sandwiches that have been squashed into unrecognizable shapes; "sleeping" for a grand total of one hour in a cramped van seat; and squatting in not one, not two, but three different leafy roadside "bathrooms." But then there were other elements I did not expect. For instance, I discovered I really do not enjoy running in the dark. Where I live (right outside Manhattan), it's never truly dark; there are always so many street lights and car lights and lit-up storefront displays that visibility is never a problem. However, on the uneven, poorly lit sidewalks of suburban Portland, curbs drop off without warning and you never know when a tree root will emerge. And that was only my first leg; during my second (at about 3am), I spent five miles running through a pitch-black valley of fog. (Dinky headlamp + zero streetlights + fog = unabated terror of falling in an invisible potholes.) Fear is very stressful, and apparently when I'm running, I'm scared of the dark.<br />
<br />
The other unexpectedly stressful element had nothing to do with running at all.<br />
<br />
When I was initially envisioning this race, I pictured running through hill and over dale. I saw trees and grass and dirt and even a few inevitable highways. What I did not picture was how 1,000 teams--meaning 2,000 vans--would get from point A to point B (and then to point C, and then point D . . . ). As it turns out, while the athletes are running through the wilderness, their vans are winding through narrow, rickety back roads that were absolutely not designed to accommodate 2,000 vehicles at once.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
Driving--or, rather sitting--in standstill traffic was unquestionably the most stressful part of the whole relay. Here we were, trying to test our physical limits, to see if we could prove ourselves to be faster and grittier than our competitors, and we being hamstrung by . . . what amounted to rush-hour traffic. We left one of our runners stranded at a checkpoint, out in the cold, for over <i>twenty minutes</i>. And on top of that, there was no cell service, so we had no way of telling our other van (i.e., our six other teammates) that we were way, way behind schedule.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0eCP7oeKyzJa7DONSGYnRkXlyq4wCIu98RObn6I__cE0tfdvJx95r18j4YThsJMKPp49YjQgHTG2SyNxOSHcEPQK2wV-LLBRwP3PIuxxZIFxlqichbTGP2IgdF_lA-7jI2W2MyPEV-tDS/s1600/IMG_1829.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0eCP7oeKyzJa7DONSGYnRkXlyq4wCIu98RObn6I__cE0tfdvJx95r18j4YThsJMKPp49YjQgHTG2SyNxOSHcEPQK2wV-LLBRwP3PIuxxZIFxlqichbTGP2IgdF_lA-7jI2W2MyPEV-tDS/s400/IMG_1829.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Team NQR! Clearly a photogenic bunch.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The upshot is that we lost the mixed division title by one minute. That's five seconds per runner. Less than two seconds a leg. Yet, I felt robbed of what would otherwise have been disappointment, because it didn't feel like a real loss. There was no way to know if we actually ran slower than the team that beat us, because they left in the very last sendoff, fifteen minutes behind us. Maybe, as a result of their later departure, they had less traffic, and "drove" their way to victory. (Or, alternatively, maybe we would have lost by a wider margin if they'd been in our sendoff.) Without going "head to head" with them, there was no way of knowing if we could have closed that sixty-second gap. As a result, most of what I felt, upon reaching the beach, was fatigue, and most of what I remembered was glaring helplessly at endless red brake lights.<br />
<br />
Of course, that's not the end of the story. At the awards ceremony, there was some insane drama involving the winning <a href="https://www.runnersworld.com/news/a22833785/hood-to-coast-relay-snafu/" target="_blank">women's team</a>, but we weren't there for it, because <i>we had rented a beach house</i>! For the rest of the weekend, the twelve of us sat in the hot tub, ate ridiculous quantities of food, drank equally ridiculous quantities of alcohol, and slept. A lot.<br />
<br />
Now <i>that</i> was fun.ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-91636578685534802252018-06-25T19:39:00.000-04:002018-06-25T19:39:03.041-04:00If I Could JustIf I could just wake up without pain<br />
<br />
...walk without limping<br />
<br />
...take the stairs this time<br />
<br />
I swear I'd be grateful.<br />
<br />
<br />
If I could just run<br />
<br />
...for more than five minutes<br />
<br />
...without paralyzing fear<br />
<br />
I'd be appreciative beyond belief.<br />
<br />
<br />
If I could just catch my breath<br />
<br />
...keep up with the others<br />
<br />
...go faster than this<br />
<br />
I wouldn't complain, I promise.<br />
<br />
<br />
If I could just finish the workout<br />
<br />
...add more miles<br />
<br />
...run the way I used to<br />
<br />
I'd feel more confident, I know it.<br />
<br />
<br />
If I could just hit that time<br />
<br />
...and then go a little faster<br />
<br />
...and then a little bit faster<br />
<br />
<i>Then</i> I'd be satisfied.<br />
<br />
<br />
Wouldn't I?ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-70544939472987449822018-02-17T11:47:00.000-05:002018-02-17T11:47:20.673-05:00The Obstacle is the Way, and Other Impossible MindsetsEvery year, usually at least twice a year, my fiance R___ goes on a self-improvement binge. Now, I'm not complaining, because these endeavors usually benefit me in some way. Maybe he wants to get fit (hey sexy guy!). Maybe he wants to learn a new skill (cooking, anyone?). Maybe he wants to be a better partner (helloooo date nights . . . and swiffering!). However, his most recent episode has involved a "get tough and get Buddhist" attitude that, for reasons I will explain, makes me want to scream and punch things on a daily basis.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEAu9xhGZidkrqbZMObTPYl3ANbRIlPXHGmsCyXdJLJXTFCDwW1d78ufNdquNzTK4SN2qwsGZ75O2i43WGbf8gmVcfLfA0peQ7yUFJcp586k19GHI3r3cIr1-ZiwYtsSQFH3PCbHVRuT71/s1600/IMG_1051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEAu9xhGZidkrqbZMObTPYl3ANbRIlPXHGmsCyXdJLJXTFCDwW1d78ufNdquNzTK4SN2qwsGZ75O2i43WGbf8gmVcfLfA0peQ7yUFJcp586k19GHI3r3cIr1-ZiwYtsSQFH3PCbHVRuT71/s320/IMG_1051.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Decidedly NOT running.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
What irritates me isn't the attitude itself, because honestly I admire it and wish I could adopt it myself. What irritates me is that he somewhat arbitrarily "decided" to adopt this mentality and, seemingly overnight, is now cruising along with the serenity and can-do mindset of a monk. I, on the other hand get to watch him fast, meditate, and walk around without a coat while simultaneously seething and/or trying not to cry at my own shortcomings. Not that this is a competition; I understand perfectly well that we can all be better versions of ourselves at the same time, and that this is not a zero-sum game. But he seems to be making all of these personal strides while I sit on the couch eating Chex Mix, feeling like a sub-optimal version of myself.<br />
<br />
So here's why I'm such a mess: on December 31st, my right knee started hurting when I went up and down stairs. Thinking it was just some arbitrary tightness left over from my snowy run that weekend, I foam rolled and went running the next day . . . and came back hobbled. Ever since then, my sneakers have been gathering dust, and the only running I've been doing is running up a credit bill for physical therapy visits.<br />
<br />
Anyone who knows me knows how much I love running, and the longer I go without it, the clearer it becomes that I have woven this sport into the fabric of my life. Without it, I no longer have a weekly schedule (because my runs dictated that); I no longer have a daily social life (because seeing my friends on runs pretty much was my social life); and I no longer have any desire to look at social media (because if I see one more person post their weekly mileage or daily workout paces, I actually have a psychotic episode).<br />
<br />
Now, I must acknowledge that R___ is perfectly sympathetic about all of this. Just because he's zen about life doesn't mean he expects me to be. The problem is that I expect myself to chill out and take this in stride. Practically every runner I know has been injured in some way, at some point. And despite how important it is to me, running is not my whole life. I have a partner who love me whether I run or not. I have a business that is independent of the sport. I have friends who barely remember I run, and friends who are willing to hang out even if we can't run together. So why can't I just accept that this "is what it is" and try to make the best of it? Or, even better, "How can I take [shitty thing that has happened] and turn it into the best thing that has ever happened to me?" (Thanks for sharing that nugget of wisdom, R___.)<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
After weeks of stewing, I have come to the conclusion that there's no way I'm going to <i>feel</i> like this is "the best thing," or even a remotely good thing, until I'm safely on the other side. So for now, I'm trying to come at the issue from an academic angle. In no particular order, here are the potential silver linings:<br />
<br />
<b>I've lost the compulsion to run, but retained the desire. </b>For the two weeks after my last marathon, when I was supposed to be "resting," all I could think about was the fitness I was losing--fitness I would need to build upon if I wanted to run any faster in my next race. All I could think was, <i>Why am I not running? I should be running! </i>Well here I am now, stripped of my fitness, with no sign of getting it back anytime soon. After two weeks of panic and a few weeks of sadness, I'm stuck with a big cold dose of reality: those time barriers I was so anxious to break? They're gone, gone gone. I won't be seeing them, if at all, for quite some time. Yet I still <i>want</i> to run. It sounds cliche, but I dream about running at least once a week. I miss the feeling of power and control over my body. I miss the freedom of stepping outside and just <i>going</i>. So the love of running is still there, and despite the trials of the moment, that simple fact is comforting.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I'm swimming more than I have in almost a decade. </b>Inherently, this is not a good or bad thing; it is just a fact. What's lucky is that I enjoy swimming. Also, it reminds me of the self who persevered for years, despite being the worst on the team, and <i>still</i> found satisfaction in working hard and seeing incremental progress. I like that self. Plus, these days, I mostly swim alone, so I have no one to compare myself against. I follow virtually no swimmers on social media, so it's sort of this pure thing, with no pressure or expectations. I know I'll never be a top-level swimmer, no matter how many hours I put into the pool . . . but that's okay. That's not why I do it.<br />
<br />
<b>My upper body is getting stronger.</b> With no real lower-body exercise options (except a few PT-approved movements), I've taken to doing push-ups and planks on a much more regular basis. That's not to say I neglected these things before, but I most certainly did not do them every day. As a result, I'm up to 3x15 push-ups and 3 pull-ups, which I fully acknowledge is no great feat, but it's more than I've done before, so I'll allow myself a smidgen of pride. And who knows--maybe it'll help my running down the line. Crazier things have happened.ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-31636886030495501292018-01-11T21:51:00.000-05:002018-01-11T21:51:15.519-05:00GratefulI'm trying really hard to be grateful.<br />
<br />
Grateful I've stayed healthy for so long.<br />
<br />
Grateful that my injury (if it had to happen) happened now, in the cold slippery winter, and not during a big summer training block.<br />
<br />
Grateful I have a coach who is also a physical therapist (as well as one of the calmest humans beings on earth).<br />
<br />
Grateful to have health insurance.<br />
<br />
Grateful I can still swim.<br />
<br />
Grateful to have so many friends who still care about me, even when I can't run.<br />
<br />
Grateful I don't equate self-worth with running fast.<br />
<br />
. . . but let's not fool ourselves. I still want to run fast.<br />
<br />
Just have to heal, first. And then, I guess, we'll see.ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-4403243945041042972018-01-02T20:10:00.000-05:002018-01-03T14:03:52.256-05:00Which Matters More: Talent or Hard Work?So I have this friend, T___. He's a former professional triathlete who completes Ironmans in the time it takes me to explain what that race is. He also works as a firefighter<span style="font-family: "times" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">—</span>a physically demanding job that has an extremely erratic schedule requiring long hours and sleepless nights. Needless to say, I have a lot of respect for this guy. Therefore, when he asked for my input as he developed a <a href="https://www.personalrecordpodcast.com/podcasts/" target="_blank">podcast</a>, and then when he asked me to be an early guest on the show, I was very flattered, but also a little nervous. As a writer, I've interviewed other people before, but I've never been the one in the hot seat!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVmX5SlcZhYpA-KpyjO_nXSZuJ0dyWy39T28bxqUWBJ0T8h4DAdPXZWJEsO3hNt6UFiIqoIi-YXXZfUBOp_tRaMQyeD1qii7O5JfR6UpNAEMsnI2OUys5We_wYnP5MpV02yg9I2QL5PZ2/s1600/race_3060_photo_42352585.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1063" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVmX5SlcZhYpA-KpyjO_nXSZuJ0dyWy39T28bxqUWBJ0T8h4DAdPXZWJEsO3hNt6UFiIqoIi-YXXZfUBOp_tRaMQyeD1qii7O5JfR6UpNAEMsnI2OUys5We_wYnP5MpV02yg9I2QL5PZ2/s320/race_3060_photo_42352585.jpg" width="212" /></a><br />
Luckily, a few days before we were scheduled to record, T___ gave me a list of questions. There weren't many, so I decided to practice my answers with my fiance, R___. Then, during the interview, T___ asked me nearly all of the questions on his list, but he did omit one . . . and of course it was the one for which I had prepared what I considered my best answer. The question has stuck with me ever since, so, I want to lay out my thoughts on the matter.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><i>Which matters more, talent or hard work?</i></b></div>
<br />
In a nutshell, I think the importance of talent compared to hard work depends upon where someone is in their pursuit of an activity. In the very beginning, I think talent matters more. After all, if you show no aptitude for an activity, why would you want to pursue it? The way I see it, once you realize that you're "actually pretty good" at something, that's when you start wanting to put in the hard work to get better.<br />
<br />
Once you're past entry-level, however, that's when hard work increases in importance. Let me give you an example from my own life: I used to play the flute. I started in second grade, and by the time I joined the concert band in middle school, I was simply better than everyone else. By then I had stopped taking lessons, and although I rarely practiced the music, I was good enough at sight-reading to earn myself first chair and stay there all the way through junior high school. However, once I entered high school, I came up against a girl who was working a heck of a lot harder than I was. She took lessons, she practiced, and lo and behold: she was better than me.<br />
<br />
Now, in this particular case, I could have risen to the challenge. I could have hired a teacher and taken my flute home every day and worked on my vibrato and double-tonguing and all of my other technical and artistic shortcomings. But I didn't. So she moved into first chair, I took second, and that was that. Hard work wins.<br />
<br />
Now it should be pointed out: neither of us went on to be professional flautists. (I believe she's an English teacher somewhere, and I'm a freelance writer and editor; I would bet neither of us have picked up a flute in years.) But had we attempted that career path, I truly believe that talent would have elbowed its way back into premier "importance." Because look at how many professional musicians are out there. They're all working hard: practicing, fine-tuning their instruments, improving their skill and artistry. But the ones getting first chair in symphony orchestras? They're the ones who work their asses off and are <i>still</i> better than everyone else. Professional runners who win World Majors? Of course they're working hard, but so are all of their competitors; they <i>win</i> because they're <i>talented</i>. (And because they have a bit of luck, and a great support system, and all of those other factors that play into great single-day performances.)<br />
<br />
So, to wrap up my opinion on this matter in a nice little bow, I think talent matters most at the very bottom and very top of the performance spectrum. But that huuuuuge space in between? That's where hard work comes into play. And that's where most of us live out our life passions. I love running. I love it for lots of reasons, but I found that love because I saw fairly rapid gains early on and wanted to see how fast I could get. Now I'm firmly planted in the "hard work" stage, and that's where I'll stay. I'm never going to be at the level of Shalane Flanagan, or Molly Huddle, or any other superstar who performs in the top 1% of the sport. But I can put in hard, smart work. And then, with a bit of luck and a lot of support, I will push my own limits just a little bit farther than ever seemed possible.<br />
<br />
*If you want to hear Tim's and my actual discussion, you can <b><a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/personal-record/id1315842622?i=1000398440668&mt=2" target="_blank">listen here</a></b>!<br />
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-->ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-73425670693334579942017-10-19T09:38:00.000-04:002017-10-19T09:38:08.074-04:00Portland Marathon Recap #3: The Win<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Okay, so honest truth: given the size and past results of the Portland Marathon, I knew there was a possibility
that I’d be able to place in the top 5, maybe even top 3 women. However, every time I’ve gone to a race with “placing” in mind, I’ve stressed
out and am almost never satisfied with the results, no matter if I live up to
my own expectations or not. Therefore, I approached this marathon as laissez-faire
as I could. After all, the only factor I could control was my own race, so that’s
what I wanted to focus on. If I hit my time, that really was winning enough for me.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Of course, that’s not to say I didn’t want to race other
women </span><i style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">at all</i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">; I just wanted to save my
competitive drive for the last few hard miles. Therefore, my race strategy—compliments
of Coach J—was this: </span><i style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Whatever you do for
the first 13 miles, don’t panic. If you run 6:35s or even slip into 6:40s, who
cares? You’ll run the first half of the course uphill, so on the return trip, you
can make up time. Bottom line: </i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><u>Don’t go out too hard</u>.</i></span><i style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"> Then, get to mile 23, and in those last three miles, <b>race</b>.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilRJfzZ7xhIPgTirB4SnBLaX1LxxrDHK6CbhL5ZkvLuJDM4xSSD94qtXkUWOmHGK990XdCi7amoo1EqnkMtkYYWz7xPBvWMCuxos-mJ6dPsG70jTVEqQ3puJeEPGRL0khzAa2GzmqOLMdE/s1600/IMG_0601.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilRJfzZ7xhIPgTirB4SnBLaX1LxxrDHK6CbhL5ZkvLuJDM4xSSD94qtXkUWOmHGK990XdCi7amoo1EqnkMtkYYWz7xPBvWMCuxos-mJ6dPsG70jTVEqQ3puJeEPGRL0khzAa2GzmqOLMdE/s320/IMG_0601.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This was a great strategy, and it worked . . . <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>at least for the first two-thirds of the race.
I spent the first several miles cruising along comfortably, paying little mind
to the fact that I was in third place. (Just to be clear: when I’m talking
about “place,” I mean third/second/first place<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> woman</i>.) Honestly, I thought there would be more women in front of
me at that point, especially considering that the half and full marathons
started together. However, only one half marathon woman appeared near the front of the pack, so already at mile two, I found myself running down Natio Parkway behind just two
tiny Japanese women and a bunch of men.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was still marveling at how good my body felt—6:30s didn’t
feel like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">work</i> yet!—when I caught up
to the second-place woman. We were somewhere between miles six and seven, just having
turned onto a long, straight industrial road that would lead us to the one major
hill on the course. She and I ran side by side for at least a mile, maybe more,
and all I can remember thinking is, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This
lady is breathing way too hard for this early in the race</i>. By the time we
hit the hill, I could no longer hear her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The next seven or so miles passed fairly uneventfully; I
mostly spent them watching the pink shirt of the lead woman and the orange flag
of the accompanying bicyclist bob up and down in the distance. This was the
residential stretch of the race, and lots of spectators were out there cheering
for me to “go get her.” It was surprisingly encouraging, especially because we
all had our names printed on our race bibs, so people would shout, “Go Allison!”
as if they knew me and really wanted me to catch the leader. (And, notably,
this is where three of the four spectators who actually knew me were standing—so
they probably <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i> really want me to
catch the leader!) However, I had no idea what that woman had in store for the
rest of the race, so I was content to keep hitting my paces. If I could still
see her at mile 23, I knew I’d be ready to “go for it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Unfortunately for me, that’s not
quite how things worked out. Instead, I caught up on St. John’s Bridge, around
mile eighteen, and by the time we made it back down the hill, I couldn’t hear the patter of her footfalls anymore. I was on my own. And when I say I was on
my own, I was </span><i style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">on my own</i><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">. From that
point through the end of the race, I think I passed three, maybe four men
running the marathon; everyone else I caught up to was </span><i style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">walking</i><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> the </span><i style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">half</i><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> marathon. (The two race courses were essentially layered on top of one another—see <a href="https://havingathink.blogspot.com/2017/10/portland-marathon-recap-2-irks-and.html" target="_blank">my earlier blog post</a> for further details.) Basically, the point is: when I got to mile 23, I had no one to race. It was just me, dodging walkers over uneven asphalt and slippery
train tracks. So this is where it was easy to get
defeated. Where was I going to get any adrenaline? How was I going to find the grit to finish hard when every part of my body was already hurting?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Luckily for me, I had practice in
this setting. During this past training cycle, due to a wide variety of circumstances,
I wound up running most of my long run workouts alone. As a
result, I came up with all sorts of dumb tricks to convince myself to "keep going" when the going got tough. One trick: hypnotize yourself with a mantra. In this
case, I co-opted one that had been offered by my friend T___: “Today’s the day.”
</span><i style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Today’s the day. Today’s the day. Today’sthedayToday’sthedayToday’stheday.</i><br />
<span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Trick number two: use your arms. I </span><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 48px;">originally </span><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">learned this from my first coach, as advice for climbing hills when
your legs are tired. My current coach took it one step further and showed me
how “using your arms” actually rotated your core to generate more power with
each stride. I don't often remember to focus on this, but when I do,
it really works. And I remembered this time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">The last trick was arguably the
hardest, but it was also the most effective, and that was ignoring my watch. At
this point in the race, seeing a 6:45 mile wasn’t going to help me adjust my pace any more
or less than seeing a 6:15, other than to make me feel defeated and give up on
the PR I wanted so badly. Now was the time to buckle down and pour out whatever
I had left; however that showed up on the clock was how it would show up.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVeYjKWDDdq2TYSXyLk40_3E5y1ZReZqYpoEil80jobneydCJiFAG3ugKpal3bbcI3a3SY78I180E228x0gHszdlnERuDd9t3CmcmMOH2toybpXAS6ceKPuXg1voAt1AHbfiVNOenfuCFu/s1600/IMG_0603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-indent: 0.5in;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVeYjKWDDdq2TYSXyLk40_3E5y1ZReZqYpoEil80jobneydCJiFAG3ugKpal3bbcI3a3SY78I180E228x0gHszdlnERuDd9t3CmcmMOH2toybpXAS6ceKPuXg1voAt1AHbfiVNOenfuCFu/s200/IMG_0603.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">So with my mantra and my arms, and
without my watch, I bobbed and weaved my way through those last few miles. When I finally made it to the finish line, it was almost exactly like any other marathon finish I’ve ever experienced.
I saw the time on the clock, I passed under the banner, and I felt that gush of
relief that it was all over. There was no tape to break, no flashing
lightbulbs, no paparazzi. I wobbled along on unsteady legs, up to volunteers
who wrapped me in the standard finisher’s poncho and hung a finisher’s medal
around my neck. A few moments later, a woman came up to me and led me over to a
photographer who took a picture of me shaking her hand (which, ironically,
never made it onto the race website or into the Portland newspaper article, although
the men’s winner and both half marathon winners are on there!). Then she handed
me a surprisingly heavy black box containing a glass trophy, asked me whether I
had someone waiting for me in the reunion area, and sent me on my way. And so I
went on my way, almost as if nothing had happened: one more day, one more marathon. That's the irony of it all</span><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 48px;">—life is very much the same, glass trophy or not</span><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">. There will be a new PR to chase soon enough.</span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px;"><a href="https://www.runraceresults.com/Secure/RaceResults.cfm?ID=RCAG2017" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0px;" target="_blank">2017 Portland Marathon Race Results</a></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"></span><br />
<table align="center" border="2" style="text-indent: 0px;"><tbody>
<tr><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Race Length</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Finishing Time</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Average Pace</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Overall Place</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Gender Place</span></div>
</th><th align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Age Group Place</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">(F 30-34)</span></div>
</th></tr>
<tr><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">26.2 mi</span></div>
</td><td align="center" valign="center"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">2:50:25</span></td><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">6:30/mile</span></div>
</td><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">14 / 2,927</span></div>
</td><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">1 / 1,460</span></div>
</td><td align="center" valign="center"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">1 / 234</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-77576865045774070412017-10-17T10:17:00.000-04:002017-10-17T10:17:32.623-04:00Portland Marathon Recap #2: Irks and QuirksThe Portland Marathon is one of a kind . . . and I mean that in the best and worst ways possible.<br />
<br />
First of all, <a href="https://havingathink.blogspot.com/2017/10/portland-marathon-recap-1-long-and.html" target="_blank">it almost didn’t happen.</a><br />
<br />
Second of all, despite this being the race’s 46th year, there were some definite issues that the organizers need to figure out before I can recommend this race to any other runners. These include, but are not limited to, the following:<br />
<ul>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIzSmK5ocCLKJR36qNXlEfH3gwyl_lKUozv8ctf6NvQPr5Q8cMNjtbgAJBUUoDKZWCxCB2xlv5dohBzeVF7_ipRXztVrXXphU-WkilgQwpZYzhv0PXASeLhBAMMqQpO5K9CBX0mQT3XAQU/s1600/FinishLine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIzSmK5ocCLKJR36qNXlEfH3gwyl_lKUozv8ctf6NvQPr5Q8cMNjtbgAJBUUoDKZWCxCB2xlv5dohBzeVF7_ipRXztVrXXphU-WkilgQwpZYzhv0PXASeLhBAMMqQpO5K9CBX0mQT3XAQU/s320/FinishLine.jpg" width="212" /></a>
<li>The course took an extraordinarily long time to be finalized. As in, we didn’t find out where we’d be running until a month before the race. Apparently, the reason for the delay was that the race organizers were having trouble securing a permit from the city . . . which none of us knew about until <a href="https://www.runnersworld.com/general-interest/dysfunction-threatens-future-of-portland-marathon" target="_blank"><i>Runner’s World</i> published an article</a> claiming the race might be cancelled. I have two words for that: poor communication.</li>
<li>Along similar communication-related lines, I received more emails from the Chicago Marathon—which I wasn’t registered to run—than I did from the Portland Marathon. This is not only a lost opportunity for Portland (after all, they’re the hometown of running apparel behemoths Adidas and Nike . . . neither of which sponsors the race!), but also a point of stress for runners accustomed to bigger races with lots of professional communication. It’s okay to be a little slow getting the details of the race together, but please, be more communicative next time (so us runners don’t go into full-on panic mode), okay?</li>
<li>Next up: nutrition. Now, I understand that this is a small and only moderately sponsored race, but if you’re going to provide something other than water on the course—which is very important in a marathon, and for which I am certainly grateful—why in the world would you choose <a href="http://www.ultimareplenisher.com/" target="_blank">a beverage that has zero calories</a>? Marathoners need calories! </li>
<li>Then there's the course itself. It’s an out-and-back route, which would not be a problem, except for the fact that the half and full marathon courses are pretty much on top of one another and start at exactly the same time. This means that any marathoners who run under four hours wind up colliding with the half marathoners who are walking on the “back” part of the out-and-<i>back</i> course. Speaking from experience, this turns into one big game of Frogger, but a whole lot less fun, given that everyone is fatigued and therefore much less agile than they might otherwise be. Let me tell you: there is no turning on a dime at mile 25. And if you add in some rain and uneven train tracks . . . collisions will happen. (Luckily, Portlanders are really nice about this sort of things; see below.)</li>
<li>Speaking of train tracks, my final grievance is based on something that didn’t even happen to me, but it is the primary reason I cannot recommend this marathon. My friend L___ was on pace to run well under 3:30 when she came to one of several sets of train tracks at mile 25. However, she couldn’t carefully step over these tracks because . . . <i>there was a train on them.</i> She and all of the runners around her had to stop and wait—again, at <i>mile 25</i>, when they were all sore and fatigued and dying to be done—for a train to pass by. L___ still ended up running under 3:30, but who knows how much time that interruption cost her? I'm pretty sure I'd have thrown a fit.</li>
</ul>
So that’s it for grievances, other than the fact that there was no tape to break at the finish line (a very minor grievance in the scheme of things, but it would have been nice!). Now, on to accolades. (Because Portland really is a lovely place to run a marathon!)<br />
<ul>
<li>The people. And not just the spectators—who were wonderful and supportive, don’t get me wrong—but the runners, too. Because the course was out-and-back, I found myself facing a lot of other runners after I turned at the halfway point and began retracing the course. Not only did these other runners smile at me, but they actually <i>cheered for me</i> while they were running their race. I was astounded. These people had no idea who I was, but nevertheless were shouting, “Go girl,” and “Stay strong,” and “Go get her [the lead woman].” It was amazing support and kept me smiling for a vast majority of the race.</li>
<li>The swag—the tree seedling in particular. Every marathon gives its finishers a medal (which typically gets put in a shoebox) and a T-shirt (which eventually gets thrown away), but how many people can, twenty years down the road, point to a giant tree and say, “See that? I won that in a marathon!”</li>
<li>The weather. Of course this varies year to year, but the 2017 weather was perfect: fifty degrees and overcast. We had a sprinkle of rain about an hour into the race, which made the footing a bit slippery, but a short shower was by far preferable to torrential downpour or blistering heat alternatives.</li>
<li>The terrain. Apart from my grievances (above), <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/mtr3rc5nvxuu7uk/PM17full.course.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">the course</a> actually played to my strengths. Being forced to run generally uphill for the first half of the race forced me to stay controlled and attentive, and running downhill for the second half made it that much easier to negative split (my preferred way to race). Also, while a good chunk of the race follows empty industrial roads (read: no spectators and no scenery), these roads are straight (i.e., no turns, no tangents) and they’re fairly well kept. Ultimately, I’d say that any runner who has run and enjoyed the Brooklyn Half Marathon course would like this course, too.</li>
</ul>
In spite of the negatives—and thanks to the positives—I did manage to run the race I had planned . . . which is obviously a huge positive. So I'll spend my final blog post dwelling on that. Stay tuned!ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-57550392740788869512017-10-14T13:06:00.000-04:002017-10-16T11:50:14.531-04:00Portland Marathon Recap #1: A Long and Uncertain Road<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are so many stories to tell about the Portland marathon, it’s hard to choose just one . . . so I guess I’m going to tell several. Bear with me. Because t</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">here was a time when I wondered if this marathon would even
happen at all.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigOqK2U9l2MSdzfpWXGtKnFGeOakLaDzrcWGRDXHrKuF-ZCj8DDG-mqcaeHIZvBXcUuaOZwCF2GXfMdM3IczsFN3en7s3WSkn4ZVlSQIREKXk8YQZKDMWZbibSBOKbaFPJa2RGqxTsl9T4/s1600/IMG_0435.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigOqK2U9l2MSdzfpWXGtKnFGeOakLaDzrcWGRDXHrKuF-ZCj8DDG-mqcaeHIZvBXcUuaOZwCF2GXfMdM3IczsFN3en7s3WSkn4ZVlSQIREKXk8YQZKDMWZbibSBOKbaFPJa2RGqxTsl9T4/s320/IMG_0435.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's a pretty view out there somewhere. . . .</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Late last year, when I went looking for a 2017 marathon, I decided that I
wanted to travel, but I didn’t want to leave the country like I had for <a href="https://havingathink.blogspot.com/2016/10/b-is-for-brains-berlin-marathon-race.html" target="_blank">Berlin</a>. A teammate recommended
the Portland Marathon, so I took a look. At first glance, the course didn’t look <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">too</i>
hilly, and I had friends in Portland who would be fun to visit . . . so I signed up.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, as luck would have it, those same friends invited me to their wedding, which was scheduled to happen exactly a
month before the marathon. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Perfect</i>, I
thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ll use my long run that
weekend to check out the course.</i> Yet as time passed, the 2016 course remained stubbornly up on the race website, with no sign of being updated. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh well</i>, I thought, <i>I guess </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ll just follow the old route and hope it doesn't change much.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></o:p></i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then, in June, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://www.runnersworld.com/general-interest/dysfunction-threatens-future-of-portland-marathon" target="_blank">Runner’s World published an article</a></i> that made me second-guess my whole plan. It
started with the sentence: “One of the country’s oldest marathons is at risk of
being canceled this year after failing to secure permits from the city of
Portland, Oregon.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Um, what?</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wI2GfdJstoFAtJumkJE7dF0V0-wLcWD8C6hyphenhyphen_CXnbNe1WH9cRK9it0fOi7E73rfWYIxinq7Q9l1FeVDAGcZQfUNvDbjkT_0L1j6e7BDDLEnSEZ62oNSuYSG0asxGp4WTfIfOAq0rrQBC/s1600/IMG_0598.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wI2GfdJstoFAtJumkJE7dF0V0-wLcWD8C6hyphenhyphen_CXnbNe1WH9cRK9it0fOi7E73rfWYIxinq7Q9l1FeVDAGcZQfUNvDbjkT_0L1j6e7BDDLEnSEZ62oNSuYSG0asxGp4WTfIfOAq0rrQBC/s200/IMG_0598.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feet are also having some<br />
bad luck</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Fortunately, the race organizers did eventually work things out and, one week before the wedding (less than six weeks before the race), the course was published. Whew! Crisis
averted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Or at least crisis number one. Because when my fiancé and I
arrived the Friday before Labor Day, we found the Pacific Northwest blanketed
by a haze of forest fire smoke. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Is it even safe to be running in this?</i> I wondered as I laced up my shoes. What if conditions got worse? However, two weeks later, the fires calmed down, and my Portland friends assured me that rainfall was taking care of the ash in the air.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Good</i>.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Nothing left to do now except finish the
training cycle.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Or so I thought. A week later, I returned from a long run to find a voicemail
from my sister: “Hi, Allie? Don’t panic, but mom’s in the hospital. Call me
back.” My mother had had a heart attack. Six hundred dollars and twenty-four
hours later, I was in Pittsburgh, watching with relief as they wheeled her out
of surgery, alive and intact. After a day or two, I started looking at my transportation options home . . . a plan that was quickly aborted when I found myself driving my <i>father</i> to the emergency room of a <i>different</i> hospital.
He was also suffering from heart failure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Thankfully, both of my parents were released from their
respective hospitals within a week, and, thanks to the incredible generosity of
two friends, I flew home to New Jersey feeling shaken but relieved. Surely that
was the final hurdle I’d face before this marathon . . . right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pre-race pasta dinner (photo and apartment credit: Lisa!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Finally, it was the night before my flight to Portland. As I lay in bed trying to will
my eyes shut, I realized that I hadn’t received any alerts about checking in
for my flight. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wow, that could have gone
badly</i>, I thought as I picked up my phone and opened the app. I was about to swipe right to check
in when I did a double-take. Surely that didn't say . . . I couldn’t have. . . . But there it was, glowing right before my very eyes: the flight that had I thought was scheduled for 6:40 <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">pm</b> was actually taking off at 6:40 <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>am</u></b>—exactly 6 hours from that very moment. And I wasn’t even
packed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the end, everything worked out. I not only
made my flight with time to spare, but the plane was so empty that I was able
to move back to the emergency exit row. (Extra leg room!) I stayed with my friends as planned, ate lots of pasta, and showed up at the starting line feeling as
good as I could hope to feel at the end of such an uncertain marathon cycle. But
the Portland Marathon wasn’t done with me yet. Stay tuned for the "irks and
quirks" that awaited me along the course. . . .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
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ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-17243826882712449602017-10-05T22:09:00.001-04:002017-10-05T22:09:52.480-04:00Pre-Portland: Fall 2017 Season RecapAfter a few crazy weeks and a nearly-missed flight, I am finally in Portland . . . so I guess it's time for the annual pre-marathon self-pep-talk/season-review.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicygU4fgz8-OD63M-faWm3GVxaie_UO8WJEmd7hWcFNmlvgGVzLWGRY-R0o9UbnDPTxtzW5GaHsXsbv6ofpgjl3_sgPBjMki1SzcPUl15eQARYOxTiVX4PeHeizuPZTDkRBlNERZzyQPSq/s1600/IMG_0156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicygU4fgz8-OD63M-faWm3GVxaie_UO8WJEmd7hWcFNmlvgGVzLWGRY-R0o9UbnDPTxtzW5GaHsXsbv6ofpgjl3_sgPBjMki1SzcPUl15eQARYOxTiVX4PeHeizuPZTDkRBlNERZzyQPSq/s320/IMG_0156.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Posting a goal time (that I will fail to achieve) at the Strava mile.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /><b>The Challenges</b><br />
The biggest challenge this season has been adjusting to a new coach. Trusting someone brand new is hard, and no matter how badly I want to fast forward to the point where I blindly believe everything he says, I'm simply not capable of that . . . at least not yet. But looking back at my previous coaching relationship, I recognize that I <i>am</i> capable of that level of trust, it just takes time, and certainly more than one full training cycle. So as impatient as I feel, I have to accept where I am and how far I have to go, and give it the time it takes.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj2-r7FmwklVmYxrpHk7K6HiMR845LToRNafppDEP6nckyJVlWekqufkvLQX336hwg0fWMFs87_Ily00eYD2IeGPubRN2Lf63gGsDBLED7s2lfhTCIymNGA4VKk_bXKSLq36NYblvFs3dj/s1600/IMG_0380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj2-r7FmwklVmYxrpHk7K6HiMR845LToRNafppDEP6nckyJVlWekqufkvLQX336hwg0fWMFs87_Ily00eYD2IeGPubRN2Lf63gGsDBLED7s2lfhTCIymNGA4VKk_bXKSLq36NYblvFs3dj/s320/IMG_0380.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The long and lonely road . . . crossing train tracks<br />on my 3hr long run in Portland.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The next big challenge has been learning how to fail, although truthfully, I don't think I've learned this lesson yet. I failed in my last two long runs leading up to this marathon, and I'm not talking about just running "off pace;" I'm talking about quitting entirely. The hardest thing about these failures has been knowing, even as they're happening, that the stumbling blocks are mental, and succumbing to them anyway. The perfectionist in me wants to scream, W<i>eakling! How will you ever get through this race if you can't even finish a workout?</i> But I'm (hopefully) learning to reign in that voice, and to keep the punches from flying when I'm down.<br />
<br />
The final challenge this cycle has been (re)learning how to train alone. When I ran my first marathon, I trained pretty much by myself; I had just moved to New York City and didn't know very many people, never mind runners. Now, things are different: I know tons of runners and have had the luxury of running with many of them for my last few training cycles. This year, however, that luck ran dry. My old training partners were taking breaks, and my new ones were focusing on the mile, meaning that they had zero interest in doing a ten-mile workout on Tuesday and another twenty-mile run on Saturday. Having had company for so many previous seasons, I kind of forgot: training alone is <i>hard</i>. There's no one to inspire you to get out of bed, no one to pace off of, and no one pull you along when you're having a crappy day. If nothing else, it makes me that much more grateful for runs where I <i>do</i> have company. Silver linings, right?<br />
<br />
<b>The Triumphs</b><br />
If most of my challenges this season were mental, most of my successes were mental, too. For starters, I consider it a success that I finally stopped worrying over whether I was doing "enough" training. Frankly, it's scary to go from increasing mileage every single season to suddenly scaling it back, yet still with the goal of running faster than ever before. It's scary to abandon track work altogether when I've gone to that same oval every single Thursday for the last three years of my life. But sometime in the midst of training, I decided to put my own fears aside and just do my best with what I was being given. My new coach's approach to preparing for a marathon might seem gentler, but I chose this coach, with this approach, for a reason. I owe it to myself to see it through.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5E7acY976lWDaBBhhUjSvBs5ZTjkYY7eqH2_Srh-5QiekhM72_C3FJRnJbNPxMRb2AgwzHC3YQilEV9BV-m42nGUPwyR8WSX1UqG-vWynYuzN73B5LtW9B7BCbAPsJduM5jr5t-d4fzx/s1600/IMG_0482.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5E7acY976lWDaBBhhUjSvBs5ZTjkYY7eqH2_Srh-5QiekhM72_C3FJRnJbNPxMRb2AgwzHC3YQilEV9BV-m42nGUPwyR8WSX1UqG-vWynYuzN73B5LtW9B7BCbAPsJduM5jr5t-d4fzx/s320/IMG_0482.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Teammates really are the best</span><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="text-align: center;">The other triumph this season was learning to read my body. I've had to face a hard truth this year: I'm not 25 anymore. I can't just roll out of bed, throw on some shoes, and expect to start running at 6am. I also can't expect my body to recover like it used to. Case in point: about a month ago, I took a trip to the west coast for a wedding. While I was out there, I was scheduled to do my longest run of the training cycle. The next day, I felt fatigued, but certainly not "wrecked," so I was pretty upbeat about the workout I had coming up. However, two days later, I found myself a mile into the workout, straining mightily, and still not coming close to the pace I was meant to hit. At that point, I had a decision to make: try to grind through this workout feeling like crap and very obviously failing, or throw in the towel, jog back, and attempt the workout again the next day. I went with Option B. The next day, I found a middle school track and did all nine miles there--and nailed them. Now let me be clear: this is not a triumph because I nailed the workout. It's a triumph because, instead of berating myself for "failing," I recognized that my body had not yet recovered and gave it a chance to succeed on another day. I showed myself compassion and, by doing that, was able to make a smart choice. This is not something my 25-year-old self would have been capable of doing, but my 31-year-old self did it, so I am ready to call that progress.</span><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The Bottom Line: </b>I know I can do this. I <i>can</i> run this marathon the way I want to. Whether I do or not remains to be seen. But I did everything I could to give myself the best shot, and really, that's all any of us can ask of ourselves.</div>
ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9210478216695533156.post-4551741566635436822017-09-08T16:26:00.001-04:002017-09-08T16:26:07.224-04:00Review: The Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/30556459" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px"><img src="https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1483453811m/30556459.jpg" border="0" alt="The Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley" /></a>
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/30556459">The Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley</a> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/71644">Hannah Tinti</a><br/>
My rating: <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1956014128">5 of 5 stars</a>
<br /><br />
The best sorts of novels are hard to categorize. (My theory is that’s why they get called “literary.”) An action novel would have a guy on the lam, running from an ugly past. A coming of age novel would show a misfit teenager trying to interact with her peers and manage her feelings for a boy. A family dynamics novel would portray a husband, daughter, and grandmother all grappling with the death of their wife/mother/daughter.<br /><br /><i>The Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley</i> has all of these elements, and more. It includes a fraught friendship between two men. A challenging yet beautiful marriage between a woman trying to escape her home and man trying to find one. The difficulties of parenting alone. How to live as a perpetual outsider, and the delicate balance between the need for privacy and the natural urge to form human connection.<br /><br />Nothing I can write in a few paragraphs will do this novel justice. If rock solid character development and unwavering attention to the details that make us human are what you look for in a novel, then <i>Twelve Lives</i> may soon be your favorite.
<br/><br/>
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1956014128">View all my reviews</a>
ALGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08464897596594948677noreply@blogger.com0