Running Out Front

It's possible that running out front and being directionally challenged aren't such synergistic qualities. I'm just saying it's possible. Today, during the group run I more or less accidentally ended up leading my color group through our eight-mile run. The red group is significantly smaller now that the Helvetia Half Marathon has come and gone. Not too many Clydesdales left (or whatever lady Clydesdales are called - Shetlands?). Fortunately, I planned ahead this time and grabbed a map off the water table before taking off.

Pete, the coach, told us "It's the same route we've done a dozen times." Well, I could have done it a thousand times, and I still would have no idea where to go. I seem to by lacking an important gene that governs sense of direction. I could get lost in a room with one door; I believe I may have mentioned that before.

When I passed the last coach, I asked him where to turn.
"The Safeway."
"Oh, the one on Chakalov?"
"No, that's a Fred Meyer, the one on Andresen."
"Oh, okay. And I turn left?"
"No, turn right."
"And then to Brandt?"
"No, we already ran on Brandt, you're looking for MacArther. - you have a map, right?"
"Yeah, I guess I should use it..." and off I ran, clutching my map, and consulting it every 30 seconds to make sure I was still going the right way.

This is why I like races. Because unless the event is sponsored by say, the Buffalo Wing Association, I am definitely not going to be out front, and in any case, they have those nice, clear directional signs and mile markers. What I really need, of course, are affirmation signs. After I make a turn, I want to see some kind of validation that I have gone the right way. Not just in running, but driving too. Would it be too much to ask for a sign that says, "Congratulations! you are still heading toward the airport..."

I had worn a loaner heart rate monitor that morning, and when Coach Eric brought up the information and was analyzing it, he asked me if the little spikes were stoplights. "Yes" I replied thinking (in a manner of speaking...) I spiked every time I had to make a turn because I was sure I was going to go the wrong direction.

Running for Form

This week, I ran 10 miles for the first time, and I did it at my best pace ever - 9:36 / mile. I have discovered a new technique that has been working quite well for me - I pass anyone who I can't stand to see run. To be fair, I have no idea if I have good running form or not. For all I know, I run like Elaine dances. I do know that I can't stand to run behind someone who just doesn't look like they are propelling themselves forward with any sort of efficiency or even any sort of muscle control at all. Here are some examples:

1) The Arm Flailer: There are really two sub-sets to this category. The people who hold their arms up like they are doing the doggy paddle or their arms are just useless like those little nubbins on a t-rex; and the ones who's arms hang down at their sides as though they are completely useless. Those people look like chickens, leading with their heads and their ass's are at least a foot behind. I keep expecting them to cluck.

2) The Sweet Valley High. These girls are gorgeous and lithe and look great in their tiny running shorts and bra tops, but they run like they have yet to refine any of their motor skills. Their legs are all over the place, as is the rest of them, like a noodle being flung against a wall to check for doneness. I am afraid one of these types is going to trip over her own feet (or maybe even her own arm) right in front of me and I will fall ass over tea kettle on top of her.Of course, if anyone stops, guess who is going to get the sympathy first? Maybe I should get a tiny bra top...

4) The Gossip Girls. Granted, it's fun to eavesdrop on the latest slutty thing Debbie did, or how successful the surgery went on poor Cindy's teacup poodle, but these girls are usually running triple-wide and are too absorbed in their riviting converstions to scoot over, even with my repeated (polite!) notifications that I am "ON YOUR LEFT". I am a huge running safety advocate, and I hate watching someone basically put themselves in the path of cars, bikes and wild cayotes from sheer inattentiveness.

3) The Lumbering Clydesdale. Nothing against Clydesdales, I've seen some big guys run very gracefully. Mainly, I can't stand think I am slower than someone who easily outweighs me by 200 lbs, so I am compelled to pass them. The hell of this type is that inevitably, they pass me three miles down the road. But then I have a new goal - to pass them again - so I guess it works itself out.

Well, that covers my pet peeves for today. Not bad for someone who is basically a virgin runner. I am sure I will refine my list of irritations once I have a marathon or two under my belt. Stay tuned.

Running with Child

I ran with the jogging stroller today. For those of yo u who are unfamiliar, a jogging stroller (jogger) is an expensive piece of equipment ostensibly designed to push your child around while still getting in a run. In reality, it is a slightly more stable, three-wheeled version of a regular stroller that gets harder to push exponentially with every pound your toddler gains.

I had to bribe my daughter with a trip to the park to get her into the stroller. The big park with the nice playground is only a small detour from my regular three mile route. Of course, my regular three mile route contains two hills, one of which I consider "significant".

It wasn't so bad at first; I had my own little cheering section. "Faster, Mama!", "We're going fast!". Of course, she turned into the peanut gallery halfway up the first hill, "Are you still running, Mama?". No, Gemma Claire, I am not still running. We got to the park without incident, despite the City of Vancouver's penchant for curving sidewalks around trees and offset curb ramps. I think my jogger needs an alignment. Who knew running with a stroller would end up as a great forearm workout?

The park was a welcome break, though I wouldn't necessarily call tearing through a playground after an exuberant two-and-a-half year old, a rest. I wore my running skort, and the synthetic fabric was not a great combination with the composit slides that Gemma insisted on sliding down with me. She's got a mean accusing glare that she would bust out each time I would shock her with the built up static electricity. Such indignation looks good on my daughter, I have to admit.

The run home was a lot harder, not even counting the inevitable "I don't want to leave the park" tantrum. As a fellow runner recently pointed out, the best part of running is being done with the run. An hour break in the middle gives the body a little false hope. But, we made it home in one piece, and I'm proud of myself for running today, no matter how short a distance. (Though I'm considering doubling the mileage for my running log as a sort of bonus for pushing the stroller. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to pick wood chips out of my socks.

Running Raw

As I write this entry, I am sitting cross-legged, and my thighs look like some kind of pornographic Rorschach Test - hey, is that a butterfly? A patch of four leaf clover? Tire tracks? Of course, I had heard of runners chaffing, but I thought that was limited to men's nipples. Boy was I wrong. First of all, a pox on the asshole who invented the skort. I'm sure he is in hell laughing it up with his buddies, the inventors of the underwire bra and the high heeled shoe. All of which I wear because I am product of the American commercialistic, media driven society, and thus a slave to fashion. Of course, I am also my father's child and purchased the cheapest skort I could find - $10.48 on clearance at Target because the pocket was sewn on upside down. Now, to reinforce the comparison, I will go and purchase an expensive tech version of the same thing, which is what I should have done in the first place - it would have saved me $10.48 and possibly some pain and suffering.

I ran nine miles this weekend, you could say I finished in a blaze of glory. Well, that is, if you are talking about my thighs - they were sure blazing. I seriously ran past the finish of the run and straight to the Portland Running Company's table to purchase as much Body Glide as I could fit in my hydration pack. This delightful product is a natural lubricant that looks like a deodorant stick. You smear it anywhere there is potential for chaffing. If I could dip my body in this stuff like paraffin wax, I would. I think it is the product that the character Pauly Bleeker uses on his thighs in Juno. Of course, I have my doubts that Michael Cera's thighs have ever made each others' acquaintance, but still, I wish I'd been taking notes. I heard about this product just a few miles before I desperately needed it. Of course my timing is terrible, it's sort of a chronic issue.

Running Blind

It is raining today, a veritable downpour, a thoroughly soaking rain that dashed my hopes of working in the garden, and swirled them down the drain. So no weeding, or clearing or sowing today, but I still had to run. I have a training schedule that I am following in order to be prepared to run a marathon in October. That means no wimping out today, whatever the weather. All the same, I still had to work up the gumption to suit up and head out into the wet, gray day. After a flurry of motivational text messages (thanks, Monkey!), I was out the door.

Almost immediately, I realized that I wasn't going to be able to see. I have been unable to wear contact lenses due to a corneal issue for nearly a year and a half, so I had my trusty pair of librarian glasses on, which managed to both steam up and collect water droplets, conspiring to completely obscure my vision. About half way up the hill toward McLoughlin (less than half a mile into my run for those of you who don't live in the 'Couve') I just took my glasses off. Keep in mind, I am hopeless without them, but how much trouble could I get into on city sidewalks? Worst case scenario, I step in dog shit, which I wouldn't notice anyway (not being able to see), and would wash off in a matter of minutes in any case. And yes, Husband Dear, I did put my glasses back on for crossing the streets (well, most of them).

Not being able to see anything has its advantages. There are a lot less distractions, for one thing. I was able to turn my vision inward, and take stock of what my body was up to. I focused on my breathing - in through the nose one, two, three; out through the mouth one, two, three. I took stock of my ankles. They felt fine - it is amazing what good shoes can do for a runner. Knees good; hips, fine; even my neck, that I had stupidly locked up stretching for heavens sake, felt fine. Okay, good to know.

My plan was to run to the high school track, a a mile and a half away, do a mile on the track and head home. I had been more or less been avoiding puddles on the way there, but after my descent through the clover to get to the track, my shoes were thoroughly soaked, making me extra appreciative for how light they are - when they're dry. I made it to the track and started my laps, marveling at the painted lines, which meant as little to me as hieroglyphs. Why on earth they can't use numbers and letters that make sense, say "start", "200", or "400" is beyond me. Guess I won't be timing any 200s with much accuracy any time soon. I was all alone on the track, as no one else was crazy cakes enough to be out in the downpour. By this time, I was a symphony of sound - the slap of my soles, the squelch of my uppers, the whisper of my thighs in their running tights (which, let's face it, was more like girl scouts trying to start a fire), and the slap of my sodden jacket sleeves thawacking my forearms as I ran.

I felt so good three quarters of the way though my laps, that I decided to do another mile, which smacks of masochism*, but which I accomplished, none the less. After completing two miles on the track, I headed back up the hill. By this time I was soaked to the skin, or perhaps, my sweat met the rain halfway, but the result was the same. I had noting to loose, so I splashed through the puddles as wantonly as a toddler. As I ran through the neighborhood, idly taking in the impressionistic colors of spring as the pink of the cherry blossoms blurred into the emerald lawns, the smell of woodsmoke and laundry exhaust hung in the air. Those are very cozy smells, bringing to mind my plan to take a hot shower, throw on my gray sweatpants and curl up in a blanket to write this post with a mug of Evening in Missoula tea by my side. God, I love running. (But give me rain over hills any damn day of the week!)

*this turn of phrase was shamelessly stolen from Outlander by Diana Gabaldon, but I fervently wish I had thought of it myself.

Running Uphill

Today, I walked. It's true that in orientation for the marathon training club I joined, the keynote speaker stated that, "the only difference between a runner and a walker is that the walker knows before hand when he is going to walk". I figured it would eventually happen to me on a group run, but not at the seven mile mark, barely a quarter of the distance to my goal. It was hard to have such a crappy run today, just when I needed to reaffirm my dedication Instead, my faith in running was shaken.

So far in my journey towards completing a marathon, I have had a relatively easy time of training. Each week, I run further than I have ever run. (Of course that isn't hard, not having run more than a mile at a time since high school gym class, sometime in the last century.) It is very affirming every weekend to think to myself, "okay, that was easy. I can do more". This week, during the run, there was not much thinking going on, much less positive, goal affirming thoughts.

I should tell you about my run. It was uphill. Seriously UPHILL. For those of you who know Portland, we ran the Leif Erickson Trail in Forest Park. The first six blocks or so were fine. From there, Thurman street begins to incline. During our pre-run pep talk, our group leader said he preferred to think of it as WEST, but what he meant was UP. Straight up. For over three miles. On a trail. A rocky, muddy trail. That went uphill. Steeply. Did I mention this run was uphill?

I got passed a lot on the way up. It didn't help that I was wearing a new Platypus hydration system that I had failed to read the instructions for and optimistically filled with (a very heavy) 64 oz of water. Since I hadn't set it up correctly, the pack kept unzipping, and the bladder wanted to slip out of the backpack. I had to stop twice to fix it, and eventually just zipped the damn thing up completely. Hydration schmydration. Speaking of bladders, I really have got to work on those damn keigel exercises. Stupid childbirth.

I ended up walking about 3/4 of the way up the hill. I ran through all my motivations, repeated my latin mantra (A posse ad esse - from possiblity to actuality) a dozen times, and still couldn't find it in myself to keep running. At least I had an interesting conversation while I was walking. So much better than mentally flagulating myself. Nick is a cool black guy, probably somewhere North of 300 lbs. I've seen him before. He commented on my skort two weeks ago, -claimed to have almost worn the same outfit. I'm so impressed that he joined Portland Fit, and even more impressed that he went for a running group instead of walking. He told me he started making life changes - eating better, sleeping more. It occured to me that he's right. Running is about more than just races and pace. It's about making choices and changes. Running is about taking an active role in your own life, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. At least that's what it's about for me.

After that reality check, I resumed running, and hit the halfway mark about a quarter mile later. Let me tell you, that halfway mark is always sweet, but to know that the rest of your run is down hill, is downright delicious. I sailed through the rest of the run, passing lots of people (always a pleasure - I'm so damn competitive, there were 48 of them, I counted) and still getting passed (16, for truth in journalism). I finished the run running, my faith restored.

Old Friends, New Friends

Just call me Stawberry Shortcake.

I recently traveled to California to attend a good friend's wedding. I was exceptionally fortunate to be able to stay with some friends of the bride and groom in a beautiful rental house overlooking the ocean in Bodega Bay. It was a gorgeous location, but the best part of the whole deal was making new friends. Debbie, Diana, Dana, Steph, Tony and Dave. Great people - it was like having an instant family. Sort of like Sea Monkeys, but SO much better. Everyone was so relaxed and easy with each other, I felt embraced. They didn't even make fun of me when I lost my rental car keys. And I mean I LOST my rental car keys. They helped me turn the house upside down, quizzed everyone who had stopped by to see if they had picked them up by mistake, and didn't strangle me when I found them fifteen hours later in my own purse. If that isn't friendship, I don't know the meaning of the word. I also got a killer nickname out of the deal.

So those are my new friends, moving on to old friends... I knew Eric for about 25 seconds in 1993. How is it that slender connections like this can last through decades? Equally intriguing, how is it that when I showed up at his apartment and talked to him in person for the first time in fifteen years, it was like we had been active friends for years. Perhaps the best thing about this trip was meeting his wife, Laurel. I'm used to being the blunt one in the room*, so when Laurel said, "you're prettier than I thought you would be", I knew I'd met my match.

I suppose it's crass to compare people to old slippers, but hanging out with the Palmers was like finding my favorite pair of fuzzy footgear under the bed. We curled up on the couches in the living room and chatted while Laurel drew amazing magical unicorns for Eric's website www.bionicpencil.com, I wrote bad haiku, and Eric egged us both on. If we had had group sex, it couldn't have been more unexpected. The best case scenio I imagined while driving down to Monterrey was a semi-awkward lunch, a little reminicing and a quick goodbye. I'm so glad I was wrong. I'm so glad I made the trip. Through a slightly bizarre twist in the conversation, we ended up talking very frankly about love and marriage, and what it takes to stay together. It was exactly what I needed. Thank you.

*On the second date with my future husband, I asked him earnestly, "Are you defective?" when he told me he couldn't get into the army. Still surprised he asked me on a third date....