The clock strikes 2:54:40 and I wobble over the line clutching my knees for stability and find them completely uncooperative.  I crumble into a pile of Quadzilla upon the Houston pavement.  Two race volunteers scrape me up and so begins my monster walk toward a water station.  I got feet.  I got calves.  I got nothing in between.  I got hips.  I got hands to grasp this water cup- oh shit- I got hands to grasp another water cup.  ”Somebody might want to clean that up,” I mumble and stumble on, “I can’t bend.”

I follow the other zombies into a food line corral that meanders like the Mississippi.  I manage a stork stalk walk past something that looks like scoops of mashed potatoes.  I don’t know what it actually is, but would it not be so damn Texan to serve mashed potatoes at the end of a marathon?  I am sure there is BBQ in here somewhere, but right now I just want that diet orange soda that I see right there that one- oops, she took it.  There- there’s another one- ah- she took it!  My jaw drops open and out flutters almost in a southern twang as if I think this will earn me points- “Can I get a Diet Orange Soda?”  On second thought, I take two and stick them on my quads.  Now I granny walk with my invisible walker propping D.O.S. on my F.U.Q’s.

I still really have to use a restroom.  I had the nature rude rap for the last 10K, but I declined every passing port-o-pot because I knew that if I went in, I would never come out.  I mean it would be all cozy in there with a bench and paper and perhaps a little hand sanitizer- Home Sweet Home.  I wasn’t quite sure how I would manage to bring my bottom and a toilet seat to connect.  Hmmmm, this would be a great time for a Stand-Up-Shit-Box-Shower invention.  Yep, big seller at post marathon parties.  Huge.

Connecting with my family, my daughter immediately notices the sparkling head band.  ”Where did you get that?” she asks doe eyed and adorable.

“At the expo,” I answer, “And I got four more all for you!”

“Go get them,” she orders in a rather future Devil Wears Nada voice.

“Now?” I slur and suck at my D.O.S.  She nods slowly while her big eyes lock into mine.  Gulp.  ”Not gonna happen baby girl.  See they are stored half a mile away and that means I would have to walk a mile.”  She stares.  I could try to explain to her that my quads just gave birth to a bouncing baby marathon and that the fucking epidural didn’t work and the thing weighed 254 pounds, but her glassy eyes told me my sob story wasn’t welcome.  ”Want a sip of soda?”

“Yippee!” She slugs.  I realize I want another soda.  I dead man drag my needing a bathroom ass back over to the food court.  I pass ice cream and yogurts and bananas and more mashed up stuff.  What’s with all the soft foods?  Marathoners have teeth!  It’s quads that we don’t have!  Quads!  Ahhhh, I can see the soda when suddenly I am stopped.

“Mam’ you’re gonna have to re-enter the food line,” he points like Babe Ruth to the out field, “Oooover there.”  The actual soda is less than 15 feet away.

“I just want a soda?”  AHMUYGAWD- am I going to cry?  Wait.  Sniff.  Yep.  I am going to cry.  Two grown and grown oversized men stare at my hobbling body and my eyes mist up.  ”I just want a soda.”  I ignore them and walk through the exit.  I am a rebel.  Shoot me down, but that Diet Orange Shit in a Can is mine.  I grab two more and slink out past them with D.O.S. pinned against my quads.  I walk and I walk and I walk and I think I travel twenty feet.

Here I find a flight of stairs that runners must walk up, traverse over a small bridge, and then descend a second flight of stairs.  Genius!  All of us lemmings are bottle necking into the stairs.  I watch the lady in front of me turn around backwards to make her ascent.  Another lady sort of crawls up the stairs using her arms as much as her legs.  The older gentleman in front of me turns to give me a comical grin as if to say, “Look at these suckers.”  However, all I got is “Dude don’t look at me, I am a sucker.”  The marathon- she took me out on a hot date- got me all excited – and then dropped me off at the door with a bitch slap.

Eventually, I find myself an ice bath and some alcohol.  One of these two elements seems to help a lot.  I find that if I sit upright perfectly still and do not move anything except my arms that I feel completely normal.  There is absolutely no evidence of any marathon.  Unfortunately one of these two witch doctors also makes you have to use the bathroom and the toilet is really good at scolding- “Tisk tisk, enjoy yourself running did you?”

“Why yes I did.  Grow some handicap bars will ya?”

Night descends and I find that I cannot sleep due to extreme quad pain.  I wouldn’t say it was so much as a burning sensation- like skewered meat roasting over an open flame, I mean that would be overly dramatic.  I would say it was more like my quads were massaged in honey and then grizzly bears found me.  Needless to say, I need more ice.  I search the freezer for sacrificial frozen food to belt to my thighs for a good night.  Now, if your name is Frozen Brussel Sprouts, you pretty much should know you’re gonna be the lamb to the slaughter.  There I sleep with icy sprouts.  Sorry Mom.

Eventually, I had to fly home.  My airport walking is why they made those Jetson moving belts.  Some mechanical engineer was flying home post running a marathon and thought, “Damn, this ground should just MOVE.”  My daughter sort of sweetly dances all around me sending waves of panic that she might accidentally bump me and send me tumbling down.  I consider flagging down a cart- but- that would mean that I rode in a cart.  I mean I am young, I am fit, I am not supposed to be in a cart!  Dumb sucker that I am therefor spent twenty minutes tip toeing down long corridors checking in with agents to make dead sure that I was going the right way.  ”B6 is this way RIGHT?”  i.e. Don’t dare tell me that I walk all the way out to Kansas to find that I went to OZ because do you see Ruby slippers?  No!

What do you see?  A pathetic excuse for a vertical human being teetering along in running shoes.

“Did you survive the marathon?” A gentleman asks me.  Hmmmm, what gave it away?

“Barely,” I laugh.

And here sits the sweet stiff taste of earned pain.  That’s the best kind.  It heals.

This slideshow created with Smilebox

This morning I was on the radio with Leo’s “Running & Racing” - http://soc.li/Mi2ndJD

 

Is the body capable of absolutely anything when the mind does not crack?  No.  But success is not a finite measurement- like happiness, you have to feel it to believe it.  On January 15, 2012, I went to war with Houston.

My road to Houston was not one of ease.  After winning the inaugural 2009 Santa Barbara International Marathon in the course record time of 2:52:23, I sought out to qualify for the Olympic trials B Standard time of sub 2:46. The US Olympic Marathon Trials were to be held in Houston, Texas- my home town.  I had many reasons for wanting to meet this challenge and return to Houston to run with the best female marathoners in our country.  In 1994, I completed the Houston Tenneco Marathon in 4:03- I was 16 years old and I was “recovered” from anorexia.  1993 found me deathly ill at less than 74 pounds.  Starvation prevented me from running, from walking up stairs, from growing into a woman, and ultimately from life.  Hospitalization got me to a releasable point, but joy had left my body.  I saw no light toward happiness and ultimately I tried to exit this world.

I spent three days in a coma.  I woke to hallucinations and florescent lighting.  I stumbled across the cold floor clutching an IV pole and found a ghost with charcoal black teeth staring back at me in the mirror.  She was 15 years old.  She was me.  There were many reasons why I was found lifeless on my bathroom floor and yet there was one- the pursuit of happiness.  For all of life’s complications and her simplicities, joy finds its way to the heart of both.  ”Life is a process, with ups and downs, trials and tribulations, and you cannot give up”- [ A Race Like No Other by Liz Robbins]

I am glad my story did not end on a bathroom floor in 1993.  Slipping my feet into running shoes, I would soon find that rubber soles would save my life.  I could run.  Running the 1994 Houston Marathon brought me an enormous sense of pride and accomplishment.  I did it!  I was part of something!  It was real- with pain and laughter and deep satisfaction that would forever change my life.  I fell madly in love with running.  In running, I found what everyone in life is looking for- happiness.

After SBIM, I suffered a tibial tendon tear or stress fracture (I never had an MRI) that set me out for 10 weeks.  My focus was Grandma’s Marathon in June 2010.  Very fit, I arrived at the starting line to find it hot, humid and sporting a 20mph head wind.  More than 40 US girls were there to qualify for the trials and of us only one did- Emily Potter.  Running a 2:53:23, I couldn’t believe I ran that well in those conditions.  I was excited.  I had to utilize a mental toughness to get through that race that I had always hoped that I possessed, but wasn’t sure I could deliver on it.  That race changed my mind set- I can do it.

Next, I focused on CIM but suffered another tibial strain that set me out 4 weeks.  I let CIM go and focused on Eugene in May of 2011.
Again, the training went very well.  I had a 22 mile workout hill repeating the Shoreline Hill where I averaged 6:28 per mile.  Five weeks before Eugene- on an early morning training run, I tripped over a fallen tree branch in the dark and slammed my right knee into the concrete. I couldn’t run.

Devastated by this bad luck, I set out cross training trying to keep my fitness up so that I could possibly run Grandmas 2011 and still qualify. I sat out for a month and came back hard- pushing the envelope as I only had 7 weeks.  I ran a decent 10k (37:14)  after just two weeks of running and had another solid 20 mile workout on hills finishing with a 5:50 mile.  But it proved to be too much for my knee and the pain came back.  I sat out again and did not run smoothly until August.  I had to start over.

At this point, I let the dream of qualifying for the 2012 OT go.  However, I registered for the Houston Marathon anyway so that I might watch those girls that had made it and then run a solid race- the one I knew I could run- the next day.  I would go back to Houston for all my reasons and show her who I am.

The training went better than ever. In workouts, I was faster, fitter and more consistent, but I was still very time focused.  After the SBIM half, where I performed poorly, I woke up with a new attitude.  A wonderful light went on. Time is only a small part of where I found myself- indeed, I was enjoying the process.  I let go.  My focus stayed, but I became very relaxed.  Sure enough- I hit a new level and workouts went even better.
Running a hard 20 miles on an uneven road 5 weeks from Houston, I strained my right tibia tendon and muscle. The area filled with fluid.  In excruciating pain, I could not walk for six days.  Sadness hit me and followed me around like an old friend.

Discouraged and heart broken, I let Houston go.  Although I have not favored Kevin Costner since he went Dancing With His Ego, Doug’s quote from Tin Cup (filmed in my high school town) struck my fighter nerve- “When a defining moment comes along, you define the moment or the moment defines you.”  I had sunk two years into Houston, but really I had already sunk half my life time.

After six days the terrible pain began to let up and I saw progress in my leg.  After two weeks I went for a hike and at 2.5 weeks, I completed a pain free four mile slow run.  Taking it one day at a time, I chose not to blog about a recovery so that I could honestly evaluate how my body responded to more miles.  I noticed a frustratingly large loss of fitness- and pain in my hips from sitting around.  One day at a time, my body slowly began to run.  I had just 2.5 weeks until the starting line of Houston.  Time to Make It Happen.

Arriving in Houston, I went immediately for a shake out walk.  My walk started stiff from hip pain and sluggish from carbohydrate loading.  Feeling heavy, my feet struck running trails that I grew up on.  Here in the coastal lands of Texas, on these asphalt green belts broken up with aging bridges, I remembered that which I wish to forget and that which I can never.  And then I saw those three words scratched with chalk into the pavement.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My stride quickened.  I did not just come here to Houston to finish a marathon, I came here to fight.  Making IT Happen does not always mean you get the IT you wanted- But making something is better than nothing….because I’d rather hurt than feel nothing at all….because “You miss 100% of the shots you never take.”- Wayne Gretzky.

I came here to give it everything I have on this day- because I only get one today.  I waited half my lifetime to become the woman that I am now and I decided to put my heart and soul on the line and gamble with my guts.  Go big or go home.  But first I got to watch the Olympic trials!  225 women qualified, 189 women started, 152 women finished, 84 women repeated the sub 2:46 standard, and 3 will go to London.

Watching the trials was exhilarating.  Here ran beauty and strength along side perseverance and determination.  Power roamed in packs hunting weakness and chasing dreams.  This was real. This was running.  Inspiration was abundant.  One only needed to accept it.

I will post a slide show later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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HOUSTON CHEVRON MARATHON, SUNDAY JANUARY 15, 2012

Lining up for the start of the Houston marathon, I listened to Bill Rodgers and Frank Shorter wish us luck.  ”Oh do I need that,” I thought stripping out of my pink hooded sweatshirt.  The cool air was full of hope as Frank stated, “What you’ve got here is no excuses weather.”  Well Frank, I do have a pile of excuses, but I decided today was the day that I don’t use any of them.  I had to believe that I would be successful.  I had to put faith in my strength or else I never would have run the race that I ran.  My race started with mile 1.

After a Houstonian Opera singer sang the National Anthem, I went out at 6:30 pace and planned to see how long I could hold it.   I had no expectations, but I was prepared to fight.  Tucking in behind two girls from NYTC (New York Track Club), I followed them for the first 10 miles. However, at mile 8 fatigue already began to settle into each of my quadriceps.  I had small flares of quivering muscle pain shooting across my thighs.  The two and a half weeks off in peak training surfaced- tapping at my humanity and reminding me that I am flesh and bone.

By mile 10, the NYTC girls had dropped the pace to 6:23 and I knew I had to lose their draft.  I sank back to 6:28 and felt each passing mile eat up more and more of my quad strength.  The course rolled fantastically all over the city with cheering crowds, bands, American flag lines streets, balloon arch ways and runners just like me traveling toward a finish line.  My daughter, my sister, my mother, and my coach and his wife cheered my passing.

Arriving at the half in 1:24:30, I was excited at how aerobicaly easy my pace felt.  My mind sailed in a calm place evaluating my quads that crept closer and closer toward failure.  I did not know if they would last, but I refused to back down.  I must say here that I ran my race without a GPS.  I have never run a marathon with a GPS and I highly advise that runners unplug from satellites while racing.  This allowed me to stay in the moment- to correctly evaluate my effort level and to only Check In ONCE every mile. The result?  A dead even pace that was perfect for my cardiovascular system.  However, my muscles had a hard time keeping up with my heart and by mile 16, I knew I was in trouble.

“How far can I run on no quads?” I wondered.  Again, I refused to back down.  I pressed my 6:30 pace to the 20th mile.  Trouble surrounded me there.  It came knocking on my thighs in big black shit kicker boots.  I remembered how I paced Michelle in the final miles of CIM.  I went through the positive words that I gave her and I played my own cheer leader. “Head up, eyes forward, pump the arms, one mile at a time, push.”  I stayed in the moment.

My pace fell off at mile 21 clicking in at 6:46.   I refused to be discouraged and drove my arms harder. I embraced the pain- like I had earned it- like I welcomed it.  I told myself, “You wanted this.”  I reminded myself, “You expected this.”  I ran with my pain as though it was a part of me- welcomed and accepted.

Mile 22 clicked over at 6:25.  Flooded with hope, I pounded in to the 23rd mile to find that my quadriceps were done.  My heart and mind pushed forward, but my quads were extinguished.  I had a choppy forced turn over that felt like a hobble.  My pace dropped to 7:00 and then to 7:20.  I stopped watching the clock all together and focused on the crowd.  No less than forty times did Houston tell me, “Nice Shoes!” and “I like your sparkly headband!”  Indeed Houston like bling.  I was cheered and encouraged.  I was told “You can do it.”  I kept believing.

At mile 24, I feared I had gambled too much and I worried that I may not actually make it to the finish line at all because at some point my legs were going to collapse.  People began to pass me and I fed off them.  Each body that sailed around me brought hope that I might go with them.  I felt my face squishing up in pain.  I tried to relax.  I realized it had taken me 18 years to get here and I had less than 18 minutes left of pain.   I entered downtown pumping my arms as if I might fly.

Passing Rusty and June again at the 26th mile, we all realized that a finish line still wasn’t guaranteed.  ”OH she’s in agony now,” Rusty commented.  Would I crawl?  Absolutely.  Luckily, I did not have to.  Turning the corner in front of the George R Brown convention center- I pushed my legs to reel in the finish- 2:54:40. I crumpled over the line as the 14th female finisher.

My legs refused to hold my heart and head up anymore.  Two race volunteers supported me.  Asking me how I was, I answered, “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“Do you need medical?” they asked.

“I don’t think so,” I answered smiling like a drunk who can’t walk, but who doesn’t really care.

“Well,” the gentleman asked, “Did you make your time?”

A huge smile broke across my face and in a sigh of utter satisfaction I answered him, “No.”

No.  I didn’t.  I did better than that.  I made my day.  And this is my life.

Thank you to all those who support me- my family, my friends, and my coach- Rusty Snow.

 

 

 

Hello readers- just in case you needed convincing that fictional running Gods and group therapy without an actual group is not a waste of keyboard tapping….

Two Motivate makes another list!  Of the top 100 Running Blogs of 2012 (didn’t this year just start?  The first 8 days are looking bright) we have made number 72 of the top 100.

Now do we pop beet juice or champagne?

Mix the two?

You’re disgusting.