Bittersweet

One of my goals in 2009 was to qualify for the 2010 NYC Marathon. There are multiple ways to do this — run a certain time for your gender/age (not in the realm of possibility for a beginning runner like me), chance it with the lottery (didn’t want to run that risk) or run in nine races and volunteer for another one (totally doable for me).

I was enrolled in running classes for the first half of 2009 and well on my way to completing all my qualifying races by May. Then I got sick. Then I got injured. I tried water running classes for awhile, but it just wasn’t the same. After I lost my job in August, I traveled for five weeks and when I came back in October, I still wasn’t sure that my stress fracture from July had healed. The extent of my running was for 10 minutes every couple of weeks to ease myself back into things.

In the past month I’ve finally started running again. I wear a watch but I don’t check my distance or pace. I run because I love the feeling of putting one foot in front of the other and breathing. I love how the repetition of my feet hitting the pavement somehow clears out my head. I love the feeling afterward when I’m sweaty and happy and my body feels alive.

So it was a bittersweet moment when I received my official notification that I qualified for the 2010 NYC Marathon in November, because I know that there is no way I will be prepared to run it — after my long pause from running because of the injury and my uncertain job forecast/schedule and the amount of energy I’m putting toward figuring out my career. I know I would have to push myself too hard to compete in this marathon, and the risk of injury is too high.

Part of me is sad that it won’t happen like I had planned. Then again, I had planned on running this race in November and then moving to Portland, sort of like my goodbye to the city because you run through all five boroughs. After careful consideration (and a second visit to Portland), I decided I wasn’t ready to leave New York.

Just because the marathon isn’t happening for me this year doesn’t mean it’s off the table. I could pay the entry fee now, defer my eligibility and pay again next year (in all honesty, that’s not really an option for such an expensive race for a girl without a job). There’s also another option for running the marathon — by running with a charity organization and raising money. Which is something I had seriously been considering anyway because I know I need the support and team camaraderie to keep with the training, and all my friends who have done this have had amazing experiences.

For now, what really matters is that I am running again — not where or how much or how fast. What matters is putting one foot in front of the other. And eventually I hope that leads me to a 26.2 mile race.

Marathon madness

Last year was the first time I watched the New York City marathon, an event that overtakes the entire city the first Sunday in November. Traffic is blocked from streets and bridges. Bus routes are rescheduled (one ride led me through Yankee Stadium in the Bronx before going into Manhattan). Thousands of volunteers set up and distribute water, direct traffic and assist injured runners. It’s the world’s largest marathon (Italy and France were really representing this year). It is magical.

I was a few weeks into my running class last year when our coaches suggested we cheer on the runners. My friend Adrienne joined me. We were in awe of the athletes. The experience was so wonderful — we both left talking about how we wanted to run the marathon — that we watched it together this year too.

We camped out on some steps near Marcus Garvey Park in Harlem, arriving early enough to see some of the elite runners near the end of the race and staying long enough to see the average-paced runners too.

One of the entertaining perks of this location is a “wild” group of nuns from a church along the route. They’re so pumped up that they come out screaming with cowbells. And they keep it up for hours. Praise Jesus, these women know how to cheer. Some runners even stopped to take pictures of them (which says to a lot to sacrifice your time for some photos).

(Left: Runners turning onto Fifth Avenue. Right: Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders should watch out — these nuns have natural talent.)

I have mixed feelings about the fans this year, though. The people who were watching earlier in the race were so obnoxious that I had to move because they were pissing me off so much. One man taunted a runner who took a short walking break (I’d like to see him run 26.2 miles). His young daughter even started repeating the taunts, even though she obviously had no clue what they meant. A woman with a stroller casually walked through a wave of runners, in no rush to get out of their way. Countless others didn’t even wait til the runners thinned out before walking — not even sprinting — across the street. I understand that the marathon can be inconvenient for those who don’t care about it, but it’s incredibly disrespectful to the runners to not even try to get out of their way. I was on the verge of locating a megaphone and appointing myself crowd control since the volunteers and police officers didn’t seem to care.

But if you stick around long enough, the fair-weather fans leave (some of their encouragement sounded more like insults anyway). And you’re left with some very kind souls. Some carried signs or came alone or simply yelled out the name of every person who had it written on their clothes. I remember one man who was dressed like a construction worker, with steel-toed shoes. He was by himself and offering the sincerest encouragement to runners, who at this point looked like they could use all the support they could get. This is what I love about the marathon. How it can bring people, the city and the entire world together. Whether or not you run or know someone in the marathon isn’t important. Because there are universal emotions we can relate to. Determination. Perseverance. Dedication. All from putting one foot in front of other. Over and over.

When life gives you lemons…

Not long after I moved to New York, I spotted the coolest tote bag on the subway. I couldn’t see a logo or company name, just a bunch of quotes and affirmations. I wanted this bag, and I stared at it for an inappropriate length of time trying to find some identifying clue as to where I could get one. More than two years later, I’ve finally figured out where it was from.

As I was researching running classes last weekend, I came across lululemon’s website. I have a few friends who are obsessed with their clothes but I don’t really know much about them. While lululemon is mostly associated with yoga apparel, it turns out they have a run club that meets twice a week, which I’m very curious about. So curious that I’m going to visit the store to check out the community running board. And maybe try on some of their legendary clothing.

I poked around the website more, wondering if I’d find anything else surprising. And that’s when it happened. I found what had been on the tote bag:

Eureka!

While this is a prime example of how things present themselves when you least expect it, did I really need to wait two years to learn this? Answer: No.

I read through all the quotes and a few became fast favorites. The more I’ve gotten into running this year, the more I can relate to and understand that “A daily hit of athletic-induced endorphins gives you the power to make better decisions, helps you be at peace with yourself, and offsets stress.” Even when work has been insane, the highlight of my week has been my NYRR running class. It saves my soul and my sanity. I can’t even express how anti-sweating I was before I started running. But there is something glorious in a great workout that leaves you soaking wet, high on endorphins and feeling strong. If Corporate America put down the Blackberries and put on running shoes, I think the world would be a much happier, calmer place.

I also liked the quote “That which matters the most should never give way to that which matters the least.” With the crappy economy and job market, people are sacrificing more of themselves (whether asked to by their employers or of their own will). While working crazy hours in an understaffed office with overstressed coworkers in a position you aren’t happy with may bring in the bank for now, I worry longterm about people being able to draw boundaries and maintain a positive attitude without burning out first. I don’t have a solution, but the quote sums up what I think a lot of people are struggling with…how do you know where to draw the line or how much you should sacrifice? Hopefully I won’t have to wait two years for this answer to present itself to me.

Ice, Advil and elevation

My Saturday has consisted of staying in bed watching season 3 of “Weeds” (an unexpected gift from my parents) while propping my right ankle up on pillows. I’m not quite sure what I did (my three-tier theory also has a three-tier diagnosis: I rolled my ankle while wearing heels for the second time this year. Or I rolled my ankle running on a softer but unlevel surface. Or I just ran too much in a short time span. Therefore, my ankle is sprained, strained or fractured.)

Thankfully, a visit to my doctor on Friday (which turned into a trip to NYU’s Radiology Department for some x-rays) ruled out a stress fracture (the thought of this kept me from sleeping well Thursday night). In an unrelated observation, I passed the Medical Examiner’s Office on my way to the Med Center. The air around it smelled really funny. One of the SARS/swine flu-preventing face masks would’ve been helpful.

Complying with doctor’s orders, I’ve been icing and elevating my foot most of the day and relying on TV on DVD to keep me entertained. One of the characters in “Weeds” said this quote and it has had me giggling ever since: “Thug means never having to say you’re sorry.” (obviously I can’t be a thug if I giggle at the mere mention of being one).

I’m not sure how long I’ll have to keep the icing up, but one day in I’m already bored.

Lean on me

I have a tree. She doesn’t have a name yet, and I generally don’t look at her much above eye level, but she’s mine.

When I arrive at Central Park to run, she’s my destination. There is something reassuring about having this routine, a designated beginning to my run. And it gets me in the habit of warming up, without which I would be in enormous pain. I use her for balance to stretch my quads, and I lunge against her to keep my calves from getting too tight. When I lean down to reach for my toes, she hides my ass from the masses of park patrons and tourists. I appreciate that she values modesty. Her branches give me enough shade so I can delay sweating for just a few more minutes, something that doesn’t go unnoticed (Thank you, dear tree). I never have to share her with anyone either.

My post-run stretching doesn’t always find me by my tree. Sometimes I take a different path or don’t loop around and I have to find another place to stretch. I’m a bit out of sorts, stumbling to find another sturdy tree to aid in my cool down. None have ever been as “just right” as mine.

With so many people in this city that I have to share everything else with, it’s nice to have a tree. If only she had a water fountain nearby. Then it’d be perfection.