Finding the Joy in the Suffering: Barber to Boise 10k Race Report

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I have some big running goals. I want to qualify for and run the Boston Marathon. For an average age grouper now masters runner like me, getting to Boston would be like playing in the Final Four or competing in the Olympics. I was not an athlete growing up and hardly attach that label to myself even now, so the idea of one day running in an elite and prestigious race such as Boston would be a dream come true. In order to get there it will take years of hard work, patience and learning how to overcome the negative self-talk that seems to creep up when I start to get uncomfortable in races. I must learn to be comfortable being uncomfortable and believe in myself, even when I am hurting. I know this and my coach knows this, which is why she tells me that I need to practice racing more often.

I am in the middle of a marathon training cycle, but this weekend raced a 10k instead of doing my weekly tempo run. My coach told me to go for it and push myself. Taking her advice, I decided to go for the sub-50 PR that I had been chasing for a couple of years. The 10k is tricky for me. I tend to start out too close to my 5k pace and then flame out in spectacular fashion by the middle miles. I shared my goal with my friend Sam just before the race, and we decided to run together. I was thrilled to have someone to run with.

Sam and I started off together and ran the first couple of miles just under our target pace. I felt good and strong and with Sam beside me I felt like we had a ton of positive energy going back and forth. Without saying a word, I felt that we were supporting and encouraging each other with every step and I loved every moment. Just after mile three, Sam encouraged me to go ahead. I didn’t want to leave her side, but I also didn’t want to make her run at a pace that wasn’t feeling right for her. Eventually I pulled slightly ahead, hoping she would stay just behind. And every time I glanced behind, she was right there.

Around mile four to five, I started to get very tired. My legs felt heavy, I wasn’t sure where Sam was (although I was expecting her to blow by me at any second), and every time I glanced at my watch my pace was over my target pace. This is the point in the race where you need to stay strong. Where you need to pull yourself up by the bootstraps and soldier on. Where you need to build yourself up mentally, take it one step at a time, and will yourself to finish.

I know all of the things that I am supposed to do at this point in the race where it starts to hurt, where I get really uncomfortable, when I enter the pain cave and start to suffer. Yet there is a disconnect between what I know and what I actually do. Because what I actually did yesterday and what I tend do a lot in this situation is the following: When I got to the point of discomfort I started to beat myself up mentally. Instead of telling myself that I could do it, I told myself all of the reasons that I could not. I told myself that I was too old, too tired, and too heavy. That I did my long run last weekend too fast so that I ruined any chance I had of earning a PR at this 10k. That I am not a good person and I do not deserve things like PRs and negative splits and good races. Ridiculous, mean, defeating self-talk. Not the self-talk of a champion. I would never say these things to a friend, so why do I say them to myself?  

After the race, my running team met for happy hour. One of my friends and teammates and I were talking about goals. I told her about my Boston ambitions and how I would like to do a longer triathlon. She is an accomplished elite triathlete and although she clearly has racing goals when I asked what those goals were she replied simply and beautifully: “Joy.” I think this should be my goal, too.

I reflected on her answer for a good portion of my long run this morning. I told my husband last week that I want to and that I will get to Boston, but more than that I want to enjoy the process of getting there. Mostly I do enjoy the process. Having a big goal motivates me to get up early in the mornings and do the hard workouts. Running is a huge part of my mental health regimen, and my running group is my social outlet. I have met some of my dearest friends through running.  I also like having something to work toward, even if it will take years to get there. Part of this process will be learning how to keep those negative thoughts from creeping up when I enter the pain cave during a race. It will not be enough to have those around me tell me that I am strong enough and capable. I must truly believe it myself. Once I do, I will be able to silence those voices once and for all, even when I am pushing myself physically to the limit.

When I approached the end of mile five yesterday, I saw that I was going to be very close to reaching my goal of sub-50. At the six mile marker, I realized that I may just make it in under 50 minutes if the course was measured accurately. I pushed my legs as hard as I could, coming in at 49:46, barely under 50 minutes, proving once again that it was my mind and not my body that was holding me back.

I was thrilled to have met my time goal yesterday, but I do not like how I beat myself up mentally in the pain cave. Numbers are not everything and if my ultimate goal is to find the Joy in the Suffering, I have quite a bit of work to do. I race again in two weeks. My goal for that race is to enter the pain cave again, but next time I am going to be kinder and more gentle with myself. I am going to try again to find joy and beauty in the suffering that we as runners and athletes create when we push ourselves to our limits. That type of suffering is sacred and I am thankful for the days that I can race and do that without being injured. I want to celebrate it and be kind to myself in those moments. It may take some practice, which is precisely why my brilliant coach keeps telling me to race more and to push the pace until I figure it out!

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Harnessing Fear

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There have been periods over the past several years where I have dabbled in cycling. Whether it be a desire to try triathlon, increase my cross-training repertoire, or to maintain fitness during periods of injury, when I mount a bicycle I typically find myself confronting fear. Fear of clipping in and out, fear of descending, fear of riding in traffic…of course those are all just variations of one primary fear: Crashing and getting hurt (or God forbid worse).

When I can confront a fear and come through on the other side of it, I gain confidence. But too much fear can be crippling and will cause me to avoid the activity. The trick is to find the right balance, or to use the fear to my advantage.

Yesterday I was riding up a hill (Bogus Basin Road for those of you that live in Boise) and came upon a cattle guard. Having never ridden my road bike over a cattle guard before I was terrified when I saw it. My preference would have been to unclip and walk over or around it, yet I was cycling uphill and cannot unclip quickly while cycling uphill. I feel like I need a lot of time to unclip and need to be pedaling on a flat surface to do so. I looked ahead and saw another cyclist a couple hundred feet ahead of me. He had obviously gone over the cattle guard and was still upright, so I presumed I could go too. I looked ahead, pedaled forward, and hoped for the best. What choice did I have? I hit the guard, rumbled furiously, and as soon as it started it stopped and I was on the other side! Still upright! But with one minor problem. Since this was an out and back ride up and down a large hill, I would still have to ride back down over the cattle guard.

 

I found a safe place to turn around and once I was heading downhill immediately started worrying about the cattle guard. Descending is not my favorite to begin with and adding the cattle guard to the descent was not helping at all. As I approached it on the downhill, I looked ahead of it, thought “focus on where you want to go” and rode right over it. The downhill seemed to make less of a rumble than the uphill, probably because I hit it going faster, but my body, having been flooded with surges of adrenaline from my fear, continued to shake even after the cattle guard was miles behind me. While it was confidence inducing to know that I can, in fact, ride over a cattle guard without harming myself, I cannot say that I was jumping out of bed to go do it again this morning.

I did, however, go on another (different) road bike ride this morning with my husband and that one also forced me to closely examine how I can perhaps harness my fear to motivate me and build confidence instead of destroy it. Today’s ride was full of chip seal. For those of you who do not live in the area, chip sealing is an alternative, cheaper way to maintain roads that involves dumping a bunch of loose gravel everywhere. So imagine you are on your favorite road route and all of a sudden discover that a) the bike lanes are gone, b) there’s about two inches of loose gravel for miles and miles, and c) when cars drive by they often kick up said loose gravel in your face. On one of the descents through the gravel I was swerving all over the place, spitting gravel everywhere, and when we got to the bottom of the hill I tossed my bike aside and told my husband, “I quit.” I actually said the words, “I quit.” I told him that he could ride home and get me (which would have taken over an hour) or we could ask someone at a nearby house if they would watch our bikes while we took an uber home and then drove back. He looked at me, laughed, agreed the ride was no fun, but told me to put my big girl panties on, that I could do it and to keep pedaling. And I’m so glad he did. I would have felt bad if I had quit in the middle of the ride. Also, the beer I drank when I got home would not have tasted nearly as good.

And I would not have had the rest of the ride to consider how to properly harness fear to create confidence. I still do not have that part figured out and am open to suggestions. I have owned a road bike for eight years and I still feel fearful when I ride it. But I can do things now that I could not do eight years ago. I like to believe that the more I ride the more confident I will get. Perhaps it will not come quickly. Perhaps I will always be somewhat fearful. But I keep showing up. I keep riding.

I asked myself this morning why. Why do I keep doing something that scares me so much? Why time and time again do I get on the bike only to flood my body with adrenaline, have near misses with cars or almost topple over due to my own user error? Because if I don’t try, I’ll never know what I am capable of. To show my kids what confronting fear looks like. Because there is no chance of running into a deer in a gym class and the views aren’t quite as good. Because I like doing triathlons. Because the beer at the end tastes phenomenal. And because nothing feels quite as good as doing something that you didn’t think you could do yesterday.

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My Gait Analysis Follow-Up Appointment: A Valuable Lesson in Dissociation

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St. Luke’s Sports Medicine is a very generous sponsor of our running team, the Boise Betties, and as part of that sponsorship we can send a runner or two per month in for a detailed gait analysis. This month it was my turn. Two weeks ago, I went in and completed paperwork, did a videotaped session on the treadmill, and several strength and flexibility tests. This week I went back to watch the videos and learn about the areas in which I most need to improve.

As most of us do, I cringed at the idea of having to watch myself run on video. I asked those who had gone before me if it might be appropriate to bring beer or wine for the viewing session. Maybe some Xanax? My coach met me there for my appointment too, with pen and paper in hand so that she could take notes and incorporate any suggestions from the therapists into my training program.

I have done a gait analysis before. I have seen myself running on videotape. I am not sure I had seen myself running on videotape in super slow motion. All I could see were portions of my body moving up and down in disjunction with other portions. Ga-gunk. Ga-gunk. I tried not to focus on that. I tried to play scientist and focus on angles and hip drops and detach myself as best I could from any emotional attachment to the image on the screen, instead trying to soak up what information I could from the health professionals in the room who could teach me how to improve.

But occasionally the eating disordered 16 year old that is still stuck inside me would rear her ugly head: “Look at all of that extra on you. No wonder you are not faster.” To which the older, wiser and more dominant 40 year old woman would reply: “Excuse me little girl, this body can run marathons. This body has birthed three beautiful children. This body is strong. And this body keeps going. So excuse me while I keep listening to these physical therapists because I do not have time for your crap.”

The appointment was very humbling (to say the least), yet also eye opening and gave me things to work on. For example, I saw that I strike the ground with too straight of a leg, which I believe is a compensatory pattern due to years of pain behind the knee cap. The knee pain may be due to weak hips and my glutes not firing so I am going to continue working on hip strength (which I was already working on) and glute recruiting exercises and see if I can make any improvements in this area over time.

In running practice the next morning we did hill repeats. They were the first ones I had done in months, since I am just coming back from injury. I could feel my quads and lower back over working while my glutes were still sleeping. I felt frustrated and remembered my appointment the day before. As I thought back to all of the things that were “wrong” with my running, I felt overcome with negativity and frustration. I was not appreciating my body for the things that it could do, but rather getting angry with it for the things that, in my mind, it was not doing.

Later that day, I read an article about a Playboy playmate who had taken a picture of another woman in the shower at a gym without her permission and then body-shamed her on social media. I was horrified. Who does this? Here we have a beautiful woman who feels the need to take a nude photo of another woman, post it online thereby violating this woman’s privacy in a horrible way, and say awful things about her. Don’t you think it has something to to with the fact that deep down the perpetrator, a playboy model, feels insecure about her own looks and her own body, so she tears others down to feel better about herself? We all know there is a better way. This mom’s response is the best.

Each body is beautiful because each body is uniquely ours. Our bodies can do amazing things. When we push ourselves, sometimes we learn that our bodies can do things we never thought we were capable of. Of course we do not look like photos in magazines. Those are not real. We are. Let’s celebrate each other and what our bodies can do, not what they canNOT. 

Today my body completed its first race, a short sprint triathlon, since I turned 40 three months ago and was diagnosed a day later with a stress reaction in my foot. I am so thankful for what my body could do today and am hopeful for the future. And next time I am doing hill repeats, I will be thankful that my body is able to run up a hill, no matter which muscles are propelling it. My glutes may be a little late to the game, but they will get there. I will make sure of it.

Scout (January 24, 2006-June 11, 2016)

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“Hey Boo” – Scout

To Kill a Mockingbird

On a spring weekend in 2006 my husband and I drove to the Oregon-Washington border to pick up our first baby. Named after the narrator from Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, we joyously welcomed Scout to our family and hoped that she would fit in well with our cats, one of whom was named Boo, after Boo Radley from the same book because he liked to hide. I consider myself a cat person and was nervous about becoming a dog owner, but Scout quickly won me over with her good looks and charm.

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Who I mean who can resist this cuteness?!?!

After feeling competent in our abilities to parent a fur baby, my husband and I added more to our brood, bringing three human babies into the mix in the years that followed. Although she no longer had our undivided attention, Scout did not seem to mind. She took her new role as protector and guardian of the family very seriously and was quick to alert us if anyone new was approaching. She also took great pride in her herding abilities, becoming filled with anxiety and disapproval when one of her sheep would wander off in a different direction. More than once this resulted in her pulling out of her leash and collar in a desperate attempt to round up her herd.

On the morning that our third child was born, I was in the house alone. I am sure Scout knew we were bringing another child into the family, but our typically anxious dog let me be the anxious one that morning as I paced around making cupcakes, filling the birth pool and waiting for the midwives and my husband to arrive.

Scout, my early labor birth partner

Oh great, another one of those things that is going to ride me like a pony.

My midwives and doula arrived about an hour and a half before the birth, and my husband walked in about twenty minutes before the baby was born, but Scout was there the whole time to keep me company.

In spite of the fact that our three kids poked, prodded, dressed her up and rode her like a camel, she never once nipped, bit or reacted harshly. She tolerated, loved and protected my babies as if they were her own. She was the most loyal, protective and gentle family dog.

About nine months ago Scout was diagnosed with cancer. We knew the day was coming when we would have to say goodbye and did the best we could to make the end of her life as filled with love as possible. We took her to some of her favorite places, gave her extra treats and lots of special attention. We chose to use an at home euthanasia service, which was wonderful, because we were able to say goodbye in our home where she was surrounded by family and we did not have to take her to a place where she would have been stressed.

On the morning we had scheduled the vet to come, I went for my short run. (I am returning from injury and doing short run/walks.) It has been said that the cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the ocean, and I certainly find this to be true. I grew up near the ocean and although I love living in the mountains, I miss the ocean dearly. I cannot reap the therapeutic benefits of the ocean as much as I would like, but I can sure get my sweat and cry on. And sweat and cry I did. As soon as I was in the beautiful foothills and hit my first walk break, all of my pent up emotions released and the salt water flowed from my eyes mixing with the sweat dripping from my forehead. If I had passed a stranger on the trails, I do not know if they would have been able to distinguish between the sweat and the tears, as by the time they emerged from underneath my sunglasses they had become one. The union of my hard work and determination to return to running with the heartbreak I was facing back at home. I returned feeling heavy hearted, yet somehow cleansed, and ready to help my children say goodbye to our beloved friend.

We were all able to spend a few minutes with Scout before she left us. And I like to think she might still be watching us and helping to protect our kids. We miss her dearly and she has left a big hole in our family, one that we will fill with another puppy one day but not too soon. Rest well, Scout. Thanks for turning this cat person into a dog person too. Good dog.

 

Eight Minutes

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Since late March I have been sidelined with a stress reaction in my foot. Yesterday I ran outside for the first time in two months. This also happened to be my first outside run in my 40s. My 40th birthday was almost two months ago. I had grand plans of running 40 laps on the track to celebrate my 40th and running parts of the Boston marathon course on my trip to Boston for a conference just days after my 40th, but none of that happened due to this injury. But I digress…

Yesterday I stepped outside in beautiful spring weather to run outside. It was glorious! Of course I wanted to go up into the Boise foothills and get lost for miles, but my body is not ready for that. My wise and wonderful coach prescribed a 2min run followed by 3 min walk on a soft surface for 20 minutes. I hit the North End alleys.

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Sun on my face, flower in my hair and garbage behind me!

Those first two minutes felt strange. Having been accustomed to running on the Alter G for the past month or so, it was wonderful to be moving forward in the fresh outdoor air with the variation of scenery. Lovely wildflowers, spring sounds, people doing yard work and fixing their houses, children playing, animals exploring, and all of these other things I have missed while I have been exercising indoors and rehabbing my injury. I wanted to keep going and going!

But at the same time my foot was pounding! On the hard ground! And I was paranoid. What if I break it again? I was thankful to stop and walk after that two minutes. I am grateful for a smart and conservative coach who does research and talks to multiple health care professionals before determining the best course of action for her athletes.

Although it was not much of a run and yes it was mostly walking (I only ran for a total of eight of the twenty minutes), it felt great because it represented forward progress and I am finally outside again. But instead of feeling thankful for those eight minutes, I found myself spending much of the remainder of the day worried about the future. Thoughts like this ran through my head throughout the afternoon: Is my foot sore? I think it’s a little sore. Maybe it’s a lot sore. Was that too much? Will it feel better by tomorrow? How will I possibly run a marathon this fall if I can’t even run eight minutes without hurting myself now? Ugh. I am going to break my foot again and have to take more time off. And more into the negative thinking hole…

At one point during the day I saw my gratitude journal sitting on my nightstand. It is mostly empty. I have lofty goals of writing in it each night but end up collapsing into bed exhausted and don’t do it. Or perhaps I check emails and Facebook before bed instead. When I saw it yesterday I remembered that instead of worrying about the future or focusing on the negative, I want to make more of a concerted effort to be thankful for the positive in each day. Even being thankful for the little things can make a huge difference in our mindsets.

In yoga practice, they teach you to accept the body that you have each day you come to practice because each day your body is different. I try to apply that to my running as well. The body that I brought to my running practice yesterday allowed me to run eight minutes outside and for that I am exceedingly grateful. I don’t know what body I will have next week, next month or next year and it is a waste of precious energy to worry about it. Instead, I want to be thankful for today. Today I can run. And eight minutes is a fabulous start.

But I Get Up Again

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As a runner, I feel like I deal with more than my fair share of injuries. Maybe I am just a glass half empty kind of gal but as I look over the past year I see three significant forced breaks. Granted, one of them wasn’t really a running injury, it was appendicitis, but three forced breaks over a years feels like a lot, especially when you have missed a great deal of the nice spring and fall weather. I guess the universe is still trying to teach me about patience and perseverance and I no I still have not learned. In looking over my Instagram feed the other night I came across this gem which I posted while on Forced Break Number One:

The reality is that if your dream is to accomplish something awesome, it’s not going to be easy. If it were easy, everyone would be doing it. People who go for greatness are going to get knocked down a lot. They’ll have difficult times. They’ll struggle with doubt and uncertainty. People around them will question the wisdom of their quest. The issue is not whether you’ll fail, because you will. It’s whether you’ll get back up and keep going. It’s whether you can sustain your self-confidence and your belief in yourself and keep bouncing back.

Failure is only final when you stop striving.

-Bob Rotella, How Champion’s Think In Sports and Life

The last two sentences really spoke to me. Sustain your self-confidence and your belief in yourself and keep bouncing back. You see, when I get injured or sidelined it is very easy for my mind to go to the places that say, “You are not a runner.” and “You are too old.” or too something or not enough of something else and then suddenly I am deflated and defeated and eating cookies for dinner. But champions do not think that way. Indeed, they cannot afford to. In the face of injury, illness or whatever obstacle they must sustain self-confidence and keep bouncing back. Because failure is only final when you stop striving.

Oliver Goldsmith said that success is getting up just one more time than you fall. Just one more time.

Those who are successful make it look easy. But we don’t see all of the hard work and struggle. The tens, hundreds, thousands of times that person might have fallen. We just see that one more time they got up. The success!

We also fail to consider the millions of small steps taken that when viewed alone seem totally insignificant but the sum of which equals greatness. Each day cannot be a personal best, but each day we can take a small step in pursuit of a long term goal. Whether it be getting that extra hour of sleep your body needs to recover, eating some extra veggies for vital nutrients, or pushing yourself a little harder on the track. Maybe it means practicing patience and positivity (ahem, I am looking at myself as I type) because in order to achieve peak performance we must not only be fit physically but mentally as well.

Whatever you do, make sure you keep getting back up, and keep moving forward. One step at a time.

Pool is a Four Letter Word

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The day after my 40th birthday I saw the doctor for my mystery foot ailment. At that point I had taken about two weeks off of any real running and had forgone running the Final Four Four Miler in Houston which I had been hoping to run as the last race of my 30s. Nevertheless, the pain in my foot continued. My x-ray looked clean, but after a manual exam, the doctor uttered the dreaded phrase “stress reaction” and told me no running for 4-6 weeks. Welcome to Forty! He suggested pool and cycling and all of those other things that runners just love to do when they are injured. And he prescribed this lovely footplate which does not leave my side:

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Francis the Footplate, my new BFF #thisis40

For the entire month of April, my birthday month, I diligently hit the pool, the gym, and tried to find other activities which did not aggravate my foot. I am thankful for the fact that unlike when I had to have my appendix out last summer I can still be very active while recovering from this stress reaction. Nevertheless, I look longingly out the window on these lovely and light spring mornings and desperately want to run. (I think my family wants that too, as each passing week I grow more and more irritable.) I miss my running team and wonder what workouts they are doing and what fun topics of conversation I might be missing out on. Running is not only my chance for exercise and fresh air, it is also a social outlet for me, and I miss my friends!

This week, on Cinco de Mayo (!), I got to run for the first time in over a month and the first time in my forties! I didn’t get to run outside, I got to run on the Alter G treadmill. For those of you unfamiliar with the Alter G, it is an anti-gravity treadmill which allows you to run at a percentage of your body weight. It is a phenomenal piece of equipment for injured runners or runners hoping to take off some of the training load.

I counted down the days until I could try running and when the day arrived I felt equal parts excitement and nervousness. I want to get back to running so badly, but feared having the first step be painful and having to start the 4-6 week clock over again. Finally, my Alter G time slot appointment arrived. Just putting on a running outfit felt amazing. I felt like a runner again! I laced up my running shoes, hopped on, started walking, increased the speed and lowered the body weight.

Per my coaches instructions I lowered the body weight to 60%. When you run on the Alter G, you wear special spandex pants, zip yourself into the machine, and air blows up around you. Your body weight it lowered by the air around you and the machine essentially lifting you by the pants you are wearing. (I am sure there is a more technical explanation, but this is my non-techy description.) As my weight lowered and my speed increased I finally took that first running step. And it felt okay! In fact, due to the decreased body weight, it felt almost effortless.

I was finally running again! It felt easy! It felt amazing! It felt like if I did this for the full 30 minutes I might never get feeling back in my crotch again! At times I felt that I could feel pain in my foot, but at no time was the pain in my foot anywhere near the discomfort I felt in my lady-parts from literally being lifted by the seat of my pants while running. (Guys: How do you manage Alter G running?!?) I took comfort in that feedback, however. It told me that the discomfort in my foot was mostly in my head. Afterwards I iced and had minimal soreness.

Although I will not be running outside in the Boise foothills for Mother’s Day as I had hoped, I am so pleased with my forward progress. I am learning more about patience, listening to my body, and doing my best to enjoy the journey. Even if that journey does involve swimming laps in the pool.

Houston We Have a Problem

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For my upcoming 40th birthday, my husband planned a trip to Houston for the Final Four. We have both always wanted to go to the Final Four and this seemed liked a spectacular way to celebrate my milestone birthday. When we planned the trip I did not think my team, the Virginia Cavaliers, would be in the Final Four. In fact, I assumed that planning the trip pretty much guaranteed my Wahoos an early exit from the NCAA tournament. I was just hoping that the Final Four teams would be teams that I was excited about seeing and that the games would be good games.

When Virginia played well in the Sweet Sixteen and beat Iowa State, I was ecstatic. We had made it to the Elite Eight for the first time in 21 years! If we beat Syracuse on Easter Sunday, we would go to the Final Four. Living in Idaho, I do not get a chance to see my Wahoos play often. In fact, I have not had an opportunity to see them play since our beloved Tony Bennett became head coach seven years ago. The idea that I might have the chance to see them in Houston had me so nervous I could barely stand it. I would hardly allow myself to think about it for fear of getting my heart broken. I have been a Cavalier my entire life and indeed know the heartbreak that can come along with being a Wahoo. When we were up by 14 against Syracuse at half in the Elite Eight, all of my rational thinking went out the window and I allowed myself to feel the excitement of possibly getting to see Tony Bennett and the boys in Houston for the Final Four. Just 20 more basketball minutes and that would happen. We had been a second half team for much (most) of the season, so it did not seem like too tall of an order.

But alas, it was not meant to be. Syracuse would go on a 20-4 run in the second half, Virginia would collapse and my heart would break into a million pieces. I was absolutely stunned, shocked and heartbroken. Yes, over a basketball game. My friends and family who do not watch college basketball or sports do not understand at all, but fortunately I have many friends and family who get it. A loss like this one is painful. Exacerbated by the fact that we have tickets to the Final Four and I now have the pleasure of watching Syracuse play instead of my beloved Wahoos.

Immediately after the Elite Eight loss my tears flowed freely. I could not watch the post-game press conferences, nor could I bear to watch the next game between North Carolina and Notre Dame. My sweet kids tried to console me and my daughter made Virginia a beautiful trophy just from her. (Disclaimer: I felt embarrassed about my poor display of sportsmanship and have since spoken with my kids about it. However, I am human and my emotions were raw and real.) I did watch the post-game press conference the next day and I was nothing but proud of my team and my coach. They display pure character and class, and even after a gut-wrenching loss are the epitome of the Five Pillars upon which Tony Bennett’s program at UVA is based: Humility, Passion, Unity, Servanthood and Thankfulness. After the loss, Coach Bennett said he told the team that he had an old church hymn ringing in his ears that said tears may endure for the night, but joy will come in the morning and that he believes that joy is coming for this team. Hearing him say those words eased my heavy heart and I clung to them like a child clinging to her favorite blankie.

However, for me joy did not come the next morning. Or the next. Or the next. You see, to make things more complicated, I struggle with depression. And I never know which seemingly inconsequential life or seasonal event is going to send me into a tailspin. It could be the change of the weather, a fight with a friend, or, in this case, a gut-wrenching basketball loss. To even further complicate things, running, which helps keep me sane and level headed, is not happening for me right now. About a week ago against my better judgment I did a speed workout while sick. Towards the end of it my right foot started to hurt. By the end of my cooldown it was hurting so much I was limping. I ended up taking a week off, tried to run again, and same issue. My left foot is bothering me as well in a different area. So I have concerns about a stress reaction or fracture and cannot run. Running is a major component of my mental health regimen and not being able to do it causes issues for me. So it has been a rough week on multiple fronts.

On an unrelated note, I halved my antidepressant medication several weeks ago. I had been feeling great, I have the ultimate goal of weaning off of it one day, and with the warmer weather and longer days coming I thought the timing was good. The side effects of cutting down the medication were rough at first (I felt lightheaded and dizzy for weeks), but I was finally feeling normal and good. Until Sunday night.

After about two days of watching me mope around the house over a basketball loss, my husband told me it was time to re-up my medication.  His comment made me angry. I thought he was not giving me proper credit for my ability to fend the depression off myself. I am tough. I am strong. I am a working mother of three who runs marathons and has successfully fought depression my entire adult life. He was not giving me enough time to tough it out.

But that is the thing about depression. It does not care who you are, what you have done, how tough you think you are or how determined you are. Depression takes over the rational part of your brain. It renders you unable to see or feel the good in your life. Stifling out the sunshine and beauty, you feel like you are walking through mud. Basic tasks like taking a shower and getting dressed feel Herculean. Depression is a silent killer because many of those who suffer are so stoic that you would never know they are suffering. But make no doubt that it is indeed a killer. When left untreated or treated improperly, depression can be terminal.

I wrestled with the demons in my head for a couple of days about going back to my full dose of medication, but I got tired of walking through the mud. My husband and kids deserve more. I deserve more. If I were a diabetic using insulin or a patient with high blood pressure taking high blood pressure medication to manage my blood pressure, I would not deny my body the medication that it so badly needs. And although we do not have a test to medically quantify it yet, I have a deficiency or imbalance in my brain that the medication helps repair. I know this because just two days after returning to my full dose I already feel better. I can get dressed with ease. I do not feel like I am going to burst into tears at any second. I do not feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest. And I can get on the plane to Houston with my family and feel the moments of joy as we spend time with friends celebrating my birthday and watching the Final Four. Yes, I still feel sad that Virginia will not be there, but I feel proud of what they accomplished this season and I feel hopeful that one day they will make the Final Four, Tony Bennett will cut down the nets, and when they do it will be that much sweeter. And I will get to cry tears of joy.

Reflections on Rock ‘n’ Roll Arizona

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“Risk taking is essential for success in all sports.”

Dr. Jim Taylor

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Yesterday morning as I gazed out of my hotel room window, watching the sun rise over the Arizona desert, I felt a large range of emotions: excited, nervous, thankful, afraid. I had no idea what would happen on the race course that day. The last marathon I completed, almost a decade earlier, I had idiotically attempted on an IT band injury, ending with my hobbling across the finish line in 6 hours. I knew this would not be a repeat of that and was thankful to be toeing the line injury free and in mostly good health.  I had been battling a cold earlier in the week and felt somewhat run down and exhausted, but free of any running relating injuries. I had waited many years to redeem that 2006 Marine Corps Marathon run and to have another attempt at the marathon distance, having had three kids and battled several injuries in the decade in between. I was training for St. George this fall, but that plan was derailed when I ended up in the hospital with appendicitis on August 19.

The weather was great. Upper 40s at the start, 60s at the finish and sunny. Light winds, but nothing too bad. According to my practice half marathon race that I had run four weeks ago, I was fit enough to run a 3:48 marathon. I thought 3:48-3:55 seemed like a reasonable target range. My ultimate goal if all of the stars happened to align just right would be to run a Boston Qualifying time, which for my age would be a 3:45. I thought this might be a tad ambitious, but I spent much of the week trying to convince myself that I am actually capable of running a 3:45. One of my weak links is self-confidence. Like everyone else, I am a work in progress. I have also felt afraid of declaring to the world that I have a goal of qualifying for and running the Boston Marathon. As I discussed with a couple of friends of mine, declaring this BHAG (Big Hairy Audacious Goal) of mine to the universe is scary. I am a perfectionist and tend to like to create goals for myself that I know will be easy to meet, not ones that will likely take several tries to accomplish. Declaring this goal to the world, makes me feel vulnerable. But as my friends have pointed out and as I am finding, it also opens up a whole new world of support and a louder cheering section along the way!

So my “A” goal going into the race yesterday was to run a Boston Qualifying time of 3:45. My “B” goal was to run a sub-4 hour time, and my “C” goal was to run a PR. My previous marathon PR was 4:30. I thought a lot going into the race about how I wanted to take risks, try to define my limits, do my best and leave it all out on the race course. I thought about trying to brace myself for those tough miles between 18-23 and visualized pushing through those and having pride in my efforts. I felt that my training leading up to the race had gone well and I was proud to have made it though a full training cycle without injury or unexpected surgery!

I toyed with running with the 3:45 or 4:00 pace group and decided to just go for it and run with the 3:45 group. What did I have to lose? I asked the pacer if he had a pacing strategy and he said he ran evenly and perhaps the first few miles would be slow due to congestion on the course. I ran with the 3:45 group for the first 10 miles and then got tired of the pace group. One guy in the group was wearing a Bluetooth and took at least two phone calls during that time, another chatted on and on about how he was running this easier pace because he got sick and fell off his training plan. Also, the group did not slow down at aid stations to drink and I kept having to make small surges to keep up with them. I felt like it was starting to tire me out. So at mile 10, I pulled out my ear buds, started listening to music and decided to try to run my own race. I think in future races, I will run my own race from the start, trusting in my own abilities to pace myself.

In addition to getting annoyed with the pace group, I felt like I was getting too tired period and needed to readjust. Around mile 8 my legs started to feel more exhausted than I thought they should be at that point in the race, which was worrisome to me. Around the same time I looked into the crowd and saw a sign that said, “Only 18.2 more miles to go!” Worst. Fan. Sign. Ever. I felt deflated and immediately tried to put that sign out of my mind and focus on running the mile I was in. So by mile 10, I left the pace group and ran on my own. At that point, I slowed from about an 8:35 to and 8:45 pace, watching the 3:45 pacing sign slowly fade into the distance along with my dream of running a Boston Qualifying time yesterday.

I crossed the half at 1:53 and although I expected to slow in the second half, I hoped that I could hold on for the sub-four hour finish. I spent the next two hours trying to swat away all of the negative thoughts that would frequently pop up and try to distract me from that task. My coach will be disappointed in me for not running 3:45. I’m a failure of an athlete. I don’t want this enough. I should be skiing this weekend. What’s the point? I don’t belong here. I want to quit. Instead I tried to think of the people back home that I knew would be tracking me and cheering for me, and I tried to channel some of their good energy and support. I tried to keep my head up high and maintain good form. I tried to remember that others around me hurt just as much as I did and that we were all suffering together. I would speed up for a bit, and then slow down. I would walk through the aid stations for water and/or Gatorade, and every time it got harder and harder to start again. But I did start again, each time.

I passed the mile 20 mark at 3:00 hours and told myself that I could run just under a one hour 10k and sub four-hour marathon. I tried to use all of the mental tricks I could think of to get my legs moving faster, as I know I can run a barely sub-one hour 10K, even on tired legs, but the dreaded marathon fade kept taking me down. Somewhere around mile 23 or 24, the 4:00 hour pace group passed me and I felt another wave of disappointment. Since they had started in a corral a few minutes behind me, I knew that meant my time would be over four hours.

I fought to come in under 4:05 and ended up with a 4:04:06, an almost 26 minute marathon PR! Although I was hopeful I might run even better, I am happy with and proud of my run. I now have a starting point and a list of things to work on along with my coach for the next one. One of those things is mental fitness. I have been reading Matt Fitzgerald’s “How Bad Do You Want It?” and tried to as he says brace myself for how hard the race was going to be, but it had been so long since I had tackled the marathon distance that I think I had really forgotten how difficult it is. I also wish I had enjoyed the experience more. I tried to do that as much as possible, by noticing surroundings, thanking and high-fiving spectators, etc., but I think I spent a lot of the race not feeling well and therefore not enjoying it as much as I would like to enjoy a race. But how do you really “enjoy” an event where you are trying to push yourself to the max, or as Matt Fizgerald says, walk the hot coals? If anyone has tips on this, please let me know. Most of all, I am thankful that I am healthy and walking today, with soreness but no running related injuries. My hips, which have been an issue for me with my running for four years, feel great. After a little time for rest and recovery, I am looking forward to training with my running team again!

 

Hey Young Running Friends: Don’t Fear the Post-Baby Body!

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This morning at the track I was discussing my recent appendectomy and lamenting the fact that I had not known more of the details about the surgery ahead of time. Had I known the surgeon was going to make an incision right at my navel, I would have asked if he could have fixed my diastasis recti just above that. The conversation then turned to c-sections and tummy tucks. My twenty something running friends sans children were horrified. With their mouths agape they declared never to have kids, lest their bodies be ruined. Well, I am here to tell you, fear not young runners, having children will not ruin your body.

If you decide to have children one day, your body will change. It will grow and adapt to house the new life growing inside of you. You will feel the miracle of little hands and feet moving inside of you and hear the heartbeat of your little one. There is nothing else in the world like it. And when the time comes for you to meet your baby, you will learn just how strong and capable your body is. Your body can grow and birth another human being. It can give life. And then it can continue to feed and nourish your baby.

And yes, after giving birth and breastfeeding, your body may be different. It may take some time to return to its pre-pregnancy shape. In fact, it may not return to it’s pre-pregnancy shape and that’s okay. Post-pregnancy bodies are beautiful, strong and wonderful too. In fact, each one tells a story. The story of a mother who carried a baby, nourished a baby, and loves a child even more than she thought possible. It is one of the greatest love stories ever told.

Is my 39 year old body like my 24 year old body? No, not at all. Sure, my 24 year old body had less wrinkles, sags and stretch marks, but I did not appreciate it. I struggled with body image and self confidence. At 39, although I still have plenty of moments of self-doubt, I have a better appreciation of what this body can do. Each sag and wrinkle tells my story, and it is a story of love and of triumph. I feel stronger now than I did at 24. This body has taken me to many wonderful places, and I look forward to seeing where we will go in the future. But best of all, I have three wonderful little people beside me who call me mom. So enjoy your pre-kid bodies, my friends, but when the time comes, don’t be afraid of the changes!