The L-Train - Season Two: Building Consistency 0 days to go.

After rising from doo doo to podium in 2010, my goal for 2011 is consistency at all costs. I need a full year of solid work under my belt now to reach my goals in 2012. What will consistency require? Not getting too excited and carried away. Making smart decisions daily. Taking days off before I need them. Hard work. Self-control. Patience. Belief. The balance of all those things while maintaining a life outside of sport. Your comments and thoughts helped get me through the good, bad, and ugly times of 2010. Thank you so much. I hope we'll all continue to follow, comment, inspire and motivate each other in 2011!

Whenever I’m in Phoenix, I think about going up to Flagstaff and visiting my buddy (and Picky Bars partner) Stephanie Rothstein, but it never happens. The drive is over two hours each way, I usually only have 24-36 hours to visit between ART appointments with Dr. Ball, and besides, I’m in Arizona on the serious business of getting well. While fun, allowing a car to press me into a panini two days in a row is not conducive to healing.

Stars aligned last week when I was in Phoenix and I got to visit her after all. We were both seeing Dr. Ball on Wednesday and he was leaving for a four-day trip so I wouldn’t be getting any treatment for a while.

Steph’s pitch: “You don’t have to drive; you can stay with me since Ben’s out of town. I’ve got access to an ElliptiGo, pool, gym, anything you need,” she said. “You’ve got an ART appointment with Kym on Friday morning and a massage with Monica on Friday night. My brother will drive you back to Phoenix on Saturday.”

In typical Steph style, in five minutes she had my whole life sorted in Flagstaff better than I can manage in my own hometown. The chick is an organizer with a capital O! Of course I feel totally guilty because SHE is the one with the Olympic Trials in 10 days and she’s looking after ME. But that’s just how she rolls. Next thing you know we are driving to Flagstaff baby!

Rewind to 2008

Any time I hang out with Steph, I feel better about the world. When I met her in 2008, we were both injured strangers cross training in this crappy apartment complex “gym” on ancient, neighboring spin bikes.

After some neighborly small talk, Steph busts out a doozie: She’s going to be an Olympian in the marathon in 2012. As in, “Hi, I’m Steph. I’m going to be an Olympian in four years.” I stare at her waiting for the punch line. At the time, she was quite good (2:40 marathon) but she was off the radar. There were lots of women at her current level, she had no contract and little support, no health insurance, she was cleaning houses for extra cash, she was totally injured, and yet she said it like it was a fact. Not just any fact but a FACT, underlined with barbed wire and surrounded by an electric fence.

I had just missed the 2008 Olympic Team by one spot and was suffering a navicular injury that may or may not heal right. I was struggling just to get my ass on the bike in the first place thinking, “Will I ever be good again? What’s the point?” I was simultaneously licking and picking at my wounds and here comes Steph with a busted back and a huge grin talking about how she is going to be an Olympian. I couldn’t decide if I admired her or wanted to smack her with my spin bike’s broken handlebar.

She told me that the only way to make a goal happen was to say it out loud. Still singed from my dream going down in flames, I tried to caution her about making her career all about one goal or she might end up viewing her career as a waste if it doesn’t work out (like I was doing). Next thing you know we’re debating the merits and risks of making specific, bold goals. I still don’t know how she did it, but somehow her raw optimism and passion penetrated my thickened armor and the fighter in me ever-so-subtly stirred.

“I used to be like her,” I thought to myself. “Can I allow myself to be that way again?”

I decided I liked her. The rest of the hour flew by with story telling and joking around and within five minutes of post-workout stretching, she had organized our next four hangouts. Capital O style. I’m the type of person who blows from place to place saying things like “Whoopsie! How’d I get to the grocery store? Hmmm…well while I’m here…what do I want for dinner in 45 minutes?” Now I had an insta-friend that cracked me up who liked to organize?! With a facilitator among us, we might actually get to hang out!

And hang out we did. We watched dollar movies, went wine tasting, danced to Mylie Cyrus in the car (against my better musical judgement), started Picky Bars together, and just generally supported one another. We had the goofiness and vulnerability of high school BFF’s, and it was awesome.

In 2010, Steph reached a dead end in Eugene athletically, and made the tough choice of moving away from everything and everyone she loved to train in Flagstaff, Arizona with Greg McMillan. It was a really hard decision based PURELY on chasing her dreams and once again, her passion both scared and inspired me.

Now as we rolled into her driveway in Flagstaff, Steph was the picture of confidence and fulfillment. Her choice to move to Flag had taken her from pretty good to truly great: a 2:29 marathoner with a legitimate chance of being an Olympian. She was the type of athlete she told me she would be back in 2008.

As we hung out, I tried to play it cool, but she was like this turbo powered Native American dream catcher or something; in her presence you felt anything was possible. She was fit, healthy, beautiful…the spark in her eye made you consider wearing flame resistant clothing for God’s sake. I really felt like it was going to happen and all I could think about was that day on the spin bikes when she got me to start believing again.

Reality

Steph’s dream didn’t come true. Last weekend at the Olympic Trials in Houston, on her birthday, she ran 23 miles of the Olympic Trials and had to drop out due to pain in her hip. In her words, “My biggest dream suddenly turned into my biggest nightmare.” I was following twitter updates (since some genius network decided it wasn’t worth playing the race live) and when I heard the news, something cracked and then splintered inside my chest. My heart ached for her. I cried on and off for two days. I cried for her and for Amy Hastings and Deena Kastor and Magda and Dathan and Brett. And I cried for myself because I’m injured and struggling to get myself into the pool every day and the girl that stirred my armored heart four years ago has just realized what I’ve known for four years:

There is a Herculean price to pay for making yourself vulnerable to a dream.

December 31st, 2011

Dear Depression,

I know we’ve been spending a lot of time together over the past month, but with the New Year upon us and all, I’ve decided we should go our separate ways.

It’s natural to have a low following a big high, but this time, instead of just flirting with you, I let you stay the night. And then another. And then a month. I never should have done that, and I apologize for misleading you. This simply can’t be a long term relationship. I’m a one man kind of girl.

Look…it’s not you, it’s me. Don’t worry, you will find someone else. You have incredible strength of character. You are nothing if not consistent and nobody darkens up a room like you do. I never slept so well in my life before you. When we were together, I could wear you like a big warm jacket, put the hood over my head, and simply exist.

Well now that I think about it, maybe it is you a little bit. You never shower or shave and you wear your sweats all the time. Frankly, I like to feel sexy and awesome now and then and it’s impossible to do that when you are around. I need to start putting myself out there so I can reach my potential, and that kind of thing just isn’t your style. We simply want different things out of life.

I know a break up letter is kind of juvenile, but I’m not really interested in your opinion on the matter. Your departure is non-negotiable. I’m kicking you out. Git. Pack it up. Scat. Move out.

Peace,

Lauren

P.S. If I see you spending too much time with any of my friends or loved ones, I’m going to tell them you are bad news.

P.P.S. Happy New Year to all my readers. May we all choose joy in 2012, even when it’s hard work.

I’ve been walking around foot loose and fancy free since three days after the marathon. No pain. No exercise. Just doing my thing, catching up on Picky Bars and Believe I Am stuff, and living my life. I had every expectation I’d just start right back up with a fresh, rested body, ready to kick some ass.

First run back was last weekend (8 days ago): an easy 3 miles. Felt like a million bucks. Alright, lets train! The next day I tried to go for my 6 mile loop and my knee flared up (same one from before the marathon). I ended up walking 2 miles home, peeved, worried, and trying to figure out what to do. What happened?

Well, I hadn’t done shizz-all since the race for training OR for rehab, despite being told to do lots of stretching. I stretched my quads and that was about it. I just wanted to disengage from being an athlete for a while; to escape. And it really was lovely to do that.

But then the whole first week “back” was fruitless, unable to make it further than 10 or so minutes before my knee started suddenly yelling at me. I decided to see John Ball in Phoenix, as soon as Thanksgiving was over, and just making that decision lifted a load off my shoulders.

That is, until I started trying to make it happen. Ticket prices were astronomical last minute. In order to make this work, I was going to have to find ways to cut costs. So two days ago I contacted a runner, Kerry, who had offered me a place to stay via my blog next time I came to Phoenix to see Dr. Ball (as an alternative to sleeping in my van like last winter). Despite never having met one another, we made arrangements. Rental car was booked on Hotwire for $9/day. Jesse and I got back from Thanksgiving in Bend, OR yesterday and I unpacked and repacked my bag to leave our house at 6:30am this morning.

After several flight delays and missed connections, I unloaded my bags at Kerry’s house and made my way to see John Ball. When he asked me what the deal was, I stuttered, stumbled. Here I was in Phoenix after all that arranging and moving things around and I could hardly get it out. I just wanted to say, “Here I am. Fix me please.” I didn’t have the energy to explain all the “when I do this, this hurts, but when I do that, this hurts over on this side, and it might be related to this but when I wake up in the morning it doesn’t do that so…” My mind and heart needed a spa massage with a Buddha fountain and that yoga-sounding music, where I could simply melt away. My body, unfortunately, needed Active Release Therapy.

This disconnect between what I wanted and what I needed was illuminated in giant neon lights after a brief conversation with Dr. Ball while he dug into my gritty hamstring.

“It’s obvious you haven’t been getting enough treatment lately.”

“I’ve been on my break. I just wanted to live like a normal person for two weeks.”

“Lauren, I hate to break it to you, but you don’t get to live like a normal person until you retire.”

 

Dammit, John Ball. Grrrrr.

In case you want the background story to this three part series, you can read part one or part two as you please.

Control

The pack spreads out almost instantly as we climb the first mile up the Verezzano-Narrows Bridge and I settle back into a controlled pace. I had hoped the pack would start more conservatively like last year, (giving me at least a couple miles to feel the thrill of running with the leaders,) but they take off. According to my watch, my first two miles are 5:53 and 5:15. The goal was to average 5:45 for the two, but I’ve run too fast up one side of the bridge and too fast down the other side. Less than two minutes later on flat terrain, I get a stomach cramp. 24 miles to go. Sweet.

The third mile I run much much slower, belly breathing and massaging my stomach, remembering there is a long way to go. But the cramp gets worse. I debate stopping and rubbing it out. Instead I reach into my sports bra and unzip the old Picky Bar bag that is living its second life as an emergency liquid antacid stash and attempt to pour it in my mouth, but half of it catches the breeze and blows across my face. Hopefully its enough.

I hit the 5k mark, take my first water bottle, and the cramp disappears. Relief and optimism flood in with my electrolyte drink. American Molly Pritz pulls up by my side and we begin what would become the best 12 mile run of my life.

The Scenery

NY Marathon is famous for the energy of its crowds, but since the pro women start 30 minutes before the other 47,000 participants, everywhere we go there is a feeling that we are a bit early for the party, the hosts still mixing the guacamole and figuring out where the guests will put their coats. Nonetheless we run past grunge cover bands, curious families, church choirs, a community of Hasidic Jews, DJ’s. There are moments I notice the strangest details around me but there are far more miles that simply pass by in a blissful blur.

My legs are locked into a rhythm and my body flows freely. Molly and I chat a bit here and there and giggle appreciatively when fans scream our names. I pat myself on the back for how conservative we are running and start plotting the logistics of when I’ll make my big move…10k to go? Wait for a little final 5k smack-down?

The Beginning of the End

And then…THEN…the freaking Queensboro Bridge. This long, lonely, barren, dark, concrete covered, windy, solitary, stupid bridge. My heart-rate skyrockets as we head up the first minute of the bridge’s incline. Its clear I’m working much harder than Molly so I let her go and run within myself the rest of the way up the hill.  After FINALLY cresting the top, I attempt to float down the other side but my feet seem to be smacking the pavement rather than springing back.  This is the first sign of wear but the rest of me feels refreshed after the downhill as I work back into my groove up 1^st Ave.

The road is incredibly wide and lined with screaming spectators and I can see at least four of my competitors spaced out in front of me over the course of  the next mile. Despite having six road lanes to choose from, we all run in a single-file line in the footsteps of whoever came before us, preferring not to think for ourselves.

I see mile 19 and take note that I’m not thinking very clearly anymore. It’s a subtle change, but I’m thinking less and less about passing people and more about the basics of survival: water stops, fueling opportunities. I attempt to refocus by running through an inventory of my body: heart, lungs, core, legs…all still working pretty well. I’m no spring chicken by any means, but I’m still clipping along. I tell myself to forget everything that has come before this. Take the edge off. Don’t worry about time. Pretend you are just going out for a brisk 7 mile run back in Eugene, like you do almost every day. You’ve run tired many times before. 

The Wall

Its not like they say it is in books; at least it doesn’t feel that way to me. Somewhere around mile 21 it’s feeling very difficult to run but it’s not like I’ve smacked head first into a wall. It is more like someone has added a sandbag to my back every couple minutes while I was zoning out and suddenly I realize I’m running much slower. I try to pick up the pace but my body simply will not respond.

At mile 22 I’m having trouble doing the math of what’s left. I decide to ignore all the mile markers and screaming fans and focus exclusively on moving my legs; I completely remove myself mentally, refusing to let myself freak out about the loss of control over my body. I’m afraid that if I acknowledge the problem, it will get worse and my body will simply stop moving. Instead, in my mind I’m on Pre’s Trail in Eugene going for an easy four mile stroll like I’ve done a thousand times before. My hope is that if I tune out for long enough, I’ll reopen my eyes and find myself in view of the finish line in Central Park.

After what feels like forever, someone leans way over the railing and screams my name inches from my face, drawing me out of my trance. Her eyes are brown and she has the skinny arms of a distance runner. I must be near the finish…where is the mile marker? The sign ahead slowly comes into focus: 23 miles. Oh God. It’s only been one mile. How is that possible?

It’s Only a 5k

The state of my mind and body is so terrible that I can’t even imagine covering a distance that should be a reflex for me after 16 years. How the hell am I going to make it 5k in this state? I feel every meter of those last 5000. My tonail is hanging by a thread. My quads, hips and butt muscles are hardly even firing and I feel like a sloppy puppet on strings being dragged up and over the hills by a 3 year old child. 

As soon as I think it, I throw the thought away and go right back to putting one foot in front of the other. I am flow. The marathon doesn’t even exist. The metal barricades lining this hilly course through Central Park don’t exist. The rows of people three-deep screaming at me don’t exist. I’m running with my eyes nearly closed, tiny slits allowing only a ray of light through my eyelashes. This gives me the impression that I’m in that white room in the Matrix, surrounded by nothing. It feels good to be surrounded by nothing.

Time passes. A girl is screaming at me. I open my eyes. She is wearing a Canyon High School Cross Country T-shirt just like one I have at home. She is running alongside me. She has hopped the barrier. She is cheering me on and smiling. She suddenly looks alarmed. Is she in trouble? No. She is alarmed because of how I look. She is concerned. I start to laugh.

You know what’s awesome? I say to myself. Never in my life will a 5k feel this hard again. There is something powerful and crazy and amazing about that realization. I notice the sign that says Mile 26. Road markers tick down the yards to the finish line that towers ahead of me. Its closer than I thought. Someone is waving me to the right side of the finish line. I cross under the banner and I stop. A medal is placed around my neck. My legs feel like they want to keep going, caught in perpetual motion like when you step off a treadmill. I suddenly wonder if I stopped too soon. Is the finish line further up there? No? My legs suddenly kill. I can hardly stand. My back muscles, hips and quads have been disengaged. Mary Wittenberg is holding me up. I thank her. Jesse takes me from her. I thank him. Why am I thanking people? My eyes are back to tiny slits. All I see is noise.

Aftershocks

Jesse told me that it took 10 minutes for me to come back to Earth. All I remember is pain, being walked places, and a self-conscious feeling that I shouldn’t answer any questions or baby noises might come out of my mouth. After that I start talking to everyone and feel fine except that I’m hypothermic and freezing to the point of convulsing. Despite the alarm of people around me, I keep insisting that I’m totally fine. It takes 30 minutes in a tent, a Mylar blanket and two cups of scalding tea that burn my shaking arms before my body stops shivering. And as soon as it does, I’m whisked off to a press conference where I run into Queen Latifa (total coincidence), eat lots of amazing food and talk to reporters for a couple hours. I’m gleeful at my accomplishment but also exhausted. This makes doing interviews especially challenging.

As I walk back through the lobby of my hotel, I’m amazed to see at least 200 other runners milling about, wearing their medals. I limp through the crowd, past people hugging, chatting, limping in other directions. The wall of the elevator supports me on the ride up to the 40th floor. In my room, Jesse is fast asleep, experiencing the unique exhaustion of an invested partner of a marathoner. I watch him for a moment trying to figure out what to do with myself. There will be parties to attend, champions to crown, and people to celebrate with. I lift up the covers and crawl in behind him, asleep before the covers are again warm.

__________________________________________

Interested in another side of the story? Read Jere Longman’s version of the weekend and see some pics in his piece from the New York Times. Here’s the link.

I’d love to read your comments about your marathon experiences. Do tell!

This is part 2/3. If you missed part 1, you can read it here!

In the warmup tent, after the women pin the numbers on each other and get our shoe chips clipped on, I find my way over to the chiropractor table to have Dr. Duke loosen me up before my warmup. Realistically, there is nothing I need done, but it helps settle my mind to have someone fuss over me a bit, and Duke’s energy is great.

As I lay down, I am approached by someone who tells me that my temporary tattoos have to be removed or I can’t participate in the race. I had been told otherwise several weeks prior, and was super pumped when I thought I could put the name of my business, Picky Bars, on my skin while running past two million people! I bring that up calmly, but I am reminded that I was emailed the IAAF uniform rules nine days ago and that tattoos were against IAAF rules.

I had only skimmed the rule book to be honest, assuming most of it had to do with uniform restrictions and Nike would have that covered (which they did) so I apologize and comply. A Doctor comes over to scrub them off, but since all we have are little alcohol prep pads from travel first aid kits, it hurts like a mofo and takes AGES! We do the best we can until we hear the “8 minute warning” before I must head to the start line. I remember thinking that no amount of chaffing in the race could be that uncomfortable, so at least that’s over with.

Wait a minute, its the eight minute warning and I haven’t even warmed up yet! As I slip out of our holding tent onto the road to jog a bit, I slow my breathing and calm my anxiety. “None of that matters,” I whisper to myself. “You don’t need to warm up much. Its a marathon for God’s sake.” Finding my rhythm I repeat affirmations to myself, “I am relaxed, I am calm, I am excited to see what I can do out there, I am prepared, I love to run.”

A voice booms over a megaphone interrupting my zone, “Two minute warning! Gather your things and put them in the truck. It’s time to head to the start!”

Holy shit. I grab everything I can and stuff it into my Nike bag, and with pieces falling halfway out I hurriedly hand it off to a stranger and shuffle to catch up with the rest of the elite women marching to the starting line. We chit chat along the way, and I try to absorb their calm resignation to the task ahead. I slurp my last minute gel and borrow a swig of water to wash it down. Rather than wait in line for a toilet, Tegla Leroupe and I disappear over the median for a last minute pee and all I can think about is that I am peeing next to a legend.

As the pre-race favorites get lined up in the front row for introductions, I tuck into the back row with Molly Pritz. There is no tension. There is only a quiet pack of fit bodies waiting for the gun, staring out toward the massive structure of the bridge ahead as it reaches up towards the very sun that warms our exposed skin.

After a typical restless night of pre-race sleep, I finally get up 3 minutes before my 5:00 am alarm and my first thought is crystal clear: “this is the morning of the New York Marathon.”

No foggy mind; no stumbling to the bathroom. Instead I pop out of bed and my legs feel straight as steel beams, feet anchored to the floor with railroad spikes. My heart is pounding and I look down at Jesse, still in bed.

“Jesse,” I whisper. “Its time to get ready to race.”

Breakfast: 5:30am

With my race-day bag packed and slung over my shoulder, Jesse and I ride the elevator with Jere Longman, reporter from the New York Times. “Did you get any sleep?” he asks.

I can’t remember. My mind is blank. “Enough,” I reply.

The lights are bright and the decorations sparse as the three of us walk into the Hilton conference room for catered breakfast. Round tables are half filled with focused athletes and their partners or coaches. The hum of voices is barely loud enough to cover the farting sound of my ladle dipping into the vat of gooey oatmeal before plopping it into a mug-sized bowl.  As I scan the porridge toppings, all I can think about is which things won’t make me have to poop in the race. Raisins are definitely not safe. Milk is risky. Brown sugar it is.

The butterflies in my stomach make me feel full after three bites but I power through. I spot Kim Smith at the next table and take the seat next to her.

“Kim, how do I know if I’ve eaten enough for a marathon? How much did you eat?”

“I usually ask other people the same thing,” she jokes. “I had two bowls of oatmeal and a banana.”

“Shit. I only had one small bowl and I’m stuffed.”

“You should eat some more if you can,” she warns.

Being that Kim just ran the fastest half marathon ever on American soil, I plop another wad of gruel in the bowl, but I still can’t manage more than one slimy bite.

Last Minute Details

Its 6:00 and we’re passing through the unbelievably crowded lobby to pick up a coffee and get on the bus. One final bag check and I realize I forgot to cut the lining out of my race top so it wouldn’t squeeze my ribcage too much (big ribs). We decide to divide and conquer: Jesse gets the coffee and I track down a pair of blunt scissors from the bellman and start hacking away. A stick would have been equally useful. I realize I’m not breathing.

The Bus Ride

As I walk toward the buses, orange cloaked people are running toward me in a panic, “Where have you been?” they exclaim. I look at my watch and its 6:22. The buses are set to depart at 6:30 but I’m the last one on. If this were a track meet, I’d be early!  Whoopsie.

Walking down the center isle past all my settled competitors I spot my OTC Teammate “Skip” sitting alone. As soon as I plop down next to her skinny frame, she Dumbledore’s me and strikes the nervousness out with one bewitching smile. For an hour we watch the sun pink the sky and silver the water as New York City’s collective pulse gravitates toward Staten Island.

I’m so pumped. Like WAY pumped. In fact, I need to get less pumped because its 9pm and the race is in 12 hours.

After all the training and the knee-freak-out and the desperate medical treatment; after the packing and traveling and time zone differences; after the press conferences and media appearances and technical meetings…its finally here.

THE NEW YORK CITY MARATHON BABY!

47,000 people will wake up with me at 5am tomorrow and cram some oatmeal into their fluttering stomachs. We’ll triple check that we have everything we need before boarding buses to Staten Island. We’ll convince ourselves we are standing on a hot beach in Mexico to stop the full body shivering from the low 40′s temps until we finally get on with the bloody thing.

Other than that, I have no idea what will happen. I’ve received some great advice from you guys so I feel much more prepared than most first timers, but my own marathon experience awaits.

Am I nervous? It comes in waves. My right hand is twitching while I write this, so yeah, this would be one of those waves. I try to acknowledge it and then let it pass through me. Mostly I’m excited because I feel I have nothing to lose. Its an adventure–a new experience, and I’m starting to appreciate how valuable new experiences are.

For 9 weeks I’ve trained like a marathoner (at least for me) and I’ve already achieved what I set out to do when I signed up for this thing. This race itself is the reward.

If you want to stay updated on the race tomorrow you can watch it live on Universal Sports. There is a tape delayed highlight show on NBC from 2-4pm Eastern. Jesse will be tweeting updates throughout the race as well (which is your best bet if you are my family or friends who don’t like running and only want to know how I’m doing).

The more I think about it, the more my right hand twitches and my heart races, so in the name of settling down to sleep I’ll finish this post with a photographic story of my New York Marathon Experience so far, and tomorrow I’ll give you the post-race breakdown. Just know that no matter what happens, I’ll be happy with it because I’ll do my best out there. Thanks a million for all the supportive comments this week you guys. You’ve really lifted me up for the challenge.

 

 

Its been over a week since my last post, which completely goes against my “one post every day until the marathon” thing. This is what happens when a runner gets an injury scare. Its called burying your head in the sand. Heard of it? I bet you have.

I have, in fact, learned quite a few things since my knife-in-the-knee experience last Friday. But when I originally set out to write a daily light bulb, I was healthy and on a roll, envisioning composing my daily blog about the positive and humorous parts of the marathon world I was discovering.

And then BOOM!

Bye bye speed bumps, hello brick wall, and just like that I’m flailing around like one of those crash test dummies.

After taking last weekend off to heal up and doing all the treatment on my schedule, I’ve had some completely pain free days and some holy shit days. The days that it hurts are definitely no fun and I immediately pretend I don’t have a marathon coming up. Stress and pressure don’t help the healing process.

I was kind of waiting until this knee thing totally cleared up before writing a new blog post, thinking that the topic would be about how to (or how not to) manage a last minute injury before a marathon. Long story short, I don’t have an answer, I haven’t processed it on a bigger scale yet, and I’m just living day to day.

A couple bits I do want to share from this past week:

• ALF commenter and NY Marathon entry MBS is having a twin knee problem at the moment, and its been helpful to have another person going through it at the same time.
• Active Release Therapy (ART) hurts like a mother.
• Sometimes its impossible to determine if your pain comes from your back, your knee, your hip, or your mind.
• Even the remote possibility that your body might not cooperate on the day of the marathon is horrifying.
• I liked it much better when I felt invincible.
• Getting to the starting line 100% ready to go is a really tough thing to do.

Reality Check

Yesterday was Friday, and it was the last hard workout of the last hard week before staring to taper. Am I pumped? You betcha!

So what happens?

My leg falls off of course.

Halfway through the workout, my left knee decides it doesn’t want to bend anymore (at least not without the accompanying sensation of a knife stabbing into it). Yeah, I’m freaking out. Jogging is fine, but fast running is very very bad.

Experience tells me to calm down, ditch the workout, jog home, and get it loosened up pronto. So I’m jogging home and on the final stretch even jogging becomes a major problem. So I’m walking the final 200 meters to my house and even walking gets complicated. My knee simply doesn’t want to bend, like its not getting the signal, and when I consciously make it bend, it hurts (like wow hurts).

I’m on the verge of panicking and my mind is racing.

What the hell have I done? Where did this come from? I’ve never felt something this sharp and quick before, and there was no warning! I think I want to panic now. Why am I not panicking right now?

Totally weird thing happened: the panic never surfaced completely. Something told me it was just a freak thing–probably a pinched nerve, or something out of alignment. The pain was temper-tantrum-worthy for sure, but the problem wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Right?

As I fairly calmly dragged my rod-straight left leg up the stairs to my house, I actually started laughing out loud at the image of how a 22-year-old me would have reacted to this situation (thrashing around on my bed, inconsolably bemoaning the end of my running career). I decided to try to hang on to logic as long as possible, and logic told me to call Jack Magic.

Jack got me in for a massage within a half hour (life saver that he is) and calmly listened to me explain my symptoms. I know I had a crazy look in my eye, but Jack’s pulse didn’t so much as quicken for a second. He methodically worked through the potential problem areas and within an hour I could walk again. All that remained was a little bit of instability and tightness in my lower back: nothing a day or two off couldn’t fix. Looks like I’d be going into my taper hard.

The Edge

During my day off today, I started thinking about just how dangerous this place is in marathon training: the edge between the build and the taper.

For seven weeks I’ve been filling and filling and filling a water balloon without any problems, and suddenly I see that the skin of that balloon is stretched dangerously thin.

Now here I am carrying this swollen balloon towards the promised land of the taper, aware that the slightest bump from the dullest branch can irreparably rupture what it would have taken a machete to pop five weeks ago.

Yikes!

Big time yikes.

After taking today off and feeling better, I could probably do my normal Sunday run and be fine, but there is no way in hell I’m running tomorrow! Instead, my balloon and I are going to spend the day on my cushy sofa watching movies. I’m going to whip out some duct tape to reinforce the skin and let a little water out. Then I’ll feel a little safer carrying the water balloon the rest of the way to New York City, starting Monday.

Ok so I’ve been training for about 6 weeks for the marathon.

Here is the percentage of time I have felt the following ways:

Extremely tired: 30%

Pooped: 20%

Superhuman: 10%

Oh-my-God-I’m-injured: 7%

Confident that I’m on track: 25%

Why am I doing this: 3%

Normal: 5%

In case you are wondering, this is what "exhausted" looks like

And this is "pooped."