The BrainStorms Award

I was honored (and a little surprised) to be nominated for the BrainStorms Award by the Middle Age Fan Club blog.  It’s a great blog about life and teaching and poetry and football—well, what we call soccer on this side of the Atlantic.  It’s my first blog award nomination, so thank you Graham!

 

Rules

1. Thank the person who nominated you
2. Tag your post with #BrainStormsAward and follow https://brainsstorms.wordpress.com/ if you’re willing
3. Display the BrainStorms Award logo
4. Display the rules on your blog
5. Talk a bit about your blog, why you started, what you write about and your goal for your blog
6. Answer the five questions you’ve been asked
7. Nominate five other amazing bloggers
8. Ask them five questions

 

About my blog…

It all started with my 40^th birthday.  As we all do with milestone birthdays, I lamented all the things I dreamed I would have done by the time I reached 40.  While some, like marriage and family, were beyond my control, I thought about never having visited another country.  Then Abbott announced they were sponsoring all six of the major marathon races, creating a special award if you ran all six.  Three of them—London, Berlin, and Toyko—would mean international travel.  It was too good to be true.  I decided that running those marathons and earning the medal would be the quest to get me through my 40s, and to hold myself accountable, I would blog about my journey.

The quest started well, with a finish in Chicago (my “home” marathon), then a surprise lottery entry into Berlin and an epic New York City race in November of 2019, all while documenting the changes inside myself as I ran and trained and traveled.  I went into 2020 thinking that I was in perfect position to complete my quest by my 50^th birthday…until a corona virus escaped from China and turned the entire world upside down.

As races were cancelled and everything put on hold, writing became my way to cope with the anxiety and fear I felt trying to survive this dramatically changed world.   As the months wore on, my mental health continued to decline until I was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder, or OCPD.  The blog that was started to keep me accountable with my marathon running had transformed into a blog to help me cope with my mental health in the midst of a raging global pandemic.

My goal for my blog at this point is to just be heard, be read, and grow a following.  The theme of my blog—exceptionalism, empathy, kindness, and acceptance—are in short supply these days, so I hope my ideas can grow and make this world a better place.

Answering Graham’s questions:

1. Could you recommend a cheese to me and let me know why, please?  Just one?  Yikes.  (Looks north at the Wisconsin border.)  I’m going to say a tie between Munster and brick.  Munster is creamy with that fun orange casing that has this nice salty tang, and brick is just salty cheesy goodness.  Both are great when you’re melting or if you’re just eating cheese and crackers.
   
   
2. What’s your favourite quote?  The Special Olympics motto:  Let me win.  But if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt.
   
   
3. If you could have walk on music, you know for every time you enter a room or your workplace, what would it be? You can mix songs together if you want.  Eye of the Tiger.  It was my high school’s unofficial theme song, and I may or may not have fantasized about winning an election and entering a roomful of supporters while it played.
   
   
4. Who would you get to play you in the film of your life?  Danica McKellar.  Not only do I look like her, but we both love math.
   
   
5. What were your three favourite things about lockdown? (It’s Ok to say that there were good things about lockdown, by the way. We discovered a house with an entire miniature railway in their back garden that we’d have never known about had it not been for lockdown walks.)  I got into Twitter and discovered a wonderful, supportive, uplifting community.  Even though I haven’t traveled far from home all that much, I’ve become connected to people from all over the world.  Going through and watching the entire Marvel Cinematic Universe.  I had been so busy with my life that I completely missed these movies, and amazingly, all of the spoilers as well.  It was like watching them in the theatres.  Finally, getting to know my neighbors as I would walk around our subdivision, trying to get some solace from my house, and especially all the small children who now attend our local grade school.  I may have to sidewalk chalk some times tables next week….

Five Amazing Bloggers (click on the names to read their blogs):

 Rethink Entrepreneur    @Rethinkblogger

PS Conway    @ps_conway

Classic Cinema Plus    @TheeRealPastorJ

Weird Lifestyle    @LifestyleWeird

I only take pics    @mezmerize217

These are five fun, creative bloggers who constantly put out unique content.  I hope you enjoy them as well.

Five Questions:

1. What makes you exceptional?
2. Where is your best spot to brainstorm?
3. Tell me about a great idea you had that ended up being a complete flop.
4. What would you tell the teenagers of today?
5. What was the most important lesson you learned from high (secondary) school?

The Face in the Jar by the Door

Before I quit skating back in 2011, I had decided my next freestyle program was going to be to Eleanor Rigby. 

Eleanor Rigby

Picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been

Lives in a dream

Waits at the window

Wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door

Who is it for?

I have lived my entire adult life wearing the face I keep in a jar by the door. 

It’s understandable, given my childhood.  I was not an easy child for any mother, between the OCD and the high IQ, but my mother came into parenting with the scars of her own difficult childhood.  Today, she probably would have known to heal herself before becoming a parent, but back then, she saw being a wife and mother as her salvation.

She had no idea what to do with a kid who just saw the world so differently than everyone else.  A kid who taught herself how to read and do multiplication, but would get insanely frustrated if things weren’t exactly ordered in her head.  (For example, I nearly had a meltdown on the first day of kindergarten….because the school bus didn’t have seatbelts.  In 1979, when you could drive around in your car without wearing a seatbelt.)

Overwhelmed by the meltdowns and scared of what the world would do to her outlier child, she did what she learned from growing up in an alcoholic family.  Pretend.  She would say things to me like, “you know, you’re not going to have any friends if you act this way.”  “Do you know how difficult you are to live with?”  In eighth grade, I’d have to come home from school, detail every social interaction, and problem solve to see how I could do better.  Every day.

She was determined to jam my square peg into that round hole, even if my self-esteem was destroyed in the process.  Her anxiety over me was so great that she would do whatever it took to gain total control of my life, even into adulthood.

Instead of creating a confident young woman who glided through social interactions, she created a woman who felt the need to pretend to be someone else to garner acceptance.  I created my face in the jar and learned how to navigate life wearing it.  My mother loved “Face in the Jar” Erin better than the person I really was.  At one point, after a sorority Mother’s Day tea, said to me, “why can’t you be like this all the time?”  Because, Mom, it’s an act.  It’s not me.

In the process of healing from the breakup of a four-year relationship, I’ve been reflecting on connection and my connection to the world.  That face in the jar has allowed me to navigate the adult world, but I don’t feel connected to it in any way, shape or form.  I have friends, but not a single best friend who gets me on that deeper level, because it’s hard to let anyone in.  Don’t even get me started about dating, which is all about putting your best foot forward while having a good time….until it’s time to take down the façade and be vulnerable with each other.  My ex once got angry at me because I didn’t trust him.  He was absolutely right, but it never occurred to both of us that perhaps we should have stepped back from our relationship and worked on building that trust.  Instead, he decided that because I didn’t trust him, he had carte blanche to treat me however he wanted.

And that’s the thing about my face in the jar.  It’s a laid back, amenable person who has allowed herself to be stepped on, walked over, or in the case of my ex, steamrolled.  It’s someone who is easy to ignore or fade into the background.  It’s someone who never complains or creates drama for others.  It’s someone who is easily forgotten, someone who knows how to be invisible.  Someone completely different than the woman whose mind is always on overdrive with thoughts, ideas, and keeping ahead of her OCD.

One of the things that has been tumbling in my mind of late is whether it’s time to leave the face in the jar when I leave the house.  Then I look at the world right now and see all the the anger and vitriol and judgement and closemindedness and intolerance towards each other.  It saddens me that as a culture, we are so dogmatic about receiving conformation about our own beliefs that we have zero respect for someone who disagrees with them.  We are supposed to be a country where each of the 330 million people get to believe whatever they want, but instead, I see a country where if you don’t conform 100% to whatever, you are automatically horse manure…and I’m scared of how I’ll be treated if I didn’t wear my face in the jar.

Eleanor Rigby resonates because so many of us keep faces in jars by our doors, afraid of what would happen if people saw our true selves.  We’re supposed to be the champions of individuality, but instead we force people into silent conformity.  To fix our country, we need to start here, and it’s why I no longer want to hide. 

Gratitude for Thanksgiving Day

Inspired by a Facebook post of a friend who lost her husband of 38 years, here is what I am grateful for this Thanksgiving holiday: 

• The right diagnosis for why my brain works the way it does, so I can figure out how to make my life work for me, rather than struggle trying to make me work to have a normal life.
• Strength to walk away from toxic relationships in my life, even when it was safer to stay.
• Passion for marathon running and writing, healthy addictions to deal with the challenges life throws my way.
• Friends who have reached out, supported me, and became my family, even as life got crazier and crazier. 
• Life lessons that were earned from the difficult times, as well as the personal growth that came from them.
• Discovering a voice that has been silent way too long, and the confidence to make it heard.
• Peace in my soul that I am exactly where I am supposed to be, replacing the empty longing that comes from fantasies.
• Hope that fuels the pursuit of my dreams, and dreams that are worth pursuing.
• Looking in a mirror and loving the woman I see in it.

In the face of so much wrong and bad and difficult and challenging in our worlds, we still can find so many things that are good.  Stop and think about your life.  What is on your gratitude list this year?

You Never Will Know the Demons You Create, So Just Be Kind

DISCLAIMER:  This blog is, and never will be, a political blog.  However, I spent eight years working in politics, seeing the good, the bad, and the ugly of this country.  The experience taught me so much about myself and my universe that at times, I cannot help but speak about it.  Just don’t interpret my story as a political manifesto.  It’s really just my life and my voice.

I have to get something off my chest.  Or my back.  Or draining on my soul.

I went onto Twitter on Friday to write a post, and found that #ByeByeElyse is now trending.  Apparently, Rep. Elise Stefanik, a Republican from New York and ranked as the 19^th most bipartisan Member of Congress, did something so awful that she should be burned on the stake or something.  I could not imagine what could be causing such a vitriolic response.  Except maybe those impeachment hearings….

To be honest, I’ve been ignoring the impeachment hearings.  I’m burnt out.  With eight years of eating, sleeping, breathing, and living in the political world, our current political climate is beyond stressful.  It’s toxic.

I started as a Congressional staffer for a Republican member of the House.  Politics had been an interest of mine since college, and while I was an armchair junkie, I never thought I’d have the resume or the talent for the work.  When the candidate I helped get elected asked me to join his staff, I was excited for the opportunity to help the people in the district, the people I had befriended over the months leading to the election.  You’d think it was glamorous and exciting, like The West Wing or House of Cards?  Not even close.

When you are a Congressional staffer, you have to answer the phone and calm down the angry callers.  When it is a Republican Member of Congress, the angry callers tend to be Democratic party voters who have seen your boss on TV or read a press release or worked for his/her opponent in the last election….or is supporting your boss’ opponent in the upcoming election.  Of course, the fact that they are calling a professional office with people who are just doing a job (beyond answering the phones, I was responsible for helping constituents struggling with their immigration and visa paperwork) is completely lost in the blinding rage, and the poor staffer is called a bunch of four letter words, told they should just kill themselves because they don’t deserve to be alive, or my favorite, told they couldn’t possibly be that stupid of a woman for supporting their boss.  Seriously, I didn’t realize what the c-word was….until I was called it over 1,000 times within six months.

The good news is that my boss wasn’t re-elected, so I didn’t have to face any more of that abuse.  But as I slowly healed from the mental and emotional damage from that experience, I continued to work in politics, being exposed to the occasional blog post or angry tweet that would just trigger me into a panic attack.  But instead of manifesting as severe fear, it manifested as anger.  Inside, I was a raging Tasmanian Devil, but I could not stoop to the angry mob’s level. 

You see, political work is a very public job.  Everything you do is seen as representative as your employer, whether it be an elected official, a candidate, or an organization.  Not only did I want to take the high road, personally, but anything I did could be recorded, screenshot, or otherwise documented.  And spread across social media.  So I kept silent, numbing my pain with marathon training and pinot grigio.

Then Donald Trump ran for President.  Up until this point, I had been dealing with hyper-partisan liberals, charged with emotions, but as the election (and Trump’s Twitter account) moved forward, the drumbeat of scared energy got louder and louder.  Then Trump won the election, and everything went off the rails.  The anger, the vitriol, the hatred, and the emotions were ratcheted so high that dissent, which exists in our country by design, was no longer tolerated.  Either you agreed with the people who thought Trump needs to go….or you were devil spawn.  No grey area.  No “nice” Republicans.  I mean, we’ve gotten so bad that Ellen DeGeneres was trolled for laughing with President George W. Bush at a football game.  Ellen DeGeneres, who is this sweet, kind, funny human, was trolled for being a sweet, kind, respectful human.

Not only was healing my wounds no longer possible, silencing my voice was causing other problems in my life.  I had become a shell of who I was before all of this started, both emotionally and physically.  I needed to make changes.  I needed to reprioritize my life.  And I needed to speak up instead of staying silent. 

Being obnoxious because you are fighting the good fight is not acceptable.  It’s not acceptable if you’re a Republican, and it’s not acceptable if you’re a Democrat.  Calling an office and using obscenities is not acceptable.  Cyberbullying someone who disagrees with you politically is not acceptable.  And most importantly, feeling that your horrible behavior is justified because of your beliefs is not acceptable.  As Ellen DeGeneres said, be kind. 

Seeing the anger towards Rep. Stefanik on Twitter was triggering, but instead of silencing myself, I took fingers to keyboard and purged some demons.  It’s time to tell our truths, listen to each other, find common ground, and appreciate our diversity.  Starting with myself.

Quest, Derailed

Yes, it’s been a year.

When I started this quest, I had planned to work on my blog every Sunday, then I met a cute guy and then we started doing Sunday Funday and then it was harder and harder to find time to do the blogs and….

But I was still running.  I was still improving, still moving towards the goal of the six marathons.  The blog was just to keep me accountable, and since I was progressing, there was no need to dedicate serious time for the blog, a good thing because it seemed that I didn’t have a lot of time and energy for it.

I was helping a friend (and working on my time) by helping a friend train for a marathon.  I worked out with the Libertyville Running Club and ended up running a 7:35 mile at the final time trial.  I entered both the Toyko and London marathon lotteries (but didn’t get in) and helped out on my charity team’s committee, hoping I can get a charity bib into New York.  The quest was progressing forward, and I didn’t need to be held accountable.

At the same time, there were subtle dynamics going on around me that I couldn’t ignore.  While everyone was super-nice with the run club, it did feel like a closer circle was forming, and typical of my life, I didn’t know what I did or didn’t do to be excluded from this circle.  I couldn’t be that upset, since 1.  I couldn’t afford to keep up with them because I have to save money for the marathons 2. My life was full and busy without them and 3. I was too shy to put any effort into connections.  However, the change in the energy affected my enthusiasm for the club. 

Then we had a little election.  For 99% of the country, they are armchair politicos, watching on news and posting on social media, but really have not invested any effort to impact the outcome.  However, my boyfriend and I work in the political field, so our lives can be dramatically affected by the vote.  In a Presidential year, it’s especially nerve wracking because so many voters chose their President and vote downticket that our lives are impacted by people who don’t even know what they are doing.

This election was contentious and emotional and angry, and in the end, the national election was the complete opposite of our local results.  While you can’t make politics personal—we are professionals, after all—there is a letdown, almost a grieving process, after an election.  Usually, most people go back their jobs, their lives, just as they are, pre-election, except for that 1%, like my boyfriend and I, whose lives were dramatically changed by the results.

This year, however, was different.  Many people were upset about the election results, including many in the run club.  Not only did I represent the other side, but I couldn’t help but wonder how many helped to turn my life upside down because they didn't see below the top of the ticket.  I was already feeling a little out of place before this happened, but now I felt isolated and unwelcome, to the point that I questioned why we were even doing this quest.

It was an extremely generous gift to have found my friend Christy, then.  She saw me through all this difficulty, running mile after mile and understanding my feelings.  And at my lowest point, she gave me a very special gift—a birthday marathon in New Orleans, LA.  It brought me back to running—and eventually, back to my run club.  However, my life is still very much in flux, to the point that I can’t make major financial decisions.  Consider it a setback in my quest.  We’ll be up and running and fighting again, but for now, it’s all about qualifying for Boston and writing blog posts, because that’s all I can afford to do.

Think It’s Easier for Those 7 Min Pacers? Think again…

One of my favorite runs with my club is Tamarack 800s.  We have a street in town that not only is exactly 800 meters, but is shaped like a semi-circle, so it is around 400 meters to get back to the start.  Perfect to do repeat 800 meter intervals.  We do them in winter, at night, so it’s often dark and chilly and snowy.  Of course, the street is a mile from a bar, so that’s our warmup and cool down.

There was a blizzard south of Chicago a few weeks ago, so a lot of people were expecting bad weather and decided not to show up.  As usual, that meant that I was the slowest runner who did. 

For a lot of people who can’t easily do a sub-10 min mile, watching someone who can run a mile under 6 minutes cruise by can feel discouraging.  On the Tamarack run, I’m often lapped by our faster runners, since my full speed is slower than their easy jog pace.  It’s not discouraging to me, however, because I can see they are working just as hard as I am, and it’s the effort, not the pace, that makes us a “real runner.”

One of the first lessons I learned in running is:  “fast” and “slow” are relative.  My first year of high school cross country, our top runner qualified for state.  My junior year, the top seven qualified for state.  I was nowhere near qualifying for state, but I had a different focus:  my personal best.  It’s something that has carried me through many, many tough workouts, getting lost, and being lapped.  I compete against the clock and my Strava account, not what everyone else is doing. 

It didn’t matter that I was slower than everyone else.  A couple of people decided to skip the speedwork and run Tamarack Street backwards, so I never felt alone or unsafe.  I enjoyed the beauty of the evening and the comradery of everyone pushing themselves to their limits.  I had fun!  When I came back to the bar, I was treated like a runner, not a has-been.  But….going out and running, regardless of pace, is going to make me faster than sitting at home.

So don’t feel discouraged if you aren’t super-fast.  You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.  Runners are welcoming and generous and encouraging.  We’ve all had those runs where we’ve gotten lost, where it’s taken much longer than we expected, where our heads are faster than our legs.  We admire the runners who take 6, 7, or 17 hours to finish a marathon just as much as we admire the ones who can do it in less than 3 hours.  Focus on your own improvement, train hard, and have fun.

Star #1: Chicago

Sometimes, you can be perfectly prepared just to be derailed by something you cannot control.  A perfect description of the Chicago Marathon.

I was ready.  Well trained, fully tapered, recovered from my cold with plenty of rest, and mentally determined to succeed.  I had a blast at the expo with my boyfriend, picking up my packet, taking pictures, and collecting tchotchkes.  I came home, packed my bag, and got to bed super early, knowing full well that rest might be illusive.

After a snooze at 3 am, I woke up at 3:35 am from alarm #3.  I was up, out of bed, and munching on a protein bar, thinking, “hooray, I get to run today!”  I was out the door and through the 7-Eleven (to buy my morning coffee) so early that I was the first person at the train station.  As soon as I got settled, one of my clubmates walked through the door of the station, ready for the start line.  Most people bring a change of clothes, wallets, water bottles, and other accouterments, so I couldn’t help but break into a smile to see him so ready to go.

We hopped on the train and had two more clubmates join us at the next stop, all filled with the nervous excitement of race day.  While the other three were in the fast “A” corral, I was the only one who had run Chicago previously.  My stomach was a little queasy, but I chalked it up to the coffee, the lack of sleep, and the nerves. 

We got into the city and headed for the Congress Hotel, where we were meeting the rest of the club.  About a dozen were in the lobby, complete with our hot pink running shorts.  A couple pictures, and it was time for the first wave runners to head to the corrals and me to my charity team check-in.  I walked north on Michigan with them, all a bundle of nervous excitement, as was I. 

On our way north, we bumped into another clubmate.  It was her first marathon, and she had been injured this summer.  Originally, she was going to start with me, but another clubmate who was closer to her pace was in a corral behind her.  I told her to start in the further corral with the other clubmate, who I knew would do a better job pacing her. 

One thing I love about my charity team is that we do a private check in, locking our bags in a monitored office instead of a tent in Grant Park.  I got there after the first wave runners left, and talked to the coordinator.  Apparently we had a lot of first time runners, and the coordinator remarked how calm I was.  (Ha!)  Well, it is my third year.  Talking to the runners, I asked who they were running for because with my charity, every runner has a friend or family member who has cystic fibrosis, and it’s a good reminder of when we get into the tough miles.  I put my bib on, drank a couple glasses of water, and used the restroom a couple times.  I was ready.

Two young women were leaving at the same time I was, so we walked over to the corrals together.  It was their first marathon, ever, and they were running for their brother who has CF.  They asked for advice, and that was simple.  “You will be challenged.  When that happens, think of your brother, and you’ll find the strength.”  We slid through security, and the photographers wanted a picture.  I told them to take a picture with just the two sisters—a great family memento. 

I scurried over to my corral, looking for familiar faces.  I wanted to start at the back of the corral, since my friends would most likely be in the next corral.  The pace group near me said 4:40, nearly a full mile/min faster than I wanted to pace.  I decided I wanted to be further back, but there wasn’t a 4:55 pace team.  It made my strategy easy:  don’t push until I met up with the 4:55 pace group.  I also was watching for my clubmates headed to the corral behind me, as well as if they were going to be in my corral.

It was a much longer wait than past years, when I got to the corrals right before they closed.  I milled around a bit, looking for familiar faces (and hot pink shorts).  Not seeing anything familiar, I then did what I always do at this moment:  chat with the people around me to allay my nerves.  My first marathon, I actually met someone who had a friend in common.  Small world.  No luck this year, but I met a person who moved to Texas over the summer—and was thrilled that it was “only” going to be 77 degrees. 

Then my stomach started to rumble, and it wasn’t the type of rumbling you wanted to have in a crowd full of people.  It was the rumbling of intestines that was dealing with something that didn’t agree with them.  Like I wasn’t nervous enough.  But….I had trained all summer for this race.  I had worked so very hard on hot days.  I had persevered when my intestines grumbled and rumbled.  One mile at a time.

We slowly moved forward to the start, and as I crossed the start line, it was a mix of emotions, the adrenaline rush of starting a race tempered by the nerves of how my digestive track would feel being bounced around by running.  It was much better than expected, and I was jogging easily, waiting for the 4:55 pace group.

The first mile went quickly, and the clock read 1:01.  If I did an 11-minute mile, it meant that I cross the start line around 50 minutes, making it easy to pace.  The spectators, however, were making it difficult.  I bumped into three people trying to cross the stream of 40,000 runners, one of whom was walking a bicycle.  As we started to turn to go north, I bumped into my first clubmate, who was trying to finish about my pace.  It was all smiles as we greeted each other, happy with excitement and adrenaline, but it was clear that I was feeling faster, so he urged me to keep cruising instead of waiting for him. 

When I hit the second water stop, I was greeted with an empty table.  Knowing that it was supposed to be a warm day, I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was.  I ended up waiting for the volunteer to pour a cup, rather than moving along to one of the later tables.  While annoyed a bit at myself, I was grateful that it was early and not late in the race, when picking up water at later tables would be critical, especially on such a hot day.

Miles 2, 3, and 4 were easy, about 11 min pace, following the magic blue line that indicated the official measurement.  As I turned the curve to enter Lincoln Park, I met up with a runner in full firefighting gear.  I wished him luck, and then I got a tap on my back.  It was another clubmate, Trish, complete with tank top and hot pink shorts.  She had started behind me and was running well.  After a little chatter about pace, she told me to follow her.  The next few miles were just fun, chasing her around slower runners and feeling strong.  However, I was torn in my head because while I was enjoying myself, it was a smidgen faster than I had been pacing—and we had a long way to go.  I decided that since I was having fun and ahead of pace, why not.  We passed the senior apartments and waved to the residents, took the big turn in Lakeview to head back to the Loop, enjoyed the drill team and feathered queens in Boys Town, and jogged down one of my favorite parts of the course. 

By mile 10, I couldn’t keep up, but I was also looking for a special cheerleader—my boyfriend, who promised to be at the corner of North and LaSalle, before I made the turn into Old Town.  He was there as promised, with sign and cowbell.  I asked him how I looked, and he said, “strong.”  I gave him a kiss, told him I’ll see him at Mile 23, then trotted off to the next water stop—where I saw Trish again—and Old Town.

Around mile 11, the adrenaline was starting to wear off, but then I saw our old Team CF coordinator.  I knew I didn’t have a lot of time to chat, but I smiled and waved.  It seemed that every time I wanted to give up, there was another reason to push forward.

It was now around 10:30, and it was warming up.  I thought I would be drenched in sweat as the temperature was climbing, but I wasn’t.  However, the sponges at the next aid station felt so good.  As we returned to the Loop, race marshals were directing us to run in the shade of the buildings.  Soon I noticed that there were no lines for the porta-potties, so I took a short potty stop.

That stop threw my digestive track a bit out of whack, but I still grabbed the energy chews.  I hadn’t eaten in over five hours, and I figured that I needed the sugar and electrolytes.  I grabbed a cup of water, then walked while I ate the chews.  I then saw the clock.  Doing my back-calculation, I was right at pace, 2:30, which made me even more nervous because I thought I had been much faster.  I really had to pick up pace….but I couldn’t.  The chews had made my stomach turn completely upside down, too nauseated to run. 

At this point, I stopped having fun.  The 4:55 pace group came by, and I tried to start running again to keep up with them.  I couldn’t.  I was feeling very sick, so much that the things that usually motivate me through the second out and back—the crowd, the noise—was making things worse.  On top of it all, losing the pace group meant that I had lost my goal, a sub-5 hour marathon. 

As I walked along, trying to settle my stomach, I tried to plan what to do.  My cell phone was locked back up in gear check, so I couldn’t call my boyfriend.  Going to a medical tent could cause a lot more trouble than it was worth, especially when my emergency contact, my boyfriend, was driving down to mile 23 to see me with the rest of the running club, and trying to get to a medical tent at mile 15 or 16 would have been difficult.  Also, I hadn’t seen Heidi or Ann, so I wondered how they were doing.  I decided to try to make it to mile 23, then just stop.  I was ready to stop.

I meandered along, mostly walking, trying to find my run club teammates who had started behind me.  I felt tired, sick, and upset that after a summer of hard work, was going to fail at my goal.  The crowd, who had started cheering early in the morning, started to look tired as the sun passed noon and the temperature got warmer.  Water station tables were empty of both cups and volunteers, and even the puppets in Pilsen and the dragons in Chinatown were MIA.  It was exactly the opposite of my goal this year.  I wanted to feel strong, like the 4:30 runners in the inspiration videos I watched all year, and I wanted to be running in an excited crowd.  Instead I was trudging along in the back portion of the pack.  Rather than crowds, it was a smattering.  It was hard just to not crumble up and cry, but I was determined just to get to mile 23.

Even in all this frustration, there were points of hope.  At one water stop, I was surprised by a girl wearing a jacket from my local high school.  Like many of the volunteers who were sticking it out, she encouraged me to take her cup of water, even though I was already holding a cup.  As I started into Bridgeport, I met up with another guy who was walking.  His goal was more than an hour faster than mine, but an injury had him waylaid.  When a friend passed away earlier that year, he and a group of friends decided to run the marathon, so it was definitely not the day he planned.

Suddenly, I noticed a familiar shirt, one from a local charity.  I excused myself from the young man and trotted up to the man wearing the shirt, which happened to be a fellow runner with our club.  I was so happy to see him, despite my stomach troubles, and he was walking too, due to a foot injury.  We caught up about how our day was going, and he even encouraged me to run a bit.  I started to feel normal, but tired, when I got to the Mile 23 sign…

One of my clubmates spotted me about 25 feet before I got to the party that was Mile 23, where our entire club situated.  I cannot describe how happy I was to see a huge crowd, plus my boyfriend, waiting for me, the final member of the club to pass.  Of course, when I told them I was ready to quit….they wouldn’t let me, even my boyfriend.  Two members, I found out later, finished the marathon, then ran the three miles to this point to cheer the rest of us on.  When a friend asked what I needed, the answer was simple.  “Ice,” I panted.  After chewing and swallowing the ice, I felt better enough to keep going, and I raced forward to catch up with the clubmate I saw before I got to mile 23.  I surprisingly felt much, much better, just in time for the best photo spot.

When I turned north on Michigan, I was surprised with a “Go Erin!!”  It is popular to put one’s name on their race singlet, but here’s why I refuse to do so….it was a high school classmate I haven’t seen in decades.  Since I didn’t have my name on my singlet, I knew it was someone who recognized me rather than reading my name.  It was just the boost I needed to finish strong.

Here I was, hot, tired, and three miles to go….and then another clubmate appears.  He was coaching a charity team, and gave me a coach pep talk before he sent me north.

The last three miles of the Chicago marathon are the hardest.  You are exhausted, but as far as you can see is a marathon.  The turn into Grant Park—and the eventual finish—is about three miles away.  It’s hard, at this point, to mentally motivate yourself to drive to the end.  Since I wasn’t able to push as hard as I hoped in the middle third, I had some extra energy, and I was passing hot, tired runners left and right.  Before I knew it, I was running up the hill in Grant Park and through the finish line.

I was, in a word, exhausted.  I didn’t pause much longer than to pick up my food bag, a water bottle, and my finisher medal, then headed back to my charity team’s bag check.  My boyfriend was there with a bouquet of flowers, a hug, and a kiss.  I grabbed by bag and checked my facebook updates.  To my utter surprise, I took 8 minutes off my PR with an effort significantly less than I desired.

Writing this post, I was disappointed how quickly I lost my mental edge once things didn’t go according to plan. Had I just walked until my stomach calmed down, then leaned on my training to get back in the groove, I would have smashed my PR rather than tripping over it.  It was truly not the race I wanted to have, but there were a lot of lessons to learn for my next marathon.

One down, five to go…..

I Finally “Anchored” a Relay, and it was Awesome… (Marathon Training, Week 5)

The last couple of weeks were missing entries because I was traveling to and from Louisville, Kentucky, for American Mensa’s Annual Gathering.  It was a great time, and I was able to do most of my mileage, but as with most vacations, lots of unhealthy food and beverages and too little sleep.  It was fun, but I’m glad to be home and back to training.

On Thursday, I participated in an unique fundraiser for a local high school cross country team.  We were in teams of seven, running a relay race where each runner did a mile before tagging to the next runner.  The winner would then be the team who accumulated the most miles.

Of course, my run club doesn’t go halfway…we had a plethora of food, chairs, Gatorade, and even a game of bags to play.  (We were one the rubberized field, so the fire pit and s’mores stayed in the car.)  The goal was as much to have a good time as it was to PR on the individual miles, and the DJ helped to create a festive environment.  My team decided on a theme of costumes, so we had jorts, troll hair, ugly sweaters, and twins.

It had been years since I had “raced” on a track, especially a 1600, and I had complete forgotten how to warm up and prep for that distance.   Plus, the last time I ran a relay was probably for our grade school’s Junior Olympics field day.  When my “twin” tagged me, I obviously went out way too fast and just died at the end.  8:31.

A friend who also ran showed up and was kind enough to read splits.  So helpful, because it kept that first 400 in the 2-min window.  My second was an “adult” PR of 8:22.  (My actual PR for the 1600 is 7:06, which I did at 15.)

As the night wore on, mental fatigue wore in.  Our team had some trouble counting laps—at one point my twin ran up to me and said he was done, but I thought he had only done two laps.  However, we kept going and going and going….8:25, 8:27.  I finished my fourth mile, laid down on a blanket, and realized I was covered in sweat, despite it being a cool evening.  While decent times (and definitely sub-BQ pace), I was disappointed.  I had been working hard, so I had hoped to see a significant improvement in my mile time.  Perhaps if I had been home training I would have been fasher

By the end of the night, we started to count through the team, and based on everyone’s approximate time, I would be the last runner.  Anchor leg!  I was tagged at 3:54, so I figured I could do about a 1200 (3 laps).  After the first lap, the team captain ran with me, talking, while the theme from Chariots of Fire played.  It was surreal with the lights, the high schoolers passing me, the music, the splits being read, the cheers….and I was about 40 m short of a full 1200.  Epic movie moment, and a great way to end the night.

It was a great night of comraderie, teamwork, fun, and community spirit.  I can’t wait until next year and have another chance to smash a PR!

Everyone Loves a Parade (Marathon Training, Week 2)

This week included endless 400 repeats, a great new clubhouse, and the rowdiest, sugar-pumped entry in the local parade.  Oh, yeah, and 24 miles.  However, the highlight was Saturday morning….

I got to the “early miles before the club run because we have a parade today” group about 20 min late, so I didn’t get to start with the group.  However, I was able to do a four mile loop and get to the actual start at 7 am, meeting up with the club and doing five more miles.  I didn’t want to go all the way home and back, so I wore my parade getup to run club—a club singlet and pink shorts. 

I have to say that wearing a team uniform always powered me to run faster, and yesterday morning was no exception.  I may not have been going faster, but I definitely felt faster.

After the run, I headed over to Starbucks to chill before the parade lineup started.  One of the baristas is a member of the club, so we chatted a bit.  It started to get super-busy, and a family sat down in the chairs near me.  Their order got messed up a bit with all the insanity, so I scored a free mocha.  I was set for the parade.

Now, I am a parade veteran.  I think I’ve done 30 or 40 for work, so I knew about all of the little details that people don’t think about when putting together a parade float.  Like that people love bringing their dogs to parades.  Since we were handing out donut holes to the kids, I figured that I would shop around and get a couple dozen donut shaped dog biscuits to complement what the club was doing—and was thrilled to find the perfect product:  Gourmet Tails Festive Donuts.  I threw them into an empty donut hole container, and I was ready to go.

We were a huge group of participants, with half a dozen parents with running strollers, superheroes, people running laps around our entry, kids handing out donut holes, and even two dogs.  It was loud and crazy and fun, probably the most entertaining entry of the entire parade.  At first, the strollers did formation runs, but as the kids ran out of donut holes, they joined in….to the point where the entire club was running formations and having a great time.  As I handed out my “dog donuts,” I would announce that the club meets on Saturday mornings and that all paces are welcome.

After we were finished, we took our time getting back up the parade route and our cars.  It was a fantastic morning, a fantastic showing for the club, and a great way to cap off the first hard week of marathon training!

The Running Club that Goes Beyond Running…

(Well, it’s the so very awful Monday that starts out realizing you never finished your Sunday journal writing.  Sigh.)

I’ve blogged about why I joined a running club and how important it is to me in my training, but the past few weeks I’ve been reminded about how the social side to a club helps your mental health and wellness.

While running and training forges strong bonds with teammates, whether it’s the high school cross country team or the local running group, it then expands with discovering common interests away from the path or track.

My sophomore year of high school, I’ll never forget spaghetti dinners at different teammates’ homes and the routine of singing “Piano Man” and “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” on the way home from meets. 

When your running club often meets at bars after runs and has the motto “Running and Shenanigans,” it is inevitable that someone will see a poster for a concert or trivia night, and say, “hey, let’s go to this!”  Next thing you know, you’re doing karaoke to Jon Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” just because it became an earworm this week. 

On Friday, one of our members decided to enter a hula hoop contest near my office, so I walked over and was part of a large crowd to cheer her on.  The restaurant also has a games night, and as we waited for the contest to end, I mentioned that I have an old set of Axis & Allies, so we agreed to meet at one of these games nights to play.

Saturday night was wild and crazy and fun and bonding, just as much as that awful speed workout or that time someone got lost on the trail run.  We started with pedicures.  Normally, I don’t spend money on a luxury like a pedicure, but my feet, especially my toes, have survived two seasons of marathon training, plus a half marathon.  My nails have the marks of being bounced around running shoes for miles and miles, to the point where I’m having trouble keeping them trimmed and pain free.  So it was time to give my feet some professional attention. 

Not only was the pedicure worth every penny, but the time spent with the other girls was just as valuable.  I have wonderful friends, but the closest one lives over an hour drive away, so I’ve been craving a local social life, local girlfriends for quite some time.  Hopefully the time spent with the other girls will help open doors to having local friends.

However, I may need to get a second job just to cover my social life.  Our club does road trips, and in November, they are going to the Rock & Roll Marathon in Las Vegas.  I discovered that there is a five hour time limit (remember, my PR is 5:39), but it seems like exactly the push I need to work hard over the summer.  Plus, Vegas.  I need to ask for the time off of work, but once I have, I’m buying my bib.

In the meantime, is it wrong that I’ve already picked out my song for the next Karaoke night?