Marking Miles

Lazy blogger

2006-08-09T11:34:00.000-04:00

I have been a very lazy blogger lately. Maybe a non-existent blogger, you could say. But that's because I've been very busy. But this morning, I got an email that reminded me of my blog, of the importance of keeping up with my writing, and of how much I really do love running, and writing about it. So I'm going to make a concerted effort to keep up with this. But in the meantime, I thought I'd fill you in on what I've been doing with myself when not blogging:

Last weekend was our engagement party. It was a clambake-themed party at a beautiful lakefront property in Arlington. From what I hear, everyone had a good time. I certainly did! Even Nietzsche dressed for the occassion, wearing a blue polo shirt with little red lobsters embriodered on the back: (picture coming). Evan also did his share to make my face bright red by serenading me in front of all our guests on the karaoke machine. He sang "Lets Stay Together." It was quite a scene: (picture coming). But all in all, I think the best time we had was stuffing our faces with the delicious lobster that Woodman's provided. (picture coming) Yum!

Evan and I have also been doing a lot of traveling. Since my last post about the camping trip, we spent a weekend in Chatham on the Cape, which was just glorious. We brought our bicycles and biked A LOT, which was a nice balance to all the delicious Candy Manor fudge we indulged in.

And speaking of biking, I have been doing a lot more of that than running lately, mostly out of necessity. My bike gets me to work, and to French class in Cambridge, and many other places. But I decided to test the endurance powers of biking versus running a few weeks ago, and found that I can still run a solid 3 miles in under 30 minutes just from the bike training. That's pretty sweet. Maybe I should try training for a triathalon. We'll see.

Super Hiker Dog

2006-07-11T10:02:00.000-04:00

The first time we came across a stream that required hopping from rock to rock, we picked up Nietzsche and carried him across. He came along for the hike, but we knew our highly opinionated dog prefers not to get wet, so we “portaged” him across.

But that didn’t last long.

By about the fourth or fifth such brook we crossed (a very wet hike), Nietzsche was fording his “river” by himself. We laughed when we saw his skinny white legs submerged in mud nearly up to his stomach, but he just shook himself off on the other side, happy to be on solid ground again. We jokingly asked him if he liked his swim, but he just cocked his head, silently saying “Can we proceed, please?” He never gave us the ultimatum on the bank, running in the opposite direction before unwillingly being carried across. No, he was enjoying it. And by the time we hiked back to the car the next day, he was voluntarily splashing in and out of the water, not even attempting to keep himself dry by rock-hopping.

Nietzsche is a trooper, that’s for sure. And he makes hiking and camping more fun, I’ve decided. When you don’t have TV or radio or anything other than trees and the long path ahead, you can quickly run out of things to talk about, especially five hours into the woods. The ennui of the forest sets in fast. But when you’re with a 12-pound puppy standing barely a foot off the ground, watching him navigate what must have seemed as strange as Mars to his suburb-dog upbringing, the entertainment never ends.

Sure, he slept like a baby the entire drive home, and is likely happy to be resting his tired muscles and bug bites all week long in a quiet, dry, and empty apartment. But Nietzsche doesn’t regret being included on our camping trip. Because, just like humans, dogs like to stretch their legs and breath in the fresh mountain air, too.

Next time, I think he’ll carry his own backpack with food and water, maybe.

Anyway, here's some pictures from our backpacking trip into the Pemigewassett Wildnerness in NH. Enjoy!

Nietzsche was Evan's "right hand man" when it came to navigating the fork in the trail, and even though they butted heads a few times, we found our way out of the woods.

Puppy and me like to spend lots of Q-T together

Especially when Evan is sleeping

But when there's food around - forget it!

Dead Running

2006-07-06T11:20:00.000-04:00

What better way to motivate people to run 4.2 miles than to choreograph the race to laid-back, fun-loving tunes? I guess that’s the idea behind the 2006 Jerry Garcia Memorial Run in Cambridge on July 27, which will soon become Evan’s and my longest road race yet, literally going the “extra mile” beyond the manageable yet typical 5K.

It’s going to take a little more training to ensure that the race will be more fun than grueling, but hey, I’m up to it. Because I know that when I pass the two-mile mark and my lungs start to ache with that all-too-familiar burn and tightness, that the tunes of the Grateful Dead will be just what I need to keep those feet tapping along the pavement. And in that final mile, when my mind will inevitable scream “the 5K is over!”, the sea of tie-dye’s bright colors on the backs of my fellow racers will wake me up and push me to that finish line. Not to mention the promise of the after-race barbeque. Food always motivates me.

It’s going to be a great time, for the music, the atmosphere, and the fun times. And I’m looking forward to it not only for the achievement of completing a 4.2 mile road race, but for the good times that I’m sure we’ll have that night. The organizers of this race have it right: Make it fun and tempting, and people will stretch themselves farther to participate.

They’ve already got me salivating over the Brie Burger race in August, after all. Now that sounds like a good time.

Boston, you're my home

2006-07-05T09:05:00.000-04:00

Leaning against the railing above Memorial Drive last night, staring up at the Boston fireworks, my face radiating glee and delight, it struck me: This is a fantastic city. I love Boston.

How could I not? Where else could I live far enough away from the hustle and bustle to let my dog jump out of the car and stroll the street without a leash if my hands are full of bags and groceries, yet still be close enough to reach work, play, Downtown and Harvard Square within 15 minutes on my bike? Where else can I be part of a crowd of half a million people stretching a half mile on both sides of the Charles River and yet still run into five friends within one 500-meter stretch? Boston is like a city and a town in one, I’ve decided.

It’s going to be tough to leave, if I ever do. I know I’ll miss the mix of city, suburbs and mountains and the one-of-a-kind blur they make as they all come together. I’ll miss being able to spend one hour kayaking up and down the river and the next feasting at one of Cambridge’s delicious and unique restaurants. And I’ll miss the close proximity to New England’s most beautiful places, with an ease of escape you don’t find in many big cities.

But for now, forget about all that missing. I’m not going anywhere yet. Not for a while. As I watched the fireworks spray their colored lights across the sky to the tune of Aerosmith and the Boston Pops last night, I was sure of one thing: Boston may not be the end of the road for me, but for now, it’s home.

The dollhouse

2006-06-27T14:17:00.001-04:00

Author's Note: The following piece was written for a creative writing class I am taking this summer. The instructor asked us to write about libraries. And this was the first thing that came to my mind. I think it's pretty cool, and if you grew up in Ridgewood or ever went to the Ridgewood library, you'll probably know what I'm talking about. And by the way, the picture is not of me. Enjoy!

It was the dollhouse she liked the best, tucked in the back corner of the children’s room, always in the same spot regardless of how the library shelves shifted around it. She had to stand on a stool to look inside it, but it was worth it, every time.

The yellow striped wallpaper and the green couches in the family room reminded her of grandma’s house, of warmth and coziness and plush rugs that tickled your toes if you ran across them barefoot.

And in the kitchen, there it was, that Thanksgiving turkey, tiny yet just as glistening and plump as the one she watched Dad carve each year, also perched up on a stool, waiting to someday be tall enough.

And as she traced her fingers up the miniature stairs, carpeted in pink, she thought about the family that lived there, how happy they must be, how truly content in their home.

Books could carry her to other places, she knew, and she loved them for it. She would spend a lifetime devouring stories for that reason alone, and even at five, she was sure that a love of reading was in her future. But before she selected her book, she always had to visit the dollhouse. It was the best part of the library. And when she looked inside it, her little nose pressed against the glass, it was like traveling to the greatest dreamland ever.

Inside that dollhouse lay a place far more accessible than the faraway lands of fiction. And for that, it was the best part of the library.

Smooth sailing?

2006-06-23T16:01:00.000-04:00

The smell of fried dough bubbling out of the bakery, the morning sun glinting off the water, the crisp, clean air in your lungs - being on a bicycle means just being there in a way that you can't from a car. And the exercise and fresh air both have a surprisingly similar effect as a caffeine fix. Plus there's the ability to fly through red lights and cross streets with just a little more ease than the creeping along, waiting for your moment, infuriating frustration of sitting behind the wheel. And you still get to work at the same time, maybe earlier. So why not ride your bike everyday, everywhere?

This was my logic about a month ago – before I actually started to ride my bike everywhere. Since the weather finally broke about five weeks ago, I’ve glided to work, class, the store and even Sunday brunch on two wheels rather than four. And while it’s been great for my sanity and my thighs, it’s also admittedly not been the easiest undertaking.

Today I rode home in the pouring rain, for example. Imagine jumping in a giant, dirty Boston pothole puddle, feet first – now picture me riding home from work this afternoon. I might as well have swam home in the humidity-blasting thunderstorm-slash-deluge. I’m just keeping my fingers crossed that my moccasins manage to bounce back from the drenching.

Even on those smiley days that the sun is out and the ride is breezy and you feel like you’re in a Disney movie, though, bike riding is no feat for the weak of heart. Note to all drivers: If you hug the curb at the intersection, then a bike can’t get by. Share the road. Please. And look before you open your car door on a city street. My hands may be quick with the brakes, but my legs are quicker, and by bike is moving pretty fast. Can’t stop on a dime. You’re the one in the car, after all. You’re going to get there before me, anyway. What’s the rush for?

It may save a little bit of gas money and may be more fun to glide down three straight miles of hills than to snake up six stories of a parking garage, but it’s still a commute. And I know I’m lucky to be in the minority of people who actually can ride their bikes most places they want to go, including work. I appreciate that, believe me. But I’ve just got to keep reminding myself of two things: wear a helmet, and keep a raincoat in the backpack at all times. Because on a bike, you just don’t know.

Happy Summer!

2006-06-21T12:33:00.000-04:00

The beads of sweat forming out of nowhere on my forehead as I amble along the hot pavement each carry a miniature picture of a hot and sticky day of the past, a little scene of somewhere else, someone else, another feeling, another time. Summer days never come alone.

The relief of a cold shower at the end of a long day and the crisp crunch of fresh vegetables with dinner each represent little snapshots of another kind of refreshment on another day, a jump in the waterfall, maybe, or a jaunt through the sprinkler. Because summer days never come alone.

Sitting in traffic, alternating the AC with the windows, trying to save a buck while regretting the added bonus of leather seats, my mind strays to other times, an afternoon spent in the woods, embracing the shade and all its coolness, craving the eternity that never was to be. For summer days never come alone.

Nights when the sun sets empty handed, trailing none of the day’s heat home with it, I am taken right back there, sitting around a ringed campfire in the dark and hanging heat, or lounging on the grass, swatting at bugs, waiting for the fireworks to start. And I remember that summer days never come alone.

It is a fixed definition, a straight line that never wavers, a set of associations that will stay forever. It is summer, and it is here. And it never comes alone.

How could I feel the burning of the sand beneath the soles of my feet without the thought of scurrying across the pool parking lot barefoot, jumping from painted line to painted line, aiming for Mom’s car and the ride home? I can’t, because summer never comes alone.

No, I can’t taste the sweet crunch of watermelon in my mouth and the rush of its cool pinkness without the all too present yet all too faraway scene of a seed-spitting contest, right there, in the forefront of my mind. No, there is no way to separate it. Summer never comes alone.

Every tick of the thermometer is a glimpse of the past and every adventure into nature is a venture also into my mind, where a little memory is attached to each and every feeling. They’re the best associations, and they’ll never go away. They're like little snippets of paper that you hold tight in your pocket. They’ll just grow greater, adding more and more as the years go on.

Because summer never comes alone.

Grand return

2006-06-20T16:42:00.000-04:00

My blog will return tomorrow, June 21. And it's going to be better than ever. So get ready.

Author's Note: Marking Miles will no longer be all about running. I think it's time for a broader focus. I mean, I do other stuff too, right? And you want to hear about it all, right? Or at least read about it all. So here it is.

-Kate

Back to my roots

2006-05-31T17:25:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-24T15:33:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-23T10:13:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-18T20:33:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-15T13:47:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-12T12:05:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-09T12:49:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-03T11:42:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-01T14:05:00.000-04:00

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.

A year's worth of strides

2006-04-30T14:31:00.000-04:00

We ran four miles this morning. Evan and I, out along the river, a good way to start a Sunday morning. But it wasn’t an easy four miles. My leg muscles felt like pudding, each leg a giant tree trunk I had to drag along, step after step. But we finished, eventually, with a couple walk-breaks in between. And it feels good. Four miles is a distance I definitely could not have run a year ago, a feat that would have been so out of reach to me then.

That’s not the only thing that’s changed in the past year. A year ago, I was flying solo, navigating all the ups and downs of life by myself, and admittedly, I wasn’t doing too great of a job at it. Today, with Evan by my side, I'm cruising around each bump and bend with much more ease. And I’m so much stronger for it.

Last year this time, I was stagnating at a job that I knew wasn’t going to take me anywhere. And I was feeling the stresses of running myself ragged for something that wasn’t going to lead me where I wanted to go. And I knew it. But it took me a while to get up the courage to break away from that “dream career”, to quit the job, and to move on with my life. Today, I may not have a job that is taking me somewhere, but I’m taking myself somewhere, and it’s way better than it was a year ago.

Over the past year I've also met some of life’s greatest surprises, and they’ve all turned out to be fantastic ones. A year ago, I never would have imagined that I’d end up falling in love with Evan, and end up planning a wedding with him, getting ready to make a lifelong commitment to him. But I am, and it’s better than anything I ever could have expected.

I did imagine that I’d get up the courage to get my life together, though. A year ago, I hoped that I’d be able to get myself into an exercise regime that I’d stick with, and to make progress on my life goals. Looking back over the past year, I can proudly say that I’ve managed to scratch a little check mark next to all of those things, or at least made significant strides. In the past year, I’ve given up old vices, fallen in love, figured out a way to put my writing to use, and gotten myself back into shape, both physically and mentally. It's amazing what a year can do.

And I’ve replaced the running shoes that have sat on my closet floor since senior year of high school. Of all the things I’ve done in the past year, this may prove to take me the farthest. At least the new sneakers took me four miles this morning.

A work in progress

2006-04-28T12:05:00.000-04:00

Today I don’t feel like running at all. I know I will when I get out of work, because I have to face up to the 5K in Groton on Sunday and I want to make a good showing, but right now, sitting at my desk, I just don’t feel like it.

I know it’ll be worth it, though. I know I’ll be happy I ran once I get out there, once I get into the rhythm of my stride. And when I finish a couple miles and get back home, that familiar rush of accomplishment mixed with fatigue mixed with adrenaline and empowerment is going to feel great. And then I’ll be glad I did it.

That’s the thing about running; it’s one of those few activities that you almost never regret undertaking. Because you always feel better once you’ve done it.

But that’s not true about everything. There are certain things we regret in life, even after we’ve done them despite being apprehensive about it in the first place. Sometimes you take a leap, go for something that you’re unsure of, and it turns out to be a mistake after all.

But should we do those things anyway? That’s what I’m trying to figure out. If something ends in failure, would it have been better if I had never started it in the first place? Would I be happier today if I hadn’t done those things that I now regret?

I don’t think so. Sometimes I think it’s the experience of regretting that is most valuable. We need to realize our mistakes so that we can go back and do it better the next time. It only makes our future actions that much stronger. If I didn’t realize the errors of things I’ve done in the past, then I’d just repeat them. And then I’d regret it all over again.

Life is all about learning from the past to make the present better. Everything we do is a work in progress - including life. It’s a mixed bag of figuring out what’s effective and what’s not effective. Sharpening your skills for the next time around.

But with running, all progress is good progress. Thank God for that. Because I never regret going for a good run.

Making myself proud

2006-04-26T10:17:00.000-04:00

When it came to me and running, it was almost like destiny. I wanted to be a runner before I even ran. When I was still wearing dresses to school every day and weaseling my way out of gym class, running was there, nascent yet ready to explode.

I can remember the first time I thought that I wanted to run. I was little. Really young, like seven or eight or so. My dad was running marathons, or training to, and I would ride my bike alongside him as he jogged the streets of our neighborhood. How far he ran as I biked beside him still eludes me today, but what stands out in my memory is the awe and respect I felt for the sport, his sport, and the endurance, his endurance.

Running was cool, I remember thinking. I’m going to be a runner just like dad, I told myself, pedaling along with the pink and purple streamers on my handlebars swishing in the wind.

Years later, when I grew to devote myself to the sport in high school, I remember thinking back on our runs/bike rides, so pleased to be so grown up, so ready to do it myself. I had reached that point that I dreamed about when I was little. I was pounding the pavement now too, not just rolling alongside Dad on my bicycle. I was becoming a runner, and it was everything I’d ever dreamed of.

I still feel like that eight year old girl, grinning on the deck next to dad, elated after completing the one-mile fun run on Memorial Day. And while I don’t remember the race, I do remember the pride I felt after crossing the finish line. I guess it’s not the effort we remember, but the result. As I push through each increasing mile today, I know that it won’t be the running that’ll make me smile years from now, but the recognition that I did it, that I accomplished what I set out to do. And when my book reaches the shelves of a big box book store someday, I won’t remember days like these, furtively typing away between menial job tasks, but I’ll remember the days to come, when people start paying attention, and my writing becomes something.

My dad doesn’t run anymore, not since his second marathon. He didn’t run when I was in high school, either. But he did come to my track and cross country races, and passed along all sorts of running paraphernalia, from training journals to vests with reflective tape for night running. And he still passes on inspiration, not only in running but in all areas of my life and growth, whether he knows it or not. I may not be four feet tall anymore, but I’m still reaching for greatness. And I hope that someday, I’ll not only make my dad proud, but I’ll make myself proud.

But why?

2006-04-24T14:11:00.001-04:00

Why running? Why not something else, like knitting or video games, perhaps? I’ve asked myself that question time and again, particularly out one of those runs when it seems like every cell and every nerve in my body are screaming STOP! But you can’t give in, you can never submit to that command, no matter how deafening and how persistent it can be. You just gotta run through it, I shrug. And I do. I run through it.

When I was in high school and I first took up running, the practice taught me just that: to run through it, in more ways than one. At 14-years-old, I was flying solo, and I was scared. I was at a new high school, I knew no one, and I was on my own to forge my own way. It was both terrifying and humbling. There was nothing to fall back on anymore, no way to just slide through. The volleyball team wouldn’t have me, I made a fool out of myself at swim team tryouts, and in cheerleading… well that was about the mandatory split. Never was flexible. But, as I quickly learned, I could run. And I could keep myself going. And I could win.

Once I found the track team, there was no going back. I learned the tricks of running quickly. Not only could I power my feet to keep pushing me forward, despite fatigue, but I could run through it all. And with each mile that I tacked on to my distance, I became better and better at it.

I ran through the grueling process of making new friends, of forging new bonds with people. And as we ran, we opened up to each other. Through running, I shared parts of me that I keep bottled up during the day. Out on the road, there was no bottle. There was just me and running, and new friends, and new roads ahead.

Running was a mental challenge for me, then, too. If I could run for over an hour after school, then I could spend the next four hours studying for a biology exam. I could make sure I held my own in all the honors classes, make sure I got into the advanced placement ones too. Through the process of running, I learned discipline and drive. If I could place in a cross-country race, I could ace my test.

And I ran through everything else. Everything else that comes along with being a teenager. If I was mad at my parents, I ran. If my boyfriend and I got into a fight, lace up the shoes and take to the road. My clothes were too tight – run. I was bored – run.

In that way, I guess running became my best friend. It was my respite, my break, my time. Without that, who knows? Running was my strength.

For a while, I forgot what a good friend running is. But today, I remember. And it’s good to be back.

Today, I run.

2006-04-23T20:00:00.002-04:00

“Whatever doesn’t kill me will only make me stronger. Whatever doesn’t kill me will only make me stronger. Whatever doesn’t kill me will only make me stronger…”

There it is, the chorus of my thoughts, the inaudible yet ever-present cadence that goes through my head as I climb each great hill in front of me. Step after step, one foot in front of the other. You can do it. Don’t stop now. Get yourself to the top, just get yourself there. Sometimes I listen to it, sometimes I don’t. But it’s there, chanting, cajoling, bringing me back.

Today, I run. Today, just three miles, two laps around the reservoir, a nominal distance to some, a triumph for me. Today.

I’ve been away from this too long, I think to myself, as I suck in yet another breath, bound forward yet another yard. It’s been too long since I’ve pushed my body to this threshold, too long since I’ve felt the cramping in the shoulders, the soles of my feet numb, the pressing and tightening of my chest. But this is running, and it holds the same truth today as it did yesterday: It will make me stronger.

There was a time when these three miles would be cake for me. A warm-up. A nice jaunt fit for a sunny afternoon. I was a runner, once. But then I let it all go. Cigarettes were just one of the temptations that made me weaker; college years just begged me to choose the couch over the course, resting over running. I gave in to it all, and I loved it all, but today, I’m ready to move on. I’m ready to come back to it.

Because I know it won’t kill me. I know it’ll only make me stronger.

That’s my main goal right now, I suppose, to become stronger. Not even halfway through my twenties, I can already feel it, sitting on my shoulder, waiting for me to act. Life is here. It’s not just fun and games anymore. It’s time to pick your own adventure. Like those books in the children’s library, those fun games where a turn of the page spelled either danger or conquest, I stand at a crossroads now, with more prospects ahead of me than imaginable. And I don’t have the same safety nets anymore. It’s just me. Time to buck up and make this adventure mine.

But what does running have to do with it? If I can run, I can write. And writing is the end-goal. To put my words on paper and have them mean something to someone else. When I get there, I'll have climbed the biggest hill yet.

If I can make my body work through its aches and pains, if I can make myself ignore its protesting, then I can achieve anything. I can surmount any obstacle, bear as many rejections as will inevitably be sent my way. I can make myself do it because I’ll know that I have the strength to do it.

So today, I run. And tomorrow, I’ll run farther, faster, longer. I’ll push through it all, I’ll bring back the pain and the pleasure of reaching each runner’s milestone. And I’ll chronicle them here. And when I get to that mile marker, I’ll let you know.