ARR Desert Classic Marathon Race Report

The ARR Desert Classic Marathon was about an hour drive from home. Karen and I were going to car pool and I asked her to be responsible for the navigation. I have grown so much worse at this as I have gotten older. I picked her up at 5 AM and we drove the almost desolate dark streets to the start. The packet pick-up went very smoothly. The shirts were nice and the line for the porta potty wasn’t too long. It was colder than I would have liked and I had to keep moving. I wore my Marathon Maniacs singlet which is a magnet for other club members to chat. I like being part of this club. At the start, we bumped into my Maniac friend Craig. He’s a good conversationalist and we ran the first twelve miles together talking about our families and our work and the beautiful desert. The sun rose behind us as we ran and the full moon sank in front of us. Sinking behind the White Tank Mountains, I thought it looked like a big shining coin sliding into a piggy bank.

My goal for the day was to negative split, that is, run the second half faster than the first. We trotted along at about 9:20 minute miles. I didn’t have a Garmin on, but tried to do the math in my head. My head wasn’t calculating very well. It was an out and back course, so we could see the runners from the turn around coming towards us. Around mile 11, we saw the first woman. She was tall with her long blonde hair bound in a pony tail, black running tights, a crop top, and spectacular abdominals. Two miles ahead of me. “Training run. Training run. Training run.” I repeated silently to myself. Trying not to be too obvious, I gently picked up the pace. Would my buddies match my stride? They seemed to notice and joked about it. “Don’t let me hold you back. Go ahead.” Karen said. Or something like that. Craig just laughed. I didn’t want to go too fast and ruin my chance of doing anything at Austin which is two weeks away. I held back. Finally, after another mile, I couldn’t stand it any longer. They were engrossed in conversation as I picked up the pace. About 20 yards ahead, I turned to wave and kept going.

I pealed off my jacket, tied it around my waist and put in my iPod. Is there anyone on the planet who doesn’t enjoy running to Counting Crows? I think “Films About Ghosts” is one of the finest albums ever made and it did not disappoint me. I caught the first woman in my sights and it was just too easy. I set a new goal and reeled in the next set of women ahead of me. One after another, I was gaining ground and feeling good. Around mile 15, I had my first Gu. This did not make my body happy at all. My stomach suddenly cramped and all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball on the ground. One foot in front of the other I kept going, but I was listing to the left like a crippled ship. I told myself to focus on my form but half my brain kept asking “Why do that?” It was something to think about. Things got better after mile 17, but I had lost some precious ground. There was a woman in orange in front of me, as well as a woman in a white shirt with unrestrained brown hair. I could get the woman in orange, but the woman in white clearly had momentum in her favor.

I passed a man in blue who asked me how many stars I had. Marathon Maniacs are awarded stars for various feats, such as running three marathons in two weeks or 12 in 12 months. I said I had four and I was very happy about it because I just got them. He said he had three. I asked him what number he was and he seemed befuddled by the question. This should have been a clue. Marathon Maniacs are given a number as they join the club. Lower numbers joined earlier than the higher numbers. Turns out, he isn’t actually a Marathon Maniac, but if he were he would have three stars. I passed the woman in orange at about mile 21. I had been chit chatting just a bit with runners as I passed them and she was no exception. She was 48 and from Canada. I told myself not to let her beat me. Luckily, her husband was driving ahead and stopping to take pictures. I used him to gauge how far behind me she was. I ran through the aid stations, taking just a gulp as I went. The volunteers were wonderful and the aid stations were great. I would have enjoyed stopping to thank them, but it was more important to me at that moment to keep Ms Orange behind me. I thanked them on the run. I wondered if Orange’s husband was telling her that I was running through the aid stations. I would leave enough in the tank for a kick if I needed it. I fantasized about out kicking her in the chute. This was hard. It’s a lot easier to run with buddies to provide distraction. I wondered how they were doing. I hoped everyone was having a good day. “Films About Ghosts” had ended and I was now listening to some woman who wasn’t as tough as I needed, but I didn’t want to take the time to mess with the iPod.

My feet started to hurt and 26.2 seemed so very far away. I hoped I wasn’t slowing down. I didn’t feel like I had hit any kind of wall, but 26.2 is just a long way. With one mile left, I told myself “There are really five miles left.” That illusion seemed to help. I think I need to run farther to make marathons feel shorter. As I crossed the finish line, I heard the announcer say my number and then I heard “CATHERINE WYMAN!!” I knew it must be Rick. His wife, Lynne, had told him I would be there, so he came to look for me. He handed me a water and we walked for a little while. He told me the awards ceremony would be in about fifteen minutes, but there were no results posted yet. I didn’t care so much about my results, I had just finished in 3:55 and negative split by nine minutes. What I cared about was who was in front of me.

I went to the car to get something warm on and made my way back to the finish/awards area. I saw Craig and Karen. They had run together until the last 10K or so when Karen found a kick. Both felt good about their runs. Rick started to announce the awards. “We’ll start with the women overall.” He gave out the top prize to the tall blonde with spectacular abs. If I had abs like that, I would wear a crop top, too. Then he gave out the third place award. I smiled. I knew I must have second place and he was just messing with me. No one else seemed to notice, but it made me feel special. He announced my second overall and first age group. I have never won second overall before. This was nice. Karen got second in her age group and she was so alarmed. That was nice, too.

The official results were emailed last night and it looks like I got third overall instead of second. Perhaps it was the woman in the white shirt with the unrestrained brown hair. The woman in second place on the official results beat me by three minutes and she is 21 years younger than I am. I emailed the race director and offered to surrender the second overall medal. He said he didn’t know if the third place medal was still available. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that this woman who really placed second gets the award she deserves. I still have my first age group award and I treasure it.

This was a great race. Well supported, terrific volunteers, beautiful scenery, great weather. I strongly recommend it for anyone looking to run a marathon in Arizona.

When I got home and added up my week, I realized I was 30 minutes short of a 600 minute week. I had to get out there again before Midnight. My sister had told me years ago of people who had this sort of compulsion and I thought they were nuts. Now I have it, too. I feel as though over the past six months or so, a switch has been flipped. My training is going well. My times are faster and it seems more effortless. Running a marathon is hard work, but it’s not as difficult as it was or perhaps I have developed callouses on my nerve endings. I am enjoying this.

God Put Me Here

My sixth grader and his best friend wanted to work on their science fair project together. Their proposal was to test the flammability of different types of fabrics. This required special parental permission and promises of supervision because the school, naturally, did not want to be responsible for such an incendiary project. But these boys, not yet sincerely appreciating the special privileges their good behavior and solid study habits have purchased them, were very excited about the idea of doing something so cool. How could I say “No”?

I supervised as they found, cut, and sorted fabrics. I took pictures with my iPhone and Flip. We set up the fire and carefully placed a bucket of water nearby. We realized we needed a hot pad as kitchen tongs were not quite long enough to keep the boy safe while holding the burning fabric. They ignited three samples of each of the six different types of fabric and timed how long it took to catch fire. My younger son was at my side, cooing like a pigeon in the park and adding comments that really were insightful. He was paying attention and not just enjoying the act of observing things burning.

The youngest is a smart boy, but try convincing the traditional educational system. His main teacher, Mrs. Vaughn, is bending over backwards to find ways to reach him and develop plans that can help him be successful. But from where I sit, our challenges look so big. Today I read online that he earned another zero in Spanish for failing to hand in a worksheet. But his worksheet is in his binder. At school. If only it were online as well as the zero, we might be able to get it done. Charlie has a terrible time getting things back and forth. And so he loses points. Points off if it is late, as if this will be an incentive for him to remember next time. I believe he is constitutionally incapable of remembering. Mrs. Vaughn told me that recently when she stayed late and helped him clean out his desk, she found multiple copies of the same completed worksheet that he had “lost” and not turned in. A teacher cannot award credit without evidence of a completed assignment. I don’t have the answers, but I know that giving him a zero for a missing assignment, that might be completed in his desk, isn’t working. God bless Mrs. Vaughn. He’s doing fine in her class. But for the “specials” that have other teachers, I am discouraged and out of ideas.

I always had the conviction, that seems so hopelessly rigid now, that a child had to survive in the real world and, therefore, should have to do all the work the same as all the other kids. Period. That’s like throwing a child who can’t swim into the deep end of the pool. As one who ended up in the deep end of the pool and rapidly sank to the bottom, I can tell you that I wouldn’t be typing this now if my brother hadn’t pulled me out. This happened more than once. I wasn’t thrown in the deep end. I jumped thinking “This time I will be able to swim.” Not having yet had any lessons, I am not sure how I thought it would be different each time. My son keeps getting zeros and points off for late work, but nothing is changing. What makes us think it will be different this time?

Charlie seems happy at school. He is different. He doesn’t appear to have any friends, but he also doesn’t appear to care. Since his dad was in the hospital, his tics have been much worse. His Tourettes is manifested mostly in vocal tics rather than motor tics. His vocal tics often sound like different types of birds, with an affinity for those in the dove family. He can mimic any sound and when his siblings said he had bionic ears, I believed them.

One of my closest friends told me a story last week that her son shared with her. Here is what happened: John was sitting at lunch when Charlie brought his lunch over and sat too close. So close, that he wasn’t on a seat, but sitting between the seats to be right next to John. John said “Can you please sit in the seat so you won’t be so close?” Charlie answered plainly “But God put me here.”

Indeed. God put him here. And these challenges that look insurmountable from where I am now will be mastered. One small step at a time.

A Prayer

I became a fan of the Facebook page made in memory of the local boy who killed himself last week. From the pictures people posted of him, he looks like a happy boy, about the age of my son, who enjoyed baseball. He looked like he had friends. He looked comfortable in his own skin. I look at him and I wonder what happened. I had a friend who said to me once “Catherine. Are you comparing your insides with my outsides?” As I recall, this was at a moment when I felt particularly crazy and my friend appeared very calm, cool and collected.

About five years ago when I was hiking with my young sons in the mountains near Greer, a bolt of lightening struck very close to us. I was terrified as we were at least a mile from the car and the rain began pelting all around us. I quickly assessed which way would be faster to return to the car, picked up my boy who was screaming, paralyzed with fear, took the other one by the hand and said “Let’s go!” Later, after we were safe and warm and dry, one of my boys said to me “Mom, I was really scared.” I said “I was, too.” He looked at me with suspicion and said “No, you weren’t!” Yeah, I really was.

I have felt the darkness of depression. I suspect that it is depression that leads most people to suicide. Depression and hopelessness are two sides of the same leaf on an insidious vine that is pulled out of the garden but always comes back. I used to think that depression was like a fog that seeped under the door when I wasn’t looking and then enveloped me before I could do anything about it. Now, I feel as though I am in a tunnel submerged in the ocean and I just need to keep swimming to get to the other side where I can breathe again and rest in the sunshine.

As I have gotten older, I have learned how to manage it to a certain extent. For me, exercise is essential and so is eating right. Getting enough sleep is important, too. But when I was younger, unknown forces had more control and I knew less about self-care. Some people need medication to manage. It is a baffling thing and not nearly so easy to talk about as a torn hamstring or a broken arm. I don’t think we yet have the answers to this problem. The one thing I do know is that much of the time, hopelessness and depression are temporary. But for those left behind after one commits suicide, the condition isn’t temporary. Their loved one is gone forever and no words can offer comfort.

When I am troubled, I often find peace in prayer. But, in the tunnel, it is so difficult to remember to pray. The other day in Mass, the choir did a beautiful job with a song called “Prayer of the Children”. There was a line that said “Help me! To feel the sun again upon my face. For when darkness clears, I know You’re near bringing peace again.” Tonight, eleven days after the earthquake in Haiti, I watched the news as they rescued a man trapped since the quake. I saw him crawling out of the rubble and I watched as he felt the sun again upon his face. Even in the bleakest times, there are glimmers of hope.

The Bucket List

…is playing on the DVD player on the bus. I always thought this movie was pretty sappy, but as we drive through the barren landscape on our way to Durango for the weekend, it’s delightful. I am warm. The snow makes the Navajo Reservation look prettier than I have ever seen it. I just saw Shiprock in the hazy distance. It makes me want to run the marathon there in May. What would be on my bucket list?

When we paused for lunch in Kayenta, I received an email telling me that a seventh grade boy at St Theresa committed suicide this week. I don’t know who it was. But reading the email as I walked through the parking lot towards the bus, I had to fight the reflex to collapse. What if that had been my child? I can’t imagine the pain that his parents must be feeling. His siblings. His classmates. I know he felt the depths of despair. I know he felt alone. Hopeless. Emotionally, he probably felt very far away from the people he loved. He may have convinced himself that they wouldn’t miss him. That they would be better off without him. But now his classmates sit in class and stare at his empty desk thinking about how sad it is that he is gone. They remember his voice and the way he moved. But over time they will forget those sensory details and that will make them hurt all the more. And his parents? Their pain will never end.

I have been thinking about this boy and life and death as I alternate between looking out the bus window and watching the movie overhead. What is it that makes life worth living? I have been thinking about the kind words from Sister Lynn this morning as we boarded the bus. She didn’t have to get up so early and see us off. But she did. And it was special. Those small acts make life worth living. It doesn’t have to be a grand gesture to make someone else smile. And smiles are contagious. Smiles make life worth living. I’m looking out at the snow dusting the buttes as we race by – the buttes are grand gestures that have their own majestic beauty in the summer. But the dusting of snow is a small act. The small act is making it beautiful.

You Are Being Watched

I have come to accept that my body will tell me that I need to stay in bed at 4:30 AM. A good day is when I don’t listen to that nagging voice of doubt and get up anyway. This morning was no exception, but I was able to get up and put in some miles before meeting one of my favorite running buddies for what I expected would be four miles on her newly healing injured knee. Lucky for me, just before our turn around, she suggested we go a little farther and asked if we could make it to the park and still have her home in time to take her daughter to school. I know this route like the back of my hand and I knew we could easily make it back, especially at the pace we were going. I shared my mental math with her, including miles and pace, to prove my assertion that we would be fine. Inside I celebrated at the idea of going some extra miles with company.

She asked me if I had read the latest Runner’s World. There is a regular feature called “The Newbie Chronicles” by Marc Parent and, to be honest, I don’t always read it. But this time, I was drawn to the article titled “A Mile in His Shoes: Why do a father’s gasping efforts make his young son want to run?” Lately I have been running with my kids after school. It isn’t going to take the place of my morning runs with my friends, but it is important to get the kids out there and it gives me time to work on training our new dog. My experience inspired me to read past the title where I found the following about a second look at the data from the famous Framingham Heart Study:

Happiness is contagious, as are other good behaviors like quitting smoking and staying thin. These and their opposites – obesity, depression, and cigarettes with coffee – appear to spread between people as if they were viruses; groups of friends “infect” one another with good or bad habits.

Whoa. So, the saying “Stick with the winners” has something to it after all. The article went on to quote a recent article in The New York Times that said “Staying healthy isn’t just a matter of your genes and your diet – good health is also a product, in part, of your sheer proximity to other healthy people.” Or, as I like to put it, my beloved running buddies are actually making me healthier. My dad told me that The Wall Street Journal recently said that running is better than Prozac.

I have had the uneasy feeling from time to time that I am being watched. I wondered if the elementary kids I coached were paying attention. I had the suspicion that when I was victorious over the urge to stay in bed and I got out to run that my kids might be paying attention. Every time I opt for a piece of fruit instead of a bag of chips, it might not only be a better choice for me, but for them, too. At the girls high school where I work, I put a sign up in my office that had on it “3:38″. An English teacher stopped by to tell me that the girls thought it was referring to a Bible verse. I confessed it was my marathon goal time to qualify for the New York Marathon. With some embarrassment, I took my sign down. But now I wonder if I should have left it up, but that seems silly now that I have run 3:37:47. Perhaps I will put up some marathon posters.

As we approached our turn towards home this morning, I mused aloud about whether I would be happy with eight miles or if I needed to go the full ten. My buddy knows me so well. She said without pausing to think “You know you will beat yourself up all day if you don’t go two more.” She was right. At our turn, I slowed down and she said “Don’t stop!” She had to go take her daughter to school and her knee wasn’t ready for going an extra two miles. But her encouragement makes me a better person. I know I am sticking with the winners and I hope it is contagious.

Ahem. Ahem. AHEM!

Everyone who knows understands that Tourettes can get worse under stress. The holiday season can be inherently stressful, but add to that a dad having heart surgery, mom being gone at the hospital all the time, and grandma going into the hospital, and you have a perfect breeding ground for all kinds of ticks.

I guess I have gotten used to it, so I don’t really notice them, but today the sighs and throat clearing from the back seat got my attention. His sister had just bought my beloved nine year old a CAFFEINATED coffee drink at Starbucks. Their movie ended fifteen minutes before mine did, so I didn’t think twice before handing over my Starbucks card and saying “Meet me there.” Never in my wildest dreams did it dawn on me that she would buy him anything but decaf. Now I think he will be buzzing until next Tuesday. God help me.

Driving home, I asked him “Are you OK?” “Yeah,” he answered softly and the ticks stopped. I could set my watch by their resurgence. Exactly two minutes later they started again. His sister said “He was doing that all through the movie.” There was contempt in her voice, as any sister who is frustrated by a sibling. She is at the age where she is crippled with self-consciousness and I suspect his throat clearing and sighs made her want to be absorbed by the chair where she sat. It is a tough age, probably made exponentially more so when your mom makes you take your little brother – ahem – to the movies.

What if I were sitting next to someone in the movies who couldn’t stop clearing their throat? I admit I would probably be annoyed. But what is the answer? To leave him home from every public place? I don’t think so. To outfit him with a sign that says “I’m sorry. I can’t help it!”? I don’t think that is the answer either. But if you were in the 11:45 showing today of “The Princess and the Frog”, I offer my heartfelt apology. He can’t help it.

A New Pair of Glasses

My glasses broke this past week. The days bled into one another and are marked more by who was in what hospital, so I forget which day it was, but they now lie broken on my bathroom counter waiting for me to buy Super Glue. Meanwhile, I have resurrected an old pair from the drawer, tucked away just for times like these. They are in pretty bad shape and in need of their own dab of Super Glue, but for now, they do the trick.

Every year about this time, I spend some time in quiet reflection looking at the past year and looking forward to the next. My personal reflection and goal setting is sometimes the subject of some scorn of others, well-intentioned or not. I sometimes get advice, like I am the one in need of a dab of Super Glue. I am sure they are only trying to help, like my mother reminding me to brush my hair.

My time of reflection, introspection and weeding can take days, but no one has to know. Today, I decided to break up with Louis. Je t’aime, Louis, je pensais que l’apprentissage du français serait intéressant, mais il s’avère une distraction. If I really want to learn French, I have to give it my heart and soul. And then what will I do? Learning French doesn’t fit with my strategic vision.

Lately, I have found it necessary to give more attention to the things I do. I am tired of showing up for marathons untrained wondering if I could indeed cover 26.2 miles without getting a ride. So far, I have been successful, but it hasn’t felt very satisfactory. I want to give my hobbies the dedication that will yield results: satisfaction at a job well done. Not just satisfaction for having finished. That goal has been achieved. It’s time to shoot for the next one.

Tomorrow during my quiet time of reflection, I will sit in a dark movie theater by myself and watch a movie I want to see. Today I went to the movies with some companions, which was fine, except that I found myself thinking about them instead of the movie. Afterwards, upon giving my analysis, I realized I was ruining their movie. “Going to the movies with Catherine is an experience.” one said to the other, in a tone of voice that made it clear this was not a compliment. I guess I don’t need to share everything (but I am looking forward to going to the movies alone).

After I set my goals, I will write them on a scrap of paper and tack them up over my desk as I did last year. Hopefully this year I will not find it necessary to use a pink pen so it will be easier to read. And while I have more I want to do and I enjoy setting goals to provide me with focus, it’s not because I need to be fixed.

Merry Christmas

This afternoon in Mass, I saw the face of an angel. I was holding him in my arms the whole time and, much to the horror of his older siblings who are now convinced their mother is on the fast track to H E double toothpicks, briefly allowed him to play Peggle with the sound turned off. I also took his picture. In this beautiful face, I am reminded of all that is right with the world. When he protested that he was bored to death by Mass and questioned why we were there at all, I suggested that we were there to open our hearts to what God is telling us and he might to try to listen to God speaking to him through the music. He was still bored to tears but a small miracle happened. No one else in Mass, and I mean no one, got to hear God speak to me through the angelic voice that sang Silent Night, one verse melody, another harmony and finally the descant quietly in my ear.

God is very good and at this sacred time I again find myself richly blessed. Merry Christmas. I pray that you, too, can also feel your blessings.

Dignity and the Right to Privacy

how would I feel if someone were blogging about my hospital stay? I don’t imagine I would be thrilled. it would be better if they kept it murky yet informative. worse if they blogged on an iPhone and were prone to typos. like this.

Bruce is doing well. right now it is the waiting game. will the drugs ordered to be delivered 28 minutes ago arrive or have they been deemed unnecessary because of his progress? he has been up and walking around. I imagine the trek to the nurses station can seem like a marathon and I have to be careful not to encourage him to go too far. he’s ready to go home. too bad no one seems concerned about springing him.

another family member was admitted to a hospital across town but I did not secure permission to blog about the treatment an status. last night after I left good Sam I drove to Scottsdale north to check on her. there is something about getting a visual that gives me comfort. I went back again this morning and the doctor had just been there. at least one more day in the hospital for her. that gave me some comfort.

the good news is that it is still really easy to see the blessings in this life and the healing power of Gods grace

So Far So Good

This is different from last time. His nurse is attentive and professional. They have mutual friends and one would think that might make a difference but I am getting the impression all the nurses treat all their patients with the same level of dignity and concern. He is feeling better than last time and they are doing quite well managing his pain on a steady diet of morphine and Tylenol wih Codine.

He is in a ward with 12 total beds. Earlier today he was one of three patients here. Now I think every bed is full. Some patients have noisy visitors and monitors are going off left and right. I think all members of Congress and the lobbyist should go through this. And they should have to deal wih my insurance company who told me “Cross your fingers that it is all covered.”

Having said that, we recognize how rihly blessed we are and are grateful. (Still, can’t America do a better job on this one?)