Okay, so I wish I had some good news.
Like, for example, training to run my second marathon is miraculously easier than the first. It's like I'm this Olympic marathon runner. And every long run feels like running through a field of wheat in the sun on a mild summer day.
Well, yeah, actually it's the exact opposite.
The past few long runs have been pretty hellish. To be exact, the past three long runs (11, 12, 13) have felt like torture. Each one, worse than the previous one. Yes, I've completed them, but like the Bronx run, it's been tough. Not a magic run by any means. The kind of run where you start already wondering when it's going to end, and the subsequent next few hours are an exercise in patience, mental toughness, and sheer will power.
I'd heard runs were like this--the kind where it's all about pain, not pleasure. And I'd experienced a few. But not for the most part. So this time feels a little scary. And the fact that today I was supposed to run 14, and I didn't thanks to hurricane Danny, makes me worry a bit about my overall commitment this time. Will I catch up? Will I have a bad second marathon?
I guess these feelings of doubt are normal, but as an unlikeliest marathoner, I guess it's not necessarily a given each time. Could it have been a fluke?
Any encouragement would be greatly appreciated.
xoxo, Meg
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
take that, President's Challenge!
If you're a child of the '80s, you probably remember the President's Challenge in gym class. And if you were unathletic, like me, you probably feel a twinge of dread even now just thinking about it.
I'm sure whichever administration created the twice-yearly fitness test probably wasn't trying to traumatize a whole generation of young people by the sheer thought of running around the track, but unfortunately, for me at least, that was the end result.
At the start of every year in gym beginning in the sixth grade, fresh from spending my summers sitting in the sun at Preston Beach in Massachusetts, leisurely biking or rollerblading around town, all doughy and soft, the first thing we'd have to do in gym class was take a series of fitness tests ending in running four times around the track to complete a mile as fast as we could. And to top it off, our gym teacher, Mr. Roland, would urge us to make it under 10 minutes, clocking each loop with all the empathy of a boot-camp drill sergeant preparing us for battle.
Of course the track stars and skinny guys and girls usually made it pretty easily. I, on the other hand, usually came in last or in the last group, pains in my side, red-faced, and in one particularly awkward stage, ready to puke on the grass. You'd think if they'd at least let us train up to it, say, maybe having us do once around the track, then twice, then three times, leading up to the fourth week where we finally were asked to go all out, but no--they threw us into the deep end to see if we'd make it, or die trying.
It wasn't pretty, and thinking back now, it's probably why I hung up the running sneaks for the last 20 years.
So I kind of chuckled today at practice when they told us we were going to run the mile, as fast as we could, twice, just to find out our best times.
No fear shook through my bones, thankfully, since after having run a marathon, nothing in the realm of running scares me that much anymore. But as I talked to my fellow teammates, they had the same stories of being last in that gym class 1-mile test.
Maybe in every marathoner, or at least of the unlikeliest variety, there's a 11-year-old girl or guy trying to redeem themselves and prove that yes, they too can run a fast mile, or 26.
So I ran today, as fast as I could, clocking in my first mile at 8:54. Not bad considering I'd usually run 11-minute miles and the fastest I'd run in a race was 10:08 in the recent Scotland 10K. The next one was a little slower: 9:56 or so, but still not bad. Take that, Mr. Roland, with your knee-length tube socks, short shorts with your tee-shirt tucked in too tight!
On the outside, I was still panting and red-faced, but my inner tween wasn't breaking a sweat.
I'm sure whichever administration created the twice-yearly fitness test probably wasn't trying to traumatize a whole generation of young people by the sheer thought of running around the track, but unfortunately, for me at least, that was the end result.
At the start of every year in gym beginning in the sixth grade, fresh from spending my summers sitting in the sun at Preston Beach in Massachusetts, leisurely biking or rollerblading around town, all doughy and soft, the first thing we'd have to do in gym class was take a series of fitness tests ending in running four times around the track to complete a mile as fast as we could. And to top it off, our gym teacher, Mr. Roland, would urge us to make it under 10 minutes, clocking each loop with all the empathy of a boot-camp drill sergeant preparing us for battle.
Of course the track stars and skinny guys and girls usually made it pretty easily. I, on the other hand, usually came in last or in the last group, pains in my side, red-faced, and in one particularly awkward stage, ready to puke on the grass. You'd think if they'd at least let us train up to it, say, maybe having us do once around the track, then twice, then three times, leading up to the fourth week where we finally were asked to go all out, but no--they threw us into the deep end to see if we'd make it, or die trying.
It wasn't pretty, and thinking back now, it's probably why I hung up the running sneaks for the last 20 years.
So I kind of chuckled today at practice when they told us we were going to run the mile, as fast as we could, twice, just to find out our best times.
No fear shook through my bones, thankfully, since after having run a marathon, nothing in the realm of running scares me that much anymore. But as I talked to my fellow teammates, they had the same stories of being last in that gym class 1-mile test.
Maybe in every marathoner, or at least of the unlikeliest variety, there's a 11-year-old girl or guy trying to redeem themselves and prove that yes, they too can run a fast mile, or 26.
So I ran today, as fast as I could, clocking in my first mile at 8:54. Not bad considering I'd usually run 11-minute miles and the fastest I'd run in a race was 10:08 in the recent Scotland 10K. The next one was a little slower: 9:56 or so, but still not bad. Take that, Mr. Roland, with your knee-length tube socks, short shorts with your tee-shirt tucked in too tight!
On the outside, I was still panting and red-faced, but my inner tween wasn't breaking a sweat.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
second time around
It's good to be back, training for my second marathon--the ING NYC marathon, on November 1. Well, sorta. Let me explain.
The Great Part:
*Seeing teammates from Rome at practice, like my buddy Van, and Coach Ramon.
*Getting excited to accomplish something big again.
*The familiarity of running in the park, and even the training sessions.
*Telling people I'm running a marathon (never, ever gets old).
*Looking forward to the Saturday afternoon long-run high.
*Running in warmer weather than I'm used to.
*Getting to eat anything and everything again.
The Scary Part:
*Realizing four miles feels more difficult than the last 20-miler before Rome.
*Feeling the familiar itch to skip practice, and finding myself actually skipping--eek!
*Worrying the training sessions will feel too familiar, lack newness.
*Telling people I'm running NYC and knowing they will be watching.
*Giving up summertime Friday night happy hours with friends.
*Running in the dead heat of summer.
*Worrying that my body's some how acclimated and slowed down my metabolism.
Yes, I have doubts, but like I learned the last time around, running a marathon is about seeing the positive. I can't wait to slow jog through all five boroughs, slapping friend's and stranger's hands, hearing "go Meg," feeling the strange/amazing yin/yang of the runner's high and sheer exhaustion, and of course, crossing the finish line and the after-party that awaits.
Think it's too early to book the back room at the Parlour (86th and Broadway!) See you all there!
xoxo, Meg
The Great Part:
*Seeing teammates from Rome at practice, like my buddy Van, and Coach Ramon.
*Getting excited to accomplish something big again.
*The familiarity of running in the park, and even the training sessions.
*Telling people I'm running a marathon (never, ever gets old).
*Looking forward to the Saturday afternoon long-run high.
*Running in warmer weather than I'm used to.
*Getting to eat anything and everything again.
The Scary Part:
*Realizing four miles feels more difficult than the last 20-miler before Rome.
*Feeling the familiar itch to skip practice, and finding myself actually skipping--eek!
*Worrying the training sessions will feel too familiar, lack newness.
*Telling people I'm running NYC and knowing they will be watching.
*Giving up summertime Friday night happy hours with friends.
*Running in the dead heat of summer.
*Worrying that my body's some how acclimated and slowed down my metabolism.
Yes, I have doubts, but like I learned the last time around, running a marathon is about seeing the positive. I can't wait to slow jog through all five boroughs, slapping friend's and stranger's hands, hearing "go Meg," feeling the strange/amazing yin/yang of the runner's high and sheer exhaustion, and of course, crossing the finish line and the after-party that awaits.
Think it's too early to book the back room at the Parlour (86th and Broadway!) See you all there!
xoxo, Meg
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
back in the saddle
In the months after you've just run 26 miles and completed your first-ever marathon, there are two ways things could go:
A) You stick with the long-run Saturdays, sign up for a bunch of races and make sure to get out there at least a few weekday mornings to keep up your speed and endurance. You find yourself clocking your best times yet!
B) You email every last friend you missed over the past four months, start scheduling regular happy-hours, and generally sit on the couch, catching up on DVR'd Gossip Girls and How I Met Your Mothers. You discover your best takeout pad thai restaurant yet!
Guess which one I chose?
Aw, that was too easy. Yup, pathway B, which, made it all the more fun to get back to my very first Saturday practice this past week, since I've now, gulp, signed up for the ING NYC marathon this fall. Not only have I promised to again beg all my friends for money for charity, but they'll actually be there cheering me on this time, making sure that I actually go through with it!
So as you'd expect with my strict adherence to plan b these past coupla months, this past Saturday was kinda funny (see, I'm even getting lazy in my grammar!) Though the four-mile run was surprisingly hard, the air felt great (so fun now that it's not minus seven!), and my stress levels about actually completing it were pretty much non-existant.
They say sophomores are wise fools, and I'm guessing that this time for my second effort, I can see myself being overly confident in what I can accomplish, but that's all part of the fun of practicing something til you get it just right, right?
So watch me as I take on Unlikeliest Marathon II: Sex in the City...hee hee.
xoxo, Meg
A) You stick with the long-run Saturdays, sign up for a bunch of races and make sure to get out there at least a few weekday mornings to keep up your speed and endurance. You find yourself clocking your best times yet!
B) You email every last friend you missed over the past four months, start scheduling regular happy-hours, and generally sit on the couch, catching up on DVR'd Gossip Girls and How I Met Your Mothers. You discover your best takeout pad thai restaurant yet!
Guess which one I chose?
Aw, that was too easy. Yup, pathway B, which, made it all the more fun to get back to my very first Saturday practice this past week, since I've now, gulp, signed up for the ING NYC marathon this fall. Not only have I promised to again beg all my friends for money for charity, but they'll actually be there cheering me on this time, making sure that I actually go through with it!
So as you'd expect with my strict adherence to plan b these past coupla months, this past Saturday was kinda funny (see, I'm even getting lazy in my grammar!) Though the four-mile run was surprisingly hard, the air felt great (so fun now that it's not minus seven!), and my stress levels about actually completing it were pretty much non-existant.
They say sophomores are wise fools, and I'm guessing that this time for my second effort, I can see myself being overly confident in what I can accomplish, but that's all part of the fun of practicing something til you get it just right, right?
So watch me as I take on Unlikeliest Marathon II: Sex in the City...hee hee.
xoxo, Meg
Sunday, April 19, 2009
rethinking perfect
Okay, I'm going to admit to something now that may be shocking. I'm not proud of it, and you probably won't believe it when you read it.
Okay, here goes.
I am not perfect.
Phew. That was hard. You see, up until March 22, 1:01 PM Rome time, I believed that I had to be. In work, in life, in relationships and now in running.
Okay, the reason why I say you probably can't believe it, is because I come off far from perfect in all the above-mentioned areas. But it's my little secret that I'm always trying to be, end up not being, and then spend a fair amount of in-my-own-head time berating myself for it.
So with this whole running thing, from the start I went into it with a set of beliefs that in order to be able to pull off running the marathon, I had to complete the training schedule exactly as it was written.
And then, I started, and what invariably happens with everything, I missed a long run day (as written about earlier), then I wasn't able to make it to a Tuesday practice, then I gave up a Sunday run here and there, and had a bad run in Bronx.
But a funny thing also happened. Because seeing myself as a runner was always so foreign to me, such a huge improbable feat, I wasn't as hard on myself as I usually am. Instead of bagging the whole thing and giving up, I kept going.
I went to about 75% of the Tuesday practices, all of the Saturday practices, and did most, but definitely not all, of the week-day practices on my own. I'd say I gave it a solid B+ effort. I gave up perfection, and instead, went for completion.
And so on the big day, I was a little nervous that I hadn't put in 100 percent of the work, but I trusted the process and gave it my personal best. And it worked. Much to my surprise, in the end I completed the marathon with an even better result than what I'd expected.
Wow. Big lesson.
So many times throughout this training process I've learned that I'm capable of a lot more than I thought, physically and mentally, but this realization changed a whole set of beliefs about life in general. Like a too-young dress from my 20s that no longer fit my more mature, 30-year-old self, it was time to give up on this perfection-seeking mindset. I now see that you accomplish something pretty amazing with a "good enough" effort, and that "perfect" does more to hinder you than help you.
And I can see that instead of now skidding between the dual poles of "perfect" and good enough for government work that's created more dissatisfaction than I care to admit, a new default has been set (hopefully.) Through experience, I've seen how putting in your best effort and calling it a day can work in running, so now I'm going to see how it plays out in life, love and work.
I'm hoping that just like the results on marathon day in Rome, things will turn out better than expected, and I'll accomplish some pretty amazing things.
Okay, here goes.
I am not perfect.
Phew. That was hard. You see, up until March 22, 1:01 PM Rome time, I believed that I had to be. In work, in life, in relationships and now in running.
Okay, the reason why I say you probably can't believe it, is because I come off far from perfect in all the above-mentioned areas. But it's my little secret that I'm always trying to be, end up not being, and then spend a fair amount of in-my-own-head time berating myself for it.
So with this whole running thing, from the start I went into it with a set of beliefs that in order to be able to pull off running the marathon, I had to complete the training schedule exactly as it was written.
And then, I started, and what invariably happens with everything, I missed a long run day (as written about earlier), then I wasn't able to make it to a Tuesday practice, then I gave up a Sunday run here and there, and had a bad run in Bronx.
But a funny thing also happened. Because seeing myself as a runner was always so foreign to me, such a huge improbable feat, I wasn't as hard on myself as I usually am. Instead of bagging the whole thing and giving up, I kept going.
I went to about 75% of the Tuesday practices, all of the Saturday practices, and did most, but definitely not all, of the week-day practices on my own. I'd say I gave it a solid B+ effort. I gave up perfection, and instead, went for completion.
And so on the big day, I was a little nervous that I hadn't put in 100 percent of the work, but I trusted the process and gave it my personal best. And it worked. Much to my surprise, in the end I completed the marathon with an even better result than what I'd expected.
Wow. Big lesson.
So many times throughout this training process I've learned that I'm capable of a lot more than I thought, physically and mentally, but this realization changed a whole set of beliefs about life in general. Like a too-young dress from my 20s that no longer fit my more mature, 30-year-old self, it was time to give up on this perfection-seeking mindset. I now see that you accomplish something pretty amazing with a "good enough" effort, and that "perfect" does more to hinder you than help you.
And I can see that instead of now skidding between the dual poles of "perfect" and good enough for government work that's created more dissatisfaction than I care to admit, a new default has been set (hopefully.) Through experience, I've seen how putting in your best effort and calling it a day can work in running, so now I'm going to see how it plays out in life, love and work.
I'm hoping that just like the results on marathon day in Rome, things will turn out better than expected, and I'll accomplish some pretty amazing things.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
the non-runner's guide to running a marathon
It's been a few weeks now since I completed the marathon (saying that never gets old!), and I've found myself telling the non-runners among my friends pretty much the same thing: how I, a former non-runner, could have ever done this. So here's a basic guide of tips and tricks I learned along the way. Yep, magazine-style bullets coming right up:
1. Don't think about it, just sign up. If you've ever felt the tiniest pang of inspiration or its alter-ego, jealousy, when a friend runs a marathon, that means it's something you might want to do. The only way to move from the "thinking about it" stage to the commiting stage is by signing up for a race. If a marathon is too dauting, do a 5K at nyrr.org.
2. Start running. Yep, it's that easy. I would have never believed this before, but no one starts out able to run 26 miles, and most NR (non-runners) can't even run a mile. Just pick a reasonable goal--and by reasonable, I literally mean a half mile or mile if that sounds like a lot to you, and just try it and see how it goes.
3. If you can't or don't feel like running, walk. This was my key to success. In the past I've pushed myself to try to make the three-mile mark or whatever goal I've set. If it's too much, I end up feeling winded, and dread doing it again. I always thought I "should" be able to run three miles, so I'd set my self up for failure. This tactic set me back years and years and made me believe I wasn't a runner. In contrast, just doing however much you feel like does the exact opposite. Each time you work with your body instead of against it, so you always remember the run as a positive experience. And on good run days when you find yourself able to do more than you ever have before, it propels your confidence even higher, so you can't wait to get out there again.
4. Go SLOOOOW. This is another biggie. They always say you should be able to carry on a conversation when you're running, and it's true--that's the pace you can sustain for long periods--like marathons. But what it actually means is that when you start running at what you "think," you should: you start to feel like your heart's pounding, your breathing becomes panting and you can hear it, and you immediately start thinking about when it will end--that's too fast. Drop it down a few levels until your heart feels good, you can breathe silently and if you're with someone you. can. get. words. out. like. this. to the beat of your running pace. Running at this new, slower speed will help you run farther, and make the whole experience actually enjoyable, which will make you want to keep it up.
5. Figure out your three-day-per-week schedule. Yep, that's all you need at first. Just do one day during the week where you run about 3-4 miles, but at medium effort, one day a week where you run 4 miles at easy effort, and make Saturday your long run day. That means each Saturday you schedule time to start running a little longer each week (I liked starting at 8:30AM so it was out of the way by noon). If your race isn't for a good 4-5 months, you can build in a mile or two more every other week, dropping back in mileage every fifth week. Three days is all you need at first, and then you can start adding in a fourth easy run day as you grow accustomed to running, and your long runs get in the 7+ mile range. Beyond this, it's best to check out the tips at Runner's World, since I'm no expert, but I will say that doing a 3-4 day schedule really helped me not get burnt out, and not have to make excuses to myself about it not fitting into my schedule and dropping out completely.
6. Last but not least, suit up. Yep, it's your excuse to go out and buy a whole new running wardrobe. After running in whatever old cotton T-shirt and cotton leggings I had around the house and flattened out sneakers, I can honestly say the stuff they sell in running shops makes ALL the difference. When you're wearing materials that wick away sweat, it's one less thing you have to worry about in the cold or heat, plus, they really prevent chafing, and of course, make you feel completely AWESOME.
Optional: find a running buddy who's training for the same event you are. Some people love running alone, or at the very least, don't think they'll be able to keep up a conversation while running, but others, as I found with myself, love the distraction of talking about whatever, especially during long runs. In the last month before the marathon, the month where I clocked a 13, 15, 17, 18 and 20 miler, having my running buddy Jen right there with me to remember to eat, drink and, of course talk about guys, helped me make it through.
Good luck and of course, hit me up with any questions and I'll do my best to answer!
1. Don't think about it, just sign up. If you've ever felt the tiniest pang of inspiration or its alter-ego, jealousy, when a friend runs a marathon, that means it's something you might want to do. The only way to move from the "thinking about it" stage to the commiting stage is by signing up for a race. If a marathon is too dauting, do a 5K at nyrr.org.
2. Start running. Yep, it's that easy. I would have never believed this before, but no one starts out able to run 26 miles, and most NR (non-runners) can't even run a mile. Just pick a reasonable goal--and by reasonable, I literally mean a half mile or mile if that sounds like a lot to you, and just try it and see how it goes.
3. If you can't or don't feel like running, walk. This was my key to success. In the past I've pushed myself to try to make the three-mile mark or whatever goal I've set. If it's too much, I end up feeling winded, and dread doing it again. I always thought I "should" be able to run three miles, so I'd set my self up for failure. This tactic set me back years and years and made me believe I wasn't a runner. In contrast, just doing however much you feel like does the exact opposite. Each time you work with your body instead of against it, so you always remember the run as a positive experience. And on good run days when you find yourself able to do more than you ever have before, it propels your confidence even higher, so you can't wait to get out there again.
4. Go SLOOOOW. This is another biggie. They always say you should be able to carry on a conversation when you're running, and it's true--that's the pace you can sustain for long periods--like marathons. But what it actually means is that when you start running at what you "think," you should: you start to feel like your heart's pounding, your breathing becomes panting and you can hear it, and you immediately start thinking about when it will end--that's too fast. Drop it down a few levels until your heart feels good, you can breathe silently and if you're with someone you. can. get. words. out. like. this. to the beat of your running pace. Running at this new, slower speed will help you run farther, and make the whole experience actually enjoyable, which will make you want to keep it up.
5. Figure out your three-day-per-week schedule. Yep, that's all you need at first. Just do one day during the week where you run about 3-4 miles, but at medium effort, one day a week where you run 4 miles at easy effort, and make Saturday your long run day. That means each Saturday you schedule time to start running a little longer each week (I liked starting at 8:30AM so it was out of the way by noon). If your race isn't for a good 4-5 months, you can build in a mile or two more every other week, dropping back in mileage every fifth week. Three days is all you need at first, and then you can start adding in a fourth easy run day as you grow accustomed to running, and your long runs get in the 7+ mile range. Beyond this, it's best to check out the tips at Runner's World, since I'm no expert, but I will say that doing a 3-4 day schedule really helped me not get burnt out, and not have to make excuses to myself about it not fitting into my schedule and dropping out completely.
6. Last but not least, suit up. Yep, it's your excuse to go out and buy a whole new running wardrobe. After running in whatever old cotton T-shirt and cotton leggings I had around the house and flattened out sneakers, I can honestly say the stuff they sell in running shops makes ALL the difference. When you're wearing materials that wick away sweat, it's one less thing you have to worry about in the cold or heat, plus, they really prevent chafing, and of course, make you feel completely AWESOME.
Optional: find a running buddy who's training for the same event you are. Some people love running alone, or at the very least, don't think they'll be able to keep up a conversation while running, but others, as I found with myself, love the distraction of talking about whatever, especially during long runs. In the last month before the marathon, the month where I clocked a 13, 15, 17, 18 and 20 miler, having my running buddy Jen right there with me to remember to eat, drink and, of course talk about guys, helped me make it through.
Good luck and of course, hit me up with any questions and I'll do my best to answer!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
done and done
I did it!
Someone please cue Chariots of Fire!
I really did it! I completed my first-ever marathon. 26.2 miles of cobblestones and courage (that one's for you WDers!)
And now, if you'll indulge me...a looooong, emotional post-race recap:
After a carb-filled dinner and Team in Training pre-marathon ceremony (full of encouraging words from inspiring people who've raised tens of thousands for cancer research), I went to sleep more than a little wary of what was to come the next day, but more or less calm.
It's true. I wasn't nervous. Which, OK, made me a little nervous. But really, I felt remarkably calm about the whole thing, managing to fall right to sleep, despite the jetlag and sharing the room with a team member I'd just met. For once, which is not usual for me, I was filled with trust. Trust for my coaches and trust that the training process had worked, and that I'd be able to cross the finish line the next day without crazy amounts of pain in a reasonable amount of time. I'd done the long runs. They weren't soooo bad. And now it was time to do it again.
When I woke up, instead of a surge of adrenaline, I felt sleepy, and hungry, and in need of coffee. I pulled on my gear, making the last-minute decision to stick with the same, ankle-length tights that had gotten me through my last five long runs in training. I fretted over a long-sleeve vs. short sleeve tee under my singlet, but only for a few minutes, and then went to join my friends for breakfast.
Maybe it was pre-traumatic stress syndrome (is that a syndrome?!), but at breakfast I was more excited than scared. I just wanted to get to the start line and get the show on the road. As we made our way the half-mile or so toward the Colosseum, where the race would begin, it started to hit me a little that we were really going to do this. We got to the baggage checks, handed over our post-race affairs, and tried to make last-minute bathroom runs. (No lines--Europeans prefer peeing outside to porta-potties.)
But still, no butterflies. Really all I could think about was whether my running buddy, Jen, might want to go slightly faster to make her 5-hour time goal, and that meant I'd have 42 kilometers worth of in-my-own-head time to fill. My head was filled with logistics rather than nerves.
But as the gun went off, even those planning anxieties quickly began to evaporate. Running felt good. Feet hitting the pavement felt good. Arms felt good. Clothes felt good. Even the crowds hurtling quickly past Jen and I to get to faster time blocks felt good (the race wasn't exactly as well organized as New York, and anyone who wasn't an elite runner was just coralled in all together at the start, so there was the elbowing I was expecting.)
We careened (and I say that word very purposefully because of our turtle-like gait), down avenue blocks out toward the north of the city, trying to best set our pace. We noticed the 4-hour pacers run by, then the 4 1/2, then finally the 5, and then there we were, at the back of the pack, trying our best to determine whether to try to keep up or not. Go slightly faster? Or not. I could see more purple-shirters (fellow Team in Training teammates) than Euros, but I was determined not to let any outside influences get to me.
For the first six miles, a bunch of thoughts finally, quickly, came rushing to my head as all the pre-race calmness began to subside. "Look," I started saying to myself, "The five-hour people just ran by, and Jen wants to be in that category, should I speed up? No, don't. You promised yourself you wouldn't. Does she think I'm going ridiculously slow? Is she getting mad I'm holding her back? I hate that feeling; maybe I should tell her to go ahead. But I need her. On every long run, she's been at my side, telling me when the hours have passed and eating our gels together. It's been the magic ingredient to all the great long runs I've had. The least I can do is try to keep up with her. But if I do, I might break down at the end." And on and on and on the thoughts went.
Then, a prickle than ran through my knee. And the terrain was…ugly—this part of the stretch was all highways and over-passes and post-war industrial buildings. This wasn't what I'd signed up for? And where were the crowds cheering us on, and saying our names like in New York? Every so often there'd be a meek little old lady or 50-something man squinting to make out the writing on my jersey, but before he could get it out, I'd already have flown past him. Just one real "Uh, go Meeg" was all I'd gotten so far.
It was only mile five and half and my brow was starting to furrow. Uh oh, was this going to be a...bad run?
But then something major happened. Lost in my own quickly downward-spiraling head, I didn't hear her at first, but then Jen said it again, "Want to stop and have a goo? We're almost at the one hour mark?" "Wow, really?" I replied. Usually we'd been chatting for the whole time and this marker would have come with more warning. But either way, it came, and having our first gel signified one thing to me: We'd managed to run a quarter of the way already, and soon we'd be feeling high from the just-right mix of chemicals. The worst was over.
Almost as if the city of Rome itself knew it was time to give us a break, the six-mile mark brought us back into some of the most beautiful areas of the city--the Villa Borghese, and other beautiful monuments. Now we were cruising past giant, sweeping willows and 17th-century palazzos. It was like the Italian version of Brookline in Boston--all old, moneyed beatiful mansions on either side, the perfect eye-candy for mid-race runners.
Then, something else incredible happened. We met a fellow American, and by some amazing stroke of luck, he was a talker. He was 37 and had quit his bank job in Massachusetts (my home state) and gone back to school to study Italian at UMass Amhearst. He was currently studying abroad in Sienna, and wanted to give us a rundown of all his exploits. We could barely get a word in edgewise but before we knew it, we were rounding mile 13. Just right before—and we almost missed it talking about the Red Sox—St. Peter's Basicalla and the Vatican came up right before our eyes. Since it was Sunday, a priest or bishop was out saying mass, and secretly, I began to feel a little bit blessed. We'd been running just under 2 1/2 hours, and not a phantom knee, foot or side pain was to be had. I felt good—high. We almost had to force ourselves to take a five-minute break at the water station to knead our muscles, loosen up and do a salt shot. Our friend found a nice semi-private bush to do his business and we were off again.
After more than an hour-long survey of all his partying and mid-life realizations, he found a pretty girl who'd unfortunately shot her knee to slow down and walk with, and we were left alone again, but it was all worth it. We checked in with Ramon, our head coach (how did he know to find us on the least-crowded area of the race). He told us we looked great (I was still all smiles!) and said the words that probably saved me, "You should now be running at a pace you could run all day long and not get tired." Jen and I could honestly say that we were. He ran off to find other purple-shirts, and we remarked how great we were feeling. Then Jen raised an eyebrow at me that signified a whole lot more. Maybe, just maybe, at this rate we'd come in in under five hours.
Miles 13 to 18 weren't the most fun, running basically on highways with nonexistent crowds to cheer us on. But we didn't really know what to expect, and in hindsight, that was probably what kept us going in those lackluster upper teens. Luckily, the sponge and water stations dotting each 3-kilometer marker were well-stocked and crowd-free. As always I love a good lost-in-translation moment, and seeing "liquids," "salts" and "solids"—signs that meant "water," "Gatorade" and "orange slices," was amazingly fun to remark on time after time.
Finally, we rounded the 18-mile marker uphill, which meant we were heading back into Rome. Jen and I had slowed to a silent, yet still lockstep, rhythm. I'd run a little faster ahead, then slow down, then she'd catch up, going a little faster, then slow down. It really wasn't intentional at this point. I'm pretty sure our bodies had taken over, calculating for themselves the exact best pace to run, factoring the sun, wind, incline, effort and remaining energy. We'd started hunching, and mildly musing at petty annoyances (OK, complaining—but only a little). But then we'd look at one another at every water or sponge station cautiously, like, "Does this mean we might not hit the infamous wall?"
Jen made fun of me for it, but at this point, I'd long since learned my defense mechanism of choice was distraction. Any chance I'd get, I'd strike up a conversation—with French guys, with a U.K. guy, with Scottish ladies. Even if they wouldn't engage for very long, it made getting to mile 20 possible.
And then there it was: Mile 20. I'd never run farther than this before in my life. Jen, who'd run two marathons previously, had, but not for a long time. We were entering the home stretch, and heading back into the touristy part of Rome, and all of a sudden it hit me: I knew I was going to finish strong.
Then it started. My smile. It started growing even wider than it had been all race until I was almost beaming. It's not like I'm trying to brag here—I really don't know where the grinning cue came from because at this point my brain had become as soupy as the now-familiar goo I'd grown to love, and synapses, though they may have been firing, weren't creating any new thoughts that could be uttered or acted out.
My coaches, perched strategically at 21 and 22, noticed, and their encouragment gave me a new wind. I'd say it was my second, but probably closer to third or fourth. I had taken the time to stop and stretch out one last time around 19 or so, and take another hit of salt (thanks, Lenny's), and maybe it was that, or just sheer desire to be done, but I found myself speeding up.
We ran past the Palazza Navonna, and I saw my dear friend, Ali, cheering me on. Saw was loose, since really, my eyes were focused narrowly on the cobblestones trying desperately to find the straightest, smoothest path to follow. In a blur, I ran by a few other coaches, and the 37 km sign, and at this point, I wasn't about to translate to miles, but it seemed promising. I think I heard an announcer call me Principessa Meg, which seemed very apt at the time, and I heard police whistles urging pedestrians not to cross. I describe the sights and sounds, because now, nothing was being put into any larger context. All I could do was put one foot in front of the other. I felt like a cross between an animal and a machine.
Pump right fist as left foot touches pavement. Pump left fist as right foot touches pavement. Breathe in. Breathe out. Keep fists low. Bring shoulders down. Breathe through nose. Out through mouth. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. F***ing cobblestone. Repeat.
At this point, it was me, other purple shirts and the faster runners who'd shot their knee. They were all walking, like ghosts trying to find a way to the white light. But not me. The pride I felt that at mile 23 and 24 and 25 to be running was the last little bit of motivation I needed. As I flew past the Spanish Steps, and then the Trevi Fountain and toward the Boulevard XX Septembre, I sped up, knowing there was one, final thing that could get me through....
duh, duh, nah..duh, duh, nah...dunun nah dunnun nah dedudduh nan....yep, that's right, the Theme from Rocky.
I started wheezing/chanting/singing it as loud as I could without completely freaking out my fellow runners, and then a few steps later, there it was right before me...the Colosseum. The end.
It was now kilometer 40, and that meant only a mile and half left. As I got closer and closer, the Rocky theme had gone through about three run-throughs and it was time for something else: Yep, Gloria Gaynor.
"At first I was afraid, I was petrified, kept thinking how could I ever live without you by my side, and I spent oh-so-many nights thinking how you did me wrong and I grew STRONG, and I knew how to get along..."
And at that, I lost it. I choked up completely. They say many people start crying and huge waves of emotion hit them as they're crossing the finish line, but still, this feeling welling up took me completely by surprise. It was like finally, after a day and a half, my body, mind and heart all fell into alignment and a surge of feeling came flooding through like a shock wave.
I. Was. Going. To. Do. This.
Memories came flooding up. I thought about the past eight years living in New York. The early hard times in New York... getting laid off, and September 11, and being broke and Erik, and family hardships and everything I'd gone through. I went back even deeper, to that little girl in gym class who couldn't run the mile without getting all red-faced, and teased. I thought about how far I'd come since then with all my training, but that even still, I hadn't really believed I could do this. But I was about to prove that I could. And then a new song came to mind...
WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, my friend....WE'LL KEEP ON FIGHTING, til the end. WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, NO TIME FOR LOSERS, WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS...of the world.
And, of course, out of no where, up pops my coach Ramon. He commends me once again on my huge smile and tells me how proud he is of me. I tell him thank you, I would have never done this without him and the team, and he tells me that I was the one coming to practice every week, and that he knows how hard I worked. And that really, all that was left now, was to figure out how I was going to cross the finish line, and of course, how I was going to misbehave at the end.
As I coasted the four minutes toward the finish, I could make out something in the distance. It read 5:01, which meant, subtracting my 7-minute start time, I could potentially cross at just about five hours. I didn't care about the exact time, so I just kept my pace (it was what had gotten me this far) took off my feul belt, and crossed the finish line just like I'd run this whole time, with a huge smile on my face, singing one of my favorite songs, "All you need is love."
To be honest, when I crossed over, it was a little anti-climatic. I'd parted from Jen and my fellow purple shirts were ahead a bit. I hobbled around in a daze, looking for anyone I could find. Then my legs began to turn into wood. And really, the rest is history. No thoughts went through my brain. I was in a state of pure, sweet euphoria. Well, OK, there was maybe one thought:
When could I do it again.
Postscript: Thank you, so, so, so much for all your kindnesses, words of encouragement, Facebook comments, donations, and most importantly, your friendship. This has been one of the most amazing experiences of my life, and I couldn't have done it without you. So if you're reading this, and have been a supporter from the start, or even just along the way, know that your face, your words, and your thoughts came up in my head at least a few times during the race, and each step I took, I owe it to you. To be continued....
xoxo, Meg
Someone please cue Chariots of Fire!
I really did it! I completed my first-ever marathon. 26.2 miles of cobblestones and courage (that one's for you WDers!)
And now, if you'll indulge me...a looooong, emotional post-race recap:
After a carb-filled dinner and Team in Training pre-marathon ceremony (full of encouraging words from inspiring people who've raised tens of thousands for cancer research), I went to sleep more than a little wary of what was to come the next day, but more or less calm.
It's true. I wasn't nervous. Which, OK, made me a little nervous. But really, I felt remarkably calm about the whole thing, managing to fall right to sleep, despite the jetlag and sharing the room with a team member I'd just met. For once, which is not usual for me, I was filled with trust. Trust for my coaches and trust that the training process had worked, and that I'd be able to cross the finish line the next day without crazy amounts of pain in a reasonable amount of time. I'd done the long runs. They weren't soooo bad. And now it was time to do it again.
When I woke up, instead of a surge of adrenaline, I felt sleepy, and hungry, and in need of coffee. I pulled on my gear, making the last-minute decision to stick with the same, ankle-length tights that had gotten me through my last five long runs in training. I fretted over a long-sleeve vs. short sleeve tee under my singlet, but only for a few minutes, and then went to join my friends for breakfast.
Maybe it was pre-traumatic stress syndrome (is that a syndrome?!), but at breakfast I was more excited than scared. I just wanted to get to the start line and get the show on the road. As we made our way the half-mile or so toward the Colosseum, where the race would begin, it started to hit me a little that we were really going to do this. We got to the baggage checks, handed over our post-race affairs, and tried to make last-minute bathroom runs. (No lines--Europeans prefer peeing outside to porta-potties.)
But still, no butterflies. Really all I could think about was whether my running buddy, Jen, might want to go slightly faster to make her 5-hour time goal, and that meant I'd have 42 kilometers worth of in-my-own-head time to fill. My head was filled with logistics rather than nerves.
But as the gun went off, even those planning anxieties quickly began to evaporate. Running felt good. Feet hitting the pavement felt good. Arms felt good. Clothes felt good. Even the crowds hurtling quickly past Jen and I to get to faster time blocks felt good (the race wasn't exactly as well organized as New York, and anyone who wasn't an elite runner was just coralled in all together at the start, so there was the elbowing I was expecting.)
We careened (and I say that word very purposefully because of our turtle-like gait), down avenue blocks out toward the north of the city, trying to best set our pace. We noticed the 4-hour pacers run by, then the 4 1/2, then finally the 5, and then there we were, at the back of the pack, trying our best to determine whether to try to keep up or not. Go slightly faster? Or not. I could see more purple-shirters (fellow Team in Training teammates) than Euros, but I was determined not to let any outside influences get to me.
For the first six miles, a bunch of thoughts finally, quickly, came rushing to my head as all the pre-race calmness began to subside. "Look," I started saying to myself, "The five-hour people just ran by, and Jen wants to be in that category, should I speed up? No, don't. You promised yourself you wouldn't. Does she think I'm going ridiculously slow? Is she getting mad I'm holding her back? I hate that feeling; maybe I should tell her to go ahead. But I need her. On every long run, she's been at my side, telling me when the hours have passed and eating our gels together. It's been the magic ingredient to all the great long runs I've had. The least I can do is try to keep up with her. But if I do, I might break down at the end." And on and on and on the thoughts went.
Then, a prickle than ran through my knee. And the terrain was…ugly—this part of the stretch was all highways and over-passes and post-war industrial buildings. This wasn't what I'd signed up for? And where were the crowds cheering us on, and saying our names like in New York? Every so often there'd be a meek little old lady or 50-something man squinting to make out the writing on my jersey, but before he could get it out, I'd already have flown past him. Just one real "Uh, go Meeg" was all I'd gotten so far.
It was only mile five and half and my brow was starting to furrow. Uh oh, was this going to be a...bad run?
But then something major happened. Lost in my own quickly downward-spiraling head, I didn't hear her at first, but then Jen said it again, "Want to stop and have a goo? We're almost at the one hour mark?" "Wow, really?" I replied. Usually we'd been chatting for the whole time and this marker would have come with more warning. But either way, it came, and having our first gel signified one thing to me: We'd managed to run a quarter of the way already, and soon we'd be feeling high from the just-right mix of chemicals. The worst was over.
Almost as if the city of Rome itself knew it was time to give us a break, the six-mile mark brought us back into some of the most beautiful areas of the city--the Villa Borghese, and other beautiful monuments. Now we were cruising past giant, sweeping willows and 17th-century palazzos. It was like the Italian version of Brookline in Boston--all old, moneyed beatiful mansions on either side, the perfect eye-candy for mid-race runners.
Then, something else incredible happened. We met a fellow American, and by some amazing stroke of luck, he was a talker. He was 37 and had quit his bank job in Massachusetts (my home state) and gone back to school to study Italian at UMass Amhearst. He was currently studying abroad in Sienna, and wanted to give us a rundown of all his exploits. We could barely get a word in edgewise but before we knew it, we were rounding mile 13. Just right before—and we almost missed it talking about the Red Sox—St. Peter's Basicalla and the Vatican came up right before our eyes. Since it was Sunday, a priest or bishop was out saying mass, and secretly, I began to feel a little bit blessed. We'd been running just under 2 1/2 hours, and not a phantom knee, foot or side pain was to be had. I felt good—high. We almost had to force ourselves to take a five-minute break at the water station to knead our muscles, loosen up and do a salt shot. Our friend found a nice semi-private bush to do his business and we were off again.
After more than an hour-long survey of all his partying and mid-life realizations, he found a pretty girl who'd unfortunately shot her knee to slow down and walk with, and we were left alone again, but it was all worth it. We checked in with Ramon, our head coach (how did he know to find us on the least-crowded area of the race). He told us we looked great (I was still all smiles!) and said the words that probably saved me, "You should now be running at a pace you could run all day long and not get tired." Jen and I could honestly say that we were. He ran off to find other purple-shirts, and we remarked how great we were feeling. Then Jen raised an eyebrow at me that signified a whole lot more. Maybe, just maybe, at this rate we'd come in in under five hours.
Miles 13 to 18 weren't the most fun, running basically on highways with nonexistent crowds to cheer us on. But we didn't really know what to expect, and in hindsight, that was probably what kept us going in those lackluster upper teens. Luckily, the sponge and water stations dotting each 3-kilometer marker were well-stocked and crowd-free. As always I love a good lost-in-translation moment, and seeing "liquids," "salts" and "solids"—signs that meant "water," "Gatorade" and "orange slices," was amazingly fun to remark on time after time.
Finally, we rounded the 18-mile marker uphill, which meant we were heading back into Rome. Jen and I had slowed to a silent, yet still lockstep, rhythm. I'd run a little faster ahead, then slow down, then she'd catch up, going a little faster, then slow down. It really wasn't intentional at this point. I'm pretty sure our bodies had taken over, calculating for themselves the exact best pace to run, factoring the sun, wind, incline, effort and remaining energy. We'd started hunching, and mildly musing at petty annoyances (OK, complaining—but only a little). But then we'd look at one another at every water or sponge station cautiously, like, "Does this mean we might not hit the infamous wall?"
Jen made fun of me for it, but at this point, I'd long since learned my defense mechanism of choice was distraction. Any chance I'd get, I'd strike up a conversation—with French guys, with a U.K. guy, with Scottish ladies. Even if they wouldn't engage for very long, it made getting to mile 20 possible.
And then there it was: Mile 20. I'd never run farther than this before in my life. Jen, who'd run two marathons previously, had, but not for a long time. We were entering the home stretch, and heading back into the touristy part of Rome, and all of a sudden it hit me: I knew I was going to finish strong.
Then it started. My smile. It started growing even wider than it had been all race until I was almost beaming. It's not like I'm trying to brag here—I really don't know where the grinning cue came from because at this point my brain had become as soupy as the now-familiar goo I'd grown to love, and synapses, though they may have been firing, weren't creating any new thoughts that could be uttered or acted out.
My coaches, perched strategically at 21 and 22, noticed, and their encouragment gave me a new wind. I'd say it was my second, but probably closer to third or fourth. I had taken the time to stop and stretch out one last time around 19 or so, and take another hit of salt (thanks, Lenny's), and maybe it was that, or just sheer desire to be done, but I found myself speeding up.
We ran past the Palazza Navonna, and I saw my dear friend, Ali, cheering me on. Saw was loose, since really, my eyes were focused narrowly on the cobblestones trying desperately to find the straightest, smoothest path to follow. In a blur, I ran by a few other coaches, and the 37 km sign, and at this point, I wasn't about to translate to miles, but it seemed promising. I think I heard an announcer call me Principessa Meg, which seemed very apt at the time, and I heard police whistles urging pedestrians not to cross. I describe the sights and sounds, because now, nothing was being put into any larger context. All I could do was put one foot in front of the other. I felt like a cross between an animal and a machine.
Pump right fist as left foot touches pavement. Pump left fist as right foot touches pavement. Breathe in. Breathe out. Keep fists low. Bring shoulders down. Breathe through nose. Out through mouth. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. F***ing cobblestone. Repeat.
At this point, it was me, other purple shirts and the faster runners who'd shot their knee. They were all walking, like ghosts trying to find a way to the white light. But not me. The pride I felt that at mile 23 and 24 and 25 to be running was the last little bit of motivation I needed. As I flew past the Spanish Steps, and then the Trevi Fountain and toward the Boulevard XX Septembre, I sped up, knowing there was one, final thing that could get me through....
duh, duh, nah..duh, duh, nah...dunun nah dunnun nah dedudduh nan....yep, that's right, the Theme from Rocky.
I started wheezing/chanting/singing it as loud as I could without completely freaking out my fellow runners, and then a few steps later, there it was right before me...the Colosseum. The end.
It was now kilometer 40, and that meant only a mile and half left. As I got closer and closer, the Rocky theme had gone through about three run-throughs and it was time for something else: Yep, Gloria Gaynor.
"At first I was afraid, I was petrified, kept thinking how could I ever live without you by my side, and I spent oh-so-many nights thinking how you did me wrong and I grew STRONG, and I knew how to get along..."
And at that, I lost it. I choked up completely. They say many people start crying and huge waves of emotion hit them as they're crossing the finish line, but still, this feeling welling up took me completely by surprise. It was like finally, after a day and a half, my body, mind and heart all fell into alignment and a surge of feeling came flooding through like a shock wave.
I. Was. Going. To. Do. This.
Memories came flooding up. I thought about the past eight years living in New York. The early hard times in New York... getting laid off, and September 11, and being broke and Erik, and family hardships and everything I'd gone through. I went back even deeper, to that little girl in gym class who couldn't run the mile without getting all red-faced, and teased. I thought about how far I'd come since then with all my training, but that even still, I hadn't really believed I could do this. But I was about to prove that I could. And then a new song came to mind...
WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, my friend....WE'LL KEEP ON FIGHTING, til the end. WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, NO TIME FOR LOSERS, WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS...of the world.
And, of course, out of no where, up pops my coach Ramon. He commends me once again on my huge smile and tells me how proud he is of me. I tell him thank you, I would have never done this without him and the team, and he tells me that I was the one coming to practice every week, and that he knows how hard I worked. And that really, all that was left now, was to figure out how I was going to cross the finish line, and of course, how I was going to misbehave at the end.
As I coasted the four minutes toward the finish, I could make out something in the distance. It read 5:01, which meant, subtracting my 7-minute start time, I could potentially cross at just about five hours. I didn't care about the exact time, so I just kept my pace (it was what had gotten me this far) took off my feul belt, and crossed the finish line just like I'd run this whole time, with a huge smile on my face, singing one of my favorite songs, "All you need is love."
To be honest, when I crossed over, it was a little anti-climatic. I'd parted from Jen and my fellow purple shirts were ahead a bit. I hobbled around in a daze, looking for anyone I could find. Then my legs began to turn into wood. And really, the rest is history. No thoughts went through my brain. I was in a state of pure, sweet euphoria. Well, OK, there was maybe one thought:
When could I do it again.
Postscript: Thank you, so, so, so much for all your kindnesses, words of encouragement, Facebook comments, donations, and most importantly, your friendship. This has been one of the most amazing experiences of my life, and I couldn't have done it without you. So if you're reading this, and have been a supporter from the start, or even just along the way, know that your face, your words, and your thoughts came up in my head at least a few times during the race, and each step I took, I owe it to you. To be continued....
xoxo, Meg
