Marathon :: Idea vs. Training

Running a marathon seemed like a great idea at the beginning of this year (by the way, who said it could possibly be this close to April already when I'm pretty sure it was January just yesterday?!). 

Like every year for the past four, I started out training pretty gung ho in January.  I was out every weekend finding a new trail to conquer.  About mid-February, family illness derailed me a few weeks again this year, and I struggled to recommit, but the deadline of race day loomed before me.  Normally, I would put the ax to the grindstone and drag myself back outside for some hill training during the week and distances on the weekend in March to meet April with weakened conviction yet a passion to finish strong. 

This year, however, I personally avoided the family illnesses in February, yet still became home-bound caring for The Sick.  Then March came and I got hit with something that took me out for about 10 days that, fortunately, the children avoided.  Now, April is marching right on into the house and I have commitments and schedules and life blooming itself right into my path of training, and my conviction is truly waivering.  I'm pretty sure this has been the toughest year yet, and this is the year I wanted to succeed in that marathon.  (Last time I trained for a full marathon, I didn't make it to the finish line due to bad weather, although I did finish the distance in my own personal race later that spring.)

I have a friend on Facebook who posts her workouts every day with distance and motivational speeches all typed out for the world to enjoy.  I used to see them as motivational, too.  Now they goad me.

How do you best overcome a waning spirit?  Sit on the couch and type letters to yourself?  Or throw on a pair of tennis shoes and go out for a run?

Thank God He made the sun shine today.  I guess I'll be seeing you later!

Running Skeered: Part C

OK, anyone else tired of the parts?

Here's the conclusion:

Cried myself to sleep Friday with fear in my heart. The plan was to run 8-10 on Saturday morning. How was I going to do that? What was I doing to myself - to my body? What if I had to have surgery and therapy and ... and ...

Before bed, I loaded up the Wii Fit and completed a few Yoga sequences. Me and Yoga. That makes me smirk. I am so not a Yoga girl. But desperate times call for, apparently, desperate measures (not that I have anything against anyone who IS a Yoga girl; I, myself, however, would not describe me as one...). I also iced my hip, stretched it - a LOT - and fell asleep praying. Praying that God would heal the pain and help me run one marathon. That's all.

Saturday morning I woke up.

Pain free.

I ran 8 difficult miles Saturday morning.

(Mental fortitude and attitude are vital to a successful running goal.

Fear = High Likelihood of Failure.)

So, the moral of the story?

Pray.

And do Yoga.

And Pray some more - with a bag of frozen peas in your lap.

The End.

Running Scared: Part Deu

Fast Forward to today. Since I busted up my foot 3 years ago, I have 3 1/2 real half marathons under my belt - you know, the ones you actually DO prepare for and DON'T break your foot to avoid ... oh, and "1/2" cuz you all remember Hurricane Ike and his terrible timing.

Today I'm training for my first full marathon (although I'm typing this instead of heading out to run ... ). In fact, two Saturdays ago, BigDaddy and I went downtown to Forest Park and planned to run a 12 mile loop (two laps around the VERY hilly park) - and ended up running 13miles. Can I say on national blog land that I kicked his butt? (I can cuz it so rarely happens!) And then we came home and I about died.

My. Hips. Hurt.

Remember that part of yesterday's story? You know - the pain I felt before I busted my foot? Hip pain.

So the Saturday we basically ran a half marathon through Forest Park, I came home to excrutiating hip pain which I have had to deal with since that first major walk all those years ago now. But usually I just deal with it.

Two weeks ago Saturday, it became worse. And worse. And worse. Until Thursday night when I 'ran' an errand through a store and could. barely. walk.

We're talking I pushed a walker I mean cart and hobbled my way through like a woman 200 years my senior.

Friday night, BigDaddy came home from his business trip to a physically disabled wife. He tossed a Runner's World magazine on my lap and told me to read the article about hips. Much to his dismay, I did read the article. And it told me that the pain I was feeling was likely attributed to Femoral Acetabular Impingement - or the ball of the hip joint not fitting into the socket (I've often described the pain as being within the actual hip joint itself. Any chiropractic exercises I've been recommended in the past never seemed to get deep enough into the area to relieve the issue). This grinding tears the cartilage lining the socket. Thus, the Pain.

Recommended Treatment, according to the Runner's World magazine?

Two months of Physical Therapy.

Or surgery.

to be continued one more day...

(don't you love that?)

Running Scared

Friday night I cried myself to sleep. You see, a few years ago, I signed up to walk a half marathon with my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law. I climbed on the treadmill a few times in preparation, but I never put forth much effort. One sunny morning, I agreed to meet them to walk 8 miles together for our training.

Mind you, my mother-in-law can walk faster than I can run. (In fact,she finished the Nashville Half Marathon in '08 just a few minutes shy of BigDaddy and Myself - she walked. We ran. No lie.)

I nearly died that morning. Or, at least, hours after we finished that morning - and for a few days following. My hips hurt so bad it brought tears to my eyes.

But not one to chicken out of a challenge against the in-laws, I kept saying I was going to walk this half marathon with them.

Four days before the blessed event, I ran into the twins' room to grab Pookie a hairbow before preschool, and I WHACKED my foot accidentally against the post of her bed.

The pain was excrutiating. But it wasn't just painful. When I looked down at my foot - you know, in that moment when you hope it looks as bad as it feels cuz DANG does it hurt --- I about threw up.


My toe was dangling stiffly - off. the. side. of. my. foot.


Yes. I had dislocated my pinky toe. Completely. We're talking, I crawled to the phone and called my dearest friend who came to get me, took me to her doctor husband who gave me one look and sent me to the ER where I experienced THE WORST pain of my life...until they gave me the drugs. And even then, those made me sick...but that's a different story...

You can suppose that I got out of that half marathon.

But even that's not the point of this story.

To be continued...

Running into Town

When I was little, I spent summers at my dad's farm in South Dakota. One summer, I scored the luxury of piano lessons. One time each week that summer, someone on the farm would drive me into town to the home of a friend of my grandmother's. This elderly woman taught me the basics of piano playing. Then my dad or one of my three older brothers would drive me home again.

I loved piano lessons. For as long as I can remember, I wanted to learn to play the piano. My paternal grandfather repaired pianos. He and my dad both owned player pianos. I would sit at their pianos, pop in a music roll, and pretend to go to town on the keys to songs like, "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" and "Devil Went Down to Georgia." But with lessons, I finally was learning to play a few of these notes - to read the notes - in real life, on my own, not just holding my fingers over the automatically bouncing keys of the player piano.

One week that summer, however, no one was available to drive me to town. Desperate to get there to show off the skills I'd spent hours perfecting in my practice, I hatched a plan to ride my bike. My father lived 10 miles from town. I was 10 years-old. And, unbeknownst to me as I climbed onto my rickety blue bike with the white plastic basket and started pedaling, a severe thunderstorm was brewing just to the west of the farmstead.

I don't know how far I'd gone when the winds began to blow. Or when the rain started to pour. Or the hail pelted. I just remember cowering in a country ditch, hiding from cars that passed for fear of being kidnapped, covering my sopping head with my piano book. And I remember my piano teacher calling my grandmother when I finally reached my lesson - and the warmth of the towel she wrapped around me to dry me and protect me from "catching my death."

Fast forward to today. I set out on a familiar path - a round trip of 6 miles - I've learned well in the last month as I began preparing for The Nashville Marathon. I planned to run 6 miles today. But at 6, I felt like I could run 2 more. So I ran 8 miles. And at 8 miles, I felt like I could run 2 more. So I ran 10 miles.

Tonite, my joints are achy. My burnt calories have been reconsumed with buffalo chicken dip and a lemon drop martini. I am warm with the fireplace lit and my computer charging on my lap. And I smile. Because today I accomplished the distance of "a trip to town." Again. This time, not in a thunderstorm at the end of a long, hot summer. But on a 17 degree, sunny, winter day.

It felt great to do so. I felt like the journey - the long journey - had begun. With just a single step.