Why Boston?

It’s all still so fresh. The unconscionable events at the Boston marathon happened mere hours ago. I’m in dismay over this seemingly random act of horrific violence. Why would someone do this? Who would do this? Why did this happen? Why to runners? Why At Boston? Why?

I just can’t fathom what would bring someone to intentionally inflict pain and suffering on completely innocent people. I’ve never been one to enjoy overtly violent movies with an antagonist that has some warped relationship with humanity. I don’t want to be forced to contemplate the darker side of humanity. But this is different. This happened to my tribe, my community, my running brethren.

As I woke this morning, I could feel the pre-race electricity running through my body, as if I were running Boston myself. I celebrated each runner’s personal victory with each crossing of the finish line, knowing the sacrifice and dedication that it took to get to that moment. Boston. The Holy Grail.

Hearing of the bombings, I became physically sick, feeling not just my sadness, but the collective sorrow of our community. The feeling has not left me. But it wasn’t until now, as I am snuggling next to my two-year-old as she sweetly falls to sleep, that I understand why this crazed person chose to inflict his or her inevitable mayhem on runners at Boston.

Because the true soul of humanity is found in the run.

Race day brings the best together, from the volunteers, to the spectators, to the runners themselves, all working together to better each other. You can’t find that at any other sporting event. When you consider the showing of the authentic human spirit that happens on race day, it only makes sense a crazy person would try to destroy that. Guess what. You can’t. The runner’s spirit is indomitable. News outlets were reporting that some finishers, after having poured every ounce of their being into the last 26.2 miles, continued running – straight to the hospital to donate blood.

When tragedies like this occur, it is commonly said that it is a time for us to pull together. Well, we’re already together. Always have been. Our community will rise above. We’re used to having to pull each other through seemingly impossible obstacles, being there for you buddy when it looks like he just can’t continue, providing strength to each other. That’s what we do. We’re runners.

Failure.

It slipped away so easily…

“She’s ten minutes ahead of you.”

“How is this? I left the aid station right after she did. I had been ahead of her. I was winning. Now I’m losing. I shouldn’t have taken so long changing my shoes. I shouldn’t have been so chatty at the aid station. Ten minutes? It’s over. I’ve lost.”

Each subsequent mile, my pace slowed. The loneliness was smothering me. Miles 35 through 37 were navigated through tear-filled eyes. This was the end. My first DNF (Did Not Finish) was drawing nigh. I didn’t care. I was pissed. Pissed at the roots on the trail for causing me to stumble, at the steepness of the hills for making my legs burn, at the sun for being so damn hot, at myself for failing. My signature mental fortitude was absent, leaving me to beg for mercy from my crew. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m miserable. Let me sit. Let me quit.” I could see the shock in my husband’s eyes. He was taken aback, hearing words from my mouth that sounded so foreign. Just 12 miles ago, the last time he’d seen me, I was invigorated as I left the aid station in pursuit of the girl I’d been sharing the lead with for the previous 25 miles. I had even been ahead of most of the male competitors. Now, I stood before him mentally defeated (physically fine) with 13 more miles to run.

Michael and Christian told me I wasn’t quitting. Not what I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear that it was okay, I had already proven that I could run 50 miles, I didn’t have to do it again. I wanted them to help me out of the chair and into the car, putting an end to my misery and a beer in my hand. Instead, they filled my water and pointed me in the continued direction of the trail. They said they’d see me at mile 45. I was dubious, but I couldn’t argue. I just started to run. Still pissed. Still mentally defeated.

As I approached a spot on the trail where I had spied a turtle earlier on my first loop, I saw that he was still there. He was dead. I had mistaken that turtle for a friendly reminder that “slow an steady wins the race.” Instead, it was a harbinger of doom. “You’re done. Might as well quit.” Again, the crying commenced. I called my mommy, I told her I was so lonely (I hadn’t seen another runner in hours) and that I wanted to quit.

“Oh honey, I’m so sorry. How much further do you have?”
“Ten miles.”
*laughing* “Thats it? That’s nothing! Just finish!”
*Dad yelling in the background* “Well, if you’d get off the damn phone and get back to running, you’d be done already!”

Not what I wanted to hear. Why wouldn’t anyone just tell me I could quit?!? I was infuriated. Physically, I was still fine, but I had lost the will to continue. I would just start walking for no reason other than I didn’t want to run anymore. I lost count of how many men passed me. Whatever. Then a woman passed me. With that, I dropped from second to third. I didn’t care. She looked great. She was running strong. She deserved second place, I deserved a swift kick in the ass. Mile 44 was through a cypress swap. I decided to sit on a fallen tree for a few minutes and take in the view. It was a scene straight out of Middle Earth. When I approached the water crossing for the second time, I just stood there. I didn’t want to get soaked again, so I climbed a tree and shimmied my way across to another tree on the other bank. This is how much I didn’t care about my time. Mile 45 brought me to the start/finish line where Michael, Christian, and my daughter Presley were waiting for me. Now, I had to do the last 5 mile loop. The race director is one sadistic bastard. When Michael ran to me to give me encouragement, I informed him that I refused to run the last loop unless he ran with me. Yup. It came to that.

So, my most noble husband ran with me in cargo shorts and barefoot. I was at my most ridiculous those last 5 miles. Vehemently and audibly cursing the roots on the trail, using combinations of swear words that would make one question my upbringing. Thank God there was no one else on the trail. I was embarrassing. But Michael stayed with me, being the inner voice of affirmation that I needed, but couldn’t offer myself. He told me he was proud of me, which I honestly couldn’t comprehend. “How is he proud of me? I’m acting like a fool! I have failed. I wanted to quit. I didn’t win. Maybe he’s crazy, too.”

As I finally crossed the finish line, there was no joy. I was enraged. What a failure I was. “50 miles? Who cares? What does it matter?” The one thing, ONE THING, I was always good at, was being mentally tough. Not today, sista’. I was a sobbing heap of self-loathing apathy. Three days later, I still don’t have a warm and fuzzy about the race. The experience has left me adrift. Was I getting too big for my britches? Was this meant to be a reality check? Will this leave me hungering for my next race, voracious for a victory? I have no idea, and I might not know for a while. But the only way to find out is to keep running.

Labor of Love

I'm smitten. I am completely and and utterly enraptured by Running.

Just a few short weeks ago, Running and I were going through a rough patch. We almost got counseling. Fret not, all is well now. Our relationship has been made anew by my last race.

Standing at the starting line, anticipating the gun, my mind started to wander. I thought about all of the preparation that had brought me to this place, to this feeling. Months of following The Training Plan- running when tired, hot, cold, sore, hungry, and worst of all, apathetic. Hours spent prepping for runs- rationing nutrition, studying trail maps, ensuring gear was ready, arranging babysitting, Body Gliding EVERYTHING. Weeks spent sick because my body wasn't recovering as quickly as I needed it to. Here I was. Moments away from the test of my preparation. A calm overtook me. I mentally apologized to Running for being such a sissy the past three weeks and for putting up such a fight. Running had never let me down before; why did I think, that after 16 years of loyal courtship, Running would abandon me? Silly, Lara.

While I have fun with triathlons and, more specifically, cycling, nothing compares to the relationship I have with Running. It is the truest measure of ones self. It is the purest form of being. It will not be encumbered or adulterated. To run, all I have to do is step outside and go. Technically, I don't even need shoes (and sometimes I don't even have those!). As much as I enjoy cycling, I'll never have a few grand to drop on a full carbon bike, or a super fancy wheel set. So, I'm essentially limited in my performance by what I can afford to spend. Sure, there is equipment that accompanies me on my runs, but I can't buy a nicer water bottle to make me faster. Running is me, and nothing else.

Running is where I find myself when I'm lost, where I soak up the beauty of God's creation, where I connect with my running partners, where everything makes sense. Running has always kept me safe. When my life was in a place that it clearly didn't need to be, Running kept me from falling apart. The strength that I found through Running was the same strength I used to make the change that I so desperately needed. Through Running, I have found love. For my surroundings: fiery Myakka sunrises, quiet Siesta sunsets, a full moon lighting the sidewalk when the street lights are asleep. For my body: pushing it to the limits, asking more than I should, and it responding when it mattered most. For my mind: coming through when body wasn't compelled to cooperate. For my friends and family: their acceptance of my quirks and unwavering support of my goals. For my daughter: less than two years old, she woke up early, stayed up late, sat in a running stroller for as far as 18 miles. This little creature was always eager for the run. Yelling "Ready, set, GOOOOO!!!" when stoping at a red light waiting to cross the street. For my Michael. I can unequivocally say that I have found my mate in this life. He doesn't complete me, he amplifies me. I wouldn't be so in love with Running if I weren't so in love with him. Because what fun is it to love something so much if you can't share it with the someone you love?

I can't help myself but to include a line from a song by Rise Against.

"If love is a labor, I'll slave till the end"

This love is most definitely a labor, but therein lies the beauty. For why have something that isn't worthy of effort?

It's all in your head.

Maybe you've heard that I ran 50 miles on Saturday. If you haven't, then I'm surprised, because the braggart in me hasn't exactly been subtle about it. Why would anyone want to run 50 miles? Let's discuss.

You might expect the starting line of an ultra marathon to be filled with tall, lithe, Adonis-like figures, all in their 20's and 30's, blissfully in their athletic prime. You would be greatly mistaken. There is no age or body type that is best suited for ultra running. (The third overall finisher was a 51 year old woman. She finished almost two hours before I did.) But there is a mentality that is ideal. Many people have said that someone would have to be crazy to run 50 miles. I am not crazy. I am unafraid. Unafraid of pain, unafraid of the unknown, unafraid of the effort, unafraid of failure. I can tell you that I haven't always felt like this. While I've been running for a very long time, and I've never been one to shy away from a challenge, it wasn't until the birth of my daughter that I was truly "set free". After experiencing my body grow, birth, and feed another human being, I realized that it can do anything. Anything. The only limiting factor was my preconceived notions of what was normal and expected. My limitations were all in my head.

I'm not going to lie to you and say that I've managed to Jedi mind-trick myself into running this kind of mileage without pain or fatigue. I experienced plenty of lows in those 50 miles where I had to choose how I was going to deal with the Suck Factor. In my mind, there were three options: succumb to it, refuse to acknowledge it, or embrace it. Succumbing meant quitting, and that wasn't going to happen. So, I started early in the race by refusing the pain and mental fatigue. Mile after mile, I ignored their quiet whispers until they became screaming chants, eventually making their presence mandatory. Since ignoring them was no longer working, I challenged them to break me. Focusing intentionally on every sore muscle, the heat of the sun, the difficulty of the terrain, the weight of my Camelbak on my tired shoulders, I begged for more hurt. I knew that if I let myself experience all of the pain and I was still moving forward, then I had won. The only thing that could possibly stop me from finishing was self-doubt, and I didn't doubt my ability for a second. And had I, my resolve would have carried me through (it's always good to have a Plan B). Plan B was not necessary that day. At mile 34, I was soaring. I had transcended. I was invincible. The rush that I felt was indescribable, and three days later, I'm still on it. That high carried me the remaining 16 miles to the end. I crossed the finish line next to my husband and my friend (The Boys). As liquid emotion streamed from my eyes, the three of us claimed that moment as ours. We were victorious, not simply in the race, but over the past four months. Through the miles, the injuries, and the heartbreak, we had been there for each other,and we finished together. That moment was our reward, and it will be with us forever.

I have no plans of settling with 50 miles. What's next? An Ironman, 100k, 100 miler? Probably all of them. But first, I will take time to rest. Then maybe I'll try to improve my 50k time, wreak some havoc on the local triathlon scene, FINALLY get around to running a half-marathon. Whatever I decide to do, I'll attack it with the confidence that I will prevail. Most importantly, I'm going to enjoy every minute.

Confessions of a tired runner.

Race day is less than three weeks away. I've been training for the last thirteen weeks. I'm tired, mentally and physically. Between prepping for, eating for, showering from, doing laundry because of, and then actually doing the run, the hours spent on running could have amassed me a small fortune were it a part-time job. Many people aren't delusional or masochistic enough to embark on such an undertaking, running a 50 miler that is. If your are sane person, unlike myself, you might not know some of the dirty little secrets of running long distances. So here you go, a glance into my sweaty, smelly, blistered life.

1) My feet look dirty. All the time. I can scrub all I want, but that Myakka dirt is there to stay. And the calluses, oh the calluses.

2) My days off from work used to be reserved for catching up on cleaning and laundry. Now they are reserved for long runs. Were you to enter my home, it would be immediately apparent that I have relegated laundry and cleaning to the proverbial back burner.

3) Because I don't have much spare time for laundry, sometimes clothes come in the shower with me to get washed. Two birds. One stone. Genius.

4) Coffee and GU gels now make up their own group on my food pyramid. To that end, I spend more money on GU gels, Stingers Waffles, and Rocktane every week than I do on actually groceries. (bonus points if you know what all of that is)

5) When ya gotta go, ya gotta go. And when that's on the side of a busy road or on a trail in the middle of the woods, pray you remembered toilet paper.

6) Family gathering and social outings are often missed because of a run. I can neither confirm nor deny that Thanksgiving dinner started late because I had to get in "just one more mile". If, over the past 13 weeks, I have given you a lame-o excuse as to why I couldn't do something, I was probably actually running.

7) I'm going crazy. No, really. Any sanity I started with is all but gone. Spending so much time running start to play tricks with ones mind. I wouldn't be surprised if my next blog entry consists of "All running and no play makes Lara certifiably insane" typed over and over and over again.

8) Contrary to popular belief, training for an ultramarathon does not give you a "get out of jail free" card for diet and nutrition. I cannot eat whatever I want, nor can I eat as much as I want. If I eat crap, I feel like crap. And then my run sucks. And then I hate everyone. Truth be told l, I've gained a couple if pounds since training stared. How 'bout them apples?

9) I'm so tired of long, slow running right now. I will be happy when this race is over and I can ride my bike again! I'm looking forward to running a half-marathon in March, so I can start focusing on short, speedy races. (Did I just really type that???)

10) As much as I'm being a Negative Nancy about running right now, there is really only one question to ask: When's the 100 miler? :)

Escape.

I've never been one to seek out running partners. More so, I've avoided them. Running has always served as "me" time, a means to escape the trappings of our "do it all and have it done yesterday" society. When running with someone else, or even worse, a group of someone elses, I've found it impossible to get to my happy place. Inevitably, I would get caught up in a pace that wasn't comfortable (or was too comfortable), a distance that wasn't of my choosing, a route that was inconvenient, and God forbid, a conversation of which I wanted no part. It's only been about a year since I've tolerated running with other people, and even still, it was just barely.

Two weeks ago, something changed.

The past few months, my husband, a friend, (we'll call them "the Boys") and I have been training for a 50 mile race in February. As I'm sure you can imagine, the mileage has been adding up. Our long run last week was 31 miles. It seemed as though the stars aligned with the perfect opportunity for this run: Croom Zoom. A race up in Brooksville that had a 50k (31 mile) option. How serendipitous! Actually, not really, because it was my weekend to go play my role as an officer in the Army Reserves. So, the Boys enjoyed themselves (and smashed their PRs) at Croom while I was protecting the free world. My only option was to do the 31 mile training run the weekend before by myself in Myakka. I thought this would be excellent! It had been so long since I was able to enjoy the solitude of my pace and my iPod. I was secretly stoked.

It was a particularly cold Florida morning, hovering in the 40's with a blistering wind. Being that it was 5:30AM, I was greeted by the better half of Myakka's animal population foraging for their morning sustenance. Myakka is beautiful anytime of the day, but there is something ethereal, other-worldly about it in the pre-dawn hours. Between the wildlife and wilderness, I was hardly alone on this run. It was mostly easy going. I was clicking off the miles with relative ease. Other than a nagging ankle injury, my body felt strong and and my stride was sure. I was able to catch up on my audiobook. Simply fabulous. Then, about 25 miles in, I began to experience a feeling I'd never encounter while running: loneliness. I was no longer enjoying my run. Suddenly, I started noticing how tired my legs were, how heavy my CamelBak was. The remaining 6 miles seemed interminably long.

I managed to eek out the rest of the run, but I wasn't happy about it. I just wanted to be finished. I didn't even really care that I had bested my previous 50k time by almost an hour. Having no one with which to share it made the task seem trite. (Side note: Of course it wasn't trite. I had just run 31.1 miles in 5 hours and 17 minutes on some pretty gnarly terrain. That's nothing to sneeze at.) Unbeknownst to me, I had turned into a pack runner, actually enjoying the company of the Boys on our runs. (Not to say that I didn't enjoy their company while not running!) Over the miles of the previous months, I had come to crave our musing of future races, current life problems, the validity of the theory that alien life exists in the Orion constellation, solidifying roles for the Zombie Apocalypse. All worth-while subjects for long run cogitation.

Turns out that I've partially changed my hermit-esque ways. Now, I look forward to their company as much as a do the miles. This is a special thing that we are doing, and it's made even more so because we are doing it together. It isn't often that you find one person willing to train for and run a 50 miler, much less common to find three. I still get to escape, now I'm just bringing friends with me.

Beauty in the breakdown

I've had this song stuck in my head for weeks now. If you're as in tune with the electronica Britpop scene as I am, then you've most assuredly heard Frou Frou's "Let Go". I love this song, and it's a staple on my long run playlist. But why has it been haunting my mind for what seems like eternity? Have I, in an endorphin altered state of mind, subconsciously internalized the lyrics in response to the goings-on in my life? And maybe not even my life, but a few of my friends?

So, let go, let go
Jump in
Oh well, what you waiting for?
It's all right
'Cause there's beauty in the breakdown
So, let go, let go
Just get in
Oh, it's so amazing here
It's all right
'cause there's beauty in the breakdown

It's as if the singer is imploring the listener to be present, engaged in the moment. So often, society encourages us to evade our feelings, lulling us into complacency. This is our life! It's okay to be sad, it's okay to feel pain. If we don't fully embrace the discomfort, then how can we truly appreciate the joy and triumph of overcoming?

I think runners get it. No logical person goes into a 20 mile run expecting to not feel pain, mental and physical. Some would argue that no logical person would run 20 miles...but I digress. For as miserable as it can get when you've been on your feet for two hours, it gets just a little bit worse when you face the fact that you still have at least another hour to go. This is my favorite part of the run. I'm not the fastest, but I'm really good at suffering. Because I know what comes after the suffering. It's the high. It's when you notice the sun glinting off the dewy grass, the wind cooling your sweat-soaked brow, your stride so sure, you feel as if you could take flight at any moment. I've never done elicit drugs, but I'm fairly certain nothing can make me feel as good as I feel when I've reached this part of my runs.

The parallel between running and everyday life is so obvious to me that I have a hard time conveying this to others. The inevitable hard times in life happen to make us better. Let's try not to shirk from reality. Allow yourself to feel, to heal, to grow. There IS beauty in the breakdown.