Thursday, July 9, 2015

Boston Marathon


This blog has pretty much hit the grave, but I feel I owe myself at least a couple more posts (I'd love to fire it back up again, I miss it, but I'm currently having commitment issues.  Again.).

And, because BOSTON!  (yes, I am well aware the race was almost 3 months ago...shhhhhh). 

And, because I hate viewing that last pathetic post I wrote every time I pull up my blog.

So, let's start where I last left this thing.  That'd be January....

When the calendar flipped to 2015, Boston became my A-race, yet through all those winter and spring months, training for Boston didn't go exactly as I had hoped. Sometimes I feel as though we are all mice in a giant experimental maze, scurrying around frantically, trying to find our way through. I felt like that training for Boston.  Low energy; training paces that resembled something my grandmothers could run (and neither are alive); race results that left me frustrated, and at times, feeling pretty damn low.  Maybe I had came down with some newly discovered cancer. That'd be really cool, in a not-so-cool way. Maybe it was that I officially turned OLD this training cycle (that'd be 52 in case anyone wants to know where that magical line lies) and everything from here on out will be a giant spiral downward. Or, I've been having some extra stresses this year, so it could have been that.

All-in-all, I think I was just felt overwhelmed.  Overwhelmed by the thought of an unsure future and a confusing present where I didn't really know what it is I'm suppose to be doing or where I belonged. You know that feeling when you walk into an incredibly messy room to clean it and you don't even know where to start?  So you end up staring at it for 20 minutes before going to make yourself a sandwich?  That's exactly how I felt (feel) about my life. Which bled into my training.
  
I allowed life to affect my training much more than it should have.  Because the thing is, I know things need to be done.  I know that plans must be made.  And in many cases, I know what those things and plans are.  But I don't always have the faith they're going to get me where I want to go.  So instead, I go and make that proverbial sandwich and thus life stood still and I ate a lot of sandwiches.  And bleh I couldn't run "well"; too many sandwiches will do that.

I somehow managed to manipulate my once-manager where I work into coaching me.  John is smart, has a huge heart and is very knowledgeable with this running thingie.  But most importantly, he's patient with me and all my idiotic idiosyncrasies and panic attack melt-downs.  I cherished having a coach again - someone to rattle off ideas other than my own head and we work really well together, for the most part. There were moments where I had to raise my hand high and get all cappy letters in a text to him: HEY, LOOK AT ME!, but he's been a great shoulder to lean on during my sandwich eating moments and is learning to listen to not only what I'm saying but more importantly to what my body is feeling and push me or pull me back.  I know I've had my struggles with coaches in the past and let one and then another go, but I'm holding on tight to this one.

I chose to take my feet back to the road marathon for awhile because I could not think of another race distance that truly humbles me from the inside out. The road marathon is that challenge I just never felt at peace with. Pounding out that many miles at a constant steady state, I have almost always lost my mental grit during those last few miles. The road marathon is a dig-deep 10k with an aggressive 20-mile warm-up that demands an ability to run relentlessly at a pace that is right on the edge of unsustainable - a feeling I like to think of as "the wheels are ABOUT to come off."  Is this pace too fast?  Will I crash and burn and if so when?  Do I have more in me?  Where is that uncomfortable comfort zone I can sustain for 26.2 miles? By contrast, the varied terrain of a mountiany trail run means the pace fluctuates dramatically; constantly shifting gears to accommodate the always-changing terrain gives the mind and body a break.  I felt I got lazy running trails.  Trail running turned me in some of the best physical fitness of my entire life two years ago, but the head got careless.  I'd come to a hill and walk because it's perfectly acceptable to walk in steep traily races. I stopped at aid stations and feast for 15 minutes until I felt "better" before I would take off.  I stopped to smell the flowers, view the scenery, take a gajillion pictures, reflect on ... anything.  Don't get me wrong, running 7900' of vertical at altitudes 10,000' and higher (Silver Rush) definitely poses some challenges - like pleading with your lungs not to explode right then and there, and least we forget how many banged up bloody knees and that infamous busted rib muscle I had.  But I missed that sensation and challenge I feel running faster and steadier in the marathon, and I wanted it back. So my focus for the year came back to the road (at least until trail running season :))

And since I somehow miraculously qualified for Boston at CIM in December of 2013, Boston it was.  


I think one thing that John did have to learn the hard way about me is that I am a habitual worrier, and to compensate for the undue stress I put upon myself, I plan.  And I plan well in advance so I can visualize that race in my head over and over.  And over.  AND OVER! When he and I were able to finally meet up before the race, like a few hours before my flight left, I had already researched the Interwebs to death, reading and re-reading countless articles how to run this race well (you know, because the other two times I've run it weren't so stellar) and I came up with my own game plan for race day in hopes of squeaking out another BQ there.  I compared my way-too-many detailed notes with John's simple take and together we came up with a master plan (note: Marathon Pace (MP) = 9:02):

Miles 1-4: MP -10 seconds 
Miles 5-11: MP 
Miles 11-16: MP -10 seconds
Miles 17-21: MP +15 (f*%@ing hills)
Miles 21-24: MP (though truthfully, I just hoped not to be walking here!)
Miles 25-26.2: Hang on for dear life.... and to think of all the times I had some decent runs up a certain really tough local hill.



The weather wasn't particularly spectacular: drizzling rain and strong bouts of fierce headwinds.  The temperature wasn't exactly perfect either: about 40 degrees (which was cooler when the cold rain and winds were factored in).  I didn't really have adequate attire, but I'm not sure anyone had anything that was ideal for hours of running in these conditions. I stressed what to wear the entire day before and all the way until a few moments before the gun went off.  In the end, I ended up wearing basically all I had: shorts, two long-sleeved shirts, arm warmers and two pair of gloves.  For most of the race I felt chilled, and by the end of the race, I was soaked to the core. It wasn't ideal by any means, but in all honestly, I'd take this over anything above 70 degrees.
My daughter, Abbey, cheering and tracking me from the confines of a dry and warm hotel lobby
I wish I could write all the thoughts I had during the race...not only to share, but so I could also visit them later when time steals these precious memories and the details become hazy. I can close my eyes and recall many moments that stood out, but my thoughts during the race were fleeting and I couldn't concentrate on anything more than a few seconds.  I was cold, for the most part.  I had to pee for what felt like eternity.  I was well ahead of my proposed plan.  My quads were trashed by mile 2, and that pain never ceased.  I high-fived kids whenever I remembered to look up and 'take it all in'.  This race definitely became internal where I continuously was aware of my time; my effort; my pace; how I felt; when to fuel; how much further I had left; am I pushing it too hard, or not quite enough. To me, these are the precise things you NEED to internalize when you put your heart and soul into a marathon, and I wanted to race this thing!

I was ahead of my plan by a couple minutes coming into the half.  I knew John was seeing that number spit out back in Colorado on his laptop and was probably cringing, but I felt I was precisely in the right place.  Yes, the wheels had a high chance of coming off, but the Newton hills were soon approaching and I am not a strong climber (if you think living in Colorado where there are mountains aplenty to make me climb well, you'd be wrong).  I felt I needed these additional minutes at the half way point if I had any remote chance of making it out alive past the upcoming hills, so I told John in my inner voice, don't panic quite yet.

Surprisingly, the miles were clicking by quickly for me the entire race and despite my screaming quads, I was enjoying every morsel of this race.  When I remembered to look up, I'd recognized certain landmarks or places and smile at the memories from years ago.  But then I saw it - the sharp 90 degree turn where the Newton Hills begin around mile 17. Anxiety started to brew.  My pace had been riding consistently up to this point, and for that fact alone, my head was holding up remarkably well. But those hills!  Those four ghastly hills. Knowing they were my nemesis and worrying about them for like weeks, if not months, played a significant roll in my mental collapse; by the last hill, my quads were trashed; I had stomach issues; and my hamstrings were seizing up. My pace fell drastically to a 10:12 when I reached the top of that last hill. That's a HELL OF A LOT more than pace +15, Jill.  You're screwed!  In 4 long, agonizing miles, my mental state became a pile of dog food and I felt I had nothing left in me anymore - my object to re-qualify for Boston next year was pretty much out the window. It seemed pointless to try.  If I can't BQ again, then why even bother? I came up with a hundred excuses in the noggin I would tell John, and the select few people I told my goal to, why I was content with failure. 

The scene became a familiar one I've encountered in countless marathons past at mile 22.  It hurts too much.  It doesn't matter.  You aren't going to reach your goals.  Goals are stupid. Why do you put so much pressure on yourself?  No one cares but you and you'll eventually get over it.  It will feel so much better to walk.  Your quads are killing you.  Just walk.  You'll still finish. That's a pretty big accomplishment in of itself.  4:02 is a good finish.  Why did you think you could run 3:57?  You can't.  It doesnnnnnn't matttterrrrr.  Just finish, shed a few tears of disappointment, and it'll all be okay.....in about 15 months.

2 minutes later..... it WASN'T okay.  And it DID matter.

I didn't know how I was going to come home and face the firing arms with my handful of lame defenses.  I knew I'd lose.  Not just to the people who were there by my side, but I was going to lose the battle I sought out within me: that fight to the end that I have longed for in the marathon. 

I mean, isn't this exactly what I said I wanted?  To push through these last 3 miles. To fight the pain and fatigue.  To prove to myself, and to John, that I can be strong. To prove I am worthy of all those proverbial cliches that make me gag every time I see them on Facebook, but secretly keep tucked inside and pull out when I need them. Some of the hardest challenges make you stronger......

But ugh, I was in so much pain.  My quads, which had been screaming from mile 2, were in agony; every step was pouring more misery into every leg fiber I had.  My hamstrings were as tight at cello strings and seizing up.  I just had three more miles....three. 

No, not this time.  I told myself to just fu*$ing run (#JFR).  RUN!  Run as hard as you possibly can!  

Mile 21: that crap 10:12.  Mile 22: 9:34.  Mile 23: 9:23.  Mile 24: 9:14. Mile 25: 9:07.  I welcomed that Citgo sign in the distance where in prior races it never seemed to move; it would hover out there, dreadfully never seeming to inch closer.  This time, I could actually FEEL it moving towards me.



I was passing people like it was my job - it felt empowering.  My quads were killing me, but I was running....and I was smiling....Right on Hereford, Left on Boylston and you're there. I said this repeatedly... until I turned Right.  Then Left.  And suddenly, there I was on the infamous Boylston Street with thousands swarming the street cheering.



Mile 26: 9:13  

Tears were welling up as I ran towards the finish line - I had to turn them off because it became problematic to cry, breathe AND run.  I thought about how far I had come to get here; all the obstacles I faced training for this thing; all those sandwiches I ate.  This is a stretch of the race I will treasure for the rest of my life - and I will forever remember ever single second how I felt. I was home.  My secret goal was 3:57:something - which only John and my dearest friend Jen knew (who was the most supportive human being on the planet earth - emailing me and texting me daily that she believed in me, which meant the world).  I crossed:  

3:57:02
Gun time....ignore that clock

People always say running is about the journey.  Embrace the journey.  That's all fine and dandy for them.... but for me, in the end, it's about crossing that finish line!  There is no greater high I have EVER felt than a well-run race. Right now I want to race until I feel satisfied I have completed all I can do. Satisfaction isn't necessarily PRs (though that would be really cool), but rather to continue to grow, to learn, and race with everything I have in me until I can't.  I want to race with endurance that is strong and passionate, yet patient and wise. I want to chip away at that 3:57:02 because I know I have more in me.  I don't know when this desire will cease or when I won't feel the need to get out there and beat the crap out of myself anymore; I'm sure it's in my not-so-distant future.  But right now I'm thankful for the fire within.  And at age 52, that is a true gift, and I cannot put it away quite yet.

My life right now isn't particularly 'good' as I try to inspect where I need to go, what I need to do, struggles with this and that, and where I fit in this great big world.  But it is getting a little better. Boston showed me that no matter how painful things are in my life, nor how particularly low things can get, and how lonely I can feel for much of it, if I can run faster than I ever have in the last 4 miles of a marathon on completely fried legs, surely I can persevere in this thing that is called life.


It may take longer than I wish and I may eat a few more sandwiches before I find that happy place I'm meant to be, but there is strength is pain....

I know I can do this.

Thank you, Boston!
Words can't begin to describe the emotions I felt when I saw these two at the end.
My unimpressed with running daughter said, "Why are you crying?"  One day she'll understand!
My coach and dear friend, John.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart!
A friend from home, Othman, whom I literally bumped into outside the expo
This one flies with her own wings....
.....and isn't afraid to express how she feels about running expos :)  
But she makes awesome signs
And I love her to death....and in the end, she was very proud of me (along with her little brother, who saved my life with his coat post-race)

"A runner must run with dreams in his heart."
                                                   
- Emil Zatopek


Run strong, my friends!

Jill

Thursday, January 1, 2015

Carrying Hope into 2015


2014

I'm so glad to have waved good-bye to 2014. I have very few fond memories from the past twelve months, but some years are best forgotten.  At least most of the bad moments in there. 

It's been a tough year.  In many ways, my toughest.  And when I reached the year's end yesterday, the first thing I thought was that it was a miracle I survived it.  I know those words sound melodramatic, but for me, at the time, they don't even begin to capture how torn apart my soul has felt this year after everything I experienced.

I know 2015 will be a different story.  It has to be.  Because I feel like I hit rock bottom in 2014.  It was a year of more heartbreak than happiness.  True rock bottom is a firm boundary, comforting in its limits that at least appear to mean things can't get worse.  Of course I haven't truly hit rock bottom. Things can always be worse. But pain is pain.  And the lowest you've ever been becomes the newest rock bottom, because it's the worst you've known.  I have had many dark moments in my 51 years of life - many of those when I was just a kid.  So maybe rock bottom isn't the right word, because when I reflected on the year, these were the first fleeting thoughts that came to mind about the year....

I lost one of the closest loves I've ever had. I found some new trail friends. I enjoy running with them more than I'll ever admit to anyone.  I miss my old running friends.  I ran the Leadville Marathon.  My boys graduated from high school.  Ryan set some amazing running PRs. That kid went to Montana for college on a track and academic scholarship.  My feelings were hurt, many times.  I sat on my shower floor many times with tears streaming ... until all the hot water was gone. I ran a 50k on my 51st birthday - and smiled the entire day.  I spent a weekend with my daughter in Salida (where I ran a horrible race) and we ate dinner at a gas station in the middle of nowhere (Southpark) and still laugh so hard whenever we bring it up. I understood depression a whole lot better. I had a job I absolutely loved. Because I had the best manager - who soon became a good friend - that I ever had. I drank some great beers.  And ate some outstanding Mexican food.  I lost a friend to alcoholism.  Her car temporarily sits in front of my house as a daily reminder that life is short.  I learned there are many senseless thing you can live without (television, for one).  Brendan plays the piano for me every night and it melts my heart. I climbed about 176k vertical feet.  I ran exactly 2014 miles.  And 17 races. Many of them I'd classify as pathetic, but every one taught me something about myself - and some were even fun.  I had my first DNF - and I didn't wither away like I always envisioned I would. I took on a walk-to-run 5k program for new runners and beamed with pride of their accomplishments. I registered for the Boston Marathon in 2015.  I had some amazing conversations with some incredible friends. I have friends who just refuse to give up on me. I never cease to wonder what I did to deserve their friendships.  I learned it's okay to be sad sometimes, we deserve time with our emotions.  I coached some incredible athletes.  I found things to be grateful for that I never imagined I could be.  My daughter aced her math GRE. I explored new adventures on trails I'd never run before.  Where I found some amazing geological gems.  And momentary peace.  I learned public assistance doesn't mean someone's a bad person. Or lazy.  I learned everyone has their own demons.  I learned not all lawyers are scum.  I learned never to judge anyone, for you never know what anyone is going through. I found a new running coach. In my backyard, practically.  He hasn't dumped me yet.  He lost his free ticket to do so so he's stuck with me for the year.  I spent a couple days in Dallas with one of my longest, dearest friends.  He spoiled me rotten.  And we shared some great words.  I slept the best I ever slept all year there.  And I ran one of the most consistently-paced marathons of my life.  I learned not to be afraid of things I once was.  I learned I am a pretty fierce fighter, if I can just calm all the clutter in my head.  

And I learned to find peace with 2014.

People call the struggles and heartache "growing pains" when there's not much you can do about it. Labels like this are suppose to sooth us into the relief that the hurt we feel isn't novel. It's not unprecedented for humanity.  It's all part of the game - a necessary part, probably.

When we look back over the year, or decade, or our whole lives, we wax nostalgic.  We say things like, "I wouldn't trade the lessons for anything."  But in the lesson-learning moments, BLAH.  Sometimes we would trade the experience for anything.  Who is right?  Is it the version of myself who feels that pain or the later version who only remembers it?  It's easy to assume that the present version of yourself knows better than any version that came before.  But try telling someone who is suffering tragedy now that what they are experiencing is a totally good thing.

If they'll listen, the only power that will get them to believe what you say is HOPE.  Because a promise that the tragedy isn't unprecedented, or unexpected, and maybe even necessary, doesn't take the sting away.  It just helps you believe that the sting might go away later to be replaced with something more pleasant.

Hope is just a prologue to gratitude.  It's good fortune that hasn't yet been fertilized by time and perseverance.  It's the optimistic simile of platitude.  I chose "optimistic" because unlike platitudes, hope has teeth.

Hope.

It's what's powered me through this year of heartache.  And more importantly, it's what has made that year of heartache full of happy moments.  I think hope is what got me through this year and because of what I saw it do, so it's what I'll carry into the next.

So excited that the new year is a chance for fresh beginnings. I'm looking forward to uncovering what lies ahead in the next 364 days, what Boston will bring me and the marathons beyond that - and working with my new coach.  I can't promise I'll fire this blog back up regularly in 2015, but maybe more than the 4 times I wrote in 2014. There's always hope, huh? 

Happy New Year, my friends.  Run strong!

Starting off the New Year with a little vertical, with new and old friends (and Ryan :))....