Marathon Monday

When I got up Monday, the left calf was still a little tight and tender to the touch. I applied heat, foamrolled, massaged the area, and walked around before heading down for breakfast. My sister was up already and we began planning and sorting out where and when she’d drop me off. From our previous conversation it seemed the Hopkinton Park would work best—only 10 or so minutes away and accessible from her house even with road closures—and that leaving around 8 was not too late (I had an 11am start).

My brother arrived and we chatted a bit before it was time to head out. It was a beautiful, sunny morning and the air felt a little cool at that time. As we drove, I was glad we weren’t coming by way of the highway as there seemed to be quite a backup of cars coming from that way. Soon we were in the park and after a quick scan with the metal detector I was on the bus.

It was a short ride to Hopkinton center and from there less than a mile walk to the high school which was the area set up for runners to wait until the race started. As I entered the field, I saw a mass of people—many of them spread out on the grass but more of them waiting in one of the bathroom lines. I joined one of those.

As I waited around I chatted with other runners, hearing about the marathons they’d run, which one they’d run to qualify, whether they’d run Boston last year and injury issues and other things runners like to talk about.

Finally I heard them announce that it was time for runners in the wave and corral I was in to start heading to the start line.

At the corral there was a little more waiting around and then the gun went off and I moved forward with the press of people and started to jog and run as I got to the start line.

As I began my run I did what my coach had recommended and just went with the flow. As I did, I found that the flow was actually moving at a pace I found comfortable; it was slower than what I would typically run, but it felt like the right pace that day and although I wasn’t ready to call it a day, I had a suspicion I wouldn’t be picking it up after mile 4.

It wasn’t long before I was close to the spot where my brother, sister and her family would be watching. I had made sure to start on the left side—the side they’d be at—and looked for them in the crowd. All of a sudden I heard my sister call my name and I looked over and there they were. I stopped, gave her a quick hug and waved and moved on.

After what I knew was the last hill in those first miles, I assessed how I was feeling. Nothing had changed with the left calf—it wasn’t better but it wasn’t worse either. In addition, my legs felt somewhat heavy, not full of energy. When talking with my sister about the race and the calf issue, one of the things she’d said was that sometimes, even in the Olympics and big events, its not the best athlete who wins, but the one who is injury free that day and able to compete and who in addition has a good day; sometimes, it’s just not your day. My coach had said that too. With something of a sigh, I accepted that today wasn’t my day; finishing in 3:40 would have been great, but that day, finishing at all would be an accomplishment. So I decided I’d just run at a comfortable pace and stop to stretch, even though it would eat into my time, in order to ensure I got to the finish line. Besides that, I should just enjoy the day, enjoy the run and take it all in.

This decision made, I continued on and soon stopped to stretch. I didn’t feel any additional tightness and wanted to make sure things didn’t tighten up. The day felt warmer than I’d expected, and, although not as hot as it was last year in Cleveland, the strong sun, the clear day, the air, still reminded me of it and with it, remembered how I’d tried to push at the beginning, despite the heat, and what a bad idea that was. This memory only reaffirmed my decision not to push things.

My pace slowed but I didn’t worry about that. I waved at people I knew. I waved at any camera I saw figuring if I wasn’t going to have my best run I should at least look good. I high fived people, especially any kids I saw. And occasionally, I cheered back to the crowd. It’s amazing how many people were out, how many miles of people, and how much they were cheering; it might be what I’ll remember most about the race.

The hills were tough of course, but I ran up them—something I was proud of given the circumstances. I stopped to stretch quite a few more times, especially during the last 6 miles. As I checked the time when I came to those hills, I thought I could maybe finish in under 4 hours as long as I kept going and didn’t start walking. So I kept running, not very fast, but running.

Finally I made the turn onto Boylston Street. It was such a rush or excitement. As I came closer to the finish I hear my name over the loudspeaker—how awesome is that I thought! Then I was through and receiving that medal I had worked so hard to get. Given that I hadn’t been sure I’d get to run that day, or finish, I was thrilled as that volunteer put it over my head.

The next day I got the email with the link to the pictures from the marathon. Usually I have a weird expression on my face, mouth open or something like that. This time, not only do I look decent in most of them, I also look happy, like I’m having a good time. Hm, I suppose sometimes pictures do capture how we feel on a particular day.

I thought back to that moment along mile 5 or so and realized I accomplished what I set out to do that day: finish and enjoy the run, the day. I thought about all the emotions I went through the days leading up to the marathon: the hope, the disappointment, the resignation and acceptance, the peace. I have a feeling that when I look back on the marathon, those will all fade away and the emotion I will remember, the one I will associate with the day is joy.

I also thought back to my prayers, my pleas that I not miss out on this day and I felt blessed: not only did I not miss out on the day, but it turned out to be a really good one too. Sure, it wasn’t the one I’d planned a week ago, but there was nothing to complain about the one I got: it was pretty awesome after all.

I guess that happens sometimes, maybe often. Our plans get derailed, life throws us a curveball, and it can feel like all’s lost. But, it doesn’t have to be that way. As the Easter story reminds us, life is changed, not ended. The path through that change is tough, it does lead us through a Good Friday, and sometimes, Good Friday can last too long. But the surprise, the joy, the life, that awaits on the other side is worth the journey.

What is your Easter story?

Derailed

With the marathon only a few weeks away, I was tapering, winding down my training so I’d be ready and rested for the race. I started focusing more on things like what to wear, weather, how to get there, what to do for nutrition and hydration, picking up my number—all the logistical details you have to figure out at some point.

By Good Friday, with the race only a few days away, I had most of these things figured out. But things changed that day. That morning, I woke up and my calves felt tight. I couldn’t believe it. Why now?! But I didn’t panic and figured it was just one of those things that would resolve itself in a day—that’s what usually happens. I of course applied ice, heat, then foamrolled and massaged the areas, stretched, walked around, all to help things along.

Saturday morning I got out of bed and, to my dismay, my calves were still tight. Hardly any improvement. I called in reinforcements and made an appointment with the massage therapist to see what magic she could work.

As I left the appointment and walked around some to loosen things up, the right calf began to feel back to normal, but the left… not so much yet. Still, I was hopeful it just needed a little more time and rest and that when I woke up Easter morning all would be well.

But I did worry. And prayed. And asked people who asked how I was doing to pray. I felt somewhat selfish doing so. I mean, praying for my calf to heal so I can run a marathon? Why would God do anything about that? I’m sure God has more important prayers to answer, and even in the perspective of my own life, what’s one marathon?

I prayed anyway.

Easter morning came around and the left calf was still a little sore. It was tender to the touch and although improved since Friday (I could walk on my toes), it was still not fine.

I worked on it some more and then I just broke down. All this work, and now this? I thought back to my experience last May when I ran the Cleveland marathon and my calf cramped up at mile 24. It was very painful and it took a long time to recover. If I ran with the calf as it was, was I risking a repeat of last year? If I hadn’t had that experience in the back of my mind, I’m sure I would have been determined to run regardless of what kind of tightness or pain I felt. But having had that experience made me cautious and I wondered if it was a good idea to run at all.

If I didn’t run, what would I do? I could postpone and run a later marathon I thought. Vermont is a month away—enough time to work this out and be ready. And on Monday, I could be a spectator. Maybe I could take my niece and nephew to watch somewhere in Natick or Wellesley. It would be fun, not the end of the world.

But all this work to qualify and to prepare and now I’d have to do it all over again (because I still wanted to run Boston of course).

I broke down again. As I cried, I realized how much I had been looking forward to running on Monday, how much I wanted to do this one thing. And it occurred to me that that is why God would care; because I care, because I know that if I heard someone else telling me all this, I would want them to be able to run and wouldn’t want to see their work and hopes dashed in this way, and I know other people probably feel the same way, and if all of us, imperfect people, would care, wouldn’t think this trivial, why wouldn’t God care? God who loves us more than we can imagine is possible. Besides, just because there are more important prayers God needs to attend—life or death prayers—doesn’t mean God has less time, attention or compassion left for the small prayers that make up the daily concerns of our lives. God can and does attend to both, to all of it, and doesn’t have to shortchange one for the other as we’d have to.

I thought of Fr Rick’s homily at the Vigil. Have a little faith I thought. It’s not over yet. It’s fine to have a plan B but don’t give up on plan A just yet.

As if in answer to my prayers (well, maybe it as my email), my coach called. I gave him a detailed report on the calf and when I finished asked what he thought I should do. I was ready for him to say don’t run, but instead he recommended doing an easy short run and stretching to see if that loosened up the calf. He thought it would be ok to run Monday even if it didn’t feel 100% at the start, only I should monitor the calf. Hopefully, I’d find that after the first 4 miles the tightness had worked itself out and I was good to go. If it was still not ok, then I should stop and stretch as needed and pull out if necessary as I now knew what could happen if I didn’t. He sounded very reasonable and I felt reassured that all was not lost.

I prayed some more, hoped for the best, but felt at peace with whatever ended up happening Monday.

What are your thoughts or experience of praying for those concerns and hopes that make up your daily life?

Un-Christlike Habit

Last weekend I ran the Marathon Park Prep Half marathon as part of my Boston Marathon training. It was a hilly and challenging course, but I had a really good run.

There were a number of factors that helped. For starters, I'm usually not that great about reading elevation charts; but this time, not only was I able to assess which miles would be generally uphill, I was also able to tell that the uphill just past the 10 mile marker was very steep so I was mentally prepared and I think that made a difference overall. It also turned out to be a great day for running: cool air but sunny. It had felt windy when I first checked outside, but the course must have been somewhat sheltered because I only felt a head wind along a short stretch of the course, which was nice. Finally, I just felt good that day. When I got up that morning, I could feel I would have a good run. I felt prepped, strong, and just ready to go.

As I crossed the finish line, I checked my time and was pleased to see I had broken my half marathon personal record. I got my medal and was feeling pretty happy as I walked to my car to go home. (Check here for a race report)

And then, the inevitable seemed to happen. I was driving, thinking back to the race, to the run, and soon started to wonder: "did I push enough? maybe I could have pushed harder. I mean, I really slowed down on that uphill and probably could have put a little more effort. Did I run at a half marathon pace/effort or a marathon pace/effort?" As these thoughts flooded my mind, I began to feel deflated, to feel that I had done ok, but could have done better.

But fortunately, I realized what I was doing and stopped myself, stopped thinking about these questions that I can't answer anyway, and allowed myself to enjoy the moment.

I'm not sure why I do this, but I know I'm not the only one who does: I do something and then look back, and maybe I enjoy an initial sense of accomplishment, but it doesn't take long before I start zeroing in on mistakes, or areas in need of improvement, and if I can't zero in on any of those two then I make stuff up that maybe, possibly, could be improved, but really, who knows if that's truly possible. Of course, it's not a bad thing to want to improve, to want to be better. But it does become a bad habit when the quest for improvement distorts reality by magnifying mistakes or aspects that could have been better and minimizing areas of success and accomplishment rather then allowing us to look at both of these with a sense of balance and perspective that is truer to what we've actually done. After all, the spiritual life is about truth and this scrupulous second-guessing doesn't exactly yield a true picture of ourselves.

Lent is a time to look at our un-Christlike habits and seek to change them. This would be a nice one to get a grip on. How? One of the things I know people try to focus on for Lent is kindness: be kind to others. Maybe some of us need to include ourselves in that and remember to be kind to ourselves too. When we look back on our day, on the things we've done or haven't done, to look first with kindness and a smile. After all, that's how I imagine Christ looks first.

Praying for New Life

Today I had 3x2 mile intervals to do. I do these on a nice flat stretch along the river. So I got up early and as usual somehow it takes me 30-45 minutes to get ready and drive myself over there. I suppose I should accept I'm not exactly the 'get-up-and-go' type.

But I did get myself over there and it wasn't anywhere close as cold as it was last week, for which I was thankful. I did my warm-up, a few drills, and got started.

I finished the first rep in this neighborhood with a nice view of the river. And there I was, just standing there catching my breath and looking out over the Merrimack river. It was so still. And quiet. I can remember times when the water's been very choppy. Not today. Everything was still. No wind. I looked around, noticing the bare trees. So bare they look dead. I know they're not dead, but looking at them, you'd think they are, they look so grim and lifeless.

And as I looked at the trees, I thought about how they will be looking in a few more weeks, I wondered when I'll start seeing some green buds sprouting. I was amazed at the thought that there would be green sprouts. Looking at them now, you wouldn't think such a thing would happen. But I know it will. I know that given a few more weeks, the trees will look very different: fully of leaves, full of life. Not so much now, but it will happen.

It's not so easy to be confident that God can bring about such a miracle in us. When we look at our barren areas, our lifeless parts, it doesn't seem that God would be able to transform those, to bring life to them. Maybe it's because we interfere so much? Or because we try to take on the job ourselves? Or maybe we've grown too accustomed and comfortable with these areas of our lives--who knows what God would replace them with...

Lent is a season that leads into Easter, an opportunity to invite God to touch those areas within us that have grown lifeless and still, and, more importantly, to trust that God can actually do this and wants to help us do this. I know I'm already struggling with my Lenten commitment. But I do want to experience some new life at Easter. So I pray not just for help, but to let God help me and to trust that God will do so. And that somehow, come Easter, some surprising buds of new life will be visible.

What keeps you from trusting that God can bring new life within you?