Just one more day: Jouney to Hellgate and beyond

I crossed Hellgate's finish line with a time of 16:14. Certainly not my worst time but not my best. Nevertheless, I had to be content. It was my ninth finish and an hour twenty faster than last year. But let's back-peddle those 66.6 miles and then some. That's where the story really begins.

2012 has been a year fraught with highs and lows, good and bad, goals set and dreams shattered. On New Year's Day I decided to run at least a mile everyday. Why? I don't know. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. Lots of friends had checked off 365-straight runs, I had read about others with streaks marked by decades instead of days, and I figured it would be easy to find at least ten minutes every day to get down the road and back. It actually wasn't too bad for the first seven months. Sure, there were late night jaunts before the clock struck the bewitching hour. But still, single mile days were rare and I didn't miss the total rest days as much as anticipated.

Then came summer and the Tour de Virginia, a 568-mile, 14-day quest on the Appalachian Trail. Well, make that 200 miles and five days. That's all I managed to do before bailing unceremoniously. I failed. Heavy sigh. But that's an entirely different story. Though I was up on my swollen and bruised feet giving aid to the runners still following that narrow ribbon of trail northward, I registered no miles of my own for two days. Still, I was back on track after that short hiatus, determining not to miss any more. 364 out of 366 (a Leap year) was still going to be pretty cool.

And then a job happened. I said yes to full-time teaching in addition to three-sports-a-year coaching. That's when it got really hard. Behind my desk by 5:45 a.m., teaching straight through the day with only one short break, conducting practices after school for several hours, and then home to cook, bath, work more on school, and fall into bed. The weekends didn't help much. Nearly every one was taken up by a cross country meet, sometimes requiring a dozen or more hours of commitment on a Saturday.

Call me a weanie but the last few months have taken a toll. Mental and physical exhaustion rule. Sometimes life got so frantic and my time with family so cheated, that even the idea of a ten-minute run seemed to throw my world off axis. So now, on this last day of the year, I have thirteen run-nut'n days for 2013. And no, at this point, I really don't care in these post-Hellgate, post-Christmas days. I've run out of steam.

But what about Hellgate? This was my tenth start in the ten year history of the race. I finished all but one year. (Yes, I risk breathlessness with yet another heavy sigh.) Last year was a thrash, finishing with just twenty-five minutes to spare. With my weekdays filled with teaching and weekends piled high with coaching obligations, I had but one fifty-mile race in November and one quasi-long run between that race and Hellgate.  My only hope was the daily running I do with my team and some heavy inspiration from a friend.

It came in the form of a simple text. "I hope the race this weekend goes well. Run valiantly! I just prayed for you."

Hum. Run valiantly? I like that word. Old Testament writers used it a dozen times, always characterizing brave soldiers. I especially like the phrase "accompanied by valiant men whose hearts God had touched" (1 Sam. 10:26). The idea of being courageous, cunning, and fully committed after an up-close-and personal with God appeals to me. There is purpose and hope thrown into the mix. I love that.

My goal for Hellgate then became to remember those words in the dark of night, when the going got tough, when I was feeling sleepy, and when I became impatient for the journey to be over. Over and over again I questioned myself. "Self, are you being valiant?" Sometimes the answer was yes. Sometimes no.

When it was "no," I asked another question. "Self, what are you going to change to become valiant?" The answer varied. At times it was simple. Run more, walk less. Other times it was more complicated. There were mental decisions to be made: smile, focus, don't pout, quit whining, don't think too far ahead, get only to the next aid station, be smarter about eating and drinking, try to encourage someone else, look around, enjoy the day, embrace the trail, accept the challenge. I found out that being valiant takes a lot of energy, mental and physical..

The race was hard; let there be no question about that. But the race wasn't as bad as it could have been. I didn't fall asleep as much as some years. Until the very end nothing really hurt, not even my feet. (Thank you, Hokas.) It looked like I was going to run a better time than last year and that was a major surprise. Yes, there were all the relentless in and outs, up and downs, the expected forever sections, and more leaves and rocks than should be allowed in the woods. My stomach only turned south toward the end but never prevented me from eating. Even the last three-mile climb to the Parkway crossing went better than anticipated.

But then, Self needed a talking-to. All of a sudden, the thought of a three mile decent to the finish was not at all appealing. The quads started protesting about being further punished one hundred yards into the downhill run. Self really wanted to walk it in. And then Self thought about being valiant. Shoot. Being valiant meant sucking it up. Being valiant meant running when it hurt. Being valiant meant a commitment not to walk even if no one was around to witness it. Being valiant meant attempting to catch the runner in front and keep from being passed from behind. Being valiant meant doing my best in the moment. Being valiant meant finishing in 16:14. Not a personal best but far from a personal worst. Being valiant meant being able to be content.

It's been three weeks since the race. Physical recovery has been better than expected. What wasn't expected was a lethargy about running. Too many other tasks, responsibilities, and activities stole my attention. I had four straight days right around Christmas where I didn't run a step. There was no time or energy. My soldier-self came up on the short-side of restocking valiance.

As I look back on the year and my goal to run 366 days straight, I failed. I failed to run a baker's dozen of days. Am I crying about it? Not really. Sometimes, making good, mature decisions is knowing when the cost is greater than the reward. When that happens, it's time to pull the plug. So I did. I pulled the plug thirteen times because the cost to my family, my health, or my sanity wasn't worth it.

Will I try to streak again? Doubtful. Will I get up in the morning and run in the mountains with my friends? Yes. The reward is greater than the cost.

Happy New Year! Who knows what 2013 will bring?

100-milers, crazy days, and peculiar teams

The days are crazy. Insane. Ludicrous. Why?, I ask myself. I'm too old for this. Why start a new profession at 55?

I have this habit of biting off really big pieces. Sometimes it's cake. Sometimes it's life. I'm pretty sure the cake bites are easier to swallow.

My days start at 4:55 a.m.. My desk at school is my home from 5:45 a.m. until the bell rings in the start of a new day. Then it's a whirlwind of teaching the specifics of protein synthesis and DNA replication. My planning period serves only as a time to shove my fruit and yogurt down the hatch as I furiously prepare for the afternoon and upcoming lessons. Then it's time to teach again until the final bell. But it's not over then.

The kids on my beloved cross country team come streaming into my room. They are usually excited and noisy. Me? Sometimes I have to work on the excitement part. I am tired. I love these kids but I can't say I am always enthusiastic about the coming workout. Still, I do it because I need to set the example. I need to persevere. I need to show them that sometimes it's mind over matter-and most of the time, it is. At least those days of running make my quest for running 365 days in a row a little easier.

Then there are my outside responsibilities. Home. Church. Hospitality. Small group. Then add pacing the back fifty of 100-milers in the middle of the night. I love these things, every last one, but I could use a few more hours every day; Especially weekend days.

Weekends in the fall are an an endless stream (no, make that rushing torrents) of cross country meets. I wish I could sleep in. I wish I could go for a long run in the mountains. I wish I could be like normal people and simply tidy my house and scrub the dull porcelain of our old claw-foot tub. But I can't. Those things will have to wait for another day. Perhaps another season.

But then comes Team Peculiar Day. I explain to the kids that God calls us to be set apart, a chosen people, peculiar, even. We discuss how long it should take for other teams to recognize our peculiarity (in a good sense). And then I look around the room and smile. What my eyes see is a swarm of costumes, clashing outfits, tiaras, masks, and feather boas. There's even one kid with his head in a box and one on his back. I think it's a nod to astronauts. But it's all a perfect illustration of an important principle.

We take to the streets, this odd, boisterous crowd. They wave at passing cars and catch the attention of passengers on crowded buses. They revel in being odd, yelling and screaming the whole way. One fella bends a flower into the shape of a ring, and on one knee "proposes" to an unsuspecting college coed. The team looks on as the blushing girl's friend snaps pictures to record the event. We all laugh before proceeding toward more adventurous shenanigans. We continue on, practicing group "freezes" in the midst of crowded student centers. We delight in the stares and baffled comments.

It's easy to be goofy in a large group. What is it that they say? "Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups." But to be odd, peculiar, on your own. . .well, that takes courage. However, when God calls us out, he always equips us for the task. We need not fear rebuke or ridicule when we behave and speak as God requires. It all comes down to this: "And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God" (Micah 6:8).

It's not all that popular to live as Micah writes. But do it anyway. Please God. Be peculiar.

Super Surprise

I wanted to cry out "SUR-prise. SUR-prise. SUR-prise!", channeling the best Gomer Pyle I could muster. It was hard to keep it in. But I had to keep running. The shouting would have to wait.

A year ago on this weekend, all I wanted to cry out was tears. I hated every step, every cruel foot plant in the popular Virgina Ten-Miler. I entered only because I coached a team of energetic, motivated kids who embraced the concept of chasing each other on this rock'n, roll'n road course. I, however, did not embrace those ten miles. My running was lack-luster. Every workout during practice was so difficult, almost tortuous. I walked uphill often under the guise of waiting for lagging runners. I assigned my other coaches to run with the faster groups. Me? I often chose the novice runners because I could at least keep up with them. Most of the time I  put on a hopeful face, but it was a masquerade. Something was wrong and I doubted a road race was going to help. Still, I threw my name in the hat because I need to be an example. I think I ended up that year as the third grandmasters woman (ages 50-59) but was not pleased with the agonizing moments it took to complete the course. Besides, it was slower than the year before which was ten minutes slower than my fastest time a dozen or so years before. It was demoralizing (although not unanticipated) to be faced with declining performances.


But this year something was different. I'm not saying I cheerfully sent in my registration money. (I would rather spend it on a trail race.) Still, I signed up early enough to have assigned the least expensive fee. I even did so before being pressured by the kids. As a coach, maybe I was growing into these shorter racing distances.

The team practices had been going well. We had added a key weekly workout that I hoped would build that deep-down toughness: mental and physical. We also ran lengthy workouts over the miles of rock-strewn ribbons of trails that wait patiently on the mountain above the school. On more than one occasion, I arrived home excited to tell Gary that I ran every step and felt good, perhaps even strong. I didn't know why. What could account for me running better than I had in years?

On race day for the Ten Miler, I dutifully journeyed into town and found a parking spot. Oddly, I wasn't that anxious. Rather, I felt a kind of calm though I had no realistic expectations of running any faster then 82 or 83 minutes. I wandered around, ran a warm-up on some quiet side streets and then made my way to the start, along with the 1298 other runners in the 10-mile race and the 1113 4-mile race runners.

The gun sounded, sending the masses down Langhorne road. Though many zoomed passed me, I chose to run conservatively. I think the first mile (mostly downhill), was checked off in about 7:10. Not blistering, by any standard.

Then came the lengthy climb up to Rivermont Avenue. In loathed this hill in previous races. But on this particular Saturday, I looked forward to it. I downshifted into my granny gear and chugged my way up the hill. My breathing was strong, not labored. My legs felt able. I passed many who struggled against the incline. I wondered when the race would become more difficult. Wow, I marveled. I think I'm running smart but I never expected to feel this good and in control.

Continuing to pass people right and left, my pace remained oddly consistent. The timing clocks at each mile marker told an unfamiliar story. I was running an average pace of right under 7:30 miles; perhaps 7:28 or 7:29. Could it be? My mind leaped and twirled in mental gymnastics. How is it that I could be on track to run 75 minutes? Could all the clocks be wrong? Were my calculations off? But when I passed the 5-mile clock in a little over 37 minutes, the reality of my race began to sink in.

Strong and steady. Be smart. Push it on the downhill. Goodness. I just passed Lindsey. Oh my. I'm in front of Cecil and I'm running with the lead runners from our team. Hum. How old is the girl right in front of me? I don't think she's in my age group but she sure is popular. Everyone keeps calling her name. I can't believe I feel this much in control. Yep. Still on pace. Maybe I can even get in under 75. Oh my. Am I dreaming?

No. I wasn't dreaming. The big push up Farm Basket Hill got a little harder as I watched my two runners gain ground in front of me. Still, I was making good time and passing people on the climb. As I closed in on the finish, the crowds grew and the cheers became loud and boisterous. My official time was 74:51. I was delighted.

Delighted, that is, until a woman approached and asked me my age. Shoot. I really thought I had grabbed the overall Grand Masters title. But alas, a woman less than a minute in front of me had just turned 50. I had to settle for a 55-59 age group win. Still, before the race I thought it unrealistic to ever run under 80 minutes. I was the 26th woman out of 551 and 159th out of the 1299 ten-mile runners. Not a bad day.

But the question remains: why? How did this happen? Is it the iron and general nutrition plan I started back in February? Is it the 7-day-a week running? Is it training with my team? The answer? Who knows? But then again, who cares? I'll take it any way I can get it.