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.