Rediscovering the trails

I do still struggle with getting out the door for a run. I suppose it will always be that way. But that said, it's probably the most beautiful time of the year to run here. The sun has come out and dried the trails that I've had to stay clear of the past months because of the mud and mire. Yet, the ground is still moist, meaning I'm not kicking up clouds of dust. And this helps. I've given myself permission to run where ever I wanted, not worrying about getting in enough or too many hills in preparation for Hurricane Point. Now I wake up and ask myself, "where would I like to run?" Lately the answer has been on the trails and fireroads that lead through the forest where I live. I realize I love the quiet (these are runs I don't take the IPod), I love the shade of the trees, and looking to the side and seeing nothing but the forest, not houses or cars, or the treadmill next to me. It's peaceful, yet at the same time it is far from boring. Anybody who's tripped over a tree root and taken a tumble, leaving parts of their skin on the trail can testify to the hazards of becoming too complacent on the trail (I have come to the conclusion I am the least graceful athlete in the world, see not only my tumbles on the trails, but my headfirst slide down my driveway marathon morning). And I find I actually enjoy going up hills on a trail more than I do a road. On a trail it's more of a scramble, finding the good footing, thinking one step ahead so you don't slip and stumble (it's kind of like driving the lane in basketball, or, my favorite fantasy, being Reggie Bush weaving past defenders). On the road, sometimes it's just grinding it out. So lately I've just opted for the trails and enjoyed it.

I continue to be unfocused in my running, with no real goal, just a determination to use running as a tool to focus on, establish and reach other goals in my life. Funny how it works that way, although I will say, I'm going through this daily Bible reading book and my bookmark is a postcard for the San Francisco Marathon. So every day, I see the picture of the back of a runner (his knees wrapped in bandages, checking his watch) heading forward into the fog. Interesting image and probably very symbolic.

I received an e-mail from a favorite colleague of mine yesterday. I guess he had read my blog about "Memories." I think the e-mail summed up what I was stumbling through trying to say so much better than I put it:

Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our greatest fear is that we are powerful beyond belief - Nelson Mandela

Memories

A memory popped into my head as I was lacing up my shoes today to take my first post-marathon run. It was from five or six years ago when a good friend and I were coaching my daughter's soccer team. We had made it to the city championship game that year, but trailed something like 2-0 at halftime. Now my friend Jose and I had a nice system going where I tended to be the bad cop, challenging the girls to raise their level of play, and he tended to be the good cop, feeding their self-esteem. Yet, at halftime on this day, as I was tending to the logistics of getting the girls water and oranges, Jose had the team gathered around him and he was getting in their faces. "WHAT ... ARE YOU ... AFRAID OF?" His hand karate chopped the air with every phrase.

As I opened the front door to head out for my run, I could imagine my friend saying that very same thing to me. What is this fear I feel? What am I afraid of? I'm afraid I'm going to feel that way I did at mile 20 of the marathon, hopeless and in despair. I'm afraid I'm going to injure myself, that this overweight middle-age body is overtaxed. I'm afraid this is all a stupid middle age crisis and a waste of time.

But then I think back to the message I think Jose was trying to give the girls. These are not the things to be afraid of. Be afraid of the disappointment that comes when a door of opportunity opens but you're too scared to go through it. Be afraid of living with the knowledge that you could have accomplished so much more if you wouldn't have been afraid to use your God-given talents.

For me, it's not about the racing. I'll be fine if I never run another marathon or never have success running another marathon. But I will be disappointed if I lose what I've gained in my running. If those hours spent on the trails and roads are replaced with hours staring at the TV. If those times of quiet meditation and reflection (usually around mile 5 or 6) are replaced by naps (ah, to be a cat and sleep all day, and be happy with just that). If I lose the courage to face those "dark miles*" in life, when despair and depression hammer your soul, but you push through it (with a lot of help from above).

On that day five years ago or so, we lost 4-1. But I was a proud father, watching my daughter stand up for herself. She was a warrior that day, especially in the second half. Jose, my friend, would eventually turn his question inward and answer his true calling. Today, he's a pastor in Oceanside. I've heard him preach, and I think his message is the much the same, only said in a softer, more loving voice "what are you afraid of? If God is for you, who can be against you?"

Me? I ran about seven miles today. I had a few flashbacks to the "dark miles*" but pushed through the minor discomfort. I didn't hurt myself and when I returned home I felt more energized and focused. I thought more about Jose and faced the rest of my day without fear (although as it developed, I probably had plenty to fear). It was a hard day, but a good day.

* "Dark miles" is a term coined by the blog runningandrambling just recently. It refers to those final miles of the marathon, the most painful stretch where things seem hopeless. The blog is a good read, I recommend it.

a week after

The scabs are flaking off my palms and two of my toenails have come off. I can walk down stairs without any pain and there's a spring in my step as I get out of chairs. I guess I've pretty much recovered ... now, what do I do with the rest of my life? I've been through this post-marathon depression before. I'm reminded of last year as Jon and Kenny, the former running bloggers, made huge plans for their next marathon after finishing their first. They never ran that next marathon, in fact, they no longer run. Myself, I pulled a calf muscle a few weeks after last year's marathon, also my first, and spent the summer weight training. In the fall I decided to take another shot at the Big Sur. But right now I'm trying to figure out just where running fits into my life, or if it fits anywhere at all. I know it certainly shouldn't be the focus ... but in a funny way it helps keeps me focused, gives me the umpf to do what I want to do in life. And having that goal of running a marathon serves as a great motivator to get me out the front door. Sunday I was talking with a friend about that experience from miles 20-26, the depression, despair yet ultimately the great joy (of course, the way I describe it, there's a whole lot more about the depression and despair, just call me Eeyore). "I'll bet you'll think twice before doing that again," he said, and his expression told me he thought once was more than enough. I don't know. The San Francisco Marathon is at the end of July, and the flat, fast Silicon Valley marathon is at the end of October. There's so much more going on in my life it's hard to make a decision. For now, I'm heading to the gym, my first post marathon workout. I'm hoping it will help knock me out of this post-marathon daze.

Meeting God at mile 23

When I was running track in high school and later junior college, we had a running joke after especially tough workouts. I'd look at my teammates, between deep gasps to capture that ever elusive breath and say "I just saw God." It was a reflection of taking yourself to the absolute extreme, to the point you were halucinating, or to the point where you had no one left to turn to. I reached that point at mile 23.

As I wrote in Monday morning's Herald, marathon day didn't start out well for me.In fact, and this I didn't write about, the day before didn't go quite as well as I had hoped. Saturday my wife and I took a two-hour drive to see my daughter play a high school lacrosse game and then went to the airport to pick up my son, who was returning from college. To spare you some of the tedious details, we didn't leave the Bay Area until after 9 p.m. and dinner wound up being at Dennys at 10:30 p.m. (I should have been home in bed, but I catnapped in the car as my son drove). My head hit the pillow at 12:30 and the alarm went off at 3 a.m. As I left the house that morning I tripped on the stairs and wound up doing a headfirst slide on the asphalt driveway. That left me with a scrapped knee and bloody palms. After some quick first aid, I made it to the bus pickup spot. The first bus I boarded had a dead battery and we all had to get off and find other buses. The next bus I boarded was pinned in by the dead bus, meaning more of a delay. But, thanks to the work of the volunteers and the bus drivers I made it to the starting line with plenty of time to spare. (this is a very well run event).
I was actually feeling pretty good as I headed to the starting line, although I broke my sunglasses in the moments before the race, prompting a friend who knew about my adventures the day before and that morning to ask, "Are you sure you should run today?" Yep, I did. I felt fit and well prepared. As expected the first 10 miles were pretty easy. I ran at a good pace for me (9:30 per mile). The day was cool (not too cold) and overcast. At mile 9, we turned the corner to see Hurricane Point. Except, you couldn't see all of Hurricane. The top was hidden by fog. I found this to be an enormous psychological lift. One thing though, I had a little rumble in my tummy and I thought about stopping at an outhouse. But I decided against it, put on my walkman and began the climb. It was great, I think I covered the two-mile climb in about 22 minutes (again, which is good for me),with no real problems, no gut checks, not even a thought of stopping and walking. The music had given me a little lift and I realized some of my training runs had been much more difficult than this climb. I was elated when I reached the top. But my tummy, which had been fine on the climb, started rumbling again, and this time I stopped at the outhouse. I had a little diaherea, but I felt fine when I stepped out of the outhouse and started running again. Unlike last year, I didn't feel like I needed to recover. I still felt strong.

Around Mile 14, I began feeling a little anxious. It was here last year that things had begun to break down for me. I began remembering how during this section I had really started to labor and that haunted me. Facing the climb at Palo Canyon, where I had broken down and started walking last year, I put my headphones back on (I had taken them off after Hurricane) and began climbing. I got up the hill no problem. Again I was happy. I knew I was slowing down, but I was still running strong for me (10 minute miles).

I can't be sure, but I think around mile 17 the sun came out and it began to get a little uncomfortable. I began walking through aid stops, partially because of the traffic, partially to be able to drink (when I was running and drinking I was swallowing a lot of air, which was causing me a little gas pain and burps along the way), and partially because I needed a break. I didn't consider it breaking my goal of running the whole way.

At mile 18, I began counting down the miles, wishing it was Mile 20. I could still run, but it was getting more labored. I was having flash backs to last year, but kept reminding myself how horrible I had felt at this point last year and how I had pushed through it. At this point I was also aware of some Galloway runners (run for five minutes, walk for one) because they kept passing me, and passing me again. Kind of weird.

At mile 20, I believe you turn a corner and see a long stretch of the coast. It's quite beautiful, but on this day my first thought was "that's a hell of a long way. How am I going to do this?" I was hurting at this point, in a kind of, OK, I've had just about enough for today, type of way.

I hit the outskirts of the Carmel Highlands knowing I was in trouble. I ran my Highlands mantra through my head "ride out the swells" and my Yankee Point mantra "climbing can feel better then descending." I must say I underestimated Yankee Point, it was my Heartbreak hill. Three quarters of the way I broke and started walking. I just couldn't do it. If I could have cried, I would have. It was 22 miles in, I had fallen about four miles short of my goal.
I started running again at the top of Yankee Point, stopping occassionally to walk. I hit one of the final aid stations (where they give the free hugs) and got a pair of warm hugs from a couple. It was good and it did remind me of my parents. At this point I remember thinking, though, it didn't matter what I thought, what inspiration I could derive thinking about how much they loved me. I started walking again on a flat portion of the route. I was just shot physically and that was that, no inspirational speeches could get me through these final miles. I knew my son and daughter were near Mile 25, I had asked them to be there to cheer me on for that final push up D-minor hill at D-major time. I didn't want them to see me like this, walking and broken, but that was how I felt. Runners were going by me, making me feel like the race was slipping away. It was just past Mile 23, and I was beaten and depressed.

"God, I know you've got a lot of other things on your mind right now and this is really trivial in the big scheme of things, but I'm spent, I'm broken and I'm hurting . Yet, there's nothing more I want right now then to be able to run. Please, fill me with your strength."
At mile 24, I began running again. I remember feeling like I was going to cry, but that I had this power that was coming up from my rib cage. And I wasn't going fast, but I was passing a lot of those runner who had just passed me. At about 24 and half miles I saw the kids and I raised my arm with a clenched fist so they could spot me. They clapped and yelled encouragement, "You're awesome Dad!" my daughter shouted. Not me honey. Halfway up the hill, I saw a friend playing in a band. I shouted to her, and she shouted back. Later she would tell me I looked happy and strong. I didn't make it all the way up the hill, but that was OK. I had to start walking about three quarters up. But then I started running again and passing people. It was like driving a car with the gas indicator on empty. I had the feeling at any moment my engine was going to quit. At the base of the hill, I walked again, and gathered myself for a final push. I can't describe how badly I was hurting at that moment, but I was determined to power in. I knew my wife was waiting for me, and I was going to run to her. I pictured her waiting with open arms, and an embrace that said everything was going to be all right now, that I had run a good race. I remember the people lining the course along the final quarter mile. I remember seeing the finish line and thinking, "boy, that's a long way," and finally saying to myself, I may collapse in heap, but I'm going to run as fast as I possible can. I remember crying out in pain as I picked up the pace those final yards and stumbled across the finish. I finished in 4:40.34 (about 1,200th or 1,800 males), about five minutes faster than the year before.
A few yards later I spotted my wife waving to me from the crowd. I was hurting, about the worst I've ever felt, but it was good to be home.