Back to my roots

I ran the Ridgewood Run on Monday, and I’ve got to say, it was one of the most exhilarating experiences. I haven’t raced in YEARS, probably close to six years or more, and I was very nervous about it, but once I got out there, the adrenaline kicked in and the 5K flew by. Well, flew by in 26:32, but hey, it’s a start.

There’s just something about road races that gets me going. The excitement of it all, the carnival-like atmosphere, the rush of runners at the start and then the relief when it all thins out and you’ve got room to move. It’s fantastic. It was the most fun I’ve had in a while, even with all the painful muscle exertion, the red-faced can’t really breathe feeling, and the 85 degree heat that made every sprinkler and garden hose along the course seem like a gift from God. I mean, where else do you get to run under a red white and blue balloon rainbow and have someone hand you a cup of gatorade?

And it was also fun to christen my return to the racing world with the Ridgewood Run. They had a booth that displayed all the race T-shirts in the event’s 32-year history, and it was fun to pick out the years I ran and the T-shirts I once wore. I think I was just seven or eight years old the first time I conquered the 1-mile Fun Run with Dad. And it wasn’t until freshman year of high school that I stepped it up to the 5K, this time with my IHA track buddies. And then there was a year that I ran with Maggie in the 5K. She was really little – I don’t know how she finished it, but she did. Somewhere in there I ran again with my friends, the time Maureen got lost on the course and ended up in the Oak Street apartments. And now I can add 2006 to that list, the year I ran it with Evan and got to share with him my favorite Memorial Day tradition, and the year I decided to take this marathon-quest by the horns.

My only regret is that we didn’t make it to Graydon’s opening day afterwards. Oh well. Next year I’m running the 10K. Just wait. And maybe I’ll cap it off with a plunge off the high dive afterwards. We’ll see.

Char was wrong

I feel scammed. Well, almost. It’s like everything I ever thought about muscle fatigue wasn’t true. Now I know how the people in Galileo’s day felt, realizing for the first time that the world didn’t revolve around them. So you’re telling me that the burn in my muscles isn’t a sign that I’ve reached my lactic threshold and should stop? Hogwash!

But it’s true, well at least according to the latest research out of UC Berkeley regarding lactic acid. Read the New York Times article here. Apparently lactic acid is a fuel, not a waste product, and it actually helps our muscles work longer and harder, rather than inhibiting their function. Our whole conception of muscle fatigue has been turned on its head.

My high school track and cross country coach, Char, was the first one to tell me about lactic acid, years before this most recent study was released. It’s a negative byproduct of your muscles’ exertion, she’d tell us. And since I’m a visual person, I used to picture my muscles building up a coating of the caustic stuff as I pushed my way to the top of the hill on a training run. And I used to use it as an excuse to ease up, too, thinking that I had reached that threshold. But I won’t do that anymore, that’s for sure.

Tonight, when I’m out on a run and I feel that heavy weight around my leg muscles, rather than slow my pace I’ll savor the burn. With the lactic acid fuel to work off of, it’ll be like stopping for a quick snack to keep the legs pumping. And I won’t let this about-face of medical information slow me down; it’ll just speed me up, or rather keep me pushing that mileage threshold.

But that’s what it’s all about, right? Building and revising and revisiting all that we know and making sure it all fits into the here and now. That’s what returning to this sport has been for me, at least. It’s not 1998 anymore. It’s time to learn some new tricks.

Duckling fluff

We were out running the other afternoon, one of those early evenings where the sky is a perfect blue but it’s still a bit too cold to sit out for too long, and we passed a flock of baby ducklings. There were six or seven of them, standing around their mother (or father?) on the banks of the river. Their yellow fur-feathers looked so soft. My first instinct was to scoop one up and bury my face in its fluffiness. But I didn’t, of course. I did, however, think about those ducklings for the rest of my run, and about how magical new beginnings can be.

Those ducklings are just starting out their life, I thought. I don’t know how long ducks live, but I figure they’ve got at least the whole summer ahead of them. And by the time the leaves turn yellow and brown, they’ll be full grown ducks, ready to fly south for the winter. And next spring, when they return to Boston, maybe each of those little fluff balls will have their own gaggle behind them. And the cycle of new beginnings will just continue.

That’s what new beginnings do, anyway. They develop and grow and then move on, making room for the next big thing. And spring is the perfect time for new beginnings anyway. At the cusp of three long and (hopefully) quiet months of summer ahead of me, I’m hoping my new beginnings will flourish into concrete accomplishments, too. You know, get some more bylines under my belt, hopefully from a couple big name publications. Up my mileage to a comfortable six mile regular run. Formulate a study plan and figure out the big grad school question. Keep planning my wedding, and make sure everything is on track with that. And most importantly, keep writing, because it’s my only vehicle to where I want to go in life.

These are lofty goals, especially during the lazy summer months. But there won’t be much lolling around in the sunshine for me, sadly. I am a woman on a mission right now. Hopefully by next fall I’ll be able to trade in that duckling-fluff for something a little more substantial, too. But right now, I’m still working on finding my footing.

Best drug ever

Ah, the runner’s high, gotta love it. It’s that rush of energy and ability and life that surges into you in the middle of a good run, coming through your veins and down through your leg muscles, keeping you going when you just want to stop. It’s the most invigorating feeling. Today, I caught the runner’s high just as my energy was starting to wane, and all the sudden, I was no longer trudging along – I was floating. It was great. It’s what reminds you that you’re alive.

Scientists say the runner’s high comes from a release of endorphins that occurs when the body reaches a certain level of fatigue but keeps pushing through it anyway. I can remember the first time I felt it. I was coming around the final bend of an 800 m track race at St. Joe’s high school, and I was hurting. My face was red, my breath eked out in desperately slow intervals, and my eyes had started to tear. But all the sudden, I felt amazing, like I was on some kind of feel-good drug, and I was able to pick up the pace and bring in the last straightaway strong. I was only about 15 at the time and very new to running, but as I walked it out, came to the fence, and dropped by hands to my knees, I can still remember thinking, that was cool, I’m going to have to keep at this running thing.

And I did keep at it, though not consistently. But that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I’m back in the game now, and the joys of running are still there, every step of the way. It’s like riding a bicycle, you never forget how to do it, and you never forget how to love it. And it’s like an old friend who is always there, waiting with a smile, ready to have a good time.

Rain, rain, go away

It’s so hard to get motivated on rainy days. And it’s even harder to get motivated to run. Especially to run outside. Today, I did my workout indoors at the gym on my lunch break. But since it looks like Boston is going to be underwater for another week or so, and I know that if I run indoors every day I’ll go stir crazy, it’s time to dredge up some of the motivations that get me out the door and moving when I just feel like staying put.

- Physical fitness. This one is pretty key for me. We only get one body, one chance at life, and this is it. I don’t want to have a weak heart or poor muscles when I’m older. I may be young now, but I’m well aware that if I don’t keep this machine well-oiled, it’s not going to keep cranking forever. Aside from the more imminent threat of feeling pudgy in my bikini at the beach if the sun ever decides to return, keeping my heart and my bones and muscles and lungs strong is a big motivator.

- Me time. When I’m running, even if I’m with someone else or even if I’ve got my iPod plugged into my ears, it’s time to think. Long runs can be the best time to clean house upstairs, run through the things I want to get done, the things I need to get done, and the things I haven’t gotten done yet. Come up with new ideas for how to do things better. And muddle through tough decisions with a clarity that’s difficult to achieve when you’re surrounded by more than just the road ahead and the rhythm of your breathing.

- Goal achievement. When I was in high school, I told myself that I’d run the New York City marathon by the time I was 26. I’m 24. Time is running out. I won’t let this goal slip away. Sometimes I think that the more people I tell about it, the more likely I’ll be to buck up and actually do it, to avoid embarrassment on not following through, of course. But in the end, the real shame and disappointment will be mine if I don’t make it. Which is why I know I will.

- Fresh air. What other reasons do we have for just being outside in the early evening? The top reasons that come to mind involve outdoor seating and salt on the rim of your glass – not likely conducive to motivation #1 (see above). But with running, you get it all: the calmness and coolness of the air as the sun sets, the ever-changing scenery as you stride along the road or path, and the chance to feel lucky as you pass drivers still stuck on their commute home. Simply put, running gets you outside.

So tomorrow, when I look out the window and see more and more rain all around me, hopefully I’ll pick one of the above motivations and set my mind to it. Hopefully I’ll toss aside the temptations of just going to the gym, or staying home and doing something else. Hopefully I’ll get outside and run. And even though I may come home soaking wet, it’ll be worth it.

Mexicali Blues

Nothing comes for free, I guess. Not even great vacations. And while our long weekend in Mexico was wonderful, I’ve been sick as a dog since we’ve returned. And it hasn’t been fun.

While I’ve spent the bulk of the past week in bed or on the couch in front of the TV, I have to admit, the thought of running hasn’t crossed my mind too much. No, I can’t honestly say that I’ve been lying there, watching marathons of MTV’s absurd “Tiara Girls” reality show, and wishing that I could be outside running instead. Instead, I’ve been enjoying the rest. But now I’m ready to get back to it.

I’ll run tomorrow, I hope, despite the nasty weather we’ve got in Boston this week. And maybe I won’t be able to log as many miles as I could before this week-long retreat from running, but it’ll be okay. At least I’ll be getting back to it, and that’s what matters.

I can remember how I hated to be sick in high school. When I suffered a running-related injury that kept my off my feet for a couple weeks at a time, I remember pining for the day that I could get back into my running shoes and back onto the road. And I can remember how good it felt once I could get back out there. It felt even better than I’ve been feeling this spring, as I’ve gradually returned to the sport, I remember. At least I have that to look forward to.

Here are some pictures of Mexico. Enjoy!

Blast from the past

Well, the nice long weekend in Mexico was a welcome vacation from it all – work, running, writing and blogging – but now I’m back in the states and ready to get back to the grindstone. And I’m armed with some new motivation that’s spurring me to action.

It all came with a nice little blast from the past, a wake up call if you will. The day before we flew to Puebla last week, I was running on the indoor track at the gym, and I noticed a girl wearing a T-shirt from my high school cross country team. If it weren’t for the T-shirt, I might not have recognized her, but when I passed her on the track, I remembered that she was an underclassman when I was a senior, and that as I graduated she was one of the teams up and coming stars. So I stopped to say hi.

Turns out she just ran her first marathon. The Boston marathon, no less. She clearly hasn’t spent her college years indulging in booze and cigarettes and laziness and fun, but rather kept up with her running and evidently didn’t miss a step.

It was kind of a kick in the butt for me, and it got me going. After our brief conversation, I ran an extra mile, fueled with the adrenaline that only comes from that kind of anxiety. There I was, a couple years older and feeling like I was wiser, but all the sudden realizing I was not nearly as accomplished as she. How come I couldn’t keep my own eyes on the prize after high school? Fears about betrayed myself and my goals spun through my head as I raced against my own lungs, powered both by the drive to regain my strength and endurance and the desperate desire to make up for all the time spent slacking off. It was a feeling of regret and humility, but it was short lived.

Don’t let it get to you, I told myself as I rounded another lap. I may not have run a marathon yet or won a Fulbright scholarship, but I have experienced successes of my own kind. I am surrounded by friends and family and love and happiness, and most importantly, I know what I want out of life and I’m on track to achieving it, no matter how long it takes me. There’s no point in being anxious about my past decisions, I reasoned. We each have our own lives to lead, and there’s no magic indicator of success or accomplishment. The only magic indicator is how I feel at the end of the day, and most days, I feel like I’ve made strides.

The secret lies in persistence. I know that if I just keep plugging away at the writing and the running and the dreams, someday I’ll be able to floor myself with an impressive listing of my own accomplishments. It’s nice to hear the paths old teammates have taken, but in the end, it’s only my own path that matters. Sometimes it just takes a little wake up call to keep my feet moving in the right direction.

My best friend

They say dogs are man’s best friend, and I never believed them. Not until I became best friends with a dog. And I can tell you, Nietzsche is one of the greatest friends I ever had.

Nietzsche, or Puppy as he is called, can’t really keep up with me when running, but it’s okay. His little legs can only keep moving at lightening speed for about a mile and a half, we’ve found, with a couple curiosity breaks to sniff tree trunks and yelp at other dogs. And he much prefers meandering around the park at his leisure to racing by my side on his leash.

But I don’t mind leaving him behind, because I know that when I get back from my run, or back from work, or a night out, whatever, he’ll be waiting for me at home. When I put the keys in the lock the metallic jingle will rouse him, and when I climb the stairs to our apartment, the first thing I see are his little feet peeking out from under the door. Nine times out of ten it’s the most welcome sight of my day.

To have a dog wait so eagerly for your return that he jumps on your legs and runs to get all his toys to play is possibly one of the most gratifying things ever. To watch him nod off on my lap at night while I’m watching TV brings a calm comfort you don’t find in most friends. And to wake up in the morning with a warm little ball of Puppy curled up in the crook of your stomach or the back of your knees is bliss, sheer bliss.

Even though he’s not even really my dog, he’s still the greatest friend in the world. We’re pals, me and Puppy. Even though he can’t keep up with me on longer runs.

Scent of summer

I smelled it yesterday when we were running through the wooded part of the trail, just when we came up the hill towards the final stretch of our four-mile run. It’s that familiar scent that I love so much. It’s the smell of springtime, of trees and plants and leaves blooming and the smell of the air losing the dryness of winter. April is finally over, the scent sang to me. May is here. And summer is coming.

There’s nothing more delightful, more calming, more serene than the smell of summer. It’s the scent of green, a whiff of new life budding, of wet soil and dewy mornings and bugs and softness and light. And when I smelled it yesterday, I couldn’t help but take an extra deep breath. In that one inhale, it all came back to me.

It’s that familiar tang that reminds me of running through the woods at camp, early in the day, hours before flagpole, up and down the hills behind the nature shed and towards the back chapel. Morning light coming through the trees, not hot yet but promising another sticky day full of laughter and surprise and discovery and bliss. It’s that familiar perfume of adventure, of coming to a fork in the trail, feeling the early morning chill and the uncertainty of which way leads back to the main road, but taking one route anyway, sure that either way will eventually lead to somewhere familiar.

Even here, in Boston, miles and years and lifetimes away from those summers at camp, that familiar odor still smacks of summer in my mind. When I caught it on the wind yesterday, I took a deep breath, savoring every trace and hint of all that I have to look forward to. Summer is coming again, and though 2006 will be vastly different than 1996 and from any other year, it’s still going to be summer.

And I can’t wait to catch that scent on the air again.