Last night I went to a party for a friend who was turning 40. It was a surprise arranged by her husband. It was really nice. I hope she felt special.

While I was there, I started talking to a runner I hardly ever see anymore. She’s really gifted and can show up to run a 3:15 on no training. Or what she professes to be no training. I asked her about her last marathon and she said it was Marine Corps. She asked about my next one and I told her Memphis. Then I told her how I had to raise $500 to get in. She said “Oh, I am not going to do that. I just go to Kinkos and copy the number.” I know she did that for Boston a few years ago and I remember when I crossed the finish line at Boston they were completely out of food. I was really hungry and I blame the bandits for stealing my food.

I try to be accepting of different perspectives and realize that not everyone holds the same decision making process as I do. I know anybody can back into trouble. But I just can’t figure out how running as a bandit is OK. It is stealing. And we aren’t talking about a seven year old stealing a Bazooka from the corner store. This is big stealing. Race entry fees are often close to $100. They need this money to keep the race supplied and a going concern. I am dumbfounded.

I don’t know what I could do if I couldn’t run. My morning routine is pretty predictable. I get up early. I putter getting ready for the day a little bit and meet my first running buddy at 5. She and I run through the dark streets to meet the others one by one before we head up to the canal.

This is absolutely my favorite time of day. I love my buddies. They allow me to share my anxiety. They share useful bits of information I might have missed. I can’t count the number of times I have said “That’s tomorrow?! Thanks for the reminder. I totally forgot.” They share their humanity and allow me to share mine. After we are done and I am running home alone, I make a small gratitude list of the gifts in my life. It’s a great way to start the day.

It has turned a little cooler this week and I have been wearing long sleeves and running tights. For the first mile I regret not having gloves, but then I am glad I don’t have to worry about losing them as I would take them off and tuck them in my waistband. I love the feel of the cooler air as it fills up my lungs. I feel like I could run forever. Yesterday I was feeling so strong, I put in an extra three miles after the last of my buddies had gone home. Usually, we run about five miles. Often, running makes me feel like I could do anything. It makes me feel strong and in control. I feel ready for any challenge and was thinking my new motto must be “Bring it!”

But on Sunday, as I stepped out of the hospital room and got just down the hall, I wasn’t so sure. Thoughts of God, thoughts of being strong and in control, were the furthest thing from my mind. I felt lost. Alone in the woods and cold. Vulnerable, which is the opposite of the way running makes me feel. “Help!” was what I wanted to scream, but I didn’t know who would hear me. I didn’t want anyone to hear me.

Later, I felt as if I were standing at the beginning of a dark and scary path. The helplessness set in full force. The tears streamed down my face and I couldn’t stop as I muffled my face to no one would hear me. I remember the time when I as little and my dad cried about his mother dying years earlier. I was amazed. I didn’t know my dad could hurt so much. He always seemed so strong and in control. It made me very very sad.

Unlike Robert Frost’s whimsical musing about which path to take in the yellow wood, I had one path before me and I did not want to take a step. I was just as scared and just as frozen as the time I was stuck in the Betatakin Indian ruins at the Navajo National Monument. Literally paralyzed with fear.

I suspect it is in these times when God looks with softness and says “I will provide a lamp so you can see just a little bit of the way down the path and it won’t be so scary.” Like a running light shows just the path ahead so you won’t stumble. Acceptance is the answer. Even though it feels like hitting the wall, accepting that the only way out is through. The only way to get to the finish line is to take the next step. Even though it might ease the pain to walk for a bit.

This morning when I got back from my run, in the darkness I noticed a stack of mail next to my front door. Funny, I had been so busy the day before I had forgotten all about the mail. I scooped up the flat package and some other mail to take inside where I could see. My sister sent me a chocolate advent calendar from Victoria, Canada. I laughed out loud because I could hear the voice of God saying “And I’ll pack some sandwiches so you won’t be hungry.”

My coach suggested I lose weight if I want to run a 3:37 marathon. My coach also suggested that I stop saying I needed to run a 3:38 marathon because the truth is if I see 3:38 on the clock as I am approaching the finish, I have missed it. Unlike Boston, New York doesn’t count the seconds. It has to be 3:38:00 or less.

My coach suggested I get the SparkPeople app to track my intake. I wonder if Coach can see what I am eating? Today is the first day I have kept track and to date, due to a user error, it is a work of fiction. I did not have one cup of blueberries for lunch but I did have two ounces of mango juice and two chocolate samples at Costco so the calorie count is probably about the same.

I have yet to run but the chores and weekly shopping are done. The library books are back where they belong and I have new tunage on my iPhone. Time to go! I don’t have a plan from my coach yet so I suspect I can run as far as I darn well please. I wonder what that will be today?

I wrote a recommendation for a student this week and as I was reflecting on her I remembered an early morning in a remote parking lot last year following practice when the head coach was describing the next cross country challenge she said confidently “Bring it!”. I think that will be my new motto. I’m ready, Coach. Bring it!

Short form: 44:13 (7:54 per mile)

Long form:
Got there early. Way early. These shorter races are so much different than a marathon! Found a Starbucks using Yelp. Enjoyed a short mocha. Took notes on my iPhone. Walked back to the start. Still way early, but I started to see some of my girls. This was a mandatory race for my cross country squad and 7 out of 11 girls showed up, which is about what I have come to expect. There were other girls from school there and some parents I really enjoy, so I had fun visiting before the start. I had a challenge on with the girls: for anyone who beat me, I would donate an extra $10 to Maggie’s Place. This could be an expensive day for me. I didn’t have the best training week.

The girls lined up at the start, but near the back. I nudged my way forward. I didn’t want to be weaving around people. Two grandmas were in front of me and they didn’t have a fast vibe. The man in front of them turned around and said “Mom, you really should line up in back.” The two women reluctantly left. He did the right thing. I was struggling with my typical pre-race jitters. Finally, the race started and I was passing people left and right in the first mile, but there were no mile markers. When I caught a guy in a yellow shirt and started to pass him, he said “It doesn’t seem fair that you have to work so much harder to get just as far.” What on earth was he talking about? It dawned on me that he was calling me short. “In my mind I am tall.” I answered. He said “I have been listening to your cadence and you are really working hard.” First of all, at this point in a race, my footfalls are as quiet as can be and second of all, I was feeling fine. I knew in my heart there was no way I was going to let Mr Yellow Shirt beat me today. No chance at all. I zipped ahead of him.

At the start the announcer had warned us to be on the look out for envelopes on the course containing free entries for next year. So, it was a combination 9K run and treasure hunt. I wanted an envelope. Just past what I think was mile one, I saw one in a bush to the left. There was a woman in front of me, but she ran right by it. I snatched it out of the bush and held it in the air before folding it to carry for the rest of the way. I found out later that the envelope contained TWO free entries for next year. This will help pay for my runners who can’t afford it.

Mr Yellow Shirt caught me at the sharp turn to head North on Priest Drive. He engaged me in conversation for several miles. I kept trying to ask questions. I didn’t know what our pace was, but at this pace, I couldn’t talk. As long as he was going to hang with me, I was going to make him work for it. At what I thought was about 2/3 of the way through the race, he glanced at his Garmin and said “We are going faster than I wanted to today. We’re running 7:45s right now, but at one point earlier it was 7:15.” I figured he could either hang tough or back off. Up the hill, I tried to think like a gazelle and Mr Yellow Shirt was lost. I didn’t have much left and I didn’t know the course well enough to know where to pour it on. There wasn’t another woman close enough to me to motivate me to speed it up. The few people cheering on the course let me know how close the person was behind me because I could hear them cheering for him or her. This helped me make sure I beat Mr Yellow Shirt. I knew he was behind me, but I didn’t know how far. No one passed me in the last mile.

I know next year, one of the cross country runners is going to beat me, but I managed to hold on this year. The awards were only for the top three over all. I missed third place by two minutes, which I suppose is better than a handful of seconds. As I mused about my time, I realized that in order to qualify for New York, I will have to hold near this pace for 33 more kilometers than I did today. That seems impossible at this moment.

“You’re just like Mr Kurtz in the woods.” my son said to me last night just after nine o’clock when I suggested that he go to bed. Usually, except when he is lecturing on the nuances of Pokemon Diamond version, I understand what he is saying. But this one had me searching my tired brain. Could he be making a reference to the insane Colonel Kurtz from Apocalypse Now? If he was, when did he see that movie? As I recall from thirty years ago, the last time I saw it, that isn’t a movie I would let my eleven year old watch. Or was he instead, reaching back to the source material “Heart of Darkness” by Joseph Conrad? It wasn’t beyond him to read advanced literature, but this one seemed a little obscure even for my precocious reader. And what was it about me that reminded him of the bald, lisping, insane Kurtz in the jungle? Finally, I had to ask. “What do you mean?” I said.

“When we are camping in the woods with the Boy Scouts, Mr. Kurtz always has the answer. I ask him about plants and he knows. I ask about the rocks and he knows the answer. He always has all the answers.” Oh that Mr. Kurtz! I thought. Relived. I knew he was paying Mr. Kurtz a compliment and that he was not implying I was a know-it-all or bossy, but I certainly can be at times.

I smiled. He knows I have my faults. He has seen me near my worst. And yet, he choses to focus on the positive. He has confiscated my phone when I was texting in a theater (during a live performance). He has frowned at me and said “That’s not very nice.” as I grumble at the driver in front of me who is driving in a manner that displeases me. He forgave his teacher for the B in English, but I still harbor resentment. (Lest you side with the teacher on this one, I can back up my resentment with detailed numerical analysis.) I want to be like him, I really do. And yet, after dropping him at school, I found myself looking at people on the street and thinking “He looks like a wacko.” and other uncharitable things. I drove by a place where people who would not normally mix were exchanging hugs before saying good-bye. I wondered why I don’t like to hug people I don’t love but for some people it is as natural as breathing.

I don’t have all the answers. But I will take being told I am like Mr. Kurtz in the woods as the highest form of praise.

I got a text on Friday morning that an old friend of mine was dying. This was from someone who had heard it from someone who had heard it from… You get the idea. My old friend never had excellent health, but she met her challenges with courage and acceptance. This was her life. What was the big deal? She had many surgeries through out our friendship, including multiple back surgeries that each were several days long because they had to go in from the front and the back. We lost touch since my last child was born. The last time I saw her, she was standing in the delivery room and I had just given birth moments before. I guess the nurse thought she was family or maybe that hospital has an open door policy. Perhaps my old friend was as embarrassed as I was, but once she got in there she didn’t know how to make a graceful retreat. Perhaps she thought it was no big deal. Charlie was screaming his head off and I just wanted to be left alone. Why didn’t I say so?

There are so many things I didn’t say. I didn’t say “My life is better because you were in it.” I didn’t say “Thank you for seeing me through the rough times when I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Thank you for being the voice of reason when all I could hear was my own insanity.” I wish I had. I called her up on Friday, surprising myself that I could still remember her phone number. Her sister answered the phone and said she was sleeping. I said “I hear she has been ill.” “Yes, she has.” was all her sister told me. I left my name and number feeling very awkward. Did I want to talk to her on her deathbed to make her feel better or to make me feel better? I think it was to say all the nice things I had neglected to say before. Would it be better for her if I just leave her alone or if I make a repeated attempt to insert myself at a time like this?

I tried to put myself in her shoes. What if I were the one lying in bed dying? Who would I want to hear from? I guess I won’t know until I get there. What if it were my husband? I don’t imagine him lying in bed dying. I imagine him going quickly while under the knife. I think about that a lot lately. This morning he said “I am lucky to have you. You must have gone through a lot putting up with all my issues.” I was getting dressed for work and said “My belt doesn’t fit.” He said “Can you just accept gratitude for one minute?” But my belt doesn’t fit. I haven’t worn a belt in some time and the styles these days are to have pants ride lower on the hips than up on the waist. “I have been more difficult,” was all I could say.

My life is better because of the people in it. I would stink at being alone. No Ted Kaczynski existence for me. I guess he stank at being alone, too. My life is better because of my old friend. And heaven will be a better place when she gets there.

I have decided to join my friends doing athletic events to raise money for worthy causes. The cause I chose is St Jude’s Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee. My fundraising goal is a modest, yet daunting $500. Any donation is gratefully accepted. Please visit: http://www.mystjudeheroes.org/auntfun

Thank you.

Yesterday started as many prerace mornings do. What was I thinking? I should be staying home with my kids. Yet one movement at a time, I kept making progress to leave. I wanted to run in Iowa. I wanted to see River City Square and Meredith Wilson’s birthplace. I wanted to color in another state on my map. And the race director had been so kind in his email. The race was started as an Eagle Scout project 10 years ago to raise money for the Newman Catholic School in Mason City. I really wanted to run this one.

But when I got to Iowa, the voice of doubt grew louder. “You haven’t trained fo this. Your hip flexor hurts.”. The truth is, I haven’t really dedicated myself to training since my first marathon three years ago. Like a teenager pushing the limits just to see how far it will go, I have been setting myself up for failure. Maybe this would be it. I had carpooled down from Minneapolis with John and Laura. When they asked me what I expected to run I said four and a half hours. But that was an hour faster than my last marathon. Could I really do it? I had a plane to catch so I couldn’t afford a five and a half hour marathon.

I think my hotel earned it’s single star from Triple A through bribing the rater. But I enjoyed a new podcast: Two Gomers Run a Marathon to help me block out the noise from the drive thru restaurant outside my window. The Gomers are marathon newbies but the issues they wrestle with of food and training and doubts are eternal. And they are funny.

I woke up and did not know what to do. Completely untrained for this marathon, I knew there was no way I could run 26.2 miles. That’s a long way! Even by car. A steady rain had fallen all night. What would I do? Again, autopilot more or less kicked in as the prospect of telling my carpool buddies I quit was harder to face than the cold rain.

Surprisingly, the rain stopped and we were left with a heavy fog. The race started in front of Meredith Wilson’s birthplace. The Music Man is so deeply engrained on my consciousness that I am genuinely surprised when I meet people who are unfamiliar with it. I found myself succumbing to a request to sing something and I picked Wells Fargo Wagon.

The first few miles took us through beautiful neighborhoods with autumn colored trees lining the road and meeting in the middle. Many houses were decorated for Halloween. My first mile was 8:07. Whoa! It didn’t feel that fast. I settled into a pace I could sustain but I don’t know what it was. We passed corn fields with drying corn and I learned that they can’t harvest it until the ground is dry enough so the combine won’t sink in the mud. There would be no harvesting today. The ground was swollen with water.

At around mile four I found myself in a clump of delightful runners from all over the Midwest. One was on a training run getting ready for her BQ attempt. Another was a mom in her first marathon. And so it went. We were running fast but it was sustainable. I hoped. There were so many of us that a course marshal said “That must be a pace group!” I hung with them until just after the halfway point where we turned on to a muddy trail that was just a bit wider than a single track. Some dropped back, some went ahead. Johnny, Lynne and I hung together. It was a pretty forest and reminded me of the Crescent Forest Trail Marathon in Gig Harbor. Near the turn around at mile 16 it got very muddy and I had to slow my pace significantly to maintain my footing. That lasted for about a mile but it zapped me. Lynne took off through the mud like she was born to do it. She would continue on to win our age group (40-49: she is 40).

I decided, now that my group was dispersed, that at 20 miles I would put my iPod on and look at my watch. I can’t remember what it said but it was close to three hours I put on the soundtrack from Love Actually so I wouldn’t have to hear any songs I didn’t like. 10k left. I was looking at a sub four. Unbelievable given my recent lack of marathon training. Maybe I really could train and taper and qualify for New York (sub 3:38).

Between miles 21 and 22, I saw no other runners or course marshalls. For a course as well attended as this one, this was unusual. I started worrying I had gone the wrong way. But I kept plodding along and before too long I saw someone ahead.

We were back in town and off the trail by mile 23. I passed a woman who was struggling and I offered some encouragement. She thanked me and then said “Uh oh! That’s a train whistle and we have to cross the track up here!” I picked up the pace as much as I could manage and we beat the train. The last few miles took forever as they often do. I tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other and not walking. I had slowed considerably but was still faster than 10 minute miles. My brain was too mushy for that much math but I did note the mile markers were passing faster than every ten minutes. I began to predict a 3.58.

I finished in 3:57. I feel pretty good. I won third in my age group and got a nice medal. This was a surprise because last year the awards went only one deep.

In the final analysis I hope that the voice who believes in me continues to be louder or at least more persistent than the voice of doubt. And I think the Mason City Marathon should be on every marathoner’s list of “must do” races. The race swag included great socks from a local mill, the course was well staffed, the post race food was plentiful, the people were nice, and it was for a good cause. Give Iowa a try!

When I learned today that Pepsi had pulled the Amp app from iTunes, I didn’t believe it at first. They had been so obstinate all week, why the turn around? I had to go check for myself. Indeed, it’s gone. And just in time, too. I have a marathon this weekend and I didn’t really want to wear my fuel belt just in case the replacement drink on the course was Gatorade. I wanted to get drinks from the aid station. Thank you, Pepsi. I can leave my fuel belt at home.

Yesterday after school I walked into my son’s classroom to deliver something to his teacher. She got that look on her face that she always gets when he hasn’t finished his work. She used to have that look every day. My son has Tourette’s Syndrome and completing his work in a timely fashion is sometimes challenging. Then, when he does complete it, often it is in a form the teacher didn’t expect. For his Venn Diagram, he wrote the words around the edges of the circles rather than smack in the middle. He is creative, thoughtful, musically gifted, and generous beyond words. But teasing his brilliance out in ways that can result in a grade on an assignment is sometimes a challenge. I said “What now?”

“Oh, no, it’s not that. One of the other kids just came to me and told me that he is being bullied.” I couldn’t help it, but tears brimmed up in my eyes. I think all any parent wants is to protect their kids and to have them find true happiness, which often comes from hard work. I felt like she had just punched me in the stomach. “But I am not sure if he knows.” she added.

Between then and now, I have been able to find out what happened and I am sure that if he doesn’t realize it right now, he will some day. I believe the adults at his school love my son. I believe they understand him and support him. I believe they are dedicated to helping him be his best. They tell me the boys were counseled and dealt with appropriately. I will spare the details, but as a parent, I am satisfied with the school’s handling of this incident. Still, I am fighting the urge to curl up under my desk and cry.

I should be looking forward to running in Iowa this weekend. But at this moment, I just want to pull my son onto my lap and hold him in my arms. Forever.