Dear all,
I just received some terrible news. On Sunday, one of my personal honored heroes, Amanda Post, lost her battle with leukemia and passed away from complications of host-graft disease after her bone marrow transplant. She was 14 years old. She had been very sick for a long time, and had been in intensive care for weeks before she was moved to palliative care. Her family was with her when she passed, and they said that she was able to open her eyes and knew that they were there before she died.
The loss of Amanda is hitting me quite hard. Her cousin is a good friend of mine, but I've only met her once or twice, so it's not a deeply personal loss. There's some survivor's guilt, a sense that it's unfair that I made it while she didn't. I suppose what I feel is helplessness: no matter how many marathons I run, or how much money I raise, or how many people I manage to inspire to join this cause, or even how many advances they make in research and treatment, people will still be dying of this disease. My own easy path through it has, I think, somewhat blinded me to that. I meet tons of survivors doing amazing things all the time for the Society, but those who never make it remain somewhat behind the scenes. That is, until it's someone you know.
It would be somewhat glib, I think, to say that Amanda's death is rededicating me to the cause, and inspiring me to run even more and raise even more money to eradicate this illness once and for all. While I would never have joined Team in Training and would probably never have started running if I hadn't had cancer, that's not why I do it. I run because it makes me stronger, and because it's evidence that I'm stronger than I give myself credit for, and because my success at running means that I can do lots of things that I don't think I can do. I'm involved with the team because the more people who realize this, the more good those people can effect in their lives, the lives of others, and the world around them. Team in Training is far more than a fundraising group for blood cancer: it's a snowballing force for change in the world. A small snowball, perhaps, but a snowball nonetheless. Yes, the Team has raised millions and millions of dollars for research since its inception, but it will never be enough to have prevented Amanda's death, and it will never be enough to prevent all such deaths. What Amanda has helped me realize is that the real force of the Team is in this snowball, and that's why I think it's so important.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Victory!
Dear all,
It's now more than four weeks since the marathon, and I just realized that I never let you all know how it went. Please don't hold it against me for too long--things have been busy around here, and I have tons of pictures to make it up to you (check them all out on facebook!).
I was very, very nervous leading up to Marathon Monday. My family had come in for the weekend, which was nice, but I was just feeling so tired, as if all the months of training had caught up to me in one weekend. We all had dinner at our house on Sunday--my family, my friends, my roommates--and the cooking really relaxed me. I had to go to bed super-early, because we had to catch a bus from the Boston Common before 7 the next morning.
The Common was a madhouse. Acres and acres of runners with neon yellow Marathon bags, people taking pictures, people stretching, Port-a-potty lines snaking back forever. The system was flawless: the entire length of Tremont St, from Beacon to Boylston, was lined with schoolbuses, one queue of runners for each schoolbus. The buses would fill up and drive away all together, and then another line of buses would come in. There were hundreds of them--it was exciting, exhausting, and more than a bit nauseating.
The ride out to Hopkinton takes forever. I'm not exaggerating--I really thought it was never going to end. Every minute on the Pike was, I kept thinking, another 10 minutes I had to run. The bus was hot, I was nauseous, people were either subdued from fear or gabbing wildly with their neighbors. People had to pee, people had to throw up, but everyone had to wait until we got to Hopkinton. FINALLY we pulled off the highway and saw the pilgrimage up close. It seemed like the whole town was out to see us off: lots of kids, lots of families, and thousands upon thousands of runners. We waited in a never-ending porta-potty line (it took us 45 minutes!), grabbed a snack, pinned our Gus, and made our way to the house generously volunteered for pre-race prep by one of our teammates. Some Gatorade, a quick stretch, and we were off to line up in the corrals!
Race corrals are usually determined by time: the faster you are, the closer to the start you begin. At Boston, however, everyone who's raising money for charity starts at the end, lined up in corrals by bib numbers that were assigned randomly. I was crammed into corral 22, together with people who run at all different paces. It felt like a cattle holding pen. When the gun went off, the mass of people surges forward, and all your best intentions to start slow kind of go out the window. They have to: if you really start slow, you'll get trampled. The roads through Hopkinton are lined with kids holding their hands out for high fives and runners sneaking out to pee in the woods after holding it in for too long in the corrals. The beginning feels amazing...until people start to pass you, and don't stop for 26 miles. The good thing about people passing you is that you get to see the backs of their shirts. Race jerseys are where people let out the most inspiring, private, and funny details of their lives. Most of them are either charity runners like me (Team Liver, the Jimmy Fund, Livestrong, Children's Hospital, Dana Farber, etc), along with plenty of running braggarts ("50th marathon, 50th state, 1st Boston"), and some jokesters (the back of my favorite race shirt, on a normal-looking guy: "I'm fat. Pick up the pace.") Lots of people ran in costume: I saw an Abe Lincoln, a hamburger, a banana, and I even ran with a guy in a chicken suit for a while. Maybe I was hungry and hallucinating, but I'm pretty sure.
Around mile 3 or 4, MUCH earlier than I expected, my calf started to hurt. Not a lot at first, but I knew it was going to be a rough day. I was so happy, though, and in such a good mood that I was able to separate the pain from my mood--it might slow me down, but I wasn't going to let it bum me out. Race day was AWESOME. We had perfect weather (chilly, a little overcast), and the crowd was amazing. I saw the first person that I knew in Ashland, and then my parents and sister surprised me at the Framingham train station. I had run every mile of the race before, but once we crossed the Natick town line and it became really familiar territory, I knew I had it in the bag. People were having barbecues and holding up the Red Sox score (though we passed Natick center at about 2:15, and nobody knew who had won the marathon!). We passed Elvis impersonators, Yankee Doodle Drag Queens, and the entire Wellesley scream tunnel (diminished, I imagine, from what it had been an hour earlier), and made it to TNT's Mission Mile at the Wellesley Community Center at mile 15. My parents were there, and, crucially, one of the coaches was there to massage my sore calf a bit. I took a much needed break (if a little too long), and kept going--my dad joined in for about half a mile, which was really nice. I did start feeling tired around then, and needed to walk up the hill over the highway into Newton Lower Falls. I made it to the fire station, where there was a giant party and a boom box blasting Queen's "We are the Champions," and all of a sudden my eyes welled up behind my sunglasses. My longest pre-race run had ended at the firehouse, but I had 9 more miles to go. I started heading up and up, waiting to see the friends that I knew would be there to join in. Running and walking, running and walking, and all of a sudden I saw the three guys that I was waiting for, all of whom had a tiny baggie of pretzels that I had given them the night before to give to me on the course. They had been waiting in the cold for me for hours, and I was SO happy to see them. I was in quite a lot of pain at that point--my right hip was hurting, probably from compensating for my sore calf, my back felt like hamburger, and my feet kept wanting to cramp up into foot-fists, but I was thrilled. I ate some pretzels, got my leg rolled out by my coach, who was waiting near the bottom of Heartbreak Hill, and headed up. Slowly. At BC, two more of my friends joined us, and me and my entourage started on the last 6 miles toward Copley. Of course, I was well behind the majority of the race, and as the afternoon went on and on, the crowd of spectators got drunker and drunker. Beacon St was like a frat party. For a while we ran behind two guys in Speedos running with their friend. Lots of cheering, lots of drunk college kids. After a while, it hurt more to walk than to run, so I just kept at it. When I did have to walk, to get a drink or something, I had to do a little Grandma shuffle to get my feet moving again before I could really pick them up off the ground. I was so happy to have the support of my friends--more people were waiting for me in Kenmore with a big sign, but I almost missed them because I was so focused. Let's just say that the last 6 miles would have been VERY different had my incredible friends not been there.
They left me at the corner of Comm and Mass to do the last .2 on my own: I finally got to take that right on Hereford, and that left on Boylston. Boylston street is much, much longer than you think it is, but I could see the finish line just ahead of me. I waved frantically at the announcer, trying to get him to read off my name, but no such luck. Crossing the finish line, I almost lost it. I was freezing, in pain, starving, and I had never been happier.
The finish area is blocks and blocks long: first you get your mylar blanket, then your water, then you get your chip removed and they give you your medal, then there's food, then you have to head up to where the buses are with all your stuff, then, finally, I had to turn back around and go all the way back to the Copley Marriott where my team's suite was and where my family was meeting me. Turned out that my parents had missed me crossing the finish line--they thought they had been waiting at mile 13 in Wellesley instead of mile 15, so they hadn't expected me to finish so soon. I saw them, changed my clothes, stretched out, ate something, and lay down on a massage table for some TLC. All of a sudden, every muscle started cramping, I was shivering like a hypothermic, and hyperventilating something awful. Beautiful stuff. There I was, lying on my back on a table, in a ton of pain, freaking out, with my mother holding my hand and a strange man telling me to relax. I felt like I was giving birth. Eventually I warmed up and calmed down, and I was able to get into the car and head home for my well-earned burrito and my ice bath.
I wasn't able to move around much for about a day or so, and I didn't stop eating for about a week, but I did wear The Jacket more or less nonstop for a while.
I'm still in a little pain--my calf has gotten better (it was massively swollen and sore), but the hip flexor that was compensating for it is still bothering me. I've been out for a couple of runs, mixed heavily with biking and yoga, and my PT says that the Mooseman half-iron relay 3 weeks from now is well within my reach.
What amazed me most about the marathon is how much fun it was. I really wasn't tired, I wasn't in a bad mood--I was in pain, but that kind of pain doesn't ruin your day the way a blister would, for example. I finished strong, I finished standing, and I didn't finish last. And I was happy. And that's about all I could have asked for. I'm so proud of myself, and so thankful to my family and friends for being there to support me.
Pictures soon!
Shari
It's now more than four weeks since the marathon, and I just realized that I never let you all know how it went. Please don't hold it against me for too long--things have been busy around here, and I have tons of pictures to make it up to you (check them all out on facebook!).
I was very, very nervous leading up to Marathon Monday. My family had come in for the weekend, which was nice, but I was just feeling so tired, as if all the months of training had caught up to me in one weekend. We all had dinner at our house on Sunday--my family, my friends, my roommates--and the cooking really relaxed me. I had to go to bed super-early, because we had to catch a bus from the Boston Common before 7 the next morning.
The Common was a madhouse. Acres and acres of runners with neon yellow Marathon bags, people taking pictures, people stretching, Port-a-potty lines snaking back forever. The system was flawless: the entire length of Tremont St, from Beacon to Boylston, was lined with schoolbuses, one queue of runners for each schoolbus. The buses would fill up and drive away all together, and then another line of buses would come in. There were hundreds of them--it was exciting, exhausting, and more than a bit nauseating.
The ride out to Hopkinton takes forever. I'm not exaggerating--I really thought it was never going to end. Every minute on the Pike was, I kept thinking, another 10 minutes I had to run. The bus was hot, I was nauseous, people were either subdued from fear or gabbing wildly with their neighbors. People had to pee, people had to throw up, but everyone had to wait until we got to Hopkinton. FINALLY we pulled off the highway and saw the pilgrimage up close. It seemed like the whole town was out to see us off: lots of kids, lots of families, and thousands upon thousands of runners. We waited in a never-ending porta-potty line (it took us 45 minutes!), grabbed a snack, pinned our Gus, and made our way to the house generously volunteered for pre-race prep by one of our teammates. Some Gatorade, a quick stretch, and we were off to line up in the corrals!
Race corrals are usually determined by time: the faster you are, the closer to the start you begin. At Boston, however, everyone who's raising money for charity starts at the end, lined up in corrals by bib numbers that were assigned randomly. I was crammed into corral 22, together with people who run at all different paces. It felt like a cattle holding pen. When the gun went off, the mass of people surges forward, and all your best intentions to start slow kind of go out the window. They have to: if you really start slow, you'll get trampled. The roads through Hopkinton are lined with kids holding their hands out for high fives and runners sneaking out to pee in the woods after holding it in for too long in the corrals. The beginning feels amazing...until people start to pass you, and don't stop for 26 miles. The good thing about people passing you is that you get to see the backs of their shirts. Race jerseys are where people let out the most inspiring, private, and funny details of their lives. Most of them are either charity runners like me (Team Liver, the Jimmy Fund, Livestrong, Children's Hospital, Dana Farber, etc), along with plenty of running braggarts ("50th marathon, 50th state, 1st Boston"), and some jokesters (the back of my favorite race shirt, on a normal-looking guy: "I'm fat. Pick up the pace.") Lots of people ran in costume: I saw an Abe Lincoln, a hamburger, a banana, and I even ran with a guy in a chicken suit for a while. Maybe I was hungry and hallucinating, but I'm pretty sure.
Around mile 3 or 4, MUCH earlier than I expected, my calf started to hurt. Not a lot at first, but I knew it was going to be a rough day. I was so happy, though, and in such a good mood that I was able to separate the pain from my mood--it might slow me down, but I wasn't going to let it bum me out. Race day was AWESOME. We had perfect weather (chilly, a little overcast), and the crowd was amazing. I saw the first person that I knew in Ashland, and then my parents and sister surprised me at the Framingham train station. I had run every mile of the race before, but once we crossed the Natick town line and it became really familiar territory, I knew I had it in the bag. People were having barbecues and holding up the Red Sox score (though we passed Natick center at about 2:15, and nobody knew who had won the marathon!). We passed Elvis impersonators, Yankee Doodle Drag Queens, and the entire Wellesley scream tunnel (diminished, I imagine, from what it had been an hour earlier), and made it to TNT's Mission Mile at the Wellesley Community Center at mile 15. My parents were there, and, crucially, one of the coaches was there to massage my sore calf a bit. I took a much needed break (if a little too long), and kept going--my dad joined in for about half a mile, which was really nice. I did start feeling tired around then, and needed to walk up the hill over the highway into Newton Lower Falls. I made it to the fire station, where there was a giant party and a boom box blasting Queen's "We are the Champions," and all of a sudden my eyes welled up behind my sunglasses. My longest pre-race run had ended at the firehouse, but I had 9 more miles to go. I started heading up and up, waiting to see the friends that I knew would be there to join in. Running and walking, running and walking, and all of a sudden I saw the three guys that I was waiting for, all of whom had a tiny baggie of pretzels that I had given them the night before to give to me on the course. They had been waiting in the cold for me for hours, and I was SO happy to see them. I was in quite a lot of pain at that point--my right hip was hurting, probably from compensating for my sore calf, my back felt like hamburger, and my feet kept wanting to cramp up into foot-fists, but I was thrilled. I ate some pretzels, got my leg rolled out by my coach, who was waiting near the bottom of Heartbreak Hill, and headed up. Slowly. At BC, two more of my friends joined us, and me and my entourage started on the last 6 miles toward Copley. Of course, I was well behind the majority of the race, and as the afternoon went on and on, the crowd of spectators got drunker and drunker. Beacon St was like a frat party. For a while we ran behind two guys in Speedos running with their friend. Lots of cheering, lots of drunk college kids. After a while, it hurt more to walk than to run, so I just kept at it. When I did have to walk, to get a drink or something, I had to do a little Grandma shuffle to get my feet moving again before I could really pick them up off the ground. I was so happy to have the support of my friends--more people were waiting for me in Kenmore with a big sign, but I almost missed them because I was so focused. Let's just say that the last 6 miles would have been VERY different had my incredible friends not been there.
They left me at the corner of Comm and Mass to do the last .2 on my own: I finally got to take that right on Hereford, and that left on Boylston. Boylston street is much, much longer than you think it is, but I could see the finish line just ahead of me. I waved frantically at the announcer, trying to get him to read off my name, but no such luck. Crossing the finish line, I almost lost it. I was freezing, in pain, starving, and I had never been happier.
The finish area is blocks and blocks long: first you get your mylar blanket, then your water, then you get your chip removed and they give you your medal, then there's food, then you have to head up to where the buses are with all your stuff, then, finally, I had to turn back around and go all the way back to the Copley Marriott where my team's suite was and where my family was meeting me. Turned out that my parents had missed me crossing the finish line--they thought they had been waiting at mile 13 in Wellesley instead of mile 15, so they hadn't expected me to finish so soon. I saw them, changed my clothes, stretched out, ate something, and lay down on a massage table for some TLC. All of a sudden, every muscle started cramping, I was shivering like a hypothermic, and hyperventilating something awful. Beautiful stuff. There I was, lying on my back on a table, in a ton of pain, freaking out, with my mother holding my hand and a strange man telling me to relax. I felt like I was giving birth. Eventually I warmed up and calmed down, and I was able to get into the car and head home for my well-earned burrito and my ice bath.
I wasn't able to move around much for about a day or so, and I didn't stop eating for about a week, but I did wear The Jacket more or less nonstop for a while.
I'm still in a little pain--my calf has gotten better (it was massively swollen and sore), but the hip flexor that was compensating for it is still bothering me. I've been out for a couple of runs, mixed heavily with biking and yoga, and my PT says that the Mooseman half-iron relay 3 weeks from now is well within my reach.
What amazed me most about the marathon is how much fun it was. I really wasn't tired, I wasn't in a bad mood--I was in pain, but that kind of pain doesn't ruin your day the way a blister would, for example. I finished strong, I finished standing, and I didn't finish last. And I was happy. And that's about all I could have asked for. I'm so proud of myself, and so thankful to my family and friends for being there to support me.
Pictures soon!
Shari
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Home Stretch
Six days to go. Eighteen more meals, four more work days, two more runs, one more visit to the PT, six more sleeps (most of them restless, a few of them, I hope, restful). Lots of stretching.
I feel like this race was more real two weeks ago, when I ran my last long run. Since then, I haven’t quite been slacking off, but nor have I really been training. A run here, a run there, an hour or two on the elliptical…nothing major. I know that’s the point of a taper, and I also know that it makes most runners very antsy. I, on the other hand, am swinging between antsy and sluggish, between being terrified, being excited, and being so very over this whole thing.
I’ve been lucky enough to run every mile of the course—every mile, that is, except for the last five. Tomorrow after work I’m planning to take the T out to Boston College and run down to Cleveland Circle, through Brookline to Coolidge Corner, past Fenway Park into Kenmore Square, down Commonwealth Ave, right-on-Hereford-left-on-Boylston and up to the finish line in Copley. I need to know exactly how far it is from the top of Heartbreak to the end—it will be too easy just to feel like I’m finished when I get to the top of the hill, when I’ll still have an hour of running ahead of me. I also want to cross that golden finish line on Boylston Street strong and happy at least once.
They say that training is 90% physical and 10% mental, and that race day is the opposite. Rallying all my mental strength, all my inspiration, is a really hard thing. I’m remembering all the patients and families I’ve met, all the runners who challenge themselves every week, all the money being raised for research. I also remember one summer day when I was eighteen and my dad took me to Vermont to do some hiking. Weakened from chemo, and not in great shape to start with, it was very tough climb for me. I don’t even remember if I finished it. I’ve come so far since then, so far since my first run with TNT: I’ve run hundreds and hundreds of miles. I think that remembering those miles is going to help me run these last 26.
I wish I had all kinds of after-school-special words of wisdom about marathon training, what it’s taught me, how it’s made me a better person…but I don’t. Yes, I think it has taught me things, and yes, I think running has been a force for good in my life, but I think those realizations come long after that finish line and many others have been crossed, after the pain has mostly been forgotten (after the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor…). Right now I’m just trying to remember to drink lots of water, to stretch, and to sleep.
Some of you have asked me where on the course would be the best spot to see me. I don’t expect to get to the finish line before 4:00, which means I’ll be running through Coolidge Corner a little before that (I hope!). If anyone has an inclination to run a little, I think the miles in Wellesley are going to be hard (from Wellesley College down to Newton), as are the miles after BC. Heartbreak hill itself is going to be a personal journey, I think, although I’ll probably be happy for the company come race day.
Below are some pictures from our 20-miler…enjoy, and wish me luck!
I feel like this race was more real two weeks ago, when I ran my last long run. Since then, I haven’t quite been slacking off, but nor have I really been training. A run here, a run there, an hour or two on the elliptical…nothing major. I know that’s the point of a taper, and I also know that it makes most runners very antsy. I, on the other hand, am swinging between antsy and sluggish, between being terrified, being excited, and being so very over this whole thing.
I’ve been lucky enough to run every mile of the course—every mile, that is, except for the last five. Tomorrow after work I’m planning to take the T out to Boston College and run down to Cleveland Circle, through Brookline to Coolidge Corner, past Fenway Park into Kenmore Square, down Commonwealth Ave, right-on-Hereford-left-on-Boylston and up to the finish line in Copley. I need to know exactly how far it is from the top of Heartbreak to the end—it will be too easy just to feel like I’m finished when I get to the top of the hill, when I’ll still have an hour of running ahead of me. I also want to cross that golden finish line on Boylston Street strong and happy at least once.
They say that training is 90% physical and 10% mental, and that race day is the opposite. Rallying all my mental strength, all my inspiration, is a really hard thing. I’m remembering all the patients and families I’ve met, all the runners who challenge themselves every week, all the money being raised for research. I also remember one summer day when I was eighteen and my dad took me to Vermont to do some hiking. Weakened from chemo, and not in great shape to start with, it was very tough climb for me. I don’t even remember if I finished it. I’ve come so far since then, so far since my first run with TNT: I’ve run hundreds and hundreds of miles. I think that remembering those miles is going to help me run these last 26.
I wish I had all kinds of after-school-special words of wisdom about marathon training, what it’s taught me, how it’s made me a better person…but I don’t. Yes, I think it has taught me things, and yes, I think running has been a force for good in my life, but I think those realizations come long after that finish line and many others have been crossed, after the pain has mostly been forgotten (after the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor…). Right now I’m just trying to remember to drink lots of water, to stretch, and to sleep.
Some of you have asked me where on the course would be the best spot to see me. I don’t expect to get to the finish line before 4:00, which means I’ll be running through Coolidge Corner a little before that (I hope!). If anyone has an inclination to run a little, I think the miles in Wellesley are going to be hard (from Wellesley College down to Newton), as are the miles after BC. Heartbreak hill itself is going to be a personal journey, I think, although I’ll probably be happy for the company come race day.
Below are some pictures from our 20-miler…enjoy, and wish me luck!
20-miler pics!
Katie/Shari Dance Party
Milling around before our buses out to Hopkinton
Sarad: "We should get married and have babies."
Shari: "Fine, but nobody in our wedding can be taller than us."
Why are Katie and I always dressed alike?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The Jacket
The last several (ok, seven) weeks have been very difficult for me. The thought of blogging about my trials and tribulations filled me with superstition, with paralyzing laziness, and as the weeks passed, with guilt for not blogging more.
Here's what happened. I had a crappy half-marathon in Hyannis--I had wanted to run a 2:30, which would have put me on track for a 5:20 marathon, but a combination of bad weather, fatigue, and cockiness left me at about a 2:36 or so (I never even checked my official time). That's about the same, or slower, than I ran my first half in Maine in 2007. Now, I know that in the grand scheme of things, 6 or 7 minutes doesn't make a whole lot of difference, and I've never been a competitive runner who cared about time. But somehow, that crappy, rainy Sunday, those 6 or 7 minutes meant to me that I hadn't improved at all since two summers ago. That all those miles, all that sweat, all that pain, really hadn't changed me at all. I got to the end, saw the time, and started to cry. The worst thing my friends could have done then would have been to say, "6 or 7 minutes really isn't that big a deal, so don't worry about it." Fortunately, my friends are runners. Instead, they said, "Sometimes, everybody has a bad run."
The week after that, we were scheduled for a 16 miler in Wellesley. As soon as I started, the nagging calf pain that I'd been having for weeks started up. Usually I acknowledge the pain, deal with it, and after 2 or 3 miles it leaves me alone. This time it got worse. At 5 miles, I was nervous. At 6 miles, I started stretching like mad. At 7 miles, I was scared. At 8 miles, I decided to stop. That was the first time ever, I think, that I quit a run due to injury. I was terrified that I was doomed, that Boston was a pipe dream. I got a ride back to the community center and found Coach Kelly, who told me that my muscle was probably way too tight, and that what I needed to do was ease off the running, cross train, and ice and stretch aggressively.
I felt like I was at a crossroads: not yet out of my reach, Boston would require all the careful, conservative diligence that I'm generally terrible at. Half an hour on the elliptical the following Monday killed my leg, so I was torn between wanting to rest up and wanting to push my cardiovascular fitness the way I knew I needed to. I saw my chiropractor that Friday and told him about my calf. He's always been really upfront with me about marathoning, and he told me that if I planned to get to the start line, I needed to get my butt in physical therapy ASAP.
I spent that day at work getting my new health insurance in order, so that I could find a doctor who would give me a quick referral to a PT (that's what they call a physio in the US). The first appointment I could get was a week later, so I took it, but I knew I needed to start PT way sooner than that. I remembered a PT named Erin that had spoken to our team a few times, and treated several of my friends--she was a marathon runner and had coached Team in Training before--but all I could remember was that her name was Erin and her practice was in Copley Square somewhere. After emailing all the runners I knew, I got her email address and sent her a desperate message. She got back to me over the weekend, telling me to come in on Monday, and not to worry about my referral. A good PT is a runner's totem: if all goes well we don't need them, but as soon as things take a turn for the worse, they're there to challenge us, heal us, and steer us back onto the right path. Marathon season is nuts for them: Erin comes early, stays late, and packs more patients into a tiny clinic than you could ever think possible, all because she knows we need her. She's amazing.
It was a week of exercises, icing, and electric shocks before she said I could run again--2 easy miles on the treadmill, with strict orders to stop if I felt any pain. I'd be lying if I said I felt no pain at all, but those 2 miles felt so good I could swear I was flying them. Erin cleared me to go back to practice, with strict orders to run SLOW, and 10 miles max (everyone else was doing 18). My leg was tight, really tight, but not painful, and I finished the ten miles feeling ok physically, but very nervous: how could I possibly run 26 miles if I was falling this far behind in my training? I ran the last 5 miles with Sarad, who's always excellent at talking sense into me--I'd run 12 with everybody else the following week, in the mini-taper leading up to the 20 miler, and then we'd see.
A few days later, on Erin's table, I shared my fears with her. She told me that there was not a doubt in her mind that I'd make it to the finish line. I told her that made one of us. Then I burst into tears. That explosion of anxiety somehow made it all better--she was the expert, after all, and if she said I could do it, then I had to quit worrying and just focus on getting better. I cross-trained like a madwoman, and ran the best 12 miles ever! I barely walked at all, and finished pretty strong. I felt great! I knew that I couldn't run 20 miles the following week: after all, the longest distance I had run was 15, four weeks earlier, and my calf was still not in top shape. I really wanted the confidence that would come from a 20, but I also knew that I'd rather run the marathon than the 20 miler. The next Wednesday I saw Erin--she hooked up the electrodes to my calf, and had me doing a calf-and-quad exercise against the wall. It hurt while I was doing it, but I thought the pain was strengthening my muscle. It hurt all day long, and all day Thursday--I skipped my Thursday evening run and got on a bike instead. Friday morning I went back to Erin, who stretched me, massaged me, iced me, and calmed me down. I promised I would do just under 18 miles, stopping at the fire station in Newton instead of at Center street with everyone else, skipping the strain that the Newton hills would put on my calf.
Saturday was early--I woke at 5:15 and met Karen and Katie in Davis at 6 for the ride to Wellesley. People that I'd never seen came out of the woodwork for the 20 miler. We got our singlets, heard a few great dedications, and piled onto buses to join the caravan out to Hopkinton. Every charity was doing their 20 miler yesterday, and we had perfect weather for it--cool but not cold, cloudy at the beginning, the sun came out about an hour into the run and it got warm, but not hot. Milling around in the town square by the start line, I got so excited that I had to remind myself to start slow--really slow. The first few miles of the race are downhill, and the biggest mistake runners make at Boston is to take the beginning too fast, leaving nothing left in the tank for the hills that start 17 miles later. There were so many people on the road that cops and cyclists had to keep us all in line (unlike Marathon Monday, the roads were still open to traffic!). I picked up the pace a little after about 4 miles, probably more than I should have, but I still felt great--a little tightness in my hamstring, but no pain at all in my calf. Every town we passed (Hopkinton, Ashland, Framingham, Natick, Wellesley, Newton) got a cheer. Our waterstops were 2 miles apart, and my plan was just to run from one to the next, one to the next. After 7 miles, we got into familiar territory, and I really settled into the run. My plan worked out well until the 8 mile stop turned out to be at 9 miles, my hamstring was super-tight, and I was getting hot in my long-sleeved shirt. We finally got to the stop right by Lake Cochituate, and the fatigue that I had just started to feel left me entirely. I stretched my legs, ate a gel, stripped down to my purple singlet, took a walk, and kept going.
The hills up to Wellesley college at mile 13 are always a little tough, and I kept waiting for the fatigue, waiting for the pain, and it just never came! It wasn't until we passed the college and hit the worst two miles--between the college and the community center, where every intersection looks exactly the same--that I started to feel it. At mile 15, we reached our starting point--the Wellesley community center--but I had to keep going. The long downhill into Newton Lower Falls was ok, but at the bottom I realized that both my legs felt like bricks. I was dragging. I walked up the hill over route 128, down a little dip, and up and across the street to the Newton-Wellesley hospital--less than half a mile, I think. Then I started to jog again, just one foot in front of the other. At the Woodland T stop, I got back in the zone. All of a sudden, the fire station was just ahead of me. I had done it! We turned the corner, and I knew that I could keep going--I knew that I could make it up the hills. Fortunately, I also knew that I shouldn't push myself. I said goodbye to my running buddies and wished them well for their last two miles, and hopped up on the table of an infinitely kind and patient volunteer PT from Marathon Physical Therapy who stretched me out right there on the course. It was more than an hour before I could get a ride back to the community center, but I could have floated there, I felt so good.
The Jacket. It's bright blue, it has bright yellow stripes, it has the logo of the 113th Boston marathon on the back, and I finally feel like I earned the right to buy it (along with a pair of official Boston running tights and a cute yellow unicorn tshirt). I spent ages staring at myself wearing The Jacket in the mirror before I got into bed. I'm too superstitious to wear The Jacket outside until I've finished the race, but I'll tell you: it looks damn good.
Here's what happened. I had a crappy half-marathon in Hyannis--I had wanted to run a 2:30, which would have put me on track for a 5:20 marathon, but a combination of bad weather, fatigue, and cockiness left me at about a 2:36 or so (I never even checked my official time). That's about the same, or slower, than I ran my first half in Maine in 2007. Now, I know that in the grand scheme of things, 6 or 7 minutes doesn't make a whole lot of difference, and I've never been a competitive runner who cared about time. But somehow, that crappy, rainy Sunday, those 6 or 7 minutes meant to me that I hadn't improved at all since two summers ago. That all those miles, all that sweat, all that pain, really hadn't changed me at all. I got to the end, saw the time, and started to cry. The worst thing my friends could have done then would have been to say, "6 or 7 minutes really isn't that big a deal, so don't worry about it." Fortunately, my friends are runners. Instead, they said, "Sometimes, everybody has a bad run."
The week after that, we were scheduled for a 16 miler in Wellesley. As soon as I started, the nagging calf pain that I'd been having for weeks started up. Usually I acknowledge the pain, deal with it, and after 2 or 3 miles it leaves me alone. This time it got worse. At 5 miles, I was nervous. At 6 miles, I started stretching like mad. At 7 miles, I was scared. At 8 miles, I decided to stop. That was the first time ever, I think, that I quit a run due to injury. I was terrified that I was doomed, that Boston was a pipe dream. I got a ride back to the community center and found Coach Kelly, who told me that my muscle was probably way too tight, and that what I needed to do was ease off the running, cross train, and ice and stretch aggressively.
I felt like I was at a crossroads: not yet out of my reach, Boston would require all the careful, conservative diligence that I'm generally terrible at. Half an hour on the elliptical the following Monday killed my leg, so I was torn between wanting to rest up and wanting to push my cardiovascular fitness the way I knew I needed to. I saw my chiropractor that Friday and told him about my calf. He's always been really upfront with me about marathoning, and he told me that if I planned to get to the start line, I needed to get my butt in physical therapy ASAP.
I spent that day at work getting my new health insurance in order, so that I could find a doctor who would give me a quick referral to a PT (that's what they call a physio in the US). The first appointment I could get was a week later, so I took it, but I knew I needed to start PT way sooner than that. I remembered a PT named Erin that had spoken to our team a few times, and treated several of my friends--she was a marathon runner and had coached Team in Training before--but all I could remember was that her name was Erin and her practice was in Copley Square somewhere. After emailing all the runners I knew, I got her email address and sent her a desperate message. She got back to me over the weekend, telling me to come in on Monday, and not to worry about my referral. A good PT is a runner's totem: if all goes well we don't need them, but as soon as things take a turn for the worse, they're there to challenge us, heal us, and steer us back onto the right path. Marathon season is nuts for them: Erin comes early, stays late, and packs more patients into a tiny clinic than you could ever think possible, all because she knows we need her. She's amazing.
It was a week of exercises, icing, and electric shocks before she said I could run again--2 easy miles on the treadmill, with strict orders to stop if I felt any pain. I'd be lying if I said I felt no pain at all, but those 2 miles felt so good I could swear I was flying them. Erin cleared me to go back to practice, with strict orders to run SLOW, and 10 miles max (everyone else was doing 18). My leg was tight, really tight, but not painful, and I finished the ten miles feeling ok physically, but very nervous: how could I possibly run 26 miles if I was falling this far behind in my training? I ran the last 5 miles with Sarad, who's always excellent at talking sense into me--I'd run 12 with everybody else the following week, in the mini-taper leading up to the 20 miler, and then we'd see.
A few days later, on Erin's table, I shared my fears with her. She told me that there was not a doubt in her mind that I'd make it to the finish line. I told her that made one of us. Then I burst into tears. That explosion of anxiety somehow made it all better--she was the expert, after all, and if she said I could do it, then I had to quit worrying and just focus on getting better. I cross-trained like a madwoman, and ran the best 12 miles ever! I barely walked at all, and finished pretty strong. I felt great! I knew that I couldn't run 20 miles the following week: after all, the longest distance I had run was 15, four weeks earlier, and my calf was still not in top shape. I really wanted the confidence that would come from a 20, but I also knew that I'd rather run the marathon than the 20 miler. The next Wednesday I saw Erin--she hooked up the electrodes to my calf, and had me doing a calf-and-quad exercise against the wall. It hurt while I was doing it, but I thought the pain was strengthening my muscle. It hurt all day long, and all day Thursday--I skipped my Thursday evening run and got on a bike instead. Friday morning I went back to Erin, who stretched me, massaged me, iced me, and calmed me down. I promised I would do just under 18 miles, stopping at the fire station in Newton instead of at Center street with everyone else, skipping the strain that the Newton hills would put on my calf.
Saturday was early--I woke at 5:15 and met Karen and Katie in Davis at 6 for the ride to Wellesley. People that I'd never seen came out of the woodwork for the 20 miler. We got our singlets, heard a few great dedications, and piled onto buses to join the caravan out to Hopkinton. Every charity was doing their 20 miler yesterday, and we had perfect weather for it--cool but not cold, cloudy at the beginning, the sun came out about an hour into the run and it got warm, but not hot. Milling around in the town square by the start line, I got so excited that I had to remind myself to start slow--really slow. The first few miles of the race are downhill, and the biggest mistake runners make at Boston is to take the beginning too fast, leaving nothing left in the tank for the hills that start 17 miles later. There were so many people on the road that cops and cyclists had to keep us all in line (unlike Marathon Monday, the roads were still open to traffic!). I picked up the pace a little after about 4 miles, probably more than I should have, but I still felt great--a little tightness in my hamstring, but no pain at all in my calf. Every town we passed (Hopkinton, Ashland, Framingham, Natick, Wellesley, Newton) got a cheer. Our waterstops were 2 miles apart, and my plan was just to run from one to the next, one to the next. After 7 miles, we got into familiar territory, and I really settled into the run. My plan worked out well until the 8 mile stop turned out to be at 9 miles, my hamstring was super-tight, and I was getting hot in my long-sleeved shirt. We finally got to the stop right by Lake Cochituate, and the fatigue that I had just started to feel left me entirely. I stretched my legs, ate a gel, stripped down to my purple singlet, took a walk, and kept going.
The hills up to Wellesley college at mile 13 are always a little tough, and I kept waiting for the fatigue, waiting for the pain, and it just never came! It wasn't until we passed the college and hit the worst two miles--between the college and the community center, where every intersection looks exactly the same--that I started to feel it. At mile 15, we reached our starting point--the Wellesley community center--but I had to keep going. The long downhill into Newton Lower Falls was ok, but at the bottom I realized that both my legs felt like bricks. I was dragging. I walked up the hill over route 128, down a little dip, and up and across the street to the Newton-Wellesley hospital--less than half a mile, I think. Then I started to jog again, just one foot in front of the other. At the Woodland T stop, I got back in the zone. All of a sudden, the fire station was just ahead of me. I had done it! We turned the corner, and I knew that I could keep going--I knew that I could make it up the hills. Fortunately, I also knew that I shouldn't push myself. I said goodbye to my running buddies and wished them well for their last two miles, and hopped up on the table of an infinitely kind and patient volunteer PT from Marathon Physical Therapy who stretched me out right there on the course. It was more than an hour before I could get a ride back to the community center, but I could have floated there, I felt so good.
The Jacket. It's bright blue, it has bright yellow stripes, it has the logo of the 113th Boston marathon on the back, and I finally feel like I earned the right to buy it (along with a pair of official Boston running tights and a cute yellow unicorn tshirt). I spent ages staring at myself wearing The Jacket in the mirror before I got into bed. I'm too superstitious to wear The Jacket outside until I've finished the race, but I'll tell you: it looks damn good.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
15
Last week we ran our 15-miler out toward Hopkinton. I started strong, and although I kept waiting for fatigue to hit me, I kept outrunning it. It was cold and windy, and when we turned around right at the Framingham town line (we finally hit it!), I was so excited for the wind to be at my back. I was pretty sore and tired when we got to Natick at about mile 10, but continued on strong into Wellesley...when the pain really hit. I had 12 great miles that day, and 3 of the worst ever. I was tired, I was cold, my calves were cramping, and I was completely miserable. I couldn't imagine running 11 more after that. I was frustrated also, because I never got to celebrate the 12 great ones that I did run...or maybe I had just gone out too fast. In any case, I finished 15 faster than I had finished the 14 the week before, so all in all not too bad.
Monday, February 9, 2009
The pilgrimage
Saturday was beautiful--sunny, kind of chilly, the kind of weather that makes you want to get out there and run. Not all my teammates agreed: it was on the wrong side of freezing when we started our run. I was feeling a little dehydrated, but I wasn't too worried about the 14 miles that lay ahead of me. It wasn't until the hills that I started to question whether I really had it in me. You know those days when you're not quite sure if you ever fully woke up in the morning? It was like that. Most runs have a beginning (where you're not quite warmed up yet), a middle (where you hit your stride), and an end (where you start to wish you were almost done). This run just didn't have a middle. I was able to run up more of Heartbreak than I was two weeks ago, but I still walked the end of it.
Heartbreak on Saturday was a strange sight--the sheer number of runners heading up wouldn't have surprised me had there been some shrine at the top. It really did resemble a pilgrimage, though trust me, there ain't no absolution at Boston College, or at least none for runners.
We turned around just before the turn down to Cleveland Circle, and started to head down--after a few miles down, I felt something in my left calf, something that I didn't want to be feeling. It's always hard to describe pain--it wasn't terrible, but I felt it every time I put my foot down. I stopped to stretch it out a couple of times, but it kept coming back. I tried to massage it away with The Stick, but it was too painful to apply any real pressure. I ran until the last hill back up to Wellesley, when Sarad came back down to get me. (Amazingly enough, I still wasn't last!) Sarad said that my leg pain probably had a lot to do with my dehydration and my tight muscles--I believed him at the time, but it does still hurt, so I'm starting to get nervous.
I took my first ice bath of the season when I got home--I locked myself in the bathroom with a sweatshirt, a burrito, and a 10-pound bag of ice, and forced myself to sit in the bathtub for 10 minutes, until my burrito was done and my feet had turned a disturbing shade of purple. My legs did feel much better after, though.
I felt well enough on Sunday to head out for a 4-mile recovery run--the 40-something degree temperatures helped significantly.
I'm taking the day off today, and I'm only going to run 5 miles tomorrow, so we'll have to see how the calf does. I'm taking plenty of "Vitamin I" (what my dad calls Advil), and doing lots of stretching and icing, but the muscle is still too sensitive for a real massage. I'm going to try to book a massage appointment for Thursday night, so hopefully by then it can take the pressure. In the meantime, send it lots of good thoughts!
Heartbreak on Saturday was a strange sight--the sheer number of runners heading up wouldn't have surprised me had there been some shrine at the top. It really did resemble a pilgrimage, though trust me, there ain't no absolution at Boston College, or at least none for runners.
We turned around just before the turn down to Cleveland Circle, and started to head down--after a few miles down, I felt something in my left calf, something that I didn't want to be feeling. It's always hard to describe pain--it wasn't terrible, but I felt it every time I put my foot down. I stopped to stretch it out a couple of times, but it kept coming back. I tried to massage it away with The Stick, but it was too painful to apply any real pressure. I ran until the last hill back up to Wellesley, when Sarad came back down to get me. (Amazingly enough, I still wasn't last!) Sarad said that my leg pain probably had a lot to do with my dehydration and my tight muscles--I believed him at the time, but it does still hurt, so I'm starting to get nervous.
I took my first ice bath of the season when I got home--I locked myself in the bathroom with a sweatshirt, a burrito, and a 10-pound bag of ice, and forced myself to sit in the bathtub for 10 minutes, until my burrito was done and my feet had turned a disturbing shade of purple. My legs did feel much better after, though.
I felt well enough on Sunday to head out for a 4-mile recovery run--the 40-something degree temperatures helped significantly.
I'm taking the day off today, and I'm only going to run 5 miles tomorrow, so we'll have to see how the calf does. I'm taking plenty of "Vitamin I" (what my dad calls Advil), and doing lots of stretching and icing, but the muscle is still too sensitive for a real massage. I'm going to try to book a massage appointment for Thursday night, so hopefully by then it can take the pressure. In the meantime, send it lots of good thoughts!
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