Half Marathon Report: Legs That Can Run

Disclaimer: this is too long. I tried to edit, to take out whole paragraphs, but in the end, I leave the editing to the reader. It is my story, and I could not bring myself to leave any of it out.

My alarm went off at 5:30, and I immediately got up and began my race-day routine, trying to treat this morning like any other long-run morning. As I was getting dressed, brushing teeth, putting in contacts, I paused briefly to check Facebook. I had a  message from my friend Fitz that had me crying like a baby. It was just the kind of inspirational, funny message you'd want to get from a friend on a morning like this.

By 7:15 I was at Lucky Peak, waiting in the windy, 45-degree cold for my race, which wouldn't start until 8:30. If it weren't for the necessity of riding a bus to the starting line (leaving my car at the finish), I would not have gotten there so early, but this 75 minutes in the cold, cold May morning was nearly unavoidable. As race time approached my anticipation and adrenaline began to warm me up, and once the gun went off, I was never consciously cold again. I happen to love running in the cold (and hate running in the heat), so I was more than willing to endure an uncomfortable pre-race hour.

About 15 minutes before race time, people began to line up. This isn't one of those large races with corrals for different projected times. About 1350 people run this, and I was probably two-thirds of the way back from the starting line. As I stood there in the mass of people, I looked directly to my right and there stood a former student--a young lady who was in my class eight years ago. I met her two weeks to the day after my pulmonary embolism. I went to school that day simply to introduce myself to my classes and let them know that I would not be there the rest of the week, because of my recent illness and continuing recovery. Somehow, seeing her here, standing next to her, it felt like I had truly come full circle. I was no longer that frail, frightened teacher she met in 2004. I had recovered and was ready to run. We embraced and I teared up. We talked briefly, and then, just as the gun went off, she reached out to briefly take my hand. My tears flowed--joyful, triumphant tears, and I just knew God had sent her to me.

Almost immediately this race narrows onto a fairly narrow greenbelt path. I hadn't been aggressive with my starting position, knowing that I am definitely not an elite runner. I was trying be realistic about my pace and pick a starting place that would reflect that. (Next year, I'll be a little more aggressive.) I spent much of the first two miles darting off of the trail (definitely a risk, since the area beside the path was often overgrown and had unsure footing).

Somehow, in the midst of all this darting, I managed to miss the first two mile markers. I felt like I was off to a pretty good start, and I hoped I was running around 9:30 miles. My training pace had averaged 9:40, but it wasn't unusual for me to be around 9:30 for the first half of the race. I just didn't want to start too slowly. At the third mile marker I hit my watch and looked down to see 26:33. Yikes! I was running under 9-minute miles. Just to be clear, in 12 weeks of training, I'd only run sub-9-minute miles on one run, and that was a 3-miler when I had been trying to run my fastest (I felt blazing fast at 26:44 that night). I knew I could not maintain this pace; I felt both amazed and a little worried.

It turns out I had reason to be worried. I settled in to a more typical pace for the next six miles, with splits between 9:20 and 9:45. But by the end of 9 miles, I was definitely struggling. In fact, right at the 9-mile marker I thought to myself "I'd really like to stop. I wish this was over." I was a little nauseated, more than a little tired, my hips and legs were hurting, and I knew the last four miles were not going to be easy. My music in my ipod was beginning to annoy me, rather than inspire me, so I pulled off the earphones. And I was starting to count.

Counting is my go-to technique for surviving hard miles. I've been doing it for years. When I need to focus on something besides the pain and fatigue, the counting begins: 1, 2, 3 . . . usually one number for every four steps, as I exhale. Four miles from the end is very early for me to start counting, but I think those early fast miles had probably set me up for this struggle.

Just meters before the 10-mile marker, some unexpected help arrived. Two of my students were sitting on the grassy slope along Park Center Boulevard, and they spotted me as I approached and began to call my name and cheer. They were holding a sign for me, although I only made out the words "Miss Roberts." I started to cry. I shouted "I love you guys," through my tears and I ran on, thinking about how blessed I am and feeling a pleasant, mild frisson of adrenaline.

Still I spent most of the last three miles counting. I visualized Fitz's Facebook post from the morning. For a while I chanted Tammy, Paige, Jesus. (Tammy and Paige were a big inspiration for me, as they completed their first half marathon last year and began training for their second this spring, beating incredible odds. And Jesus, well, He's the strength of my heart, the lover of my soul.)

Finally, the end was in sight. With my contacts in I can't always see my watch very well, but I was pretty sure I was going to beat my goal of 2 hours and 10 minutes. At the last turn, probably 200 meters from the finish, I saw Tammy and Paige. (I mistook them for a couple of random teenagers until I heard them calling my name.) My first thought was minor embarrassment that they weren't seeing me make a stronger finish, but that silly idea passed pretty quickly.

My uncle and pastor, Ralph Lowe, was running this race, too, and it was also his first half marathon. He has been on an amazing and inspirational journey toward fitness for the last 18 months. I had passed him about the 2-mile mark, but I kept expecting him to pass me during the last few miles. I knew this was the longest run of his life and that he was coping with a couple of injuries. Just as I crossed the finish line and hit my watch, he fell into step beside me.

The rest comes to me in flashes. I saw my time--2:06:39! I began to cry. I hugged Ralph. I thought about 8 years of longing to finish this run. I thought of surviving a pulmonary embolism. I was thrilled to see another student waiting for me at the finish line. And I thought: thank you, God, for legs that can run and for lungs that can breathe.

13.1: Fear or Hope?

I was in the sixth or seventh grade when I realized I was not only an average athlete (at best), but that I also don't perform well under pressure. We had a ping pong table in our basement in Kellogg, and my younger brother, David, and I played often. I honestly felt like my ping pong skills were comparable to David's at that age (he has since surpassed me by quite a bit), but I noted that he consistently beat me, although, at least in my memory, not handily. I remember observing on one occasion that even if I had a lead, as the end of the game drew near, my nerves would get the best of me. David, on the other hand, tends to thrive under a pressure.

When it comes to athletic pursuits, my tendency to fold on game day has continued to torment me throughout life. As it turns out, adrenaline is not my friend when it comes to competition. (For some reason I can channel adrenaline in positive ways when it comes to singing or public speaking, for which I am grateful.)

So, as I approach race day this Saturday, my first half marathon, I have tried to set my expectations low. First and foremost, I want to finish. Everyone who hears me say that automatically assures me that I will finish, and short of some sort of injury, I know that I very likely will. I have completed every long run I have attempted in the last 12 weeks, including a 10-miler, two 11s, and, last Saturday, a 12. Not only have I finished, but as the runs have increased, my mile pace has continued to decline, so that my 12-mile pace was 35 seconds per mile faster than my 4-mile pace was 12 weeks ago. That's not a dramatic improvement, but I find it quite surprising and incredibly satisfying. 

Still, I am reminded of how well my marathon training went 11 years ago, and how much I still struggled on race days. 

It's been a good time to be memorizing these lines from Psalm 91:

I will not be afraid of the terror by night,

nor of the arrow that flies by day,

nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness,

nor of the destruction that lays wait at noon day.

Obviously, I have not entirely banished fear, but, ultimately, I choose hope. I place my hope in the God who gave me life, and who has, I believe with all my heart, guided me and strengthened me throughout my training. I hope to finish with a smile (thanks, Pastor Ralph). 

P.S. Who am I kidding? Just finishing will not be good enough. I can break 2:10. I can. I may not, but that is definitely my goal. I will be satisfied with 2:15. I will be thrilled with 2:10. I am tired of being 0 for life on athletic pursuits. 2:10--I'm coming for you!

Ahhhhhh, the Joy of Running Long

Often when you long for something--when you dream of it for years, picture it, yearn for it--it becomes so idealized in your mind that when it actually happens, it can't possibly live up to your imagined version.

For eight years I have been deprived, by my doctor's orders, of the opportunity to run more than six miles. My running regimen during those years was sporadic (often limited to the summer months), and rarely did I run over three miles. But throughout those years, with an intensity and frequency that slowly built to a sense of urgency, I yearned to run long. I pined for those chilly Kellogg mornings when I got up at 4:30 to beat the heat, so I could get in my 10, 12, even 20-miler. I missed the meditative and restorative power of running for an hour or two or three.

Still, I could not help but wonder if I had romanticized this experience. Was I just longing for it because I had been told I could not have it? What if a long run turned out to be just long and hard and painful? What if I'm too old to enjoy it now?

I began half-marathon training eight weeks ago (after getting permission from various doctors), and every Saturday since, I have ventured out for runs that have increased in distance from four miles to nine. I will complete a 10, two 11s, and a 12-mile-run, before taking on the 13.1 on May 19th.

And guess what? These runs have been, almost entirely, the delightful, idyllic experience I had held in my head for the last decade. Oh sure I bonked with a mile and a half to go on my eight-miler, which I foolishly ran in the heat of the day. And my arthritic hips start to talk back to me about the six-mile mark of every run. But the calming, repetitive falling of my feet on the pavement brings me the same joy, the same refreshing, head-clearing satisfaction I had been longing for.

I am running long. (I feel a sermon coming on.)

I Don't Deserve This

I am four weeks into my 12-week, half-marathon training program, and I have a confession to make: I am running better than I deserve to run. It simply does not make any sense, because I have yet to complete a full week's workout. 

Unless you consider rehearsing with the band for an hour and then leading worship for 30-40 minutes cross training, I have skipped the Sunday workout entirely, and I plan to continue that pattern. Actually, that was always my intention, so I don't feel so bad about leaving out that part of the weekly workout.   But I had planned to live up to the schedule in every other way. That would mean three runs during the week (between three and five miles), and a long run on Saturday, which increases in distance by one mile a week, until I run a 12-miler the week before the race. That doesn't sound so hard, does it? Just three short runs in five days--that should be easy enough for a real runner . . . a dedicated runner.

So far, I have only gotten in all three of those weekday runs once, and even then I shortened two of the runs. I don't know if I can entirely explain, even to myself, why I am not succeeding at this. I do know that I am struggling mightily with motivation and energy on weekdays. 

The good news is, I haven't missed or shortened the long run. Hal Higdon (whose workout I am trying to follow) says that's really the key to training for this race, so at least I've got that going for me. It is the long runs that I have missed most over the last eight years. I have yearned to return to those days when I could go out and run for an hour or two (or three). So I find myself looking forward to these ever-increasing runs each week. 

But here is the part that doesn't make sense. In spite of my failure, I am exceeding my own expectations in some significant ways. I have already run a faster 3-miler than I ran all last year. And each week, as I add another mile to the long run, I have managed to reduce my average mile time. I am running faster, as I run farther. Maybe even more surprising, I am running these long runs faster than I did eight years ago, the last time I trained for (but didn't run) a half marathon (just before my pulmonary embolism).  

I don't plan to sit on my laurels. I truly intend to do a better job with my weekday workouts in the next 8 weeks. But for now, I find myself in bewildered awe and filled with gratitude. 

Thank you, God, for legs that can run and for lungs that can breathe.

 

I'd Rather be a Schmuck Than a Jerk

In the last several years of my teaching career, I have made a conscious decision to trust my students. As a part of my opening day speech, I tell my students that even though they have done nothing yet to earn my trust, I choose to trust them. I tell them that I am on their side and that I will believe what they say to me.

If a student tells me his computer crashed just when he was about to send me his essay (the 21st century version of "the dog ate my homework"), I believe him.

If a student says she is not ready for her quiz because she was at the hospital all night with her sick grandmother, I believe her.

Or at least I act like I believe her, and frankly, most of the time I do.

And if I find out one of my students has lied to me, I don't feel stupid. As one of my teacher mentors, Jeff Wilhelm, would say, "it's not my bad." It's not my job to suspect every student of lying and cheating. It is my job to teach, and I know that to teach well, I need to build a rapport with my students. I don't want them to fear me. I want to be a safe place for them to land. Too many times I found out months into the school year that a student was homeless, or that her dad was dying of cancer, or that he'd been struggling with clinical depression. And even though those cases are the exception rather than the rule, I choose to treat every student like the exception.

I have to admit, every time I give my speech about trusting them, about being willing to extend deadlines for those who dialogue with me, a little voice in my head says: "They are so going to take advantage of you. Why would anyone turn in anything on time, if you are willing to accept their lies as truth?" But you know what? I get just as many papers on time as I did when I had a much stricter policy.

The bottom line is this. I would much rather believe liars all day long than suspect the innocent. I would much rather be gullible than cynical. I would much rather be a schmuck than a jerk.

I am Blessed

My 48th birthday was last week, on February 28th. I celebrated by not grading papers that night, and by experiencing the strange and wonderful bombardment of birthday greetings that comes with having a Facebook account. In the days just before and the days since my birthday, I have continued to feel overwhelmed by just what a happy birthday--what a happy life--I have. I keep finding myself adapting the Lou Gehrig line: "I am the happiest 48-year-old woman on the face of the earth." As I shared at my church last Sunday morning, I know that "happy" seems too overused, too trite to fully encompass what I feel. I am happy, as in fortunate and blessed. 

I am blessed with a family (immediate and extended) who I love and who love me expansively and determinedly. 

I am blessed with a job I love (even when I don't). 

I am blessed with students who I enjoy and treasure and love (even when I don't).

I am blessed with a voice that can sing.

I am blessed with legs that can run.

I am blessed with contentment in solitude and joy in fellowship. 

I am blessed with financial security.

I am blessed with health (although I would gladly take more of that).

I am blessed with friends who don't let go. 

I am blessed with a home that I love.

I am blessed with a God, a heavenly father, who made himself known to me before my conscious memory. 

I am, truly, undeservedly, blessed beyond measure. 

I Am a Runner

I know I'm a runner when I run a PR (a personal record)--even if it's just a PR for that year.

I know I'm a runner when I run farther than I have in years. 

I know I'm a runner when I run in the rain, or the wind, or the snow, or, worst of all, the heat.

I know I'm a runner, when I finish so hard, I feel like throwing up.

I know I'm a runner when I run negative splits.

But I never feel any more like a runner than I do on a day like today. Today I am a runner who ran a slow three miles--an easy recovery run. I am runner who wanted more than anything (almost anything, that is), to take a nap. I am runner whose body hurt, whose back ached, whose mind was weary, and whose brief case is full of work. I am a runner who nearly talked herself out of running. I am a runner who fought the inner battle and won. I am a runner whose mind is more clear, whose body is rejuvenated, who is ready to work.

I am a runner.