Every Magnificent Mile

On Sunday, mid-Chicago Marathon, I learned something unexpected about myself. 

I love to run fast and to place well in races. I know people who are much faster and others who are stronger competitors than I am, and I do sometimes struggle to dig deeply enough in the final miles to feel in the end like I gave it all I had. But I have some natural talent and work hard enough to generally make a good showing. I train, I plan, I prepare, and I can tough it out through a lot of discomfort.

However, while I want to to do well in races—both to feel great and to finish strong—I figured out over the weekend that it is only a small piece of the puzzle I call my life.

Saturday afternoon I was presented with the opportunity to either take the shuttle bus to the Chicago Marathon expo or to, on a glorious blue-skied autumn afternoon, bike ride the seven miles there. While I grappled with the wisdom of riding a bike seven miles the day before running a marathon, I settled on a halfway compromise. But then the day happened. Biking was easy, the path smooth and flat, the weather perfect, and before I knew it I had opted for the full seven mile ride.

My friend and fellow rider asked me several times over the next 24 hours whether I regretted biking and if I had wished I had taken the shuttle to preserve my legs. I didn't have to even think about it. How could I ever regret that ride even, and we will never know, if it cost me precious race minutes?

After the bike ride, I stayed up a little too late talking and eating with wonderful new friends, drank a glass of wine with dinner, and stared out from the 28th floor at the bright moon over the Chicago River. None of which I could ever regret.

While a fast race and well run race is an adventure in and of itself, more adventure may await. Life is big. I can embrace adventure and it is okay—for me—to potentially trade adventure for the planned finish. I do not believe, truly, that my Saturday bike ride altered my Sunday race outcome. But had it, it would be a lesson and an adventure.

Now I need to focus on the flip side of the equation—letting myself off the hook when I run a race more slowly or less well than my goal because I let life step in and sweep away my best focused intentions. The inevitable disappointment that creeps in because I didn't run this marathon better or faster than the last one. Yeah, but I went on a beautiful bike ride and made new friends.

Of course, there is a slippery slope between this and deliberately giving myself excuses for not running well but that's another blog entry... (see this also)

Running is a Lot Like Life: A Lesson in Disregarding Worry

Last night was my daughter's first lesson with a new piano teacher. I reminded her gently throughout the day. Then fifteen minutes before he arrived I reminded her again and brought her into the bathroom to clean her fingernails and brush her hair. I could feel the resistance in her body. She sobbed that she was not ready. I spoke calmly to her, reassuring her that I would be near and that she had talent and knew enough for today. We were trying this new teacher and I wanted her opinion afterwards. I also told her it was my responsibility now to give her the tools to use her wonderful talent. Clinging to me, we met Joe. Genevieve sat on the bench with Joe beside her asking questions and listening to her play familiar songs, gauging what she knew. I stepped out of the room. Thirty minutes later Genevieve was happy.

This morning, Genevieve had a similar outbreak of anxiety over a school field trip. She did not want to go, despite having talked about it and prepared. She clung to me and complained loudly, near tears as we headed out the door. As post-piano, I expect she will be smiling at the end of the day, full of stories of Plumb Beach clean-up, as she climbs down the school bus stairs.

My husband and I listen to our children and do not make light of their concerns. But we continue forward. My belief is that if we allowed mild fear to dictate activities, they would never know the joys of struggling and overcoming. Of learning and mastery. Of unexpected experiences and amazing days.

Running is a lot like life.

I am six days out from my next marathon. Chicago 2014, my seventh. A couple of days ago I began to feel a strong apprehensiveness in the pit of my stomach. The worry is taking a very general form. I'm worried about all of the details of life, not specifically about running 26.2 miles. Although the thought of NOT racing on Sunday has certainly crossed my mind. 

This worry. A ploy. A distraction, much like the mid-race games my head likes to play, inviting me to a more comfortable place. My brain's manufactured worry right now draws me away from my clear-headed focus on next Sunday morning and the one strong and pure thought I need now:  To run an excellent race.

I believe that Genevieve is learning valuable lessons about overriding fear and engaging in life. And I believe that my mother and father and experience itself similarly prepared me well for these moments of apprehension. I haven't figured out how to eliminate the struggle. But, through running, I have learned to breath, disregard and redirect the voice in my head, to show up, and to finish strong.

T minus 6. Chicago here I come.

Derailed by the Common Cold

Entering the final weeks of training for the Chicago Marathon, I'm rendered useless by the common cold. Coughing, sneezing, dizzy, tired. Last weekend i ran a fabulous 20-miler, then a seven-mile tempo run on Tuesday, and an easy seven on Wednesday. A late night work trip to DC for a gala. Then blam! 

And here I am, trying not to be discouraged. Trying to trust in my training and level of fitness and know that a few days on the bench (or couch, or bed) will not ruin three months of training.

My daughter is sick, too. She and I are alone this weekend, the boys off on a camping trip that didn't seem like a good idea for the two patients. 

Throughout my life, my lungs have been my Achilles heel, with colds turning into bronchitis or pneumonia overnight. I ran one marathon a few years back with the lingering remains of a cold settled deep in my bronchial passages. I never want to do that again. 

It has been my experience that continuing to run as illness eases has been the best way to knock it out of my lungs. But after four days, I have not yet dragged myself out the door in my running shoes. My only venturing forth has been the grocery store for soup and juice and, last night for dinner, an adventurous three block trip for our favorite tacos. 

Instead of my 16 miler this morning, I taught Genevieve the secret to decoding Roman Numerals. We've watched "Singing in the Rain" in bed, painted our toenails pink and purple, I've brushed the bed tangles out of her long golden hair, we've eaten comfort foods and soup. This morning I woke and opened a book--a rare luxury! Genevieve and I have shared something and added to our common language. We have together discovered the wonders of tissues saturated with aloe and lotion, our cold medicine bottles are lined up side by side on the back of the sink, and we have both spent much of our days in pajamas.

Those parts inside me that drive me hard enough to train and finish long races also ride me pretty hard when they catch me "slacking."  And slacking is what this feels like. But it also is a joy and a sadly too rare experience to spend these quiet, present, moments with my lovely seven year old daughter.

Summer Running

For one month every summer we move to our family cottage on a lake in the northeastern corner of Pennsylvania. During that month, I usually continue to work—although this year I am taking some much-needed vacation time as well—and the kids run shoeless and wild. In the evenings, we together pick blueberries along the shoreline, kayak and canoe on still waters, roast marshmallows over evening fires, stuff ourselves with fresh tomatoes and herbs and corn and zucchini from the Mennonite farmstand down the road, and, of course, I run.

During the other eleven months, I long for my warm, hilly, sometimes rainy, summer runs. Every year I face off with the four miles straight up of Dutchman's Hill and by the end of the month I have beaten the hill more times than it has beaten me. I watch my pace increase, feel the warm damp green-laden air soothing my Brooklyn lungs, feel my body growing stronger. With the rediscovery after thirty years of a 2nd cousin who, it turns out, is also a crazy distance runner, summer running has taken on even more significance in my life.

These hills of NEPA prepared me, five years ago, for my first marathon. I didn't understand how well they prepared me until I, totally unaware, pulled off a 3:38 fall marathon, at age 45, after less than a year of serious running. Last summer, after logging July miles together, my cousin and I ran 16 or so miles of the Steamtown Marathon here in PA, resulting in a 3:33:33 for me, my fastest marathon yet.

But most important to me right now is not my level of fitness or how I might show up in the 2014 Chicago Marathon. Most important is how, each and every time I run, I find the balance I seek from juggling life, hosting an endless string of wonderful and very welcome visiting friends, raising young children who are not spending their days in school and seem to need me for nearly everything, and trying desperately not to flood the septic tank. And most important is the sheer joy of logging mile after mile in this not-Brooklyn terrain with my summer strong legs and lungs, a like-minded running buddy, a calm focus, and my undying love for this beautiful endeavor.

Reaping Hard Work's Rewards

In the waning days of my 49th year, I am applying myself to running in a way I have never done with anything else before in my life. I talk with my kids frequently about how they will improve at [fill in the blank] if they practice. But impatience, innate talent, and age have made me skeptical about my own ability to improve as a runner. These last weeks and months are making me a believer.

When I state that I have never really fully applied myself, it sounds a bit ridiculous considering that I'm a mom and CEO with a master's degree and lots of interests who has qualified several times for the Boston Marathon.

The difference, though, is one of focus. Running. That's all. For a little over five years I have been putting on my running shoes and heading out the door. For five years I have been training and racing fairly regularly. I'm not doing anything today that is very much different than what I did five years ago. I'm thinking more about it and reading and running with other people and talking, lots of talking. I wear higher tech fabrics than I did my first year and my socks cost more. I have a team and a coach and lots of running friends (mostly so we can talk about running without watching our non-running friends' eyes glaze over). 

But out there on the trails and parks and streets, I'm still just running. And somehow, the repetition has made me a "better runner." I'm not much faster yet. But I am oh so much wiser and my body more often knows just what to do. The found wisdom mostly serves to remind me how much there is still to learn. It also points me in the direction I need to go next. The five years of running and running and running gives me the perspective to never make a decision while on a hill.

In my easy five mile run in the park today I played a game I often do, picking out the runners who have made the full-on running commitment. You can tell by looking at them as they pass. They move with more ease and joy. They are no longer trying to convince their minds and bodies that running is good for them. Running has become a bright spot, a joy in their days.

If I were watching from above, I would identify myself as one of those runners. In the thick of fall marathon training, I feel strong and lean. My lungs, even after I have stopped moving, are bigger, more able to hold the required increase in oxygen. I glide.

One month from today I will turn 50. On my last day of 49 I will run my first trail race, a 10K in Pennsylvania. The next morning I will wake and go for an already planned long run. Not what some would consider celebrating, but to me it is oddly perfect and for that I am thankful.

Embracing Learning

I ran another four mile race on Saturday in my continuing effort to figure out this racing thing. It was my second one since May. I finished again sixth in my age/gender group and ten seconds behind my last four mile finish time. 

Still, I consider it a vastly better race for a few reasons.

Post Race Happiness with Tim Peach

1. PRs are nice but they are not everything. Or at least that is what I am telling myself this week. I raced smarter than I did last time. Instead of disappointment about a slower time, I choose to relax, let myself off the hook, and celebrate all I'm learning. If I succeed in believing this, that's a big step.
2. It is finally dawning on me that races of the same distance are not necessarily identical. Even with my two recent four-milers both being in Central Park's loop, the conditions were pretty different in the heat and humidity of July than they were in May. Saturday was a more difficult race. If I consider the merit of every race solely by my finish time, I'm short-changing my experience.
3. I began the race better mentally ready. Last time only at the starting line did I begin to wrestle with the idea that racing shorter distances meant leaving my comfort zone. This time I knew what I was facing and was looking strangely forward to it.
4. My mind is 95% of it. Because my mind was this time ready to embrace 30 minutes outside my body's comfort zone, it spent far less time trying to convince my body to quit the race. 
5. I confirmed again that I can run through rough moments without stopping. Breathing is magic. I belly-breathed away a looming side stitch and used breathing to dispel my enemy nausea that crept up on me during mile three. 
6. My fourth and final mile was spent silently, but raucously, singing Patti Smith's "Gloria" in my head. Not only did Patti stop me from thinking about anything else, but together we channeled my badass racing self to kick it over the finish line.

Usually extremely self-critical, I am grateful to be right now magically open to patiently and kindly allowing myself to learn. It is truly a gift handed to me in these last months of my 49th year. What's next? Bring it.

So THAT'S Why I Run!

Yesterday's five mile run, in the relative coolness of early-evening-Brooklyn, ranks in my top twenty runs. Ever. 

Five days into my fall marathon training. Yesterday was supposed to be a very easy pace (9:27  pace/mile). Again not wearing a watch, I gauged pace by effort, knowing that, as is my inclination, I would run too fast.

To my surprise and great joy my run was truly perfect. I was at the center of it. I noted during one particularly wonderful mile, my third, that I was completely in the moment, at ease, and gliding effortlessly. 

I returned home excited to look at my running app to see what had occurred. First, as suspected, I ran every mile faster than recommended. Mile one was not far off (9:10) and three of my miles (2, 4, and 5) were very consistent (within a couple of seconds of 8:40). 

Ah, but that third blissful mile. That mile. That mile that felt effortless. And perfect. And gliding. And easy. I ran that mile in six minutes and fifty-two seconds. Which for me is pretty darn fast. (My cousin and running buddy Scott later congratulated me on being only 2:30 off pace!)

So, what I learned:

1. The first mile of most runs sucks. It's hard, plodding, I'm a little breathless, and I want to abandon the run and instead sit on my porch with a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, depending on the hour.
2. On a good day, the mile one sluggishness lifts for every mile beyond the first. 
3. I love mile three and it loves me back. 
4. There is something to this running-slow-to-recover thing. 
5. However, if I want to run slowly, I cannot run in places near other fast runners. Or, if I do, I need to wear headphones and blinders. Or practice mindfulness. I really like to run hard and pass people.

Today I am happy and looking forward to: 1) slowing down; and 2) days of speed. Maybe the endorphin tap is now on and won't shut off. But so what?! I'll take it. 

Yesterday is why I run.

Fear of Speed

I am trying something new for this year's marathon: Adhering to a training plan. I did follow a terrific training plan pretty closely for my first marathon, but that one was geared to first-time marathoners and the goal was to finish.

Five years later, my goals are loftier. The training plan I'm enlisting to prepare for the 2014 Chicago Marathon, recommended by my team's coach, has me running three of my four weekly runs at a pace that feels unusually slow, a full minute+ per mile slower than my hoped for race pace. The theory (and research) being to allow my body to recover and to focus on the real task of building endurance through simply logging lots of miles. 

But then there is the 4th day. Speedwork. 

Today's speedwork was a six mile run, four at a tempo pace of 7:50 per mile. I have been anticipating and fearing today's workout since I printed the plan last weekend.

When I really thought about  today's planned run, there was nothing particularly scary. While the consistency of four miles at tempo is a bit of a challenge, four 7:50 miles are well within my reach.Yet fear remained (made worse by the need to be out the door by 6am sharp to miss the worst of the July heat and to accommodate jobs and kid camp drop off schedules). 

I can't point to exactly what I fear. No one is making me run, fast or slow. It's entirely of my choosing. While I have strong supporters in my life, those supporters are there no matter my finishing time. I have no health concerns. Maybe it is the fear of putting in the work and not seeing the desired results. The fear that this is as fast as I can make my engines go. Or is it the opposite, that success, however I define it, is within reach? Or is it that I just don't like discomfort (see also Running Outside My Comfort Zone).

I lay in bed for ten minutes after the alarm rang, contemplating an evening run instead. Then dragged myself up, threw on my running gear, downed half an iced coffee (breakfast of champions), readied the kids' backpacks, and headed out. I didn't use a watch, counting instead on effort and bolstered that I knew enough about myself as a runner to take on speedwork watchless. Never completely without technology, I turned on a running app on my phone so I could review afterwards. 

I was hot and very sweaty and thirsty and a little cranky. I ran an 8:20 for my warm up mile (too fast), then 8:00, 7:02 (!), 7:56, 8:09 and finally a 8:35 cool down. Hard, wildly inconsistent, not spot-on the recommended pace, but finished.

My take-away from today is that I still and forever have a lot to learn--about running and about everything.  And I love, in a terrified kind of way, to be ever-humbled by all I don't know. 

Digging Deep for Chicago

It's that time again. Each time it comes on suddenly. First, I have plenty of weeks to train for my planned marathon. And then it's late and I'm not putting on enough mileage and I'm behind where I think I should be and I pull out my training schedule from my last marathon and it seems woefully inadequate to bring me to a stronger faster 26.2 miles come race day. This is where I find myself yet again.

Mile 16 or so, 2013 Steamtown Marathon

I will run the 2014 Chicago Marathon on October 12th, an intense, running-filled, glorious, achy 15 weeks from today. Chicago will be my 7th marathon and I'd think I'd have this figured out by now. But here I am. 

I often find myself days before a shorter race contemplating my race strategy, panicking just a bit and, of course, berating myself for not taking this particular race more seriously. And while not optimum and probably a key reason why I'm not more competitive, I have a strong enough base to "wing it" and survive on all race distances up to and including a half marathon. 

There is no winging it for a full marathon. Not for me, anyway. Strategy and training plans must be sorted out now and my legs must cover the 400+ miles that lie between me and marathon day (and yeah, I just added up the miles in a customized training plan and it revealed an astounding 400 miles over the next fifteen weeks).

My 10.1 miles in the Brooklyn heat this morning felt sluggish. Uninspired. Somewhere deep down shines a bright gem of strength and motivation and love of this wonderful sport that I know will pull me through the training miles and set my toes on the starting line in Chicago. Now to dig deep and find it. Training starts tomorrow. 

Running Outside My Comfort Zone

I am skilled at untangling complicated situations in my job. But, oddly, my brain is often slow to grasp new concepts in my non-work life. Generally  it takes a very clear simple statement from an experienced friend for me to understand. (Take, for example, the recent post  where I failed to figure out on my own that I needed new running shoes.)

My friend Tim has been running and racing since he was a teenager. We have't run together often, but when I first began racing, Tim cheered me on from the virtual sidelines. When I hit stumbling blocks, he always had the answer. I'm not talking about training plans and complicated stumbling blocks. The simple stuff that I wouldn't even know to ask. How to drink at water stations without choking. What do you mean I shouldn't eat eggs before a race?! So the stitch in my side is about BREATHING! 

This spring Tim challenged me to increase my speed. We together signed up for a 4-miler in Central Park, did a couple of speed workouts with my team, and he pulled down my race times to figure out the target.

Yesterday as we stood side by side at the start line Tim told me  it would not be comfortable. And that if I could say for any shorter distance (less than half marathon) that the race was comfortable, I was not racing. The longer races I could hit my relatively fast comfort zone and ride it until the finish. Not so with a 4-miler. Or a 5 or 10K. I had to run it in a place that did not feel easy. Plain and simple.

And so that's what I did.

The first two miles were hard but I maintained. 

The third my stomach churned and demons began swirling in my head, reminding me that I could simply step out of the pack and lie in a pool of sunshine in the grass. I stopped for about 20 seconds to regain my composure and continued on. 

The final mile eased up and was my fastest of the four. The finish line loomed, I kicked in, and we crossed together.

I ran well and finished well. It was not my fastest time. But it was one of my most important races for a couple of reasons. 

First, Tim ran with me the entire way. He could have run his own race, but instead chose to  run mine. Amazing generosity for which I am grateful and inspired. Runners are some of the very best people out there, in my humble opinion.

Second. I get it now. If I want this I now have a simple roadmap for what it will take on race day. What it will take during training I have still to figure out with the help of my coach and my running community. But I need to spend more time running fast. And I need to address those race threatening demons head on. Getting them to back off by slowing my pace can no longer be the answer.

"Why should I practice running slow? I already know how to be slow. I want to learn how to be fast” - 

-Emil Zatopek

For My Mother

My mother lost her battle with breast cancer. I was six years old when she was diagnosed and 11 when she died early in the morning of May 22, 1976. It was a Friday.

Now I am a grown woman with children of my own. I walk through life with my eyes open. I read the newspaper, heartbreaking fiction, and even more heartbreaking non-fiction. I have worked in child welfare for nearly two decades. I love family and friends deeply, leaving my heart and hood open for the sometimes accompanying wounds. I know more than one kind of sadness. I have witnessed great beauty and great injustice. 

Yet—and I am quite embarrassed to admit this—since my mother's death every single time the month of May rolls in it stops me in my tracks. After the birth of my children, and particularly since my daughter has become the age I was during my mother's illness, May is even more wrenchingly difficult. This year I am the age my mother was when cancer took over her days. While the flowers and trees are coming into fresh bloom, my heart overflows with a lifetime of missed moments. And I'm really angry to have not had a mother for all of those moments of my life for the past 38 years. 

I have adult friends who recently lost their mothers. By instinct I want to assure them that it will get easier. Others provide this assurance. I can't. Because in my own experience, living a motherless life has never gotten easier. Even as a grown woman. Even knowing that she she might not be alive now had she lived a full life. Thirty-eight years later, during the month of May, I just want to crawl deep under the covers and defy all the logic of my educated mind and my lifetime of perspective by feeling deeply deeply sorry for myself. 

Of course, my children know very little of this. I carry my grief quietly. My husband knows, braces himself, and does his utmost to walk beside me through it. 

And so I breathe. I try to be gentle with myself. I go on long hard runs in the springtime sunshine. I struggle to amass good May memories to carry me through the worst of it. And when our children climb into the bed, like our daughter just this morning, I nuzzle their sweet heads and hold them extra tightly. 

Note to Never Take Myself Too Seriously

Last week I had a hard slogging run through the streets of New Orleans. I've had tough runs before and I'm seasoned enough to chalk one uncomfortable run up to "one of those" runs and move on. It was the humidity, the time change, my travel-weary body.

Back in Brooklyn, another tough run. I managed to eek out the promised ten miles but slow and plodding. My legs felt tired and my breathing heavy. Odd. Two in a row.

Then, after dropping the kids at the bus this morning, I set off for a five mile run. Immediately I felt tightness in the back of my upper thigh. Tempted to stop and go home and rest and stretch, I instead kept at it and soon the tingling pain eased up somewhat. But again, there was little ease in those five miles despite the beautiful spring morning. 

So here is the mid-run—without a touch of irony—conversation I had with myself this morning: 

1. MILE ONE:  Maybe I need to seriously this time pay attention to my body and do some cross training. It is ALWAYS my right leg and the PT told me my hip flexors needed work and for years I have ignored all of the signs because...I can run marathons but I'm too lazy to do leg lifts?!
2. MILE TWO:  Running is over for me. It was a good stretch, but now it's over. Sure I'm still passing people in the park, but the signs are written on the wall. All downhill from here. Funny that it happened like flipping a switch, but maybe that's how it happens.
3. MILE THREE: I obviously can't run the Brooklyn Half.
4. MILES FOUR AND FIVE: There is something seriously wrong with me. I must schedule a physical exam and get blood work. Were the antibiotics ineffective after the ticks of last summer? Something even worse?

After five miles I headed home and texted a running buddy this message:  "Wow. Five really tough miles. Beautiful but can't get to easy last bunch of runs." His reply? "Congrats. How are the shoes? Perhaps wearing down." 

Not sure how I failed to note during my run that I have been telling myself for weeks to replace the sad, tired Sauconys that have happily accompanied me over hundreds of miles.

So maybe I'm not through. And maybe I'm not dying any time soon. And maybe I will run the Brooklyn Half Marathon in 10 days.

Heading out this evening for a long overdue running shoe shopping trip (And yes, I should cross train too).

You Can Hold My Teeth at the Water Station

Lately I have been thinking a lot about aging. I will turn 50 this August. When I signed up for the 2014 Chicago Marathon last week I selected, for the very first time, the age category of 50-54. I now can look at my runner’s profile for Chicago and witness, in black and white, that Rachel Pratt is (or very soon will be) a fifty year old female. 

One of the most interesting and objective elements I ponder right now is the potential impact of aging on my running speed. I began racing at age 44. Many say that it takes ten years from the beginning to fully mature as a runner and that speed will continue to increase during those ten years. Because of my late start, however, I am also entering a time when age begins to naturally slow down runners. In the past twelve months I have set new personal records in the half marathon (twice) and marathon distances and, while I am far from the fastest runner, I don’t yet have any proof that slowing down is in the cards for me. This feels age-defying and for that I am grateful.

And indeed, mostly I am grateful for good genes and luck and the self-care that has landed me pretty gently into the upper middle of my life. Some days, however, a melancholy sets in about parts of my life that are in the past, unrecoverable choices, the different nature of future adventures, and the reduced elasticity of my skin. I cannot seem to glide smoothly or without some somber reflection into fifty.

To combat the blues I have been feeling, I’m taking stock of my situation, booking future adventures, and trying to maintain perspective and a sense of humor. 

Taking stock, I have happy and healthy children, a husband who loves me, a good job, great friends, a lovely home in Brooklyn, a family house on a lake, a school I adore for our youngest children and a very bright future career for our oldest, and I am strong and fit and finally learning how to race. 

For adventures, I have already planned a long run through the hills of Pennsylvania on my birthday morning. Not yet sure what the rest of the day, in the middle of a holiday weekend, holds. In addition to the Chicago Marathon, I plan to run back to back Boston and Big Sur marathons the following spring. I have begun looking for challenging trail races. And I may even throw a triathlon into the mix. Non-race travel is part of the plan, too—it has been far too long since I last spent time in Europe and am half a lifetime overdue for Asia or Australia or South America. Fifty might be the year I begin writing a book.

Humor and perspective is the hardest part most days. But there are some shining laugh out loud moments, like this one, that assure me that all is and will continue to be well. A couple of weeks ago I was chatting with with my cousin and running buddy Scott, lamenting the aging process and extracting promises of many years of shared runs. Scott’s reply, the perfect antidote to my whining and all the perspective I require:  “You can hold my teeth at the water station.”

Gliding through Times Square

At 7:12 on this cold and windy Sunday morning, I stepped into my corral for the 2014 New York City Half Marathon, six back from the starting line. Breathed. Made small talk with a few guys around me. Breathed. Started my GPS watch. Listened to the speeches and National anthem. Craned, failing to locate my friend Tim in the corral before me. Tossed my XXL burnt orange Coney Island hoodie into the donation bin along the sidelines. Shivered. Began the forward movement with the crowd, slowly at first, taking about five minutes after gun time for my foot to hit the mat.

From start to finish, my race today was marked, remarkably, by a lack of thinking. It was crowded but I hit my stride about three miles in. I knew I wanted to maintain a pace of just below 8:00 minute miles with the 2nd half faster than the first. I periodically reviewed how I was doing and the answer that invariably returned was that I was just fine. Nothing hurt. Nothing was even particularly uncomfortable. A couple of times I felt my energy flagging a bit and downed a half of a gu before the upcoming water station. I paced myself with other runners who seemed to be moving at the pace I wanted to move, until I was ready to pass them. I flowed around the park, through Times Square and 42nd Street, down the West Side Highway, and around the tip of Manhattan, staying strong in every mile.

What made this race so different from other races for me? I had one vivid moment, while still in Central Park, when I realized that nothing mattered. I was there, running and that was all that I needed to do. I didn't need to think about the time or my previous times or what was ahead. I ran. And no one, particularly myself, had any expectations at all of me on this day. It was mine to do with what I wanted.

My fastest half marathon to this point, other than during full marathons, was last year's Brooklyn Half. But that race was marked for me by going out too fast, taking several pit stops during the run, throwing up at the finish line, and an overall sense that it was not a race well run despite the strong finishing time. 

Today I ran a little more than two minutes faster than Brooklyn. And it was my most mature race ever. I stuck to my planned pace, never got discouraged, and each 5K was faster than the last. 

Recently I have realized that my status as a newbie runner is no longer a fit. Today proved that. I have a ton still to learn, but this morning I finally loved racing.

Just Remember Yourself

While publicly pondering the NYC Half Marathon a few days from now, a running friend said these words:  Just remember yourself.

Yesterday, late afternoon, I went out for a five mile run. It was a glorious much-needed spring day in Brooklyn. My run should have been full of joy. Instead I felt heavy, dehydrated, and plodding. I picked up some when I hit the park, but none of the miles were easy ones. Five years as a runner and I know that every run is a good run, so one rough run is not troubling.

In my head as I ran I kept hearing the words "just remember yourself."

Some days it is hard to remember myself on any level. I did not have children until late. And so for two decades after leaving high school, while often in relationships, I was only responsible for myself. I moved to New York City in my mid-20s and spent days wandering the City's streets, visiting museums, making pottery, drawing, going to theatre, dining out with friends, focusing on my career, reading books on park benches and while walking home from the subway, sitting in cafes.

My son, Gus, was born ten days before my 40th birthday. My daughter Genevieve two years later. This summer Gus will turn ten and I will turn 50. 

Most days that young woman who wandered the streets of New York City is a dim memory. But I am realizing that she is being replaced by a more complete version of Rachel. Those young decades formed me. But childbirth and the subsequent years, most particularly parenting and running, are completing me. Or at least as complete as I am now—I'm sure there is more to come.

The birth of my children was fast and furious and I, frankly, didn't feel like I did childbirth very well. It was the most physically intense experience of my life up to that point. Now I am deep in child rearing, learning by trial and error, always in demand, with little time for the pleasantries of my formerly simple life.

Two years after my daughter's birth I had lots of reasons for starting to run and, later, for running marathons. But one of the most important catalysts was proving my strength after feeling so humbled by the arrival of two small wailing infants.

Through running—and particularly distance running—I have again become confident in my own strength and endurance. I can run 26 miles hard and fast and finish smiling. I can still set new PRs as I get ready to hit 50. I experience intense joy. I can endure the pain of the distance —aching muscles, blisters, nausea, sore feet, chafing. Weather is not an issue. Snow, rain, heat, cold. Whatever. Bring it.

And so for Sunday's race, this is the myself I will remember and be. I will breathe through the pain, cheer myself through my mind's sometimes desire to lie down on the sidelines, and I will remember crossing the finish line of my last marathon in 3:33:33 with tears of joy streaming down my face.

Myriad Excuses for Not Racing Well

I have two half marathons coming up this spring, one in less than three weeks. Yesterday I received my bib number and wave/corral information for the NYC Half. For those of you who are reading this who are NOT running obsessed, waves and corrals are assigned by estimated pace so that similarly-paced runners are grouped together. For everyone, it avoids the stumbling and tripping that would inevitably otherwise occur and gives each runner a chance at his or her own best race.

NYC Half is a glorious race. I ran it once before, about three years ago. It is a single loop around Central Park. And then the huge mass of runners—about 25K, I'm guessing—break out of the tree-shaded park into the open air of Times Square and down along the Hudson River to lower Manhattan. There are lots of bands playing and spectators cheering. Last time I ran it, grateful tears welled up as I hit the carless streets of Manhattan, free and flying south. An added perk is the proximity of Chinatown and dim sum post-race.

So yesterday, my bib and wave notification put me in the 3rd wave, 8th corral back. It was amazing the devastation—and sense of failure—I felt. Despite the fact that I qualified for this race with my most recent marathon time, it seemed confirmation of my eternal "newbie" runner status. The day before I had been thinking that, while I've been running well recently, I had not raced, had not carefully tracked my training or developed a training plan for spring races, and had not yet gotten my head around the fact that I was racing soon, let alone formulating a race day strategy. Hell, I haven't even looked at a calendar to see when my taper begins. 

THIS is how my race day jitters manifest. The unworthiness. The excuses so easily created for a race not well run.

Today's post is really, then, another "I love racing" post. I have learned over the years that my brain can be corralled into believing anything I force it to believe. So, here goes. I was assured by NYRR this morning that my bib issue would be resolved and a new wave assigned. I will run this evening and calm my running-starved brain. On a calendar I will plot my runs and taper. I will check the weather and think about what I will wear. I will sit quietly this evening and chunk the course into manageable bits that make sense for the six miles of rolling hills followed by seven miles of flat. 

And I will remind myself every time doubt creeps in that that I am no longer a beginner and I am tough, fearless, and love racing.

Finding Joy

On Sunday morning I took a walk with my family on a trail beside the San Francisco Bay. We had arrived the night before after a tiring journey from Brooklyn. As my kids climbed trees and played along the trail, I had the opportunity to observe the runners.

My take-away from those moments of observation was that there was a disturbing lack of joy in that small sample of the running community. In fact, only a young boy, probably ten or eleven years old, looked comfortable and happy as his running self.

I used to hate running and I'm sure that hatred was obvious. Somehow five years ago a switch flipped and I figured out that: 1) I had to love it if I wanted to stick to it; and 2) my mind was capable of convincing my body that I did love it. I am really not entirely clear how all of that transpired. It just was the right time for me to figure it out. Then, about four years ago I started running on occasion with teams, my own and another team closer to my home. What I was most struck by was the boundless energy and genuine joy of these runners. I remember likening them to puppies in my mind. I was in awe of their love of every stride.

Now, because of the example of others and my own mind over matter experience, as I run I am easy and ageless and full of bliss. I have tough runs aplenty, but joy abounds.

And so why the lack of joy in a glorious San Francisco winter day? The sun was out. The air was warm. The bay sparkled. They had no east coast snow. Their bodies could move and breathe, not confined to offices and desk chairs for the next 18 hours.

Here you can substitute yoga or golf or tennis or cycling or (fill in the blank) for running as it best suits you. And you can argue with me but I'm pretty stubborn about this:  I don't think there is anything different about the bodies or abilities of those who find a joyful home in running and those who don't. If your knees and your heart and your other more vulnerable body parts are forgiving enough to allow you to put on the miles in the first place, then I truly believe the rest is all in your mind. And if you want to love running, all you have to do is tell yourself you do and then love it you will.

So go love it. Or find what you do love. Running is good for you only if you can make it a lifetime habit. And if you don't love it, not only will you not run consistently, but where is the fun in that?

Remembering to Breathe

This morning I helped my son finish his math homework while supplying adverbs and exclamations for my daughter's Mad Libs and simultaneously packing lunch, making coffee, and trying to stuff enough breakfast into them to carry them through their busy school morning.

Last night I arrived home late after two days of work in Baltimore to ice and snow everywhere, the news that my sometimes mean cat had scratched the heroic woman who cleans my house twice a month, and an enormous meltdown and then tears and a big conversation with my son who hadn't done his math homework, wanted to play Minecraft with his friends, and is feeling the pressure of a big school project, the upcoming 4th grade musical, and a friendship that has taken a wrong turn. 

My children are nine and seven. And it wasn't until two years ago that I realized that somewhere in their early childhood years I had forgotten how to breathe. 

So with homework finished we were running late and we all dashed upstairs to dress and brush our teeth. I chose to dress in my running gear. All the paper on my desk from two days away was calling to me. But I nodded to it and acknowledged that 40 pre-8am minutes would be better spent in a run than slogging through email. That the 40 minutes I "lost" during my run would be made up, and then some, in efficiency later on.

This morning, and the choice I made in a hectic moment, reminded me of all of the perfect moments in life that I would miss if I didn't run. Prospect Park was quiet. The air crisp and cold but my body warmed quickly with the exertion. The brilliant morning sunlight sparkled on the snow-covered lake and the rolling hills of the Park's meadows. Hundreds of footprints made winter patterns. The few fellow runners out nodded and exchanged smiles. Sweatered dogs everywhere, pulling their owners across snowbanks. The Park's grand trees, snow on their branches, towering over and witnessing it all. Sounds muffled by winter. No music. And my breath, steady and even in the quiet. 

For the 10th Time, Put on Your Pajamas, Brush Your Teeth, and Go to Bed

When I am running, no one asks me to help with math homework or matching contractions with their meaning. No one needs me to put on their boots or zip their coats. Or find lost mittens or hats or socks or books. There are no buttons to reattach. No hunger overtaking normally sweet children, turning them into demons. Not everyone is talking at the same time. No 18 reminders to brush teeth and pee before heading to the school bus. Zero whining. There is no legal table to create for the still-unfinished confidentiality manual. No meetings to plan. No ever-at-the-ready cell phone alerting me to a new text/call/email/message/like. Hundreds of actionable emails fade, leaving room for the higher level vision of life and work that is too often pushed aside. 

It is nice that running is good for my body. That is not why I run. I don't run away from the daily demands (although I admit to wanting to run while screaming nearly every day). But I run in addition to the daily demands. To give myself the serenity of time without anyone needing anything from me. An hour without a single demand except the ones that I place on my own body and mind. An hour with only my breath and legs and strongly beating heart.

There is Mundane. And There is Running.

I was in California much of last week for work and so I spent this weekend unearthing the house from my absence. Saturday was mostly laundry. Load after load of it. Sunday was a grueling few hours of opening piled up mail, bill paying, health insurance claiming, and various other paper-based forms of torture. All of this was interspersed with feeding, cleaning up the kitchen, and the periodic entertaining of my children. My daughter's pleasure was sewing and needlepoint and I was frequently asked to thread a needle or tie a knot. With my son these days my primary role is making sure he does something other than play Minecraft. 

I always feel better when long-delayed tasks are no longer hanging over me. But in the moment I feel: 1) annoyance that my life is submerged in the mundane; 2) anger at myself for not doing it sooner; and 3) a nagging desire to stop mid-stream and find something fun and/or meaningful to do.

With the cold and the darkening Sunday sky it took a lot of my own willpower and urging from my husband to pull on my running shoes and head out the door. The thought of a run felt simultaneously hugely unpleasant and like a gift that my procrastinating self did not deserve. I had run 7.5 miles on Saturday with an errand to get my daughter's sewing supplies built into the last two miles of it. Sunday's reluctant 2.5 miles was just enough to shake loose my house-tired body and free my spirit.

Heading into Monday lighter.

In Case You Mistook Me for a Barbie

I finished yesterday's post feeling a bit like a sunshiny Pollyanna. A Malibu Barbie with every duck lined up neatly in a row. Today I am writing to set the record straight.

While I know I am very fortunate in many ways and have enough perspective to laugh at myself when I whine, I have plenty of whiny days.

I feel too in demand by my kids most days. And parenting is tough and some of the time I, frankly, don't think I'm very good at it. I am incapable of keeping on top of the clutter and the laundry. I have too much on my plate and that leads to a feeling of disorganization and overwhelm. Some days I can't see the forest for the trees and other days can't see the trees for the forest. I forget to be happy and in the moment far too often. I forget to rely on others. I don't often see my friends and miss them. I haven't seen a movie in the theatre (Disney doesn't count) in more years than I have fingers on one hand. I don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I still miss my mother, especially when I am sick or sad. I'm my toughest critic. There are not enough hours in my days to be a good partner and good mother and good CEO and good runner, forget reading fiction or swimming or playing or making pottery or drawing or dancing or traveling or happily sleeping late or practicing piano or listening to music or sitting quietly on the beach or or or.

But I run. And running takes me away and grounds me at the same time. It puts me squarely in the moment. Like few other moments in my life, it offers tangible opportunities to view improvement, success, and the results of hard work.

And so I run.

The Ordinariness Of It

I ran every day during the month of December just as I had the previous December. My 2012 streak was full of epiphanies and enormous changes in my strength, endurance, and focus. Although not entirely causal, a year of strong running followed, including two new personal records in half marathon and marathon distances, PRs that I had been chasing down without success for several years.

This December, as I embarked on my daily runs, I searched for the same kind of changes and realizations I had experienced last year. But no epiphany. Instead, it felt oddly ordinary.

I chose December as my month to streak because it is the anniversary of my start at distance running. I live in Brooklyn, New York. And while we have four seasons here, winters are comparatively mild without much snow accumulation and temperatures generally hovering around or just below freezing with some milder and some colder days. All the same, if I was going to generate excuses for not running, December sure could be the month to generate them. First is the weather. I prefer the cold to the heat and do love running in the gentle rain and snow, but it is not hard to tire of the extra discomforts and clothing requirements of winter runs. Combine the cold with my full-time job, special events for my two young children, winter illnesses, holiday preparations, and school vacation at the end of the month, and excuses not to run could take over.

But they didn't. Every day I pulled on running gear and took to the streets. I usually ran in the early morning after dropping kids off at the school bus. But one day the only time I could find to run was nearly midnight after a full day of work travel. To avoid injury, I kept each run relatively short, ranging between two and seven miles. My body was strong. I ran hard and fast. I experienced incredible joy and ease in each run. But that didn't feel like enough and I kept searching for more meaning.

Several people, runners and non-runners, following my streak called it impressive. Mid-month my reply to the impressive label was that I saw it differently:  that it was a self-indulgent gift to myself. Yesterday, a running buddy told me that my streak had inspired him to show up to a race starting line on a rainy January morning.

And it was in that moment that I fully realized that its very ordinariness was what made this past month most extraordinary. I am a 49 year old woman blessed with a strong and healthy body and a mind willing to disregard discomfort in order to live a life that is, to me, full of promise, joy, and ease. Some runs were more challenging than others, but I never regretted a run. Instead, each run delivered a heap of gratitude for being out of my desk chair, away from life's obligations for that moment and, especially, for being alive and moving through this beautiful world.