The Finish Line

When you train for your first marathon, veterans always say "don't worry about the time.  Your one and only goal should be to finish."

Which, of course, it should be.  But if you've been running for a long time, and you're super competitive (like me), you can't help but have a target time in mind.  And even worse, we all entertain visions of the Boston Marathon in our heads, even if we've never completed the full 26.2.

My initial marathon goal was fairly conversative.  Five hours seemed fair, since that's what most of my friends of similar fitness did their first time out.  But the more I ran, the faster and stronger I got, and the lower and lower my target goal became.  5:00 became 4:30 which morphed into 4:15, maybe even 4:10 and an outside chance of sub 4:00.

The mind is a dangerous thing.  Because the truth is, as much as you train--for the miles, the fuel, the pace, the course, the conditions--nothing prepares you for the actual feeling of the marathon.

I wasn't feeling very anxious going into the race, though I didn't get a chance to do my normal routine of light yoga and deep breathing.  I felt amazing at the start, which probably led me to commit the cardinal sin of marathoning--going out too fast.  No, 9:30 pace isn't THAT fast, but for me, the queen of 10:00+ first miles and negative splits, it was probably a little too fast (but of course, I had in the back of my mind that 9:30 splits=4:10 marathon.  Again, the mental part of this game is the hardest!).  I didn't feel anything until around mile nine or ten, when I noticed my breathing was more shallow than normal.  And where was my rescue inhaler?  Um, back in the gear bag.  Not my brightest move.

I made it to the half marathon point around 2:05, and my legs were still feeling great, but my breathing was becoming increasingly more difficult.  My friend Katie caught up to me around mile 14, which calmed me down, but I still could not get my breathing under control.  I tried stopping, deep breathing, yoga, walking, slow jogging, but nothing worked.  I couldn't find a medic, either.  So I kept going, but was becoming increasingly more anxious and started to panic.  Around Emory (mile 15, I believe), I saw a Team in Training coach.  She could tell I wasn't okay, and I said I needed an inhaler.  We jogged a bit, hoping to find a medic, but ended up in front of the CVS on North Decatur Road.  She suggested we buy an inhaler there, and luckily, I had a prescription.  The pharmacist was amazing.  She found a cheaper version of my prescription (Jessica, the coach, only had $20 in cash--lesson number 573, carry cash on the course!) and had us on our way in a few minutes.  I thought that would be the end of my struggles.

I was wrong.  About half a mile later, as I entered infamous Druid Hills, I started to get extremely nauseous.  And then I puked.  In the bushes of some two million dollar home on Lullwater Road.  I was hoping that was it and kept running.  And then I had to stop.  Every time I ran, I felt nauseous.  I couldn't eat any GU, and I could barely keep down water.  So, from mile 16 until 22, I repeated the torturous cycle of running for a few minutes, stopping to retch what little was left in my stomach, walking for a few minutes, trying to run again, repeat.  And the irony--my legs felt great!  They weren't even sore!

When I finally saw my husband at mile 22, I nearly cried.  He walked with me the last four miles, and I was so grateful to see many of my amazing friends--Angela, Erin, Sara, Lindsay, Mallory, among others--along the way. Right before the finish, I saw our head coach, Tommy Owens.  He gave me a hug, and I ran the rest of the way in.  I don't know how I managed to smile in the photo my friend Sarah took of me at the finish, because immediately upon stopping, I puked again and was escorted to the medical tent, where I spent the next hour hooked up to an IV for fluids and trying to figure out what--in the five hours, eight minutes and eighteen seconds I'd been on the course--caused everything to go so horribly wrong.

Because the truth is, I thought I was prepared for anything that could go wrong.  Blisters from the rain, my right hip seizing up like it had my last few runs, running out of fuel.  I'd done everything I could to prepare.  I'd run on the course four weekends in a row.  I knew every hill and every turn.  And I didn't alter my routine.  I had the same food the night before and that morning; the same hydration and fuel during the race; the same shoes, the same clothes.

But there's a reason less than one percent of the population completes a marathon.  It's gruelling, not just physically, but mentally.

But I made it to the finish line.  Why?  Not just sheer stubbornness, but because of the color I was wearing, because of the logo on my shirt, because of a cause I represent much larger than myself.  I'd never been prouder to be a part of the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society's Team in Training program than I was yesterday.  Because five hours of a little physical pain is NOTHING compared to what cancer patients and their families go through day in and day out, without the medals or ceremony or fanfare.  You don't get a t-shirt for dealing with chemo.  Or a medal for being a survivor.  For them, the finish line is a moving target, uncertain and fleeting.

And until that finish line is certain and guaranteed, you can find me out on the streets.  Running.

Morning Grace

I HATE mornings. Even as a baby, I slept until 9 a.m. Throughout my school years (and this includes high school), my mom literally rolled me out of bed onto the floor to get me moving. In college, I rarely took a class before 10 a.m. Even now, getting out of bed by 9 a.m. is a challenge.

So, of course, I had to pick a hobby (running) that requires me to get up at an ungodly hour every Saturday morning. I usually set my alarm to go off about an hour and half before I need to leave, in the hopes that I may actually wake up and get out of bed on time.

Yesterday morning, the alarm was set for 6:30 a.m. I was meeting my friends at 7:45 a.m. The alarm went off as scheduled--and I promptly turned it off, pulled the covers over my eyes and went back to sleep. Until 8:05 a.m.

Like most mornings, it was tempting to sleep in. To shade my weary eyes from the sun, to leave my tired limbs--already aching from 12 miles run in the previous four days--where they were. I really, really didn't want to get out of bed, let alone run 12 miles. And then I looked down at the pink bracelet on my wrist, and I bounded out of bed, threw on my running clothes and was out of the house in under ten minutes.

I'd worn this bracelet for two years and one day--starting the day of the Team in Training kickoff meeting for the Rock 'n' Roll Arizona Marathon, and the day I met Kate. This bracelet--worn by not just by me, but my my teammates and dozens of Kate's family and friends--is inscribed with the words "Kisses for Kate," and is our way of showing solidarity and support for Kate and her family.

And yesterday was the day we were celebrating the fact that Kate--at the tender age of seven--had survived two years, two months and three days worth of chemotherapy to kill the leukemia that ravaged her little body. And survive, she did. With grace and strength and charm beyond her years.

It was not a day to sleep in, but to celebrate Kate, her journey and her triumph. And for me, that meant running 12 miles--gratefully, joyfully, humbly--in her honor.

The Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini

Last week, I had a hot date with my DVR and watched an episode of Scrubs, which has to be one of my favorite comedies ever--probably because it features one of my favorite characters ever--Dr. Elliot Reid.

While I may bear a striking resemblance to Sarah Jessica Parker, Elliot Reid is my real doppelganger: attractive and intelligent, yet slightly spoiled, classically neurotic and incessantly klutzy.

But in this particular episode, her character didn't resonate with me--at least not 33 year-old me. The joke was that Elliot fasted for a few days to get into this hot bikini, made her grand beach entrance and then gorged on food for the rest of the vacation.

(And, FYI, available on sale at Victoria's Secret).

Yes, the suit is super sassy (AND in my signature color!), but why can't Elliot have her cake and eat it, too--all while looking super sexy in an itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikini?

Ironically enough, this very topic found me on the other side of PRville this week, as I was interviewed for this article about women and their love-hate relationship with bathing suits, along with one of my favorite people in the world, Miss Curvy Life herself, who posted her bikini musings here. While I'm usually camera (and radio and photo and interview...) shy, when I read this HARO query about women and bathing suits, I had to respond.

I used t0 hate bathing suits as much as the next girl. From growing up pale in the tan-crazy 80s to the general stretch marks and cellulite that come with being female, I had nothing but fear and loathing for the bathing suit. I'd mastered all sorts of tactics--from the magazine on the tummy to the strategic towel angle to a variety of cover-ups--to avoid showing body parts I disliked. And you could forget about eating or actually swimming in said bathing suit.

All of that changed when I started running marathons with Team in Training. I began running for a close friend who was diagnosed with lymphoma, and while she has been cancer free for almost 18 months, I know others whose battles are just beginning, are still in progress or, tragically, have been lost. And well, when you meet people like that, and your body is learning to do something only one percent of the population dares to try--you have a newfound respect for what it can accomplish. Who cares if your feet are blistered, your toenails are black, your thighs are a little meatier or your butt is a little fuller? Nothing compares to the struggles that cancer patients and their families face every single day.

And so while I may occasionally grumble about my bunions or my stretch marks or my bloated tummy, I think of them not only as signs of a life well lived, but of a life that CAN be lived--and a life that is entirely too short, too precious and too joyous to worry about superficial imperfections.