7marathons7continents

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2011-05-10T11:23:00.000-07:00

I've put up several new posts over on my website. Come on over to www.7marathons7continents.com!

The Boston Marathon 2011!

2011-04-19T19:51:00.000-07:00

Check out two new blog posts about the 2011 Boston Marathon on my web page: www.7marathons7continents.com!

Julie Lost 130 Pounds

2011-04-03T19:13:00.000-07:00

I invited Julie to have dinner with me on Monday night. We were joined by my friend, Steph, whom I wrote about briefly in my chapter on South Africa (I would be happy to interview her, too, if readers are interested---just let me know). We talked to Julie about her journey to drop 130 pounds. Here is her candid interview, almost in its entirety. I only cut out the parts where we went off track. Julie is honest about the things she grapples with and still in awe of the changes in her life. Enjoy.

Cami: So when did you reach your goal exactly? Julie: I had my surgery in July of 2008. So by the next July I believe I was very close to goal. Cami: And you lost a total of about 130 pounds. Julie: Right. Cami: And so, Julie, you mentioned the surgery. What would you want people to know about the surgery you had? What did it take for you to come to the decision to do that? Julie: I used to think that I would never resort to surgery---that I should be strong enough, have enough will power to diet it all away, but after 49 years of struggling with my weight… and it literally was 49 years… I’d been heavy all of my life. I finally decided that surgery was a valid option. And then I had to worry about if I would ever be normal after I had the surgery. So would I only be able to eat little tiny portions, and would people look at me and wonder why I was eating that way? It was a struggle to figure it out, but I finally decided it was worth it---trying to find a balance between weight loss and health. Cami: What kind of surgery did you have? Julie: I had a proximal gastric bypass. So they made my stomach smaller and bypassed part of my intestines, so that the food enters lower than it normally does. “Proximal” means that they bypassed a fairly short section, whereas they can also do “medial” which bypasses more or “distal” which bypasses a whole lot more. And the more you bypass, the less you absorb of the food you eat. I do have some malabsorption that can be a factor in my diet from now on. I got the shortest distance bypassed. Cami: And how do you make up for that malabsorption? Julie: My doctor has me take protein supplements three times a day. That’s what he believes I need. And I take heavy duty vitamins and minerals, which I stick to fairly religiously. Cami: And you told me once what the statistics were of people who have success with the surgery verses those who don’t make adequate life-style changes. Do you remember what they are? Julie: I worked with a nutritionist, which my doctor didn’t insist on, but she said that fewer than 20 percent of people reach their goal weight even after the surgery. So it was exceptional for me to go down as low as I did. Cami: So, you know, I’ve watched you through this process, and I know that you didn’t just have a surgery. I know you worked extremely hard. What did you change in terms of your lifestyle? Julie: When I decided to have the surgery, I knew I was going to have to change my life dramatically. A box of crackers could not make dinner anymore. It wouldn’t do it. Slimfast and candy wouldn’t do it anymore. So I knew I would have to change a lot. At first, I had to devote myself to my instructions---making myself drink the protein even when I didn’t feel like it. Then when I worked with the nutritionist to find foods I liked that could make smaller but nutritious meals, I began eating regularly. Now I have given up most of the calorie rich foods I used to love, but I don’t miss them terribly. Cami: What do you think your caloric intake was when you first started losing weight? Julie: When I first started, my caloric intake was probably 900 to 1200 calories a day. I was doing three protein drinks a day plus small meals. And I’ve always exercised religiously. Cami: “Always” meaning your whole life, or “always” meaning once you made the commitment to lose the weight? Julie: Actually, my whole life I’ve walked and been fairly active, but once I started this, I was really committed to becoming fit. I started doing a walk video that I could do in my home right in front of my TV, and so I was expending those calories, which meant I had to keep up with the nutritional intake for that expenditure, too. Cami: When did you start running? Julie: I started running… well I’ve had multiple attempts at running in my life. I always wanted to run. I would run and then I would get hip pain or sinus pain or back pain and have to stop, and I’d be back to walking. So it was probably… Bellingham Fit began their running program in April or May of 2009, and that’s when I started running in earnest. Cami: And you were training for… what was your goal? Julie: The Bellingham Bay Marathon of 2009. Cami: And that race was in October of that year. Julie: Yes. So I knew I had wanted to do that. In the year 2000 my family all got together at a cabin at my sister-in-law’s place and we all talked about our goals for the next 10 years, from 2000 to 2010. And I told everyone I wanted to run the marathon. I was between 190 to 230---I don’t know what I was at the time. I know they all thought I was totally crazy. Cami: Did they laugh at you? Julie: No. They didn’t laugh. My family is very supportive, but I’m sure they were kind of going, “Sure. Right.” So it was very cool to have done that in my time frame. By 2010 I had done my first marathon. Steph: That’s so great. Cami: Congratulations. I know your family was very proud of you. I got to see that. Julie: My family is always supportive, but when I ran my 20-mile training run, my mother told my younger brother I was running 20 miles that day, and he said, “Oh mom, you must be mistaken. You didn’t hear her right. She’s running two miles.” And so he was blown away when he saw me running the marathon, and he was actually in tears watching me – which is pretty amazing, ‘cuz he’s a lovely guy but you wouldn’t think of your brother crying because you’re running. Cami: Nowadays how often are you working out? Julie: I work out at least five or six days a week, mostly six. At least 45 minutes of cardio each time, and weight lifting two days a week. Cami: You told me the other day while we were running that you had an epiphany. What was your epiphany? Julie: My epiphany was that now I am at the weight I should be at. I don’t really know how much I weigh because I have all this extra skin. So the scale shows 130, which I’m OK with. One-twenty-five has always been my ultimate goal weight, and I actually think if you took off all this skin I’d be below that. But it finally clicked that I wasn’t trying to lose weight anymore! I don’t have to have a calorie deficit. For so long, I’ve been trying to exercise off whatever I ate, and I realized I don’t have to do that now. I just have to work out for my health and I’ll maintain. Cami: What does that epiphany mean for you now as you go forward? Julie: It helps me ease up on myself. I tend to be quite hard on myself in the way I treat myself. And it’s like, you know, it’s OK to take days off and it’s OK to eat something extra. I don’t have to pay for it with extra exercise like I did before when I was still losing. I don’t have to be perfect. Cami: You said that you were always heavy, always overweight, but your family isn’t---at least not your siblings and your parents. What do you think contributed to your weight gain in the first place? Julie: Well, food is an issue in my family. Everyone works on it. My mom is very controlled, and my sisters think a lot about it. So it is an issue. I had a health thing when I was a baby where I was told I couldn’t keep food down. I was quite underweight for a seven-month-old until I had surgery that fixed the problem. They finally figured it out. I personally think that period of starvation, or less intake, affected me. From then on I ate. And it was a lot of sneak eating because somehow I always knew I wasn’t supposed to be eating as much as I was wanting to because the family valued being thin. But I still always wanted to eat. So I would sneak eat a lot when I was little, which caused my weight gain, but I think the early surgery had something to do with it. I was basically malnourished for the first few months of my life. Cami: Do you think that perfectionism you mentioned contributed to your weight at all? Julie: Totally! All or nothing thinking is a major, major roadblock, like in thinking, “Okay, I blew the diet totally, so I can go ahead and eat what I want.” Or if I’m not being good than it doesn’t count, but now I’ve been able to moderate that so I don’t have to do all or nothing. I’m still struggling with, “Okay I ate a little extra or I’m going to go out to dinner, so maybe I should do a little extra workout.” But I’m working on it. Cami: Talk about your struggle with changing your body image even though you’ve lost 130 pounds. Julie: It’s hard because when I get a glimpse of myself, I know that it’s me, but I still see myself as bigger. I’m not as big as I used to be in my brain, but when I look down I see extra skin, and I think it’s a roll of fat. Intellectually I know I can slide into places I didn’t used to be able to be, and I can move more easily, but if I don’t think about it, I still get surprised when I see myself. My last driver’s license picture, I’m thinking, “That doesn’t even look like me.” I reminded myself of my teenage nephew---angular. I’m still trying to figure out who I am. Cami: I remember when we were flying together to go to the marathon in Las Vegas. You were saying, “Look at me! I fit in this seat.” Julie: There are things that you take for granted as a thin person that you can’t do as a heavy person. And I always did my best to go and do, but you’re limited. You can’t touch your toes because your belly hits your thighs. You run into yourself. Or you travel and you fill up the seat. Now I don’t have to think, “Will the chair hold me?” I still marvel every time I can do something. Steph: Have you noticed a difference in the way other people look at or perceive you? Julie: Yeah. That was one of the really difficult things, because intellectually I know that people should value me the way I am, and I’m the same person fat or thin. But, especially with men I think, “If you don’t like me fat, why would you like me thin?” But people do treat me differently. There is in some ways more respect especially with people who knew me heavy. It’s interesting because being heavy gives you power in some ways; it gives you anonymity but also power of being present because people can’t run you over. When you’re littler, though, it’s harder because you can do more, but people kind of respect you more. Steph: That’s kind of sad. Julie: It really is. There are heavy people who are wonderful people. Steph: Like you, for years, right? Julie: That’s exactly right. I’m still me. I’ve done more things now, and I feel more powerful, but there is a power in being heavy, too. I was afraid of being smaller. Cami: Like would you be allowed to take up space in the world? Is that what it was about? Julie: It was actually more about security for me. You know, no one could grab me and carry me off when I weighed 260 pounds. At my weight now, someone could pick me up if they wanted to. I had to say, “OK, I can handle things. I’m a grown up and it’s okay to have that vulnerability.” Steph: Do you feel a difference in respect from people who knew you and from those who didn’t know you? Julie: There is a huge segment of the population that thinks heavy people are just slobs who don’t deserve respect. I was always a strong person who wouldn’t let people run over me, but yes the respect thing is weird. Cami: I know you’ve told me that you’re sometimes hesitant to tell people you had the surgery, as if you get fewer points for having lost this weight helped by a surgery instead of doing it all the conventional way. What would you say to people who are trying to make a decision about how they’re going to go about changing their life in terms of weight loss? Julie: Some people think the surgery is a bit of a cop out, and I used to think that, too. But you still have to totally change. And thank God the surgery did something for me the first six months to a year; I really didn’t care about food for the first time in forty-nine years. I didn’t wake up thinking about the food I wanted to eat that day or about the food I couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t eat. So it helped for me, but I still needed to make the good choices about eating the right things, taking my protein, exercising, drinking my fluids. It was hard work either way. Cami: What would you say to others who have struggled with their weight their whole lives and haven’t ever been able to achieve their goals? What kind of encouragement would you offer them? Julie: Number one is you have to do it for the right reasons. You have to do it to be healthy and to be able to move and to do. I was tired of my body holding me back. In deciding how you’re going to lose the weight you have to weigh out the benefits of a method with the consequences. I learned that… there’s a saying that “nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.” Most heavy people have heard that. And I’d heard it but never believed it. When you have a hundred pounds to lose by denying yourself, it takes forever. You have to get to the point where you believe that it is true. I feel so wonderful being able to move and to do. It was not worth eating a whole box of crackers. I can eat normally. Cami: Thanks Julie. Steph: Thanks for letting me a part of this. Julie: Thank you.

She Lost More than 100 Pounds!

2011-03-27T12:59:00.000-07:00

Many readers of my book have written me to ask about my running pal, Julie. Her story of losing half her bodyweight has touched a lot of people, and some of you have told me your own stories of dropping a significant amount of weight. I’m so proud of Julie for her commitment to herself and of those of you who have been on similar journeys! Julie has promised to give me an interview next week, which I’ll transcribe and post here for you, but until then, let me remind you how she and I met and how I watched out my window as she reached her goal.

Julie already lived in our neighborhood of townhomes when Bill and I bought our unit. She was a friendly woman who walked her little Cairn terrier past our window twice a day. Bill and I liked her right away because she was high energy and interested in others. She greeted every neighbor with the same bright smile and series of sincere questions about our well-being. A labor and delivery nurse by profession, Julie had the aura of one who cared.

Julie was also a large woman. In fact, it seemed to us, as we watched from our window (just so you know, the only window in the lower half of all our units looks directly onto the street at street level---we weren’t spying) that she was heavy against all odds. Julie walked at least an hour every day in addition to the hours she spent on her feet at the hospital.

As I mentioned in the book, I come from a family of people who struggle with obesity, but in my family people are pretty sedentary. Julie was anything but sedentary and yet she was still fighting more than a hundred extra pounds.

One day, my two little dogs went ballistic as Julie and Miss Ricki passed our window. Bill and I glanced up from what we were doing and noticed that Julie looked like she was losing weight. We commented to each other that she looked good and then went on our way. This happened from time to time over the next several months until one day when our dogs barked, Bill said to me, “Who is that woman walking Miss Ricki this morning?”

I said, “It’s Julie, I think.”

“She’s lost a lot of weight,” he said. I looked more closely at her from inside my cozy home and thought, Sure enough! I wonder how she’s done it?

Now all this time, we never talked to Julie. It isn’t because we are antisocial; it’s because Julie worked nights at the hospital, so when she walked passed our window, we were either in our rushed morning routine of getting ready for work or, during her evening walks, having dinner. But then one day, I happened to arrive home just as Julie was heading home from one of her later walks and we started to chat. She had, indeed, lost well over 100 pounds and, it turned out, she was training to run a marathon! So how did she do it? And why now?

Julie has told me that she was “heavy in a family of skinny people” her whole life. She’s told me (and I’m authorized to tell you) that she felt loved and accepted by her family and that she loved and accepted herself, but that she knew her weight was taking its toll on her joints and on her ability to move about the world. She’d given herself a target weight decades ago, but had never been able to get there.

Let me assure you that she’s at her target now, and she’s maintained it for several years at this point. I do a lot more than watch Julie from my window these days. I run with her a few times a week. I also talk to her almost every day as she heads off to the gym or to the pool. She is an inspiration to me, often showing more commitment to her health and goals than I can muster myself.

And that’s the end of what I’ll say about Julie. Next week I’ll be interviewing her and transcribing the interview so you can hear from her yourself. If you have questions you’d like me ask her, send ‘em on to me.

DLF on the Sunset Loop

2011-03-16T20:22:00.000-07:00

I still can't get my brain to focus on much besides Japan. The images on the television, though I've seen them now a hundred times, still draw me in and invite me to stand, dumbfounded in the center of my living room. But I did pull myself away from the TV for a 10-mile run on Saturday morning, and it's worth writing about.

Bill and I woke up to torrential rain that day. The wind was blowing and the downpour was coming in sideways, as it does sometimes around here. The plan was to suit up and drive to Anacortes for the Sunset Loop Relay run. Most participants would be in teams of four, each taking one 2.5-mile loop before passing the baton to the next runner. Bill wanted to get about 17 miles in last weekend as part of his training for the Boston Marathon, so he planned to do the full 10 miles on his own. And since I've been feeling ready to ramp up beyond six miles in a single run (my foot isn't totally healed, but it's much improved), I decided to come along for the ride/run.

When we saw the weather, Bill balked. Nobody loves to run in the pouring rain, but we do it often enough that I was surprised how adamant he was about not setting foot on the trail if it didn't let up that morning. Anacortes is an hour from our house, so we decided to take a chance that the weather would shift before we got there and, guess what? It did.

Once we had arrived in Anacortes, there was not another rain drop!

Here's the thing about doing a race in which most of the other runners are taking turns: They run only a fraction of what you run. That seems obvious, of course, but when Bill predicted I would finish LAST, I realized he was right. Always at the back of the pack, there's only one other time I ever remember coming in last. It was a 30K at Birch Bay. In that run there were two people behind me the whole race but somewhere before the finish, they bailed out, so although I finished last, I wasn't last on the course. This race stood the chance of being my first DLF (Dead Last Finish) fair and square.

I wasn't vying for the honor of DLF, mind you, but I was prepared for the possibility. And sure enough, as soon as I did the first loop, I was pretty sure the course was going to take me longer than everyone else. Don't ask me how you can run in a circle and still be going UP hill the whole way, but we did. Actually, the course was gorgeous. There were views of the water at several points and the whole paved drive was accessorized with the beautiful red bark of Madrona trees. But the route consisted of long, winding ups with sharp, short downs, which made me feel as if I could barely catch my breath before climbing again.

I'm happy to report that my foot felt good and my legs were working well for me, so I ran the whole course until the last lap when I walked part of the biggest hill. Bill joined me for that final loop and I'll admit to accepting the Prague Push for one of biggies, too. I came over the finish line at 2:08:58 - not bad I felt, but still DLF!

You don't get a prize for for being DLF, but you do get to know that you kept going longer than everyone else. Let's take pride in whatever we can. Life is short, why not?

Japan Earthquake

2011-03-11T19:38:00.000-08:00

A year ago, Bill and I were on pins and needles watching the earthquake devastation in Chile. We had tickets to fly through Santiago on our way to Punta Arenas. In the end, the Santiago airport opened; we arrived in Chile and saw the damage first hand. Very sad and disruptive for thousands of families!

Today, we’re watching horrifying pictures coming out of Japan, a country we have a lot of connection to and affection for. Bill spent his day fielding emails to and about his students as they attempted to make contact with their families and friends. I touched bases with most of my friends, too, and confirmed that they are OK. So far the news is that everyone we know is safe. The main issue for our friends in Tokyo has been that people could not get home from work yesterday. Everyone I’ve heard from has said that the trains in the city were not working and they therefore had to sleep at their offices. Most have made their way back home by now.

Once again, I’m grateful for those in my life who are safe and incredibly thankful for the kind and generous spirit that tragedy calls out of people. The Red Cross has some information about how they are helping with the disaster in Japan, as does World Vision, in case you are interested in donating to the rescue and recovery efforts.

2011-03-08T09:40:00.000-08:00

‘Bout this time of year, I’m dreaming about travel. It's almost time for Spring Break and Summer is around the corner. My friend, Carol, just left today for an eight day trip to India. It’s her first international trip, and when I heard that she had this opportunity, I was 95% happy for her and 5% jealous, as any good friend should be.

While she was preparing for her trip, she asked me if I had any packing advice. As it turns out, I do. Below is a re-post (with a couple of revisions) of my advice from The Spirited Woman site where I post weekly with travel ideas, advice and insight:

Packing 101:
I NEVER check a bag when I travel by air - no matter where I'm going or how long I'll be there.

There are several reasons for this. First of all, nowadays checking a bag costs extra on most airlines. And while I've heard of airlines charging even for carry-on luggage, most will still let you bring one small piece into the cabin. Second, I need to be free of encumbrances, and there's nothing that weighs me down more than a big ol' suitcase full of stuff I may or may not use. Third, and most personal, compact packing has become a little game my husband and I play.

On our last trip, to Anchorage, Alaska for the Humpy's Marathon, Bill and I were debarking the shuttle bus we rode to the airport and, as the driver was handing me my little suitcase, he said, "Wow, you must have nothing in here. How do you travel so light!" That's right, I won the lightest luggage contest on that trip - even with all my running gear in my bag. In fact, I usually win because Bill can't sleep without (and therefore has to pack) his favorite pillow. Yay for me.

So how does a woman pack everything she needs into a 22" X 14" X 9" case, especially if she cares about how she looks? Rick Steves, travel guru, has a terrific list of essentials that helped to get me started, but I have some additional tips to help you get everything you need on the plane with you:

**Pack only what you need for the climate you're going to. Take the chance that you'll have to purchase something on your trip. I've rarely had to do it.
**Plan to wash your clothes. You really need no more than two or three of anything (shirts, underwear, socks, etc.) if you bring the right items, even if you need to dress up on your trip.
**If you don't need them for work, forget all electronics except your e-book reader and your phone. Almost every hotel, hostel or motel will have a computer you can use to access email.
**Find a hair style that doesn't require heat. If you don't need your hairdryer and your other hair appliances, you reduce your need for space significantly.
**In terms of cosmetics, bring only one of each of the following: eye shadow, liner/pencil, foundation, lipstick, blush and mascara. Bring your favorites.
**Wear your heaviest clothing on the plane. Your running shoes and fleece jacket take up a lot of room in your bag, so put them on your body.
**If you travel often, invest in compact or mini-versions of everything you use on a daily bases. Items such as deodorant, alarm clock, purse, and journal, as well as many other things we use on a regular bases, can be purchased in smaller versions than we have in our homes.

A traveler wants to be able to focus on enjoying her experiences when she's gallivanting around the world. She doesn't need to spend her precious time worrying about how to lug heavy suitcases from place to place. Next time you take a trip, try packing LESS than you think you need and see what happens.

Out of Seven Billion, You Only Need a Few!

2011-03-04T09:33:00.001-08:00

Don’t you hate that sometimes in this life we encounter people who misunderstand us? Perhaps they are family members, people in our community, friends or critics of various kinds. Since Second Wind came out, I’ve had emails from readers who tell me about unkindesses they’ve faced in their lives. Some have been judged to be lazy because they are overweight; some have been denigrated in abusive relationships for years before they found a way out; and still others have been through dark and difficult times (like the loss of a loved one) and have had to listen to well-meaning (but misunderstanding) people speak clichés to them which only increased the pain. These same readers have shared with me how running (or other forms of strenuous exercise) has provided a way to come face to face with the self in a fresh way and heal from the pressure to meet other people’s standards.

The thing is, there are voices everywhere telling us who to be---or who not to be. The media are typical culprits, pressuring men and women to behave (i.e., spend money) in a certain way, but there are other voices, too. Every family has expectations of its members, and in some families, if you decide those expectations don’t fit for you, there are high prices to pay in the form of judgment and pressure to re-conform. Even groups of friends (or church communities, work staffs, or volunteer groups) have implicit agreements about the roles each member gets to play. When you decide to step outside of the norm, other people get anxious. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’ve either never stepped outside of the expectations others have for you or you’re the only person on the planet who is surrounded by perfectly understanding people who totally support whatever you do and never fail to understand where you’re coming from, and I’m happy for you.

The rest of us live in a world where some people on some days cannot see us, do not want to be curious about who we really are and wish we were more like them. I recently read a review of my book from a reader who hated it. S/he missed the point altogether and accused me of all kinds of things I don’t think are true of how I represented myself in the story. So, like you, the reader of this blog, I have to live with being misunderstood. And how will I do that? Just like you do. We get some time alone on the trails (or in meditation, yoga, hiking, the quiet of a church sanctuary). We remember the irrefutable fact that there are almost seven billion people on earth and some of them simply will not get us, like us or want to be around us. But out of all those seven billion souls there is likely to be a handful who thinks we’re cool. We run/walk/dance/ride to where those people live, get cheered up and then get back to our lives, living as authentically as we know how.

If you, like me, have had a negative voice intrude on your energy or trajectory this week, don’t let it take the wind from your sail. Take heart. You don’t need everyone to love you. You only need a few.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

2011-02-24T12:06:00.000-08:00

Just at this very moment, we have sunshine in Bellingham. Have I ever mentioned that sunshine is one of my very favorite things? I love what it does to me. Sunshine lifts my mood, gives me permission to smile and invites me to take my dogs for a walk. I have other favorite things that make me happy just because they exist.

But February has been a hard month for me. It started well enough - with a fabulous writing workshop that left me reveling in the glow of other creative types. Unfortunately, this was followed by a series of bad news phone messages about sudden illnesses befalling people that matter to me. The most recent difficult news was that my dear friend and confidante had her beautiful, healthy baby girl, but also had serious complications post delivery. Since my girlfriend is someone I can't do without, I was overwhelmed with concern for her and her whole family as they waited in ICU for her body to heal.

It wasn't until after I was sure she was on the mend that I crashed and gave in to a good long cry, holding my delayed grief and fear with as much compassion as I could muster in my tired state. That was last Saturday. Sunday I went out for a six mile run and spent more than an hour with my distracted thoughts, letting them come and go as they pleased.

Now, finally, on Thursday, I'm calmer and have caught up on all the things I didn't do around my house last week. I'm looking at the sunshine outside my window and reflecting on what gives me joy, even during the hard things.
Here's my short list:

Watching people meet their goals. Whether I'm watching a client finally take that first step to live out her lifelong creative dream to become a writer or watching a budding marathoner take on his training with a vengeance (as I'm doing in the case of my friend Brandon Nobach), I adore seeing people's faces when they start to move in their preferred direction.

Nonprofits that do good work. I could list a hundred non-profit organizations that make me happy, but two of my favorites are Street Youth Ministries and the Bellingham Sister City Association. One supports homeless and disenfranchised young people in getting off the streets of Seattle, and the other facilitates "people to people diplomacy" between Americans and individuals from other cultures around the world. Yay for good work. It reminds me that there is balance in this life.

Talking with people who hold different world views. Every time I travel, my taken-for-granted ideas about life and right and wrong are challenged. That's a good thing because it makes my own world feel bigger. When I can't travel, I read. Right now I'm reading Radical Acceptance: Embracing your life with the heart of a Buddha by Tara Brach. Buddhism offers some interesting ways of approaching pain and longing. My mind is expanding as we speak....

Dogs. As is well documented (because I say it all the time), I love dogs. Mine both need baths at the moment, but as stinky as they are, I'm gonna let them curl up on my lap and give me some of their happy-just-to-be-with-you warm energy today.

Friends. I have the best friends in the world, of that I'm sure. My friends have cried with me through the darkest of times and shared good times of hilarity with me, too. Right now, I'm making new friends during my Monday and Wednesday workouts with Carol Frazey and her Fit School for Women. When women run together, they inevitably share their thoughts and dreams and griefs with one another. There's always room for a new friend, don't you think?

Love. Last but not least, I love being in love. Valentine's day was only ten days ago. Bill and I reconnected with each other nine years ago in February and we always celebrate getting reacquainted on Valentine's day. I am grateful and peaceful nowadays largely because I have him in my life. On a hard day, he's the best medicine.

So, when the dog bites, when the bee stings, when you're feeling sad... what makes you happy again? What are your favorite things?

Getting to the Core of the Issue

2011-02-09T12:37:00.000-08:00

Session two of the 6-Week Fit School Running/Walking Program is under my belt as of this morning. On Monday, Carol had us do a one-mile time trial. I came in at 9:33, and I seriously can’t see how anyone can run the mile any faster than that (though I’ve witnessed it with my own eyes).

Today we ran fast on the straight part of the track and slow on the curves for fifteen minutes. Then we did “the ladder”: One minute fast, one slow; two minutes fast, one slow – and so on. This was followed by some core work.

I cannot tell a lie. I hate core work and my core is, thusly, very weak. At a “kettlebell” workout (I think that’s what it’s called) I went to recently with a friend, the instructor told me that he could see my core was not strong, but reassured me that a weak core was normal for women who had given birth. When I told him I’d never had children he raised his eyebrows and said, “Are you sure?” Um… Yeah, I’m pretty sure.

So, since I’m in the throes of having to come up with goals for the Fit School Program, I’m thinking that strengthening my core should be on the list. The core is, after all, well… the center of your body where all your guts live and off of which your limbs grow. It’s important, the core.

Other goals include but are not limited to: improving running technique, stretching better, longer and more often, getting my workout over in the morning two days a week, making new friends and running stronger. Notice that running the mile faster is not on my list.

What are your fitness goals right now?

Getting Ready for Spring!

2011-01-29T13:20:00.000-08:00

Well, it hasn’t been an easy year of running for me, so far. After the marathon in Las Vegas in December, I made the decision to take a break from marathons through the end of January. I actually ran nine marathons in 2010, but I only enjoyed seven of them. My last two races, Portland and Las Vegas, were painful because of the plantar fasciitis in my right foot and, although I hate to admit it, my body and soul both felt tired.

One of the hard things to learn as a woman (and perhaps even harder for a man) is how to listen to what the body needs and wants. We are so easily caught up in image and social demands that when the foot whispers, “Ouch. Let me take a break, please,” we may not want to hear. Or when the quads say, “Hey lady, try some other activity for a few days and give me a breather,” we may just plug our ears and sing louder along with the tune playing on our iPod.

I made the mistake at the close of 2010 of not listening to my body. When I crossed the finish line in Anchorage in August, my foot hurt like a mother. I took advantage of one of those free massages after the race, and when I stood up, pain shot through my body like lightening. I couldn’t walk back to our rental car, and I didn’t know what had happened. I’d never fallen or twisted anything or even taken a single misstep during the race. I hadn’t felt much more than a little bit of soreness on the course itself, so I really didn’t understand why I had so much discomfort.

If I’d been attending to my body as is within my value system, I would have pushed pause at that moment and stopped putting in so many miles until my foot gave me the go-ahead. But I had two more marathons on my schedule. I wanted to tick off Oregon and Nevada from the 50 States goal. And this meant training up to the marathon distance, which meant putting in a lot of miles between races.

After the Las Vegas marathon, I made a promise to myself that I would take a month off---from marathons and training for marathons, that is. I gave myself a few guidelines

**Run no more than six miles at a time
**Run no more than three times per week
**Run most of the month on my shock-absorbing treadmill in the garage while watching last season’s episodes of Big Love on DVD
**Supplement running with other kinds of exercise so I keep a decent base fitness level intact

Well, the good news is that I think my rules are working. Not only is my foot getting better (it’s still not quite back to normal), but I’m starting to miss running somethin’ awful. And that’s a good thing. Mostly because of the pain, but possibly also because my life was a tiny bit out of balance last year, the hard-earned joy of running had dissipated for me. I feel it coming back---that longing to strap on my running belt and muck through the puddles for a couple of hours.

One of the things I’m doing to get back into the groove is that I’m joining Carol Frazey’s 6-Week Running/Walking Program for Women starting on Monday, February 7 at 8:30 am at Civic Field here in Bellingham. I’ve always shied away from the track workouts that Bill goes to because I’m so slow and noncompetitive in my approach to running, but that’s what makes Carol’s runing/walking program for women perfect. I hope others will join me in picking up the pace in February. No matter why you’ve taken some time away from running or walking, it’s a good time to start again!

Calling Bellingham Women: Let's Pick up the Pace!

2011-01-24T17:19:00.000-08:00

This is a post especially for women local to me - in or near Bellingham, but I hope it serves as an encouragement to all of you who follow this blog, local or not (woman or not).

If you've wanted 2011 to be a year of health, a year of taking good care of yourself, body and mind, check out Carol Frazey's six week Fit for School Walking/Running Program. ALL LEVELS are welcome, so if you can't run because of injury or pain, put on your walking shoes instead; there's no shame in walking. If you do run and simply want to improve your pace or form, this is for you, too!! I can wholeheartedly recommend Carol. She knows what she's doing and she's a supportive listener. Her program is only $97 for the whole six weeks (12 sessions) or $10 to drop in.

If you're not a Bellinghamster, don't fret. Almost every U.S. town has a good running club, a community involved running store or a local branch of USA Fit, the terrific national run/walking training program. I've heard from lots of readers who are training for a marathon or half-marathon this year. Look for a schedule that works for you and let's get started!!

The Red Wheelbarrow Writers' Series

2011-01-12T11:41:00.000-08:00

Just as much as I love and am committed to running, I love and am committed to the craft of writing, too. And I'm so deliriously pleased to be participating (along with my friend and mentor, novelist Laura Kalpakian, our mutual writerly friend, Susan Tive) in the creation of the Red Wheelbarrow Writers' Series beginning in February. We've developed a three-part writers' workshop to encourage writers in their work and in building community with other writers. If you've never taken a class or workshop from Laura, you're in for a treat. Her feedback is suitable and helpful for writers doing any kind of narrative writing (memoir, fiction, children's fiction, etc.).

Description:

This three-month workshop which will focus on the cycle of practice, process and publishing for writers. Each month will build on and enhance writers’ skills and awareness. Below is a description of what each day-long workshop has in store as well as information about the location and how to pay for the series.

February 5: Practice

This first session will spotlight the creation and development of strong characterization and narrative voice. Writers of fiction and nonfiction will discover how to populate their pages with memorable people. Participants will learn through written prompts and theatrical techniques.

March 5: Process

In this second session writers will have the opportunity to further develop their narrative skills and will begin to write their query letters for an agent or editor. Participants will also unearth their natural strengths to enhance their writing process.

April 2: Publish

For the final session, special industry guests will answer writers’ questions with regard to the publishing process. Participants will revise and receive feedback on their query letters.

“So much depends…” on community. At Red Wheelbarrow, we are committed to building community among writers. All three sessions will include occasions to connect with others.

Cost: $350 - includes all three-day workshops. Does not include lunch.

Times and Location:

Each session will take place at the Chrysalis Inn and Spa (http://www.thechrysalisinn.com/) located at 804 10thStreet, Bellingham. Parking is available on the street above the building or in the garage below.

Workshops run from 9:00am to 5:00pm.

How to sign up:

Send an email to clostman@live.com to reserve your space. Then send your check for $350 to Cami Ostman at PO Box 29043, Bellingham, WA 98228. You may also pay by Paypal using the email clostman@live.com. Please respond as soon as possible to secure your spot.

Link to article from the Bellingham Herald.

What is your New Year's resolution?

2010-12-29T18:12:00.000-08:00

I'll bet you dollars to donuts that if you're reading this site, your New Year's Resolutions have something to do with running or fitness, or maybe travel. In my writing, I tend to focus on the spiritual, psychological and even cultural insights I get from running, but that isn't because I don't get amazing physical benefits. I mean, I'm stronger and more fit than I've ever been in my life because of these last few years of marathoning around the globe. Still, I feel like there's a lot I could do to move in a healthier direction. I'm sort of notorious for eating comfort food (think a big plate of steak fries with mayo and ketchup) for dinner, and cheese (of all kinds - even processed) is like a staple in my diet instead of a condiment as it is for most people. And while I know I'll never eat perfectly or exercise perfectly (or sleep, or drink or communicate perfectly), there's always room for improvement, right? But how?

My friend and fellow runner has some help for me and for families who want to make a commitment to improve their fitness and nutrition this year. Author, teacher and health professional Carol Frazey has a one-year plan for us. In her e-new book, The Fit School Plan - 1 Year to a Nutritionally and Physically Fit Life, she'll guide you and me and our families toward better health.

What do you say? Will you join me in making improvements to our health this year? You don't have to run a MARATHON to get healthier, for goodness sake (though, I certainly wouldn't discourage you if want to train for one this year!!!). You just have to find a reasonable plan that works for you and give it a go.

So check out Carol's book - a terrific, afordable and reliable resource! And let me know what your resolutions are this year. I'd like to follow along and be your cheerleader!

The Desert Classic

2010-12-19T08:59:00.000-08:00

I just finished a little 5K put on by the Arizona Road Racers as part of the Desert Classic series.

We’ve done this race three years in a row, but usually I do the 30K race (which Bill is running at this very moment). Today as I stood at the starting line with all the other runners hopping and stretching in anticipation of the horn, I felt sorry for myself. Only two weeks off of my last marathon (which, as noted in an earlier entry, was VERY tough for me) , and having made the decision that I need to lay off the long races for a while to let my foot heal, I felt left out of the “real” runners’ club this morning. Boo hoo for me.

Then the horn sounded. I picked up what I thought would be a good pace for myself and heard my right foot scream at me. I told her not to worry, that this would only take a half hour. She quieted down a little after the first mile and we managed the rest of the race in relative peace.

About two and a half miles in, I ran past a young girl of around eleven. I’d seen her start the race with her dad, but he’d run ahead by this point and she was alone on the course, crying. My heart jumped into my throat when I saw her tears. How many times have I cried in the last miles of a race? Even as recently as two weeks ago I did so.

“Honey, it’s gonna be okay,” I said. “Just keep putting one foot in front of another and keep your eye on the person in front of you. You won’t get lost and you’ll make it over the finish line. I promise!”

She nodded at me but didn’t say anything (she’s probably been taught not to talk to strangers).

As I ran on, I found myself feeling mad at her dad for leaving her back there alone, and I resolved that if he didn’t turn around at the finish line and go back to her, I would go back. But when I crossed the finish line (at thirty-three minutes, according to the time clock), she was there right behind me. And her dad was waiting for her with his arms open.

Yes. Yes, I know that every runner’s race is her own and that “dad” probably did the right thing by letting her figure out her pace and work it out. She was safe, she was close to the end when he ran ahead, and he was there for her when it was over. I know all of this; I just keep forgetting. I keep forgetting that the struggle is INSIDE – that being “real” is about listening to your body and not about putting in as many miles as the other guy. It’s about being authentic and not about being tougher than your (husband, friend, rival, dad, etc.).

So, I’m back at my water running tomorrow. And I’m sending good thoughts to the little girl whose first 5K ended with a few tears and a big hug from her dad.

Whew! Ow! And, what a day!

2010-12-05T21:49:00.000-08:00

Well, the long awaited for and worried about (by me, at least) Las Vegas Rock n Roll Marathon has been completed. Julie and I arrived at our corral at about 6:30am and waited around for the gun. I think we finally started at 7:20-ish. And, naturally, we had two completely different experiences of the same day.

I asked Julie to write a blurb about her experience. Here's what she said: " I did it! My third marathon was accomplished with a few verbal whimpers and many whimpering thoughts. I finished in good time for me, but it was tough. This running thing gives you time to ponder many a thing. Today I was feeling surprised by the shapes, sizes and ages of the runners. I was passed by many people older and larger - people I thought I should beat. I'm also amazed at the different styles of running. It is amazing to me that we, as a people, are made up of the same number of chromosomes, and that they go together in such different ways.

"One of my running slogans is, 'Pain is temporary; pride is forever!' That thought is a valid one, but sometimes I still doubt my ability to do a marathon. Crazy, huh? Three done (I am proud of this), but it is sort of hard even now to believe I really do run marathons."I know two things: If I can run a marathon, anyone can (if they choose to), and I really am proud of my physical, mental and emotional toughness. I did it!"

It might be helpful to know that Julie used to carry a lot of extra weight and running has helped her lose it. She's still in awe of her ability to pull off the marathon distance. She's also a labor and delivery nurse, so she holds little bundles of chromosomes in her arms every day, wondering who they will turn out to be - and what their running stride will look like someday.

Today, for me, was not so full of wonderment about the uniqueness of every human being - not so philosophical, you might say. Here's how it went down for me: The first six miles were strong, but stressful. Julie and I ran hard because we had deadlines to meet in order to be allowed to continue in the race. Since I've been primarily water running and riding the stationary bike at Gold's Gym (instead of training on the cold, hard ground), my (very insufficient) "training," didn't really prepare me for today. By mile nine, my quads hurt like heck, my foot was aching and I was CRABBY.

Poor Julie, who is extremely cheerful and positive, as a rule, got the brunt of my poor attitude. At about mile 15, I had to asked her to stop saying, "We can do it. Only (fill in the blank) miles to go!" She swears I didn't hurt her feelings with my request, but we did mutually decide to finish separately within another mile.

I ran alone with my bad self for four more miles - fighting for every single step and feeling guilty for being bad company, not even enjoying the running Elvises and frowning at the sweet Jr. High Cheerleaders who yelled, "Keep on truckin' all the way," at me every few miles. All this distance, I vacillated between crying and silently reciting the Buddhist Lovingkindness Meditation to calm myself down (panicked as I was that I would have to hitch a ride to the finish line).

At mile 20, a fellow who had been tracking right beside me, dared to speak to me. George turned out to be exactly what I needed. Just my age, George is a high school English teacher in Las Vegas whose main goal was to beat his last marathon time (6:20). He asked me how I was doing and I confessed I wasn't doing well. George very authoritatively said, "Well, let's not talk about that. Let's just talk." And so I set my Gym Boss to one minute of walking and two minutes of running and we talked: about my running on the continents, about the kids in his classes, about my experience as an English teacher years ago, about his two children. And the time passed - not quickly, not easily and not without pain. But it passed.

And I finished. I think my time was 5:39 - the longest it has ever taken me to run a marathon.

I think the moral of the story is that I need to take some time to heal my foot and then to get (gently) back onto the trails and remember my love of breathing without a finish line to reach for.

But until then: Thanks to Julie for being so gracious with my crabby mood and to George for being the right companion at the right time. And thanks, once again, to the marathon for teaching me what I need to know about myself - even if it's that we need to take a break from one another for a little while.

Oh, and thanks to Bill and all of my friends for your encouragement and continued interest in my running pursuits.

In the Morning!

2010-12-04T21:01:00.000-08:00

The starting gun is eleven hours from now. This afternoon Julie and I walked from the Luxor (where we’re staying) to the parking lot at Mandalay Bay (where the race starts) to get a sense of how much time we’ll need in the morning to get to corral 19. It takes fifteen minutes. That’s it. So we’ll get up, drink our coffee, get dressed and station ourselves at the starting line – all before our friends and families are out of bed.

We’ve had a lot of fun since we arrived on Wednesday evening. Thursday we walked the strip, stopping in to look at some of the more interesting casinos whenever we felt inclined. Friday, we spent a couple of hours at the race expo where, at 3:00, I finally got to meet Marie Bean. Readers might remember my e-pen friend, Marie. We “met” after the Rio de Janeiro race when she found my blog and reached out to me asking how I planned to get to Antarctica. She had planned on coming with Bill, Marina and me to Antarctica earlier this year, but had to change her plans in the end. What fun to finally meet her (and for more fun, check out her running business in Australia: Lazyrunner.com).

Today I crashed. For some reason I didn’t sleep more than a couple of hours on both Wednesday and Thursday nights. Last night (Friday), I took some sleeping aid and then felt like I wandered through today in a haze. So I spent most of today in the hotel room reading, catching up on Glee episodes and worrying about my foot (which I just wrapped according to Jason Gully’s specifications, hoping to give it some extra support tomorrow).

As I understand it, while the race starts at 7:00 am, each corral waits for a minute or two until it gets the go-ahead. Julie and I should actually start running anytime between 7:19 and 7:38. We’ve been told we have to make it to the 12.6-mile point by 10:15 in order to get the go-ahead to complete the full marathon (rather than be re-directed to do only the half). Even if we start at the latest possible time for our corral (7:38), this gives us 2 hours and 37 minutes to get to 12.6 (are you following?). We should be fine. The pain in my foot and the perpetual pain in Julie’s knee shouldn’t become acute until the second half of the race. The Las Vegas Marathon shuts down The Strip, so the race is only allowing 5.5 hours for participants to complete the full marathon, and I have to admit to a little concern about this. My last two races (Anchorage and Portland) have brought me in around 5:35. But Julie and I feel optimistic that we can pull it off with the help of the energy of the other twenty thousand runners and the bands stationed all along the route.

Watch our progress through the Rock n Roll website. I’m number 22435 and Julie is number 21240

Vegas!

2010-12-02T22:34:00.000-08:00

Well, my running partner, Julie, and I flew to Las Vegas on Wednesday evening and settled into the Luxor without a hitch. Today we walked "the strip" and plugged the occasional slot machine with a dollar (or five).

Vegas is kind of a special place to me, even as it fills my introvert's heart with over-stimulated exhaustion and makes me long for a good book and hot chocolate by a fire. I've been coming to Vegas in December for years. I used to come with my ex-husband to see his sister (who lived here) during the holidays. Then in recent years, Bill and I have flown in to Las Vegas, rented a car and driven to Phoenix many times over the last decade. It's always festive and full of energy and, most of all, hopeful.

But this is the first time I've been in Sin City for a marathon. Today as I walked down the strip, I was thinking about how it will feel to run along the boulevard on Sunday. The race starts right here - with all the lights and noise and chaos. And since this is a Rock n Roll Marathon, there will be music and entertainment along the way - at almost every mile.

Needless to say, I'm excited. I've still got some pain in my heel (which is discouraging), but I'm prepared to put mind over matter. The course is only open for five and a half hours, which means Julie and I have to run a smart race this time.

I"m number 22435. Watch for my results Sunday afternoon.

My "Thankful" List. What are you thankful for?

2010-11-25T07:39:00.000-08:00

If anyone has reason to be thankful, it is I. It’s true that now is my least favorite year (barren trees, freezing temperatures and snow as I write!), and it’s true that I’ve exchanged time on my beloved Bellingham trails for the stationary bike and water running while I let my foot heal, BUT still… what a life I have. I live in a great community with a loving man and two flat nosed little dogs who think I’m the cat’s meow. I have the most stellar set of friends any woman has ever had. And this year, I not only finished my quest to hit the ground running on every continent, but I lived out a dream to complete and publish a book!

So even as I lament having to exercise my body inside of buildings instead of outside in the elements (as unaccommodating as they have been this week), I have to put my thankfulness firmly out into the universe. Here is a list of what I’m thankful for today – from the basic to the minute:

* A warm home, enough food and a clean bed – not everyone has this, you know
* The luck to live in a country where I, as a woman, have rights and many, many choices in my life – not everyone has this, either
* Every person who has cheered me in a race, shown up at a reading or commented on my blog – I needed you and you were there – thank you
* Every glass of good red wine I have ever tasted, but especially those made in Washington State
* Sports bras
* Hair coloring
* Arizona in the winter
* Books – and publishers (especially Seal Press!)
* Cheese
* A healthy body, my current struggle notwithstanding
* My partner, Bill, who daily lives up to his promise to stay in the fray with me, even when it is less than pleasant.

What does your list look like? Have a great weekend as you think about it.

Holiday Gift Ideas

2010-11-21T22:11:00.000-08:00

Well, the holidays are upon us, once again. Thursday is Thanksgiving! One of the things I love about being a runner is guilt-free eating. So, first of all, happy Turkey day, and may you find a multitude of things to be grateful about.

Admittedly, I’ve not been on the trails lately because of the plantar fasciitis I’ve been fighting and have, thus, been “water running” (which isn’t really running at all) and peddling on the stationary bike at the gym. Still, my runner’s heart is out there with all of you.

I’m making my holiday gift list just as you are, too.

So I’d like to offer my top 6 ideas for the runner in your life – particularly the back-of-the-pack runner who spends more than the average number of hours on the course.
1. Present a piece of Tarma running jewelry to her to show your support. Last year Bill have me a necklace with a pendant of a running girl inside of circle (looks like a peace sign), and I’ve gotten countless compliments on it.

2. Put a box of her favorite energy gel in her stocking. These nasty tasting, but absolutely essential running supplies are not expensive, but they can add up. There’s nothing worse than getting ready for a long run and discovering that you’re out of café latte or red raspberry gel. Get her a month’s supply. Remember, she needs approximately one gel packet for every hour of running.

3. For the compassionate minded runner in your life, take the “26.2 Challenge” by donating to the Hall Steps Foundation. With a $26.00 donation you can help Olympian marathoner, Ryan Hall, and his wife, Sara, bring clean water to the world. My husband, Bill, recently went to hear Ryan and Sara speak and this year, we’re donating.

4. Alternatively, if you’re inclined to give a donation in your runner’s name, consider contributing to Girls on the Run, an amazing international organization that promotes self-respect and healthy living for elementary school age girls. I volunteered to be a running buddy with the local group a few years ago, and now I’m sold on them. They do GREAT work!

5. Give an iTunes gift card to keep your favorite runner in hours of hoppin’, inspiring music. And if she doesn’t have an iPod Shuffle, why not spring for that, too?

6. Last (for now) but not least, don’t forget to give your favorite runner a copy of Second Wind: One Woman’s Midlife Quest to Run Seven Marathons on Seven Continents by yours truly. I’m a slow poke marathoner who has experienced the life-changing power of the marathon as a metaphor for all of life. She’ll appreciate being encouraged by my story and my admiration for all runners, no matter their pace.

So this is a start. Don’t be shy, add to my list and I’ll update it over the next month to give you more ideas. Have a great week.

Three Cheers for the NYC Marathon Winners!

2010-11-08T14:01:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I watched the televised (and delayed) coverage of the New York City Marathon. What I love about watching the NYC Marathon on TV is that you get to see ALL the action. A split screen keeps the viewer up to the minute on leaders in both the men’s and the women’s races, and then every so often the video cuts to the average runners, the folks like you and me. I was struck again this year at how the front runners look like they’re breezing along with hardly any effort (at under 5 minutes a mile), while the other bazillion participants look like their fighting hard for every step, especially near the finish.

I’m not a big fan of televised sports – never have been. I don’t even watch the Super Bowl for the half-time show; I go to the movies that day. But running is different, of course, because of I’m one of them. This year I actually found myself yelling at the TV. As you may remember, I met Meb Keflezighi, American marathoner, earlier this year after the Seattle Rock N Roll Half Marathon. He autographed my race number and congratulated me on finishing my goal to run the marathon distance on all seven continents. Naturally, I was cheering for him as the leaders in the men’s race sped through the course. At a certain moment, though, long after the midpoint yesterday, Meb grimaced and there was a sudden change in his gait. He wasn’t limping, exactly, just not sailing anymore, and he dropped toward the back of the front – if that makes sense. He ended up coming in sixth at 2:11:38. The winner is a fellow from Ethiopia who was running his first marathon! Gebre Gebrmariam came in at 2:08:14. I can’t even drive to Seattle in that time on a busy Friday afternoon. Congrats to Gebre.

Also running her first marathon, was Shalane Flanagan from Boulder, Colorado. I found myself screaming at the television, “Come on Shalane! You can do it,” when she slipped back to third place late in the race. Edna Kiplagat from Kenya had pulled ahead and was clearly going to win the race but Shalane and Mary Keitany (Kenya) were battling it out for second. Nothing against Mary, mind you, but to be running her first marathon and coming so close to winning, Shalane just HAD to come in second, from my point of view. And she did. She pulled ahead of Mary and came in at 2:28:40, 20 seconds behind Edna and 21 seconds in front of Mary. Yay for Shalane!!!

The great runners I watched on TV yesterday are like gods and goddesses to me. They’re freaks of nature who add a whole hell of a lot of training to their already perfect physiques and make their bodies perform miracles. Far from discouraging me, watching their magic inspires me. I want to breathe the same air and run the same courses they run – and it doesn’t matter to me how far behind them I come in. I can see in their strides what human beings can do when all the circumstances and motivation align.

A History Lesson

2010-10-31T19:48:00.000-07:00

From one dude delivering a message (and then dropping dead), to the current moment, when more women than men run the race worldwide and there are clubs in which the members (myself included) claim to be Maniacs, the marathon has grown up.

Take a look at this concise history of the 26.2 race some of us have become committed to (obsessed with, overwhelmed by - you name it):

2,500 Years After Pheidippides

Book Trailer

2010-10-27T17:15:00.000-07:00

Hello readers,
Talented Bellingham videographer and really great person, Traci Hahn, has put together a book trailer for me. Take a look:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=25bzAV4kgq4

In the Deep Waters

2010-10-24T19:00:00.000-07:00

In desperate need of getting my miles in, but still struggling with pain in my foot from planter fasciitis, I decided to try “deep water running” this week. Imagine this:

You get up earlier than you like, and you quietly sneak out of the house in your swimming suit. Your dog thinks she is going to grandma’s house because you have a bag of clothes sitting by the front door, and so she climbs into her crate in preparation for the car ride and you have to explain to her that she isn’t going anywhere and that mommy will be back in a couple of hours. Then you drive to the pool. You’ve never been there, but you’ve recruited your friend (let’s say her name is Julie) to join you and show you the ropes.

In the locker room, you shove your bag of clothes into a cramped locker, and Julie leads you over to the diving/deep water pool and instructs you to place a flotation device around your waist and pull it tight. Then she grabs a pair of barbells made of foam and shoves them into your hands. “Come on,” she says, “just jump in and get it over with.” She does so. Just jumps in. You, never a big swimming pool fan, step carefully down the ladder and let one portion of your body adjust to the temperature of the water before lowering the next part in. The water isn’t cold, thank goodness, because the only thing worse than worrying about drowning is being cold while worrying about drowning.

Julie, always a little too cheerful for early mornings, prods you on: “Come on, you can do it.” You know you can, you just aren’t sure you want to. But finally you’re in, treading water, looking around at the other women who’ve shown up for the deep water running class. No one is under 70. That’s good, you think, hoping that in their mature states, these women won’t judge you for your ineptitude.

Then the instructor shows up. She’s a twenty-something blond woman with a stopwatch. She turns on some rousing ‘50s music and starts shouting orders. “Run at 70 percent!” she demands.

“What does that mean?” you ask.

“It means run as hard as you can and then cut back to 70 percent of that. You’ll do it for 30 seconds.”

You say, “But I’ve never done this before. How do I know what 70 percent of my capacity is?”

She shrugs. Meanwhile, Julie has closed her eyes tightly and puckered up her face. She’s pumping her arms and legs for all she’s worth, bobbing her head to the left and right as she “runs” at 70 percent. You look around at the other women. They are chatting amongst themselves. You overhear one conversation about how “those fellows on the Fox Network are the only commentators you can trust these days,” and you decide to close your eyes and pucker your face like Julie and really go after it.

Thirty seconds pass.

“Cross country skiing,” the instructor commands. Then she looks at you, having already figured out that you’re going to need extra remediation, and demonstrates the motion she wants. It’s a back and forth motion with arms and legs straightened, going in opposite directions. You try it, but it doesn’t feel natural, so you go back to running at 70 percent.

After 40 minutes of various “running” motions (high knees, knees wide, the “frog,” jumping jacks), the class moves on to crunches, arm-strengthening activities and stretching. Finally, the hour is over. You climb out of the pool exhausted, wrinkled around the toes and fingers, and not at all sure you’ve had a workout. But at least your foot isn’t bothering you as much as usual.

If you can imagine the above, you’ve got the gist of my morning last Thursday. After washing the chlorine out of my hair, I went to see Jason (physical therapist and really great runner). As he massaged, applied ultra sound to and iced the bottom of my foot, he commended me for giving the deep water thing a try, but fortunately never suggested I give up running on solid ground in exchange for “running at 70 percent” in the community pool.

What are your favorite trails to run?

2010-10-20T14:37:00.000-07:00

Ah, fall is here again. I took a short run this morning through the crunchy leaves and lamented how, once again, I have missed the late summer trail running series that the Greater Bellingham Running Club (GBRC) sponsors. It seems that every year, just as the trail running series begins, I’m beginning some kind of commitment that happens on the same night. This year I’m taking classes on editing through the extended programs up at Western Washington University.

I’m enjoying my classes, but I’m sad to have missed out on running the trails with a group. Trail running is different than road running or track running in that it engages the brain differently – and the muscles. On the trails, you’ve got to watch where you’re going to avoid tripping over rocks, roots or even just variations in the turf. You’ve got to hop and dodge and bob. And then you have to hike up and pound down hills. It’s fun.

I learned to enjoy running on trails in Arizona. Every year, Bill and I visit his mom in Peoria, and nearly every day during our visits, we drive out to Thunderbird Park and take rambling runs on the trails through the desert. I love leaping over stones in the big gravel patches and avoiding Teddy Bear Cactus plants. Once I even enjoyed NOT stepping on a sleeping rattle snake. And while Arizona is where Bill introduced me to trail running, my favorite trail run ever was one we took this summer along the Baker Lake Trail. Soft and spongy, smelling of moss and evergreen trees, this trail curls along beside the lake with hardly any elevation gain. We ran for 12 miles (six miles in and six miles out), poking our way through the woods at a lazy, happy pace. It’s one of my favorite memories of this year.

What are your favorite trails to run? And what makes them so great? Share your knowledge so we can all have some fun before the weather turns the ground muddy?

Upcoming Events

2010-10-15T17:09:00.000-07:00

Upcoming Events

For Workshops and Groups - to sign up, call or email Cami - 206.890.8694/clostman@aol.com

Sunday, October 24, 1:00 to 4:00 PM at Butterfly Life on James St.
Writing for Healing. This is a women's only event. In a safe environment we will be discussing how to use writing exercises to alter self/body image. Together we will try out some of the exercises presented and give one another support in creating a self and body image which will help us create a full, free life. The focus will be on content and not on spelling or punctuation. $25 for general public/$20 for Butterfly Life members. Space is limited, call to save your spot.

Saturday, December 11, 9 AM to 4:30 PM at Chrysalis Inn and Spa
Catching Your Own Second Wind: Seven steps to re-inventing yourself during major life transitions. This is a one-day retreat developed to walk you (men and women welcome) through self-reflective and re-visioning excercises which will support you in reaching toward life-long dreams and goals. As we hit major transitions in our lives (getting married, having babies, children leaving home, divorce, midlife, retiremtent, etc.) we have the opportunity to re-evaluate what we have accomplished and whether or not we have reached toward our dreams. Catching Your Own Second Wind is designed to give you a re-set and point you toward dreams that may have been on hold for years. There are only 20 spaces available. Sign up early. $99 for the full day. Lunch is on your own. Payment can be made HERE.

Second Wind Readings and Slideshows

Monday, November 1/ 7:30 at Powells in Portland, Oregon.

Friday, November 5/ 5:30 at Fact and Fiction in Missoula, Montana.

Saturday, November 6/ 2:00 at Auntie's Books in Spokane, WA.

Friday, November 12/ 7:00 at Village Books in Bellingham, WA.

Friday, November 19/ 7:00 at Ravenna Third Place Books, Seattle.

Thursday, December 9/ 7:15 at Fairhaven Runners, Bellingham,

You Get What You Pay For

2010-10-11T21:47:00.000-07:00

Ah, the best laid plans come crashing down, like an airplane falling from the sky. No – like the “other shoe.” Or, better yet, like a waterfall, dumped down to earth sent by the gods of the Great Northwest.

Friday night, Bill and I attended a wedding about 20 minutes outside of Portland. The Bride and Groom had provided their guests with a canvas tent under which we could observe their nuptial recitations, but it was unnecessary. The sun was shining. Speckled light filtered onto the green grass meadow through healthy, well manicured evergreen trees. We enjoyed the celebration until about 9:00pm, at which point, Bill and I made our way out to our car and commented, “Oh, it’s sprinkling. So glad they got a nice night before this began.”

In the morning, when we awoke and saw that the soft sprinkle of the evening before had turned into an earnest downpour, Bill said, “Well, let it empty itself out. It can’t rain like this for two straight days.”

Bill has lived in the Northwest for 30 years but his optimism over the weather has never waned, no matter how many times it has been proven ill-placed. When he made his comment on Saturday morning, I just shook my head and kept my mouth shut. I had a feeling – a bad feeling. The thing is, I didn’t have this bad feeling before we left Bellingham, so I didn’t come prepared for the pouring rain. It’s stupid, I know. I’ve lived here for 43 years, myself, and I should know better.

Because I didn’t come ready for hard rain, we scrambled on Saturday at the expo to find me some raingear for the following day and ended up with a wrinkly, paper-like, disposable rain jacket made by a company called Sheddable Shell. And Bill reluctantly loaned me his baseball cap to keep the rain out of my eyes (reluctantly, because he needed it himself if he planned to stand in the rain and cheer me on).

Sunday morning, I “tweeted” (yes, I tweeted!) that it was still pouring and that it was going to be a long, wet day. Bill got me to downtown Portland by about 6:30 am, and I stood in the rain for a half hour waiting for the start of the race and then another fifteen minutes waiting for my corral to get to the starting line. I (and everyone else, I’m not taking it too personally) was soaked by the time I hit the start button on my Garmin.

The race was well organized and well supported – one of the best I’ve participated in – but it was just a hard day.

My plan was to repeatedly run five minutes and walk for 45 seconds – a Galloway-like routine that was supposed to give me breaks and, therefore, make my pace more steady and a little faster overall. I followed this plan for the first half of the race and tracked with the five-hour pacer that whole distance, but by the time Bill met me at mile 20 (his third station on the course), I’d given it up. Actually, I gave it up at about mile 14, when I felt myself slipping further behind the pacer every time I walked. I SO wanted to finish close to five hours, but it just wasn’t to be.

A little more than halfway through the race, the rain made me feel unhappy, everything began chaffing. I started to develop a blister on my left, very wet foot. And the plantar fasciitis started RAGING in my right foot. This was the first time in a long time that I felt like crying during a race. But I didn’t do it! Not me. I cranked up Harry Potter on my iPod and pushed. I literally ignored how miserable I was.

Now, it’s not my policy to ignore my pain. I’m quite fond of complaining and adjusting my pace to accommodate discomfort, but the pain in both my feet was at the level that if I had given it even the time of day, I would have had to quit. And I couldn’t endure that option.

I finished the race in 5:34. Not my slowest, but almost. As soon as I crossed the finish line, the damn sun came out.

Slowly, painfully, I made my way toward the family reunion area to meet Bill. Shortly after finding him, I stripped naked in the bathroom of a pizza place near the where Bill had parked the car and changed out of my drenched clothing into something dry. Then I limped back to the car and took my shoes off to survey the damage.

Once we were on the highway on our way home, Bill said to me, “Wow, we paid $150 for you to run in the rain for five hours and then limp back to the car.”

“We should shop around,” I said. “I bet we could get all that for less.”

Still, the war wounds and crazy-awful discomfort (though I’m sure I could get all of that for half the price I paid in Portland) are worth every penny. Once again, I see I can do more, endure more, push through more than I would have thought a few years ago. Three cheers for the RAIN that makes us strong!

Portland, Here I Come.

2010-10-07T16:28:00.000-07:00

Plantar fasciitis notwithstanding, I’m on my way to run the Portland Marathon this weekend. I know, I know, I should wait until my foot feels better before doing another race, but I scheduled and paid for this one before I came down with foot failure. Actually, I’m really excited about the race on Sunday. The main reason is that I’ll be trying something different. My plan is to do my own version of the Galloway Method.

Ever since I discovered that I could actually keep running for 26.2 miles, I’ve never been one to take walk breaks except at water stations. I’m not sure how I got into the habit of thinking that running every step of a course is more honorable or earns me more points in marathon heaven than a walk/run routine would do, but that’s been my mentality for the last few years. Bill has been encouraging me to try Galloway’s run/walk structure for some time; he thinks it will actually speed up my pace in the end (which I keep insisting is not important – but he IS the one who waits patiently for me to finish, so I suppose he has a stake in my pace, too). Since I couldn’t see how adding WALKING into the already long journey could plausibly make me finish faster, I have outright ignored Bill’s suggestions.

Then I met Jeff Galloway. Jeff and his wife were at the Humpy’s ‘thon in Anchorage. In fact, they were on the trail behind me at about mile five. Then they were on the trail in front of me for miles six and seven. Then they finished the race more than three quarters of an hour before I came over the line. And, here’s the kicker: They walked half the race! That’s right folks. They walked for 30 seconds and ran for 30 seconds for the entire 42k.

I was so impressed that when we got home, I ordered a little gadget like I saw Jeff’s wife wearing on her belt. It looks like the timers Starbucks uses to notify them when their coffee is done brewing (Can you guess where I am as I write this post?). Only mine is bright pink. I can set the buzzer to go off in intervals of any two lengths I want. When I got it in the mail, I set myself up to run for 6 minutes and walk for one. Then I went out for ten miles. Guess what???? I kept up an eleven minute and fifteen second pace. What? Me? So then the next day, with fasciitis screaming at me from below, I went for another ten mile run and kept up 11:45 – with a sore foot.

Now, don’t be snarky, you fast people (you know who you are). I’m well aware that 11:15 and 11:45 are still sloooowww miles. But the point here is that, by adding a one minute walk break every six minutes, I was faster for farther than I can typically run. So, I’m not promising anything this weekend, but I’m hopeful that this will be one of my faster marathons. I’ll eat my words (and a whole pile of French fries, too) if I’m wrong. Stay tuned.

Linkin' up with others....

2010-10-02T11:01:00.001-07:00

Hi readers. I have a couple of announcements and one little tiny request. First of all, several people have received emails from Amazon.com saying that the "send" date for pre-ordered copies of my book has been moved up!!! It looks like they'll go out on Oct. 22 and should arrive later that week. Keep me posted when this starts to happen. It's very exciting.

Secondly, I'll soon be blogging on a new site in addition to my own! I've been invited by Nancy Mills, founder of Spirited Woman Website, to join the Spirited Woman blogger team. My beat will be travel! Keep your eyes open for weekly blogs (and even more often once the book has been out for a few months).

Finally, I'm compiling a list of blogs and websites to follow and would love your input. If you have favorite blogs or sites you read on a regular basis on the following topics. Pass them on to me with the links. Here are the topics I'm looking for:

Running
Fitness
Personal growth
Women's health/well being

Thanks, friends!

-Cami

2010-10-01T08:39:00.000-07:00

Our Tateyama runners have come and gone. The Bellingham Bay Marathon was a great (rainy) success.

Three cheers for Toshio Kansaku (left)!

And to Yasuatsu Sait (above)!

And also to Julie MacPhee, Bill Pech (who hosted our Tateyama runners on race day), and our friend Colleen Wolfisberg (who completed her first marathon).

Tateyama Comes to Bellingham

2010-09-25T21:11:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned last week, Tateyama runners will join us this weekend for the Bellingham Bay Marathon.

They've arrived!

Friday night, two runners, ages 27 and 59, flew into the Vancouver Airport. We had dinner with our very tired visitors at Boundary Bay Brewery that first night and then took Toshio and Yasu to the DeCann House, a beautiful bed and breakfast in town run by Barbara and Van Hudson, Tateyama enthusiasts.

Today we drove the marathon and half marathon courses, got together with several friends for a pasta potluck and then sent our guests to bed to get a good night's rest for the big day tomorrow.

For the past few weeks, I've been organizing, recruiting translators, sending out invitations and dreaming up fun Bellingham activities. But in the midst of all of my chart-making and emailing, I never forget what started my involvement in the Bellingham Sister Cities Association in the first place: The Marathon.

Tomorrow morning at 7am Bill and our one young runner, Yasu, will start that 26.2-mile journey, not knowing if the sky will pour on them or if they will turn an ankle or get a cramp half way through. They don't know if anyone will be stationed along the route to cheer for them (besides me) or if they will hit a psychological wall so hard to push through it makes them cry.

I never cease to have respect for The Marathon and for those who run it, either once or hundreds of times. Tomorrow I won't be running because I'm tapering in preparation for the Portland Marathon in a couple of weeks. This gives me the chance to plant myself somewhere on the course, clap for the runners until my hands are numb and watch their faces. Some will be elated, some anguished, others peaceful and Zen-like. I've been all of those things at some point in a race.

I'll be watching carefully for a few particular runners, this time. To Yasu and Bill in the full marathon and to Julie, Toshio and Ellen in the half marathon: GAMBATE! Do your best (in Japanese). I'll see you at the finish line, and we'll share a beer to celebrate your elation, your anguish, your Zen mind, or whatever came up during the race.

Ready, set. GO!

PS: If you're so inclined, take a look at the marathon course and come out to cheer the runners along!

A Round of Inspiration

2010-09-20T20:58:00.000-07:00

What a weekend I had. Today I took my run just to try and ground myself in my present life. Why, you ask? Because I spent Friday and Saturday evenings celebrating my 25th High School Reunion. (See the above for a pic of me playing a murder suspect in a school production.)

I’m really a big fan of reunions. Seeing people I grew up with is centering to me. I’m one of those (perhaps few) who felt that high school was the happiest, best place in my world as a teenager. So when I, a formerly chubby kid, hear my classmates telling me that my running has inspired them, I’m first shocked and then happily catapulted back to senior year and winning student of the month for being a good citizen or being named “friendliest” and “sunniest smile” by my cohort. Thanks friends!

To tell the truth, I was inspired by many of the 1985 Mountlake Terrace Hawks who showed up to our reunion. As I’m in the process of writing a workshop called “Catching your own Second Wind,” I’ve been in the mode of observing how people in my life have re-invented themselves, found meaning as they hit major life transitions (like an empty nest or a divorce) or re-affirmed commitments they’ve kept over the years. And I’ve found myself in awe of how my former classmates were catching their second or third winds nowadays, sometimes in the shadow of adversity or life’s hard knocks.

For example, two of our classmates recently re-found each other and got married. Cheers to Michelle and Mike! One classmate who has been driving truck for a living told me about how he’d finally taken bass guitar lessons and has been finding his identity and passion as a musician. More than I can count have been through divorces and have landed on their feet. Then there were those who were either beginning or continuing athletic pursuits as they hit their midlife stride. Kim, Carrie, Jeff and others are running, doing triathlons and practicing martial arts! I’m so proud of and inspired by all of you, too. What a love fest, eh?

Then, at the end of Friday evening’s festivities (that is to say before I left at 11pm – the bar was open till 2am, and I’m given to understand that some of us closed the place down), I bumped into an old friend who has gotten a little out of shape (it’s easy to do, no criticism here). My pal, who shall remain nameless, but whose initials are JE and who was my fellow winner of “friendliest” senior in 1985, showed me an APP he’d downloaded called “Couch to 5K.” He also told me he hadn’t started the program yet, but he hoped it would eventually be worth the $3.99 he paid for it.

So in the spirit of inspiration, I’m inspired to throw down a challenge to my old friend, JE, and to anyone else who is interested in joining in. How about you get ready and join me for the Seattle Jingle Bell 5K Run/Walk? It happens on Dec. 12. You can start with running for one minute and walking for one minute until you get up to one mile. Start this week! If you do this for a couple of weeks, you’ll be ready to work up to 2 miles by the end of October. If you can’t run a whole minute, run for 30 seconds and walk for a minute. I’ll come down and do the race with you. I’ll have done a marathon the week before, so I’ll be at my slowest (and as my readers know, I’m never very fast).

JE – will you accept the challenge? I told you you would be sorry for showing me that APP. But actually, I think we could have a lot of fun together! Anyone else want to join us? What if we say that anyone who was on the track team has to stand on the sidelines and cheer us non-athletic kids on? Come on. Anyone? Anyone?

This Week

2010-09-16T21:24:00.001-07:00

Whew! It's been a crazy week for me.

Last Saturday I ran the Fairhaven 15 K with my friend Julie, and we had a blast. My plantar fasciitis was in check, the weather was gorgeous and it seemed the Universe was smiling on me. Then the week began, and I was in full-blown crazy mode planning the visit from the two runners coming to Bellingham from Tateyama, Japan, keeping up with emails from the planning committee for my 25th High School Reunion and taking care of personal tasks that seemed to be screaming at me they needed to be done NOW.

Today, I spent 2 hours getting my hair foiled and cut and afterwards, I finally said to myself, "You have to get out for a run if you want to collect your thoughts." It was warm and dry, so I suited up, clipped on my Shuffle and planned a 12-mile route on the trails.

What do you think happened just as I took my first steps? It started to rain. Do you remember (those of you who grew up on the Northwest) those days walking home from elementary school in the Fall when it was pouring but warm, and you couldn't help stomping in puddles and letting the trickles of water running down from your hair dribble into your mouth? Today was like that for me. For more that two hours I ran with my face pointed up toward the sky and just let the water hit me in the eyes. I was in my tank top and shorts; it was warm.

Days like today are rare. I'm glad I got out there. I was reminded of childhood and expectant of Fall and happy to be running. What did you do today near the end of the week to collect your thoughts?

Your Favorite Running Movies

2010-09-12T16:23:00.000-07:00

Well the results are in. Among my friends (or at least those who read the blog and my Facebook postings) there are 12 movies and 4 documentaries which qualify as favorites. In at least one case “running” seems to be interpreted as “running from the law,” which could/should be its own category, perhaps. But I’ve put in everyone’s suggestions – good, bad and silly.

I haven’t seen every recommendation on the first list of movies, but my favorite of those I have seen is Saint Ralph. If you haven’t watched it, you really should. It’s a sweet, inspiring, feel-good movie, if totally fantastical.

On the documentary list, I love Spirit of the Marathon because it features a number of women and back-of-the-pack runners whom I find personally encouraging. I have to give a special thumbs up, though, to the Long Green Line because that documentary is about a high school track coach named Joe Newton who happens to (still) coach at Bill’s high school (York High School) back in Elmhurst, Illinois. He’s coached his team to 25 State Titles during the course of his tenure. Coach Newton even showed up to Bill’s high school reunion in 2009! Check out the film. Check them all out. I welcome additions to the list and/or reviews. Here are the lists….

Movies:
• Running Man (1987) with Arnold Schwartzenegger
• The Miracle of Kathy Miller (1981) with Helen Hunt
• Run Fatboy Run with Hank Azaria
• Gallopoli (1981) with Mel Gibson
• Saint Ralph (2004)
• The Terry Fox Story (1983)
• Jericho Mile (1979) with Peter Strauss
• Prefontaine (1997)
• Goldengirl (1979) with Susan Anton
• Run Lola Run (1999) German film
• Forest Gump (1994) with Tom Hanks
• Without Limits (1998)

Documentaries:
• Endurance (1999)
• Running Brave (1983)
• Spirit of the Marathon (2007)
• Long Green Line (2008)

Top 11 Non-Running Movies

2010-09-10T04:48:00.000-07:00

As promised, here are Ziegel and Grossberger's top pick's as non-running movies. Keep in mind their book was written in the 1970s, so I'm sure we could all come up with a few more recent films which, in no way, inspire running (if we really wanted to).

First the films, and then my commentary.

Z&G write: "The movies have long been a favorite of non-runners. From the earliest days of silent films, when quick-turning the handle on primitive cameras gave the illusion of running (with none of the anguish), non-runners have considered Hollywood a strong ally."

THE LIST:
1. Stalag 17 (1953)
2. Citizen Kane (1941)
3. Strangers on a Train (1951)
4. Twelve Angry Men (1957)
5. King Kong (1933)
6. Lifeboat (1944)
7. The Blob (1958)
8. L'avventura (1961)
9. Dracula's Tax Lawyer
10. The Road to Nowhere
11. Rocky Meets Godzilla

No real justification for their choice in non-running films is given. V and G seem to have made these picks for the simple reason that one must SIT to view any movie.

Now, I'll come clean and say I haven't watched all of these films, but I have seen some of them. Most definitely, Twelve Angry Men does NOT inspire running, unless it's away from the screen. (Do the words tedious and sexist mean anything to you? They do to me in reference to that movie. Not one of my faves.) But at least two of the movies on this list are absolutley running-promoting! Both King Kong and The Blob, if I remember correctly, feature running for it's original purpose: self preservation. And while I haven't seen Dracula's Tax Lawyer or Rocky Meets Godzilla, when there are monsters in a movie, there will usually be running.

Come on. We can do better than this. Let's make our own list of favorite running films. Chariots of Fire is off limits. Everyone knows that one. Just because you have to sit to watch a movie, doesn't mean it can't inspire movement. What are your favorite running films?? Send 'em to me and I'll compile a list.

To all those who do not run but read my blog anyhow...

2010-09-08T12:28:00.001-07:00

Last week at a used book store in Cheney, Washington, I picked up an insightful little volume entitled The Non-Runner's Book: Advice and reassurance for the millions of American's who want to know "Is it all right if I don't run?".

So this book was published in 1978 by a pair of fellows who call themselves Vic Ziegel and Lewis Grossberger, apparently the pseudonyms of "a pair of rich and successful sneaker manufacturers who frankly are ashamed of the social and physical ills they have caused by conspiring to make running fashionable as a means of boosting world sneaker sales." They claim that "writing this book was their way of atoning for the damage they've done and of preventing further harm from coming to future generations."

Now is it even necessary for me to make a disclaimer before I go on to say that this book is HILARIOUS? I'll quote from it over the next week or so (It's out of print, so my copy is extremely valuable - it was a steal for $1.65!). But let me just give you the bullet points from the back cover so you can see what you're in for:

*How to avoid the Boston Marathon (even as a runner, I think I've got that one down)
*How to talk to a non-runner (I know, Deb, you hope I memorize this section)
*The Zen of sitting
*Non-running in the People's Republic
*How non-runner's cope (I can't imagine)
*Sex and the non-runner (now there's one that should remain taboo)
*Where celebrity non-runners non-run

And I'll bet you can't wait to find out what "the nine greatest non-running movies" are! Feel free to send in your faves! Stay tuned for the gripping details later this week.

Revisiting Tateyama

2010-08-27T14:33:00.000-07:00

In January of 2009, Bill and I visited Tateyama, Japan for a marathon. We picked Tateyama because it is a sister city to Bellingham, and before we embarked on our trip, we contacted members of the Sister Cities association in Tateyama and told them we were coming. To this day, when people ask us what our favorite marathon was, we both agree that the Tateyama Marathon is our number one!

We were given a royal welcome in Japan, as if we were old friends returning from a long absence. In fact, we were old friends, though it was our first time in Tateyama. Bellingham and Tateyama have been sister cities for over fifty years and the relationship between the two cities was mirrored in the attention shown to us upon our arrival.

The marathon course in Tateyama was spectacular. We had a view of Mt. Fuji for several miles and perfect cool weather for the whole race, but the reason we loved this race more than any other is because of Tateyama’s citizens. For 26.2 miles, people lined the streets yelling encouragements, applauding, waving and offering refreshments. I’ve never smiled so much during a marathon.

Why am I reminiscing just now? It’s because I just found out that two Tateyama runners will be coming to Bellingham for the Bellingham Bay Marathon (BBM)! Now we’ll have the privilege of returning the hospitality and friendship that was offered to us! One runner will do the half-marathon on September 26 and the other will do the full marathon. The Bellingham Sister Cities Association sent out an invitation for them to come this year and the BBM has offered to take care of their entry fees.

It’s only one month away till our visitors arrive. If any of my readers are interested in hosting, meeting or hanging out with our old friends (who we’ll be meeting for the first time, too), just send me a shout out. The Bellingham Bay Marathon has also offered to provide two “companion” entry fees, so we need one full-marathoner and one half-marathoner to step up to the plate (or the starting line, as it were). It’s time to break out the sake!

I want to ride my bicycle...

2010-08-24T19:29:00.000-07:00

As I ice my plantar fasciitis, I'm thinking about the hilarity that is me on a bike. I've got my Superfeet, and I've done as I've promised so far this week (granted, it's only Tuesday) and stayed off my feet. No running and very little walking. It's harder than I thought it would be. In order to get exercise, I broke out my bike on Sunday for a 1.5 hour ride. Today I rode for another hour.

Here's the thing about my bike-riding skills: They are severely lacking. I like to blame this on my brothers, though it may not be fair. The way I remember it, when I was a kid, every time I got a new bicycle, my younger brothers took it apart as soon I spent the night with a friend. As a result, I never really got over that wobbly stage that children go through when they first learn to ride.

Neither my husband, Bill, nor my dear friend, Jack, will ride with me without personally fitting my helmet for me. If you add this unsteadiness to my dismal sense of direction, you've got a disaster on wheels. Tonight I decided that I would ride to Fairhaven to meet Bill, and he could drive me home with my bike in the back of his truck. What should have been a 35 minute ride took me an hour of weaving between streets as I lost my way in a city I've lived in for 15 years and nearly fell over every time I had to stop at a light.

I finally made it to Fairhaven, grateful and tired. Can't wait to run again.

Race Report – Humpy’s Marathon. Anchorage, Alaska

2010-08-18T20:52:00.000-07:00

As I write this race report, I am sitting on the steps of the “Octagon House” in the Denali Mountain Morning Hostel. Bill and I couldn’t get a room here, so we’re staying in a tent tonight, which is not my thing… but it’s only one night. Wish me luck that I stay warm and don’t get too cranky.

As for the race: Sunday morning we awoke at 6:30 – only because the sun rises so early here in Alaska – and took our time readying ourselves for the race. By the time we left the hostel at 8:00, I was concerned to see that fog lay heavy all around the city and didn’t seem to be eager to lift.

We easily found a parking spot in downtown Anchorage and walked the few blocks to the starting line. The race promised to take us through the downtown area and then out on a beautiful portion of the Tony Knowles Coastal Trail along the Cook Inlet waterfront (where Captain Cook looked in vain for the Northwest Passage in the late 1700s). We wouldn’t get to see much of the water in the early hours of the race, I figured.

The first event of the day was a 2 kilometer non-timed run for kids. Bill and I hung around the starting area and watched as dozens of children and their parents crossed their finish line, which was a big inflated dinosaur. Bart Yasso was there to call out encouragement to the kids as they passed by.

Finally, we marathoners, along with all of the half marathoners, lined up to get ready for our races. As the gun went off, we made our way around the city and then into the thick mist near the bay. The route of Humpy’s had one out-and-back turn around nine-and-a-half miles on the Coastal Trail and then another one near the end of the course at a popular Anchorage park. When Bill and I both run a race, I like the out-and-back format because we get to pass each other. If we timed it right, we’d see one another twice during this race.

The course started by descending slightly on the main trail. My plantar fasciitis was quiet for the moment. I’d been resting my foot the best I could for the past several days. Now I was hoping I wouldn’t be slowed too much by pain in my arch and heel. I couldn’t see the Cook Inlet because of the weather, but my body felt good. For the first half of the race, as we ran through thick northern rainforest, I moved strong and happy. When Bill and I passed at about mile 8 (for me and mile 11 for Bill), we were both smiling – sometimes (not always) a bad omen at the beginning of a race.

As we intersected, Bill said to me, “Hey, you’re just a little bit behind Jeff Galloway!” Jeff (an Olympian at the 10K distance in 1972 and a marathon training guru) had been at the pre-race pasta dinner and had told attendees that he would be running with his wife in a 30/30 (30 seconds of running/30 seconds of walking) format. I knew he and his wife were just ahead of me; I’d said hello to them as they’d passed.

By the time I hit my first turn around, the fog was lifting and I was pleased to see that the sun and the water were making appearances. Cook Inlet was at low tide and so there were vast sandbars raised in the water and families with children poked around on shore looking in tide pools and overturning rocks to see what was underneath. At mile 13, my time was good. I hit the half-way mile-marker at 2:29 and, although I knew I would slow down in the second half, I still estimated my finish time around 5:15.

After mile 16, however, with ten miles left to go, I started to feel the pain in my heel. The course was right at sea level and fairly flat, the inclines were few, gradual and mild, so I’d hoped the pain I’d been fighting wouldn’t be stimulated by anything in particular on the course. But the hours took their toll.

Bill and I crossed paths again at mile 17 (for me). He was at mile 23 and near the end. Our passing occurred at an aid station so we both slowed to grab water and had a moment to exchange a few words. He was tired. But he’d also seen a moose and her calf at mile 19, so he was excited for me to meet up with her too. We were both soaked to the skin from the mist. I was chafing badly under my bra in the front and starting to feel the skin rub off with every limping step I took. With a final “good luck” we each carried on in our opposite directions.

The last nine miles of the course for me was painful. I watched my time continue to decrease, and I felt I could barely keep my body moving. There weren’t many spectators out on the course, though it was well-marked and well-supported by at least one high school cross country club, several volunteer groups at the aid stations and the Anchorage Police, who were not only efficient, but friendly and encouraging.

When I finally turned the bend that allowed me to see the finish line near Humpy’s Great Alaska Ale House, my stopwatch said I’d been running for 5 hours and 30 minutes. It took me two more minutes to run the few blocks to the finish line. Bart Yasso, true to his word the night before, was still there, announcing the name of every finisher and I heard him call me out: “Cami Ostman representing Bellingham, Washington.”

I slowed to a stop and allowed the volunteers to remove my timing chip. Bill was waiting for me and followed me beside the chute as I wound my way out of the recovery area. When he finally embraced me he said, “Do you want to cry?” I guess my face was screwed up into a pre-cry expression, and I did want to cry. But I was just too tired. Not my best race, but certainly not my worst, either.

A nice Alaska Stout would go a long way toward making me feel better….

Yesterday and Tomorrow

2010-08-14T21:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday

Yesterday morning at 8:00am, Bill and I boarded a ship called Coastal Explorer and headed from Seward out of Resurrection Bay. The end point of our cruise was to be Holgate Glacier, but in order to get there, we had to pass through the Harding Gateway where we encountered a pod of Orcas. I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned that one of my very favorite things to do in this world is to watch Orca whales. As part of our wedding weekend we went whale-watching directly from Bellingham Bay. Then in Australia back in 2007 we took a cruise into Nelson Bay and watched as a single, gigantic Humpback Whale breeched for over an hour. I was in grateful awe to see him, but watching a group of Orcas remains my favorite thing. It’s like peeking in on your neighbor’s family dinner. Orcas are a matriarchical species. Each pod follows its matriarch through the waters looking for food and breeding in season with the males from other pods.

Hanging out with a family of Orcas is a very intimate experience. In the pod we saw yesterday, there were several calves poking above the water beside their mothers. The family stayed with our boat for at least forty-five minutes before we had to move on toward the glacier. Forty-five minutes of heaven!

An hour later, the glacier was as spectacular as the whales. The captain pulled the ship up close and we sat with the motor off, waiting for large chunks of ice to break free and crash into the water. We weren’t disappointed. Large pieces of the glacier wall plunged down hundreds of yards, echoing into the canyon like thunder on a rainy day. Although it is magnificent and beautiful to see the calving of the glacier, we were saddened to hear that the Holgate Glacier, in fact the whole Harding Icefield in Alaska and all of the glaciers it feeds into are receding so quickly that the ecosystem in the area is being affected in ways yet to be discovered.

After some time with the glacier, the boat headed back toward Resurrection Bay and stopped at the Chiswell Islands on the way to see the bird rookeries. I’ve been nervous around birds since I was a little girl, but over the past few years, I’ve learned to appreciate the diversity of the bird kingdom through my travels. At this rookery, we watched the very colorful Puffins nest in the rocks above while sea lions swam in the waters below.
Amazing day.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow we run Humpy’s Marathon in Anchorage. Today we picked up our race bibs and chips and spent the day in town. The weather looked promising, though I’ve heard that Anchorage has had the highest number of consecutive rainy days they’ve ever seen in their history. We keep our fingers crossed for a reprieve in the morning.

At the pasta feed this evening, I met Bart Yasso, whose book, My Life on the Run, is next on my reading list. He is a well-known runner and a Runner’s World contributor. But he’s also a really nice person. We chatted about South Africa (he recently ran the Comrades, a 55.9-mile race that starts in Durban), and a bit about writing to inspire others. Tomorrow, Bart will be announcing the names of runners as they come across the finish line and he promised to stay to end for the back of the packers! What a treat.

If I’m not too tired, I’ll post a race report tomorrow night. If I’m trashed, I’ll post it early next week. Peace to all.

Staring at the Glacier

2010-08-12T19:46:00.000-07:00

We have three days until Humpy's Marathon in Anchorage, so we rented a car and drove down to Seward. Tomorrow morning we'll be taking a cruise through Kenai Fjords National Park. Apparently, we'll be seeing Holgate Glacier as it "calves" into the bay. But today we hiked to the edge of the other side of the ice field to get a peek of it Exit Glacier from land. The sky sprinkled rain on us the whole way (about 2 miles round trip), but the glacier was worth it.

For more information about Kenai Fjords National Park, click here.

High School Flashback

2010-08-09T09:42:00.000-07:00

Every Sunday, Bill and I watch a CBS show called Sunday Morning. Yesterday the program had a segment about a theater camp for kids somewhere in rural New York. As I listened to interviews with the children, who claimed their lives were changed by participating in theater during their three-week stay at the camp, I was transported back to high school.

As a student at Mountlake Terrace High School, I elected to participate in our drama program. I was not an athlete, a chess player, or a singer. I didn’t play an instrument, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in a cheerleading outfit. This left theater.

Our drama teacher at MLTHS was smart. Mrs. E, as we called her then, had a stutter growing up and understood deeply the experience of self-consciousness that most kids feel in their adolescence. As a result, she led her theater troop from a stance of mutual respect and inclusivity. Everyone who wanted to participate had a role. If we weren’t on stage, we could help with costumes or lighting. No one was excluded. She gave speaking parts to popular jocks and social pariahs alike – and insisted we treat each other kindly.

I’m not sure I was much of an actress, but she gave me significant on stage roles more than once and, like the kids in the Sunday Morning segment yesterday, it changed my life and gave me confidence. I learned that I could memorize long speeches, cover for other people’s mistakes, change costumes in less than two minutes and share in putting together a product that elicited applause and appreciation from an audience.

Yesterday, as I reflected back on my high school theater experience, I realized that I have the same feeling of confidence when I run. I wasn’t the greatest actress – and I’m not the greatest runner. But just as I felt a great sense of being a part of a collective troop back then, I feel a part of a running community now. I could have ended up in a competitive drama club (think Glee), but instead, I was taught to connect rather than compete, and that’s how I run now – to connect with myself and nature. I’m glad for this, since I wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of winning anything even if I felt inclined to compete. Just as I did under Mrs. E’s tutelage, I get to be content with trying my hardest.

Thanks Mrs. E. I bet you never thought I’d be thanking you for helping me be the best runner I can be!

Know the Meaning of Your Pain

2010-08-05T10:30:00.000-07:00

Well, having finished the book (Second Wind: click here for Amazon link) and having touched down on every continent of the world, I’ve been pondering my next goals. What/where will I run? What will I write? I’ve decided to keep up my blog for starters and to set the next goal of running a marathon in every U.S. State by the time I turn 50 (that’s seven years from now, just FYI). 50 in 50 by 50!

You might think it’s old news to me to run a marathon at this point, but that’s simply not the case. Every race means a regiment of training. Every race is a huge time commitment (because of my well-documented sluggish pace). And every race is an adventure in self-knowledge and world exploration – even when the course is just down the freeway from my house.

Right now, Bill and I are getting ready for a trip to head up to Alaska for the Anchorage's Humpy's Classic Marathon. Get this: We had so many frequent flyer miles left after last year that we’re both flying to Alaska for a total of $10! And as usual, we’re making use of local hostels for our lodgings. I’ve never been to Alaska, so I’m very excited (and open to suggestions of what we should do while in Anchorage).

My training for this race has been harder than usual. I’ve had some heel pain. Bill says I’ve got something called Plantar Fascitis, common among runners apparently. I’ve been lucky as a runner so far, suffering nothing but one nasty cramp in my left hamstring in all the years I’ve been running. But this Fascitis thing is disheartening. I ignored it during my 19-mile last week and really activated it. This week I’ve rested and iced my foot, and yesterday my little 4.5 mile run felt good. Very little pain! It was only after going salsa dancing last night that I had a twinge in the upper part of my heel. So, I’m back to icing and resting today.

This all goes to show that one of my key running principles (which I violated last week)holds true: LISTEN TO YOUR BODY. You’ve got to strike a balance between pushing yourself and listening to the clues your body gives that you need to rest, stretch, eat, sleep, switch to swimming for a couple of weeks or, sometimes, grind it out. Nothing substitutes for knowing your own limits and the meaning of different kind of pain. If I get the go-ahead from my foot, I’ll be back on the trails tomorrow. If not, look for me on my bicycle. I’m not very good on two wheels, so I’ll be the one wobbling along wearing running shoes.

Grandmothers of Endurance

2010-07-12T12:38:00.000-07:00

We all have people we aspire to be like as we grow older - folks who make the most of their lives at every age, who never say, "I'm too old for that."

Check out the video link below and meet two inspiring women runners, Vicky and Barb. I want to be like them when I grow up!

Grandmothers of Endurance

Our Next Slideshow

2010-06-30T08:20:00.000-07:00

Our next slideshow is coming up. Come see pictures of our 7 marathons on the 7 continents.

Location: Backcountry Essentials, downtown Bellingham
Date: Thursday, July 8
Time: 7pm

We'd love to see you there.

Rock and Roll!

2010-06-27T11:44:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I ran in my first Rock and Roll event in Seattle. I chose to do the half marathon with my pal and running partner, Julie. Bill was signed up for the full.

To simplify our lives, we stayed at a motel a few blocks from the starting line down in Tukwila, Washington, so we could wander over in the morning at 6:30 rather than have to catch the bus at 4:30 in Seattle as most of the racers did.

I was shocked at the crowd just outside our motel. There were about 30 thousand participants signed up for the event (although apparently only about 22 thousand actually finished. This meant that we were organized into corrals based on our estimated finish times, and we would begin the race incrementally. Bill was in corral #6; I was in #26.

I have to confess that the chaos of being in the midst of so many runners didn't invigorate me as I had expected it would. I felt stressed about finding my corral and Julie, who was already waiting for me somewhere in the crowd. And once I found both, I was annoyed at having to wait for more than a half hour beyond the official start time (7:00) to reach the starting line.

Still, the race was incredibly well organized, and once we got going, I enjoyed the energy of the racers and the bands stationed along the route. A lot of runners pick a Rock and Roll Marathon for their first full or half marathon. First-timers are fun. They know they are pushing themselves beyond where they have gone before, and they don't know for a fact that they can pull it off. They suck in the encouragement of the fans like it's psychic energy gel. One young woman Julie and I tracked with until she split off for the full marathon course had a T-shirt on that said: Date, Distance, Birthday, 26! It was her 26th birthday happening on the 26th of June while she ran the marathon distance. When fans cheered for her, she would shout back, "Today's my birthday!" And then she was rewarded with additional cheers of congratulation.

Julie and I had a good race. We kept up a pace of 11 minutes and 10 seconds per mile on average. We had the energy to go harder, I think, but the runners never thinned out the entire course, so we were elbow to elbow with people the whole way and passing wasn't so easy.

The best part of the event for me was at the finish in the Quest Field parking lot when I had the opportunity to meet Mebrahtom (Meb) Keflezighi, the 2009 New York Marathon winner. Meb (also a 2004 Olympic silver medalist) was at the event representing Sony as they introduced a new product aimed at runners - a wireless MP3 player you stick in your ears (very cool, by the way). As I stood in line to meet him, I noticed he took a good five minutes or more with each fan. When it was my turn, I understood why. Meb is a person who is interested in others. My impression of a lot of famous athletes (admittedly, fueled by celeb mags, and therefore little more than a shallow prejudice) is that they are somewhat narcissistic as a group. Not Meb. He asked me about my race and congratulated me on running the seven continents and on writing a book. He told me he was writing a book right now and agreed with me that the writing process is harder than the marathon (his book is coming soon: Run to Overcome published by Tyndale). We laughed together that it took me longer to run the half marathon than it took him to run the full 26.2. And he told me he'd take a look at my blog (Hi Meb!).

I love to watch professional runners. There is something magical about them. Like ballet dancers, every step appears to be choreographed to perfection. But Meb agreed with me that the best reason to run is that it's good for the soul. So, to all who participated in the Seattle Rock and Roll race yesterday and to those training for a race in the near future, I say: "Rock on!" Keep on running.

You're invited to a Blog Par-tay!!!

2010-05-26T19:13:00.000-07:00

Some of you received an evite to my Blog Par-tay, but I know some people have followed my blog who have not been on my blog notification email list. You're invited too!

I want to say thanks to those of you who have followed me around the world (and, well, shamelessly encourage you to pre-order my book on amazon.com). So come join me and celebrate the completion of the 7-marathons-on-7-continents quest and the delivery of my book, Second Wind: Seven Marathons on Seven Continents, to the publisher (Seal Press).

Sushi and sparkling cider will be provided.

If you find you can't attend, feel free to check out my website (www.7marathons7continents.com) where you can locate a link for pre-purchasing the book! ;}

Where: Lake Padden Playground Shelter
4882 Samish Way - East entrance
Bellingham, WA US

When: Sunday, June 27, 4:30PM to 6:30PM

To RSVP email or call me.
Phone: 206.890.8694
Email: clostman@aol.com

Report: Antarctic Experience

2010-03-31T12:46:00.000-07:00

Bill and I arrived home from our latest adventure last Sunday. Delta kept us on schedule this time (and even sent us an apology letter for screwing up our flight to Santiago on the 11th). We’ve been reflecting on this trip as we catch up on sleep and organize our pictures. What an extraordinary experience we’ve had.

The day after we arrived in Punta Arenas, we completed a 26.2 mile run around town. We’d promised our traveling companion, Marina (from California) that we would help her complete her South American marathon and, tired as we were from missing flights and being vertical for two days, we were determined to keep our word. Our local friends, Mackarena and Marcelo (teachers at Colegio Miguel de Cervantes) had arranged for the newspaper to show up and document our little race. Mackarena's father, Andres, and Marcelo joined us as starters, along with a homeless dog who traveled exactly one mile before abandoning us once he’d decided there wasn’t any food in the deal for him.

Our time in Punta Arenas, both before the trip to Antarctica and after was filled with meals with friends, visiting classes at Miguel de Cervantes to hang out with the children and penguin sightings (apparently rare) along the Strait of Magellan. I have to give a shout out to Moka Joe’s, a little Bellingham coffee-roasting business, for helping me with gifts for our Sister City friends. The folks in Punta Arenas were so hospitable and kind (Mackarena and her husband, Omar, even loaned us their house to stay in for almost two weeks) that we truly can’t begin to repay them, but a little taste of Bellingham left behind will hopefully remind them with every sip that we are grateful for their friendship.

On Wednesday evening (March 17) of our first week, Bill, Marina and I showed up at the DAP airline office for a meeting about the trip the following day to King George Island, Antarctica. As you know, we’d originally organized this expedition with the plan of running 26.2 miles on the island in order to complete the marathon distance on our seventh and final continent. As you also know, in the process of creating said plan, we were told that we could not “plan” or “organize” anything that resembled a “race,” an “activity,” an “event” or a “marathon.” So, alas, saddened and discouraged, I nevertheless agreed to continue on my scheduled flight to King George Island in hopes that I might be able to sneak out of view at some point and run around (even in circles) to meet my goal, while Bill said he wasn’t interested in going if he wouldn’t have a guaranteed chance to run once we touched down.

Wednesday evening, however, Bill had a little change of heart. We met with Carlos, a representative from DAP, in a tiny office enclosed on all sides by thick glass walls. There were five of us squeezed in there: Marina, Bill and I, Kara, a Minnesotan in her thirties who quit her job and is now roaming the world for the few months, and Alex, another American from Illinois who is heading off to med-school in the fall when he finishes several months of international travel and gallivanting. There was one other tourist on the list for the trip the following day who couldn’t be with us, a Russian fellow named Yury, who was flying in late that night. We wouldn’t get to meet him until the next day. After Carlos filled us in on all that we needed to know for the trip, I turned in my chair and looked at Bill. I could see his eyes sparkling, reflecting light from outside one of the big windows. He was biting the inside of his cheek and knitting his brows together. I know that look. He was changing his mind about coming along the next day.

As the five of us passengers had been chatting, I'd explained to Kara and Alex that Marina and I hoped to get out for a renegade run. The two were so supportive and enthusiastic about our idea that Bill began to think it might be worth his while to take a chance and come along. After the meeting, he got up and followed Carlos to his desk to find out if there was room on the plane. There was.

We arrived on KGI at about 1:30 the following day (March 18). Immediately, our guide Alejo, a wild-looking Chilean man in his mid-fifties with a graying beard and astute, clear eyes, whisked us into a Zodiac (after requiring us to change into puffy, flotation suits) and out onto the bay. “The weather is good now. We must hurry.” He said. My mind was so latched onto getting my miles in, come hell or high water (as they say), that I didn’t appreciate what Alejo was communicating. The weather changes so rapidly in this region that tourists can pay thousands of dollars to land on the island and never really have the opportunity to see its majesty. We had no wind and no rain or snow at the moment. We were going to get a rare chance to see the glacier.

Collins Glacier was accessible via the waterway one can see from the little scientific community on the island. I was glad for the wind and chill-resistance of the padded suit as we trolled out into the frigid water passed a blue iceberg, crossing paths with little bobbing penguins. In a half hour we were sitting beside a grand ice pack several stories high, listening to the monstrous glacier live its ancient life without regard to our presence.

I’ve never been that close to a glacier before. And once again, as at many other times on my travels these past few years, I was aware of how much I don’t know. In this case, how much I don’t know about glaciers, especially those in Antarctica. I did sink into the moment and appreciate it, however. I momentarily let my dream of running go by the wayside and said to Bill, “If for nothing else, seeing this is worth every penny.” He nodded in agreement.

It was at the penguin colony an hour later that I rounded up the courage to approach Alejo and talk to him about running. He listened to me express my desire to run while on the island and nodded sagely as I explained how important it was to me. But he was awfully quiet. He did say, “People on the island exercise, too, you know.” He also reiterated, “You cannot plan an event or activity in Antarctica.” Yes. I was clear on that. Very, very clear. But could I run?

By the time we got back to the Chilean barracks for a snack, it was 5:30. We had less than 15 hours left on the island. Our Garmin GPS systems (we had three of them with us) indicated that we had walked only two miles in the course of the day since the plane had landed. There was still a long way to go to reach 26.2. The winds were still calm at this point, but a light flurry of snow was beginning to fall. The sky was darkening. We six tourists sat around for about an hour while Alejo took care of some duties unrelated to us. When he came back, he explained what the evening would hold. He planned to take the group on a walk to the Russian Orthodox Church and to some locations for photo opportunities and then we would come back to the barracks for dinner and drinks.

He looked at Marina, Bill and me and said, “If you stay on the roads. It doesn’t matter how fast you get to the Russian Church. We will meet you there. And I’ll show you the other roads we will use.”

So at 6:30 pm, as the others finished their cups of cocoa and pulled on their warm down coats, we three hopeful runners suited up in our running gear, gathered our energy gels, donned our headlamps (it would be dark by 9:00) and ducked out the door. I wasn’t entirely sure Alejo understood we wanted to run for several hours, but I’d learned by this point that Alejo, himself is a world-class mountaineer and skier. He is well accomplished as an athlete in his own right and had confided to me that he never goes anywhere without his running shoes. I thought we understood each other.

We said goodbye to our new friends and headed out the door to run until one of three things happened. Either the darkening sky would dump on us and we would be forced back indoors; someone would intercept us and tell us we had to stop running; or we would meet our goal.

I hate to tell you this, but I’m not going to reveal what happened. I’ve already said that I’m happy with our trip, but you’ll have to read the book (Title: Second Wind - it’ll be released by Seal Press in October, 2010) to find out what made me so happy. I’m sorry to do it to you – sort of. If you know me well enough to have my phone number, I’ll probably tell you more (I’m cheap – a glass of wine will get you everywhere). For those of you who have been following along and cheering for me, I thank you.

Stay tuned for news of our trip to Torres del Paine, Patagonia’s great national park. Our trip there didn’t include a marathon, but there are some good stories and pics I want to share.

Peace to all.

KGI, Antarctica

2010-03-20T18:28:00.000-07:00

I am in a hostel in Puerto Natales at this moment. Bill and I are getting ready to visit Torres del Paine, a famous national park here in Chile. There are other residents of the hostel breathing down my neck waiting to use this computer, but they´ll have to wait because I need to tell everyone that we´re back from King George Island, Antarctica!

We arrived in Antarctica by plane at about 1.30pm and immediately climbed aboard a Zodiac (boat) which took us on a tour by water to a blue, glistening glacier that chinked and cracked as we sat in silence watching it. Then we visited a Gentoo Penguin colony of over 10,000 couples (these penguins mate for life). We watched them howl at one another, mourn over the bodies of dead partners and waddle to and fro circumventing the large fur seal that was scratching his back on the rocks at the beach.

While we were at the colony I had a chat with Alejo, our amazing guide, and told him we had a dream of taking a run on KGI. I´ll tell you what he said and all that transpired throughout the evening (including my friendship with two Russian fellows who debated the unfortunte lack of a perfect translation for the ¨F¨word in a particular American joke) when I get back. Suffice it to say for now that I did not come away from my experience in Antarctica disappointed.

Love to all. Stay tuned.
Cami

Punta Arenas Success

2010-03-15T08:06:00.000-07:00

Well, after further delays, we made it to Punta Arenas. Our plane out of Atlanta had a leak in the hydraulic system, so we sat on the plane for two hours waiting for it to be repaired, all the while worrying that we would miss our connection in Santiago to Punta Arenas. But our connection was made (miracle!) and four hours later we found our way to our hostel and got some good sleep.

Quickly, after arriving, we phoned our PA friends, Mackarena, Marcelo and Maritza. Marcelo had our American friend Marina with him and she was fine. She´d taken some obscure airline from LA to El Salvador, Peru, Santiago and then to Punta Arenas and never missed a beat, so she´d been in town for a full 24 hours before we touched down.

In the morning yesterday (March 14), we all met at the park at 10am and 5 of us (6 if you include the homeless dog that accompanied us for one mile) commenced our Punta Arenas BYOGPS marathon. We ran through the city, along the Magellan Strait, out toward the country side and finally back into town. We saw penguins, pelting rain, gorgeous views of southern islands and even a funeral along the way. The completion time for us three finishers (Marina, Bill and I all ran together) was 5 hours and 51 minutes. Unfortunately, once we completed 26.2 miles, we still had one kilometer to go to get back to the park where Mackarena, her father, Marcelo and a Punta Arenas newspaper reporter were waiting for us. So we sort of ran an Ultra!

We haven´t seen today´s paper, but we understand there is an article in there about three Americans who came to run the marathon distance in Punta Arenas. I think the name of the paper is El Penguine or something like that. You can try to find it online - or just wait to see a copy when we get home.

Tonight we´ll have dinner at Mackarena´s home and probably stay there for a couple of days. On Wednesday, we have our meeting with DAP, the airline that is taking Marina and me to King George Island, Antarctica. I´ll try to post again once we´ve finished that leg of the journey.

Peace to all.

Delta Blues

2010-03-12T08:30:00.000-08:00

It's raining in Atlanta. I know this because I spent the night at the Comfort Inn here, courtesy of Delta Air.

Our flight out of Seattle was delayed and our flight out of Atlanta to Santiago wasn't. Last night Bill and I stood at a window in the airport with 15 distraught Chileans and watched our plane leave without us. One woman was lecturing the Delta employee who had the misfortune to be serving us that leaving Chileans on the ground in the U.S. during this difficult time in Chile was a "moral problem" for the airline.

Bill and I were distraught as well, but we had mentally prepared for trouble. Nothing about this trip has gone smoothly. I'd told Bill before we left Bellingham that we had to expect EVERYTHING to have gliches and bumps. If anything went as planned we could chalk it up as a miracle, but organizing this journey has been a bumpy ride from the beginning. There's no reason to expect it to change now.

So as of this moment, the plan is to fly out of Atlanta tonight at 8:20 PM and arrive in Santiago at 8:00 AM in the morning (March 13). At that point we will catch a SKY AIR flight to Punta Arenas, arriving there at 2:40 PM.

The main problem with our new itinerary is that we've lost our friend Marina. Marina was the lone, remaining runner from the original group. She was flying out of LA (to El Salvador, then to Peru, and finally to Santiago). We were supposed to meet up with her in Santiago and fly down to Punta Arenas together. My guess is that she's worried about us, and I'm worried about her being worried. Cross your fingers for us that we connect with her quickly when we arrive in PA.

We're supposed to do our Punta Arenas run the day after we arrive (on March 14) and Marina and I are supposed to fly down to King George Island on the 18th. I'll blog more if I can.

Peace!

Chile's Earthquake

2010-02-28T18:55:00.000-08:00

Twelve days before we are scheduled to leave on our trip to Punta Arenas, one of the worst earthquakes in history hit Chile. Bill and I have been sitting at home watching the news unfold, hoping the damage won’t be catastrophic and wondering what this means for our trip.

The first thing I did was contact our four connections in and around Punta Arenas: Mackarena, Maritza, Marcelo and Ben. I’ve heard back from everyone and all have reported that Punta Arenas didn’t feel a thing. Apparently, they didn’t experience so much as a shiver while their northern friends were holding on for dear life. Each reported that they had family in the affected area but that everybody they knew was accounted for.

The next thing I did was email Dimas’ family. My readers will remember Dimas and Ana Rosa as the lovely people with whom we stayed in Brazil last June. Their son lives in Sao Paulo and we’d heard that the quake had been felt there - all the way across the continent. We wanted to make sure they were okay. They’re fine. Again, they didn’t feel anything.

So, as we continue to watch and read about the dire situation in Santiago and surrounding areas, since I’ve ascertained confirmation that everyone we know is safe, we have come to the question of what this means for our trip. Many of you have asked me this question. So far, all I know is that the international airport in Santiago sustained some damage, but the runways all came through the quake(s) without much trouble. The airport was closed for a couple of days, but today it opened for international flights.

We are scheduled to leave on March 11 from Seattle and to reach the airport in Santiago on March 12 for a jumper flight down to Punta Arenas. At this point we have not changed our plans, but we’ll be in contact with our airline up to the minute we leave. Thank you to those of you who didn’t know whether or not we were already in Chile and worried about us. There are many people to worry about, but we are not among them.

I’ll keep you posted as we get closer to our departure date.

My First 50 K!

2010-01-25T11:27:00.001-08:00

At four o’clock Saturday morning my alarm sounded and I hopped out of bed. Friday night I’d set the coffee maker to start brewing the moment I awoke so that by the time I stumbled down the stairs, my java would be waiting for me. This was the day I would run my first 50 Kilometer race (31 miles). It was called the Pigtails Run, and it was a low-cost ultra-marathon about two hours south of Bellingham being put on by one of the members of the Marathon Maniac’s club, Van Phan, in Renton, Washington. The route consisted of three 9.6-mile laps around Lake Youngs and then a 2.2-mile out-and-back stretch after the third loop to get us to an even 50 kilometers.

I was nervous. Twenty-four days earlier, I had run Mary’s Last Chance Marathon on New Year’s Eve and then lazily tapered over the past few weeks. I’m in the process of trying to qualify for the Marathon Maniacs, so I have to get three marathons completed within 90 days. I was looking for local options that wouldn’t require much travel time. Bill discovered the Pigtails Run online and suggested I use it as my second race. This made sense to me because of its low cost and close proximity to home, but it terrified me to think of running five miles beyond the marathon distance. I’d tossed the idea around for more than two weeks before deciding to give it a try and registering for the race.

Bill drove me down to Maple Valley Saturday morning. I got out of the car and felt the rain pelting my head and shoulders. I was disheartened because I would have to start the race already wet and cold, but there was nothing that could be done. I’d have to suck it up and try to keep a good attitude. At 7:30, Van said, “Go,” and off we went. I’d read that there were about 80 people registered for the 50K. Many other runners came out for just one or two loops. Bill hung around the starting line while I made my first loop around Lake Youngs. When I came through that first time, he asked me, “Are you going to keep going?” It hadn’t occurred to me (yet) to bail out of my commitment and cut the race short because of the weather, but apparently he’d been standing under the tent with the volunteers watching runners do just that. I just shook my head, took a handful of potato chips and a licorice rope from the aid station and turned to head back out for my second loop.

On the second loop, the rain continued. I’ve heard that in Northern languages there are dozens of words for “snow.” As I puttered around on this second loop, I enumerated in my mind the different words we had for water coming down from the sky in the Northwest. There is “mist,” “drizzle,” “sprinkle,” “showers,” “downpour,” and my favorite (because it sounds so scientific, but is really a catch-all for the meteorologist to predict what we already know is inevitable), “precipitation.” This day, the precipitation came in the form of light but steady run-of-the-mill raindrops.

The already damp trail became muddier with every passing hour. For long stretches there was no way around the muck. We runners had to plod through it, and my shoes became soaked. The back of my running tights were splattered with brown mud, too. Everyone who passed me wore the same streaks. Near the end of the second loop, I saw Bill coming toward me. He had agreed to support me by running the full third loop with me. By the time we met, I’d been running for nearly four hours. He took one look at me and insisted that when we got back to the aid station, I should change my socks and shoes and put on a dry set. He was sure I would be getting blisters with all the water and dirt saturating through. After four hours on my feet, however, my back and legs were getting tender and when the time came, Bill had to unlace my shoes and take them off for me.

A little short of three miles into the third loop I looked at my Garmin and saw that I’d traveled 22 miles. Usually, in a marathon, I’m sore and ready to be done at 22 miles in. That’s exactly how I felt now, but I still had nine miles remaining. Suddenly, a knot formed in my throat and I felt tears come into my eyes. A sob escaped me and I had to stop running and gingerly bend my head over between my knees (no easy feat) to avoid panic. Bill turned to look at me. “What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?” he asked.

I hadn’t hurt myself, but I did feel completely overwhelmed. “I don’t think I can go another nine miles,” I said. “I can’t do it. I can’t.” But I just needed to say it out loud and give myself a moment to adjust to the reality that I would be out on the trail for at least another two and a half hours. My body hurt, but I know a little something about running by now: If you put one foot in front of the other, you move closer to the finish line. I did want to turn back and quit, but even that would require almost three miles of running, so there was no easy way out of what I’d gotten myself into. I breathed for a couple of minutes and tried to collect my wits. Then I got up and shuffled on.

By now, my pace had slowed to 14-plus minutes per mile. As I jogged, Bill did a brisk speed-walk beside me, which felt demoralizing. I asked him to run ahead because it was too psychologically painful to watch him walk while I was struggling so hard. He took up a routine of running ahead and then waiting for me and cheering wildly when I came by, which helped. I felt encouraged by his applause and relieved of the feeling that I was holding him back from getting a decent run in.

Near the end of the third loop I told Bill, “I want to do the last 2.2 miles by myself.” The truth was that I wanted to walk the whole distance, and I didn’t want Bill to know or to try to encourage me to keep running. I thought I might blow up at anyone who encouraged me to go any faster than I felt I could pull off at this point. He begrudgingly agreed to let me finish on my own. As I refilled my water bottle and started back out onto the muddy trail for the last stretch, I saw three women coming toward the aid station. One looked bedraggled and exhausted as I did, but the other two, who ran together, looked happy and fresh. I only knew that they’d gone the whole distance because of the mud that streamed up and down their legs. I waved at all of them, grateful not to be the very last soul on the course and then continued toward our turn-around point. I mostly walked, jogging only on the flattest section of the trail. Eventually the other three women and I were clustered together as we hiked the final hill and rounded the last corner within sight of our finish line. All together, we whooped and cheered when we saw Van waiting for us with her clipboard to write down our times. Done. Seven hours and 17 minutes.

I don’t know if I’ll ever try another 50 K race. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done and I cannot imagine repeating it. Bill reminds me that I said the same thing after my first marathon. He predicts I’ll be running a 50-mile race before the year is out. I say he’s crazy. We’ll see who’s right.

Reflections from 2009

2009-12-26T09:20:00.000-08:00

It’s December already. I’m in Arizona for the holiday and enjoying the relative warmth. I love the feeling I have when I can see the sky. I feel the world is large and open rather than tiny and gray the way it feels at home during winter in the Northwest.

This last Sunday, Bill and I ran the Desert Classic 30K for the second consecutive year. We were both recovering from colds that made us stuffy and wheezy, but it was glorious to be in the dry desert, running beside the White Tank Mountains. I had three hours and thirty-five minutes out there to think and breathe. I used my time to reflect on this last year of running and traveling.

We started the year off in Japan with a marathon in Tateyama, followed it quickly with a trip to South Africa and then another to Brazil in June. On top of our inter-continental races, we ran a marathon in Kelowna, British Columbia in October. In between the marathons, we crammed in a number of other races of various lengths and planned, re-planned and planned again for our 2010 pilgrimage to the bottom of the planet. It’s no wonder I am a little tired, a little poorer than at the beginning of the year and a little worldly-wiser than when I started last January.

The journey to complete a race on every continent is almost over. I’ve got one more this coming year and then I get to put on the ring I bought to celebrate my victory. You’ve all followed me from the beginning through the sleepless nights, the bowel problems, the bleeding, the arguments with my beloved and the long, long hours moving toward each finish line. Thank you for coming along so far. And thank you in advance for sticking with me through 2010, as well. I’ve learned so much it would be impossible to summarize the lessons, but I feel inclined to jot a few of them down as I reflect on this past incredible year. They may sound simple, but they've meant a lot to me. Here they are.

1. Always run at your own pace. No one else’s pace will allow you to breathe properly, follow a thought all the way to its conclusion or get into a proper day-dreaming mode. Every time Bill and I violate this principle and try to race together, we both feel agitated and out of sync with ourselves and each other.

2. Believe in yourself when you stand at the starting line. It’s a long way to the finish line, so a good dose of faith gets you started on the right foot. There’s no point in negative self-talk or pessimism. If you have to spend more than five hours with yourself in a messy physical state, you may as well try to be good company.

3. Forgive quickly and often. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from traveling internationally with my partner, it’s that almost nothing goes as planned – and this can produce a lot of anxiety. When people are anxious, they are not their best selves. These moments should not be allowed to define a relationship. When the person I love best acts like he would sooner shove me off the train than reach our destination together, it’s best to forgive the moment he apologizes rather than hold a grudge. I may need the same courtesy in ten minutes or less.

4. Embrace every moment in life wholeheartedly. In Brazil, a young runner from Mexico befriended me and waited for more than an hour after crossing the finish line to see me come through. I’ve learned to fall in love with people quickly and to let them go with an open heart. Every encounter, every intersection is sacred and precious and deserves my investment, even if it lasts a very short time.

5. And finally, keep putting one foot in front of the other. I know people who run the marathon in a little over two hours, but I’m on the course much longer than they are. I’ve learned that the finish will come, if you keep moving slowly forward. This applies to everything in life. Don’t quit on that argument you’re in the middle of or the paper you have to write. There’s a finish line somewhere out there. Of course, there’s always another starting line, too. Life doesn’t give us much rest, but it comes in cycles so we get a little breather now and again.

I hope you’ve had a wonderful year full of insight, sacred intersections and moments of celebration at the end of your races. Happy New Year and here’s to the races yet to come!

Antarctica Update

2009-12-05T15:15:00.000-08:00

Well, I’m getting personal messages from friends and readers asking what’s going on with regard to our trip to Antarctica. I’ve been a little out of blogging commission for a couple of months. It isn’t that I don’t have plenty to say. If you know me, you know that’s true. It’s just that there’s almost too much happening; it’s hard to pick what to write about. I’ve felt bogged down and blocked to tell the truth. A few days ago, because the weather was cruddy, I ran about five miles on the treadmill in my garage and watched an episode of Six Feet Under from Season Two as I ran. There’s nothing like running in a dark, cluttered room reflecting on the topic of death to give you an appreciation for life and encourage you to crawl out from under you metaphorical rock. So here I am.

You may have noticed that I took my posting about Antarctica off of the site. Here’s a very short version of what happened.

We had our trip to King George Island planned out almost to the minute and were getting ready to send our deposit in to the tour company we were working with when we got an email from them explaining our plans had to be put on hold. Apparently, someone had alerted the U.S. Department of State that we were organizing a marathon on Antarctica and (because most of Antarctica is a protected area) the State Department was concerned about this. They, in turn, contacted our tour company and started asking questions about our plans.

In a manner of speaking we were, certainly, organizing a “run” back and forth on a footpath, and the distance we hoped to travel was the marathon distance, but we were only organizing this for a total of five people (enough to charter the flight and to justify the use of a qualified guide on the island). All the tourists that travel with the company walk on the path we had been given permission to run on; we had no plans to divert from the usual routes traveled on the island.

Over the course of the past few weeks, we’ve continued to get messages from our tour company and from a representative of the State Department (who has been quite helpful, actually). As it turns out, it isn’t really any governmental agency that wanted to stop us, though it was because of the questions the State Department asked that got the ball rolling. It was actually the airline that contracts with our tour company who decided they didn’t want to jump through additional hoops to get us permission to run.

If you think all of this is confusing, join my club.

“So what is happening now?” you ask. What’s happening now is that I’m flying to King George Island as planned in March, but I’m not organizing anything. Bill will come with me as far as Punta Arenas, Chile and he’ll hang out there for a couple of days while I fly into the Antarctic Circle and experience King George Island. I will be accompanied by two wonderful women with whom I’ve been in communication over the past few months through the original planning process.

As we get closer to our trip, I’ll give you more details. We still plan on a 42K run/race in Punta Arenas and we look forward to seeing King George Island. Stay tuned for more.

Rio de Janeiro Marathon Race Report

2009-07-10T10:45:00.000-07:00

GETTING THERE
In order to get from Ribeirao Preto, where we'd been staying with Bill's Brazilian family, to Rio de Janeiro for the race, we took a “sleeping bus” on Tuesday night. The ride was twelve hours. Unfortunately, Bill and I could not both get sleeping berths. At my insistence, Bill took the bed and I took the upright seat on the upper deck.

Why I would make such a magnanimous sacrifice? I can assure you it was completely selfish. If I don’t sleep well on any given night, I’m tired the next day, maybe a little labored in my physical movements and certainly prone to cry more easily than usual. But if Bill does not sleep, his face goes dark and the world becomes his victimizer. He changes from the reasonable man I adore into a threatened rattle snake snapping at every real or imagined enemy (I write this description with his full approval, by the way, and his admission that he deserves it).

It is in my best interest to help Bill get the sleep he needs. I am, one might even say, co-dependent on Bill’s sleep. That is why, after saying goodbye to Ana Rosa, Carlos, Mai, Jussara, Luiz and finally, Dimas, Bill snuggled into his cushioned pull-out easy chair with the fluffy blanket and pillow provided by the bus company in an enclosed heated room while I shifted stiffly in a vinyl chair up above, freezing and watching the hours tick by.

As expected, it was a tough night for me (but still better than the alternative). As soon as we reunited the next day, I was sure to let Bill know that my misery trumped his. Never was I so glad to arrive somewhere as I was to get to the bus station in Rio. A stationary restroom and a cup of thick Brazilian coffee went a long way toward refreshing me before we found our way to the hostel we’d reserved (Botofogo Easy Hostel).

We rested up for an hour or so, but not being ones to let the soles of our shoes grow cold, we soon got down to business exploring the city. From the chaotic avenue that ran perpendicular to the side-street our hostel was on we could see the Christ the Redeemer statue situated atop Corcovado Mountain in one direction and Sugar Loaf in the other. We were in the most beautiful city on earth!

Our most important task, of course, was to find our way to the race expo and pick up our packets. Tired as we were, we located Rio’s convention center, a large, bland cement building that took up two city blocks. We entered it and were greeted by a fitness fair where every kind of exercise equipment imaginable was being displayed and demonstrated to race participants as they wandered around looking for Registration. It took us nearly twenty minutes to discover that all foreign participants had a special registration area where young, energetic volunteers in bright orange jerseys were getting the chance to practice their various language skills. A cheerful young woman greeted Bill and me and walked us through the packet pick-up process with rapid and perfect English.

I’d almost forgotten why we were in Brazil by this point. For a week and a half, we’d been living with Bill’s Brazilian family in comfort, touring and visiting and eating and totally ignoring the other purpose of our trip. But the race expo was evidence that an event with more than 5000 participants was about to take place in this city. Our numbers, chips and race shirts were my personal evidence that in a few days, I’d have to run 42 K. I hoped I could do it. While I was in better health than before my last race in South Africa, Bill and I were both coming into this marathon somewhat compromised.

Let me lay out a few of the conditions under which we would stand at the starting line of our sixth continental Marathon on Sunday:
1. We’d been eating dinner at 11pm all week with Bill’s wonderful Brazilian family. Each day lunch had been served at about 5:00, appetizers at 9:00 and dinner after that. Bill and I had done our best to keep up with our hosts in these late-night extravaganzas.
2. We were both incredibly constipated due to this total disruption of our digestive routines.
3. We’d been drinking plenty of good Argentinean and Chilean wines every night.
4. We had walked at least 100 miles in our explorations of Sao Paulo, Ribeirao Preto, and Rio de Janeiro.
5. I had several mosquito bites around my ankles, and Bill had a deep gash in his left shin that he’d gotten by banging it against a bed frame at one of the places we’d stayed.
6. The young people staying at the hostel, while delightful and interesting, kept us awake with their talking in the common area until at least 4am each morning (and in case they’re reading this: We love you anyhow).

We’d do our best, but we had concerns.

During the next days before the race, we met and developed a special relationship with two guys who were staying at our hostel: Kevin from California and Omar from Mexico. Kevin was finishing the very quest Bill and I were on; he was in Rio to complete his seventh marathon on his seventh continent. We understood the time and expense and passion he had put into his dream and we both felt proud to have the opportunity to be part of his completion and celebration. He’d made the trek to Brazil alone, but we wanted to be sure he’d get properly toasted after crossing this finish line. Omar’s participation in this race was just as significant. He was in training for what would be his first marathon in Mexico City and had come to Brazil NOT to finish the Rio Marathon. His plan was to run 22 miles with the pack and then drop out, but when Kevin, Bill and I heard about his training regimen over the past months, we knew Omar could easily finish this race and encouraged him to think about going all the way.

Omar spent an entire day considering our exhortations and came back to the hostel the evening before the race with the announcement that he would run the full marathon on two conditions. One was that he would do it slowly (four hours, he said). The other was that we were all sworn to secrecy (sorry Omar!). He wanted his family to be able to celebrate the Mexico City Marathon with him as if it were his first.

Together we were “Team Rio!”

RACE DAY
Sunday morning came early. We’d barely fallen asleep at 4am as the hostel quieted down when our alarm sounded at 4:30. At 5:15, Team Rio jammed itself into a taxi and made its way from our little purple hostel to the finish line at the Flamengo Beach. We couldn’t see the ocean water in the dark. We couldn’t even hear the waves of the tide over the engines of the busses that waited to take us to the starting line 26.2 miles away in the town of Recreio, but we knew they were there.

This was a point-to-point Marathon, my favorite kind because it makes you feel like you’ve gone somewhere. You don’t end up where you started, though of course in this case we would because we boarded the bus at the finish and rode to the start. Easy come... easy go. I guess.

At the park near the starting line in Recreio, we watched the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean. As we stretched and munched on granola bars, local fishermen pushed their boats over the surf and people in wetsuits with large colorfully illustrated boards swam into the sea to try and catch a wave to ride in.

My three men and I snapped pictures of the sky and rocky coastline as the colors shifted over the water from blue-grey to green to red and orange and finally back to a deeper blue. There were clouds, but not many, and there was a perfect, gentle, warm breeze coming from the South. Winter in Brazil didn’t hurt my feelings; that’s for sure.

I waited for fifteen minutes to use the toilet, but the line was moving slowly. I finally gave up when I heard the call to get ready for the start. I had to hope to find a portable toilet on the course at some point early in the race (I didn’t). We crowded into the starting chute. No one seemed to be seeding him or herself by pace, so Omar, Kevin, Bill and I all stood together as we waited for the horn. Once it sounded at 8:30, I bid goodbye to the fellas as they ran ahead and concentrated on finding my pace.

My body felt heavy (I supposed it was heavier than when I’d left home two weeks earlier), but I had good energy and I was excited to be running on continent number six!! Who in my life would have ever imagined this for me? I set my stopwatch so I could measure my progress, but even at the first three kilometer marker I could see my pace was sluggish. This Marathon was not going to be about a personal record for me. That was fine. I wasn’t feeling like competing, anyway, even with myself. I gazed out to the East where the sun was low in the sky. This race had plenty to offer besides a fast course. For this runner, it would be entirely about the views I’d take in over the next several hours.

How many ways are there to describe the Ocean? Cobalt. Foamy. Wild. Speckled in light. Violent. Lonely. Container of life. Overwhelming. Demanding. Emerald. Serene. Secure. Full. Spilling over. Salty. Grey. Angry. Complicated. Filling the hole in the heart of the world. Vast.

The ocean seemed to encompass me as I ran next to it. Sometimes in front of me, sometimes behind, always to my right, it wrapped itself around the coast of Brazil and around my attention as I puttered away. Only to the left, to the West, could I not see water. That’s because it wasn’t my ocean, not the Pacific Ocean that seeps through the Strait of Juan de Fuca into the Bay that I can see from my front yard. This was another ocean that I didn’t know very well, one that lived on the other side of my country and alongside this country where I was a stranger in awe of how big the world is and how little I’d seen of it even though I’d put my feet on the soil of six continents.

The course was flat as it wound its way beside the coastline. I watched almost the way one watches a film as the terrain at the water’s edge became rocks and cliffs, then sand and palm trees. Beach after beach trolled by at my slow pace. From Recreio to the Barra da Tijuca shoreline, the Quebra-Mar, Sao Conrado, and Leblon beaches, the sun shone on the rose, blond and peach-colored sand. Every few blocks during the early and later stretches of the course, refreshment stands sold fresh coconut milk and cold beers. As the hours progressed, each beach I passed grew more populated with patrons than the last.

My legs were strong if elephantine in their performance. I’ve run enough races by now, though, to know that all I needed to do was pick them up and move them forward. I didn’t worry that I wasn’t “feeling” as light as I sometimes feel. I only needed to enjoy the journey at whatever pace my legs would carry me.

The day warmed. I saw a sign at a bank claiming it was 23 degrees (75 degrees Fahrenheit) at about mile nineteen. As the heat rose, so did the humidity. Sweat dribbled down my face from under my hat. My inner thighs chafed (once again, I forgot to "Vaseline" a very key area). And the roof of my mouth became sore. I speculate the latter was from the smog. Brazil is totally self-sufficient in its energy sources and one of these sources is ethanol alcohol made from sugar cane. The millions of cars on Rio’s roads run on a combination of ethanol and regular gasoline. My hunch is that the way ethanol burns creates a kind of pollution I’m not adapted to and it irritated me. But it’s just a theory (anyone know the facts?). Shortly after I noted the temperature, I got my first glimpse of Sugar Loaf. Sugar Loaf, or Pao d’Acucar, as they say in Portuguese, watches over the Rio coastline from the top of its 1,299 feet of granite and quartz. It beamed in the sunlight, smiled at me and reassured me that the end was not so far away. Next I was running along Ipanema.

The roads were closed to vehicle traffic for the weekend and this beach, even in the winter, was a Mecca for ill-fitting thong bikinis and circles of young people keeping soccer balls in the air. I continued to follow the orange cones that indicated the course, grateful for the aid stations faithfully placed every three or four kilometers along the route. My bladder was beginning to complain, but I couldn’t see an easy way to relieve it, so I ignored the feeling of fullness for the moment.

By this time I could also feel the predictable ache in my legs and back and shoulders, but I still felt stalwart, solid in my ability to finish with the joy in my heart I’d started with. There would be no crying here in Rio as there had been in South Africa, but nonetheless, my pain was intensifying as I approached Copacabana Beach. I could have used some encouragement. I don’t know if the onlookers along the pedestrian trail that paralleled the beach had more enthusiasm for runners at the front of the pack, but at more than four hours into the race, I was left to myself. Sun-bathers on the beach and families out for their Sunday walk were totally indifferent to me and the other stragglers at the tail of the pack. Just about when I was nearly dying to hear someone shout some words of support, a female American voice come from somewhere saying, “Come on! Not far to go! Good job!” I tried to find the woman with the voice, but never spotted her.

Once or twice more, someone applauded as I passed them, but for the most part, it seemed the folks in Rio were fairly unimpressed by my pain and my efforts.

Finally, I reached Flamengo Beach, where I had caught the bus about eight hours earlier. There was the finish line, a speck in the distance. A large park at the edge of the beach had been commandeered as a recovery center and was peppered with temporary tents and port-o-potties (thank heavens!). Here, fans and runners lined the fence and cheered as I approached. Relieved to be among supporters, I looked for Bill’s face in the crowd and couldn’t see him, but I was a half kilometer from the actual finish line yet. As I drew closer to the finish banner and still couldn’t find him, I wondered what to do. I’d never come over a marathon finish line without him there to greet me, and for a moment I thought maybe I should pull over and let other runners pass until I could spot him. But then I heard him calling my name and followed the sound until I could make him out amidst the mass of faces.

Bill was balancing on a stone fence post to elevate himself above the crowd and, as usual, he had his camera in hand. I waved and felt a sharp pain in my shoulder and neck with the movement. I’d been on the course for five hours, thirty minutes and twenty-three seconds. All the muscles in my body were stiff and spent.

I crossed the line and heard the beep of the chip register under my feet as I slowed to a walk. Closing my eyes I gave a silent thanks to my body for doing what I’d asked it to do even though I hadn’t been very kind to it on this trip. Unfortunately, closing my eyes caused me to lose my balance for a moment. I snapped my eyes open to find my equilibrium and as I did I saw Omar standing directly in front of me.

A Mexican Flag was tied around his neck and flowed down his back. His arms were open wide to take me in and bring me back into balance. “Great job!” he said. Omar had finished his very first marathon in 3:46 and then had waited for nearly two hours for me to cross the line. I was touched.

Volunteers were standing on the sidelines with bundles of medals. To get mine, all I had to do was get my chip from my shoe and trade it in. I bent to reach down toward my feet but my body revolted with surges of searing pain in my lower back. Omar shook his head at me and lifted my shoulders to return me to an upright position. Then he, tired and sore as he must have been after his first marathon, knelt and unlaced my shoe, removed my timing ship and retied my shoe before walking me to the edge of the crowd where I traded the chip in for my medal.

Bill came around front of the ruckus to meet us and once I was finally out of the finish area, Omar handed me off to Bill and headed back to the hostel to get a shower and get ready for our celebration later that night. Kevin was already there with a friend who had flown in from the States at the last minute to support him. We would follow them just as soon as I had relieved my bladder (there were no lines at the toilets now), stretched and recovered enough to move again.

Sitting on the grass in an enclosed area, I straightened out each of my legs and leaned into the best stretch I could manage, and I reflected. Had I really just completed not only my sixth continent but my third continent in this very year? I’d never even done more than two marathons in a single year before 2009.

“We’re crazy!” I said to Bill.

“No kidding,” he agreed.

Bill had finished his race in 4:12, not one of his better performances. As we hobbled back to the hostel he told me he felt the humidity and the effects of our eating and walking over the past weeks, too. I must say he looked pretty ragged and worn.

CELEBRATION
But there is no rest for the weary in our world! After showering and imbibing with a beer or two, we settled in front of the television with other hostel guests to watch the final championship game of the Confederation Cup football (soccer) tournament that was happening in South Africa. The USA and Brazil were competing against one another. The USA, Mexico, Brazil and Holland were represented in the living room with us. We chose sides and shouted our way through the game.

For our part, Bill and I cheered for the American team, but we both secretly hoped that Brazil would win because we had plans that evening that could be affected if Brazil lost. We were planning on attending a football match at Maracana Stadium between two of Rio’s most popular teams. Maracana is one of the world’s largest football venues. It holds 85,000 fans. And the Brazilians can be very testy if their teams don’t win. We didn’t want Brazil to have reason to be angry with us before we got the chance to experience a football match at the famous stadium.

Fortunately, Brazil was happy that night and we got our sore butts off the sofa and made our way on the subway to Maracana with a small group from the hostel.

After the football match we finally celebrated with a buffet dinner at a Brazilian barbeque restaurant! I’m told the meat was very tasty (I stuck with salad and bread). Most importantly, we toasted each other. We toasted Kevin for finishing SEVEN!!! We toasted Omar for number ONE!!! And we toasted ourselves for SIX AND COUNTING!!! Whew.

Our First Week In Brazil

2009-06-22T07:33:00.000-07:00

We've been in Brazil one week. As soon as we arrived at the Seatac airport my worries about Antarctica receded. I settled into the immediate bustle of ticketing and security checks and last-minute calls to say goodbye before turning off my cell phone for two weeks.

The flights (from Seattle to Atlanta and then Atlanta to Sao Paulo) were smooth, except that I was upgraded to Business Class for our first leg and Bill was abandoned to the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed back in coach. I smuggled him a warm sandwich and a bag of chips but, alas, there was nothing I could do to get him my bottomless glass of chardonay.

In Sao Paulo we were met by Bill's friend, Dimas and Dimas' son, Lucas. Back in 1967Bill had come to Brazil as an exchange student and lived with Dimas' family for six months. I watched as Dimas walked gingerly up to Bill and studied his face before uttering a very tentative, "Bill?"

Bill returned Dimas' gaze, blank for a moment and then I saw recognition dawn on both men's faces.

"Dimas!" Bill acknowledged and there were hugs and kisses and introductions all around.

We stayed our first several days with Lucas in an apartment on the sixth floor of a building in the heart of Sao Paulo. Lucas oriented us and gave us a good deal of his time, showing us a few of the city's best views and explaining televised "futebol" matches to us.

Once Bill and I had our bearings, we ventured out on our own and visited museums, parks and monuments until we were ready to collapse. We figure we clocked in with about forty miles of walking and exploring last week.

Bill and I agree that our favorite stop in Sao Paulo was at a temporary exhibition in the MASP (the Art Museum of Sao Paulo) by a Brazilian artist named Vik Muniz. "Vik" lived in the United States for many years but traveled extensively, creating his images in and from unusual artistic media. His portaits of several people who made their home at one of the world's largest garbage dumps, for example, were formed in the white space beneath thousands of objects retrieved from the trash heaps. Vik then took photographs of his works and blew them up to a huge scale. They stood anywhere from six to twenty feet in height. Look him up.

After Sao Paulo, we took a five-hour bus ride to Ribeirao Preto. This is the place Bill called home for six months after his junior year of high school. He had been back only one other time in 1973 for about six weeks. The city, then a town of 100,000 people, is now populated by 500,000 and is much changed from Bill's memory of it.

Dimas again collected us, this time from the bus station, and took us to the home he shares with his wife, Ana Rosa, in a downtown condominium. We've been here a few days now.

How can I describe the homecoming of a prodigal son? I've sat back and watched the kissing and hugging and questioning and the muddling through of two languages to give the answers. We've spent countless hours over food and drink and conversation with this lovely, large family. And Bill has said to me he feels that something in his life has finally come full circle.

I've been the observer, the silent capturer of images these past few days. I see the body language of a big, loving family and the volley of words passing between them. Occasionally I hear a phrase or a syllable that resembles French or English and I guess at the topic of conversation. Sometimes someone translates the gist for me. And then there are long stretches when everyone switches to English, however inconfident they may be with the language, purely for my benefit. I'm embarrassed by but grateful for this gift when it happens. The rest of the time I am understandiong what is happening through my intuition and my understanding of family systems.

Everyone should do this, by the way - sit a few hours with people who do not speak your language. It's a wonderful way to hone other kinds of knowing besides just that which comes from words.

Speaking of words, one of my quests in the last few days has been to find a book in English. I only brought one novel along with me and I've finished it. In a couple of days we'll make our way to Rio de Janeiro on a bus ride that will take about twelve hours. I can't see doing that without at least one book.

Dimas took us to the mall here in Ribeirao and I found a paperback copy of The Kite Runner in English. I took it to the cash register. They rang it up and told us it would be 78 Reais. That's 39 dollars to you and me, folks! I looked over at Bill. He was pulling out the money and counting out the bills, unthinking. I knew once he realized the actual price, his placid expression would be replaced with (how shall I say this delicately?) rage, horror, shock.

"That's 39 bucks, Bill. Forget it," I said. Then I turned to Dimas. "It's 78 Reais. Isn't that a lot?" I asked.

"Too much. Let's go," Dimas decided and we walked out.

I've never paid 39 dollars for a paperback book, and I'm not desperate enough to do it now (plus my marital bliss is far more valuable to me than that particular book), but I'm still in need of reading material for the bus. So last night I put the problem to the whole extended family.

"We found an English book at the mall, but it was too much money. Can I get one cheaper?" I asked. There was a flurry of conversation in Portuguese. The internet was consulted. Another flurry. There were questions I had to address. Did I like romances? (Not so much.) How about mysteries? (A little better, but not a lot.)

It was finally discovered that there is a used bookstore in town with thousands of books in English. And in the meantime, Dimas would search his shelves for something that would tide me over until we could get there. After much rummaging, there was one book in English in Dimas' and Ana Rosa's house, a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach, left in Brazil some thirty-six years ago by one William P., my own dear Bill. Talk about coming full circle!

So, today we're having lunch at the family's sports club, visiting a used book store and generally enjoying this beautiful town. There's more to tell about (like Ana Rosa's concert with the symphony, our visit to an old sugar plant and Brazil's conversion to ethanol alcohol in lieu of gasoline for their cars), but it will have to wait.

The marathon is on Sunday the 28th in Rio. I'll post a race report when I'm home (and perhaps a book report on J. L. Seagull).

Love to all.

Training for Brazil: Trial #2

2009-06-12T17:53:00.000-07:00

As I write, I’m in a little cabin in Tennessee outside of Knoxville. I came here to visit my friend, Wendy, and to get some writing done. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, and I’ve had trouble finding time to settle down and get my writing completed. This has been a whirlwind of a year.
Soon (tomorrow actually – it took me a while to get this posted), Bill and I leave for Brazil. We are about to run a marathon on our SIXTH continent! I can scarcely believe it. This has been a lot of work and a lot of fun.

As I took a run along a rolling road beside farm houses and log cabins, catching the scent of honeysuckle in the air and watching for snapping turtles on the ground, I let my thoughts fly free in a stream of consciousness.

It went something like this:
Ooh this is a bigger hill than it looked last night when we drove this course…. I hope I don’t get tick and end up with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever…. I wonder how the dogs and Bill are doing back home…. I hope I’m ready for this race in Rio…. I hope my Aunt S is OK…. What if I can’t get on that boat for Antarctica next spring????

And there I stopped (thinking, not running). I needed to focus on the scenery around me and breathe deeply into the moment or I was going to move into “panic mode” and my run would be derailed.

Just before I left for Tennessee, a couple of things happened. First, my dear Aunt S went into the hospital and was in ICU for more than a week with a tube down her throat. I went to see her once she was awake and stayed in touch with my cousin by phone on a daily basis, but I was terribly worried about her, and about my grandmother, for whom my Aunt and cousin do most of the care-giving. My family is aging, as are we all, and I worry if everyone will get what they need when they need it to keep their lives comfortable in the process.

Just as my Aunt S was stabilizing (she’s home now, by the way, and on the mend) and my anxiety was abating, I got an email from Marathon Tours, the company that runs the Antarctica Marathon saying I wouldn’t be on the 2010 trip. Maybe, they said, I’d be on the 2011 boat to Antarctica. This crushed me. As you know, I have a book contract to write about the effects of this 7 continent journey on my life and all my chapters, including the one on Antarctica, are due next year! Bill and I have spent a lot of money and time and effort to make this whole seven-marathons dream happen. And I’d been told earlier this year that as people were dropping out of the 2010 trip because of the economical decline, I would most certainly be moved from the waiting list to the real list by May. But when no one called me to confirm this, I finally got in contact with the company and found out I’d been jilted (apparently they had to cut back to one boat and cannot guarantee my participation even in 2011). Now what?

Actually, I have some hope. Bill and are getting creative. If we can’t elbow our way onto that boat in 2010, how will we find our way to Antarctica?

Ah, once I get to the idea phase of “panic mode,” I know I’m out of the worry woods. Back on track with a strain of thought I could follow constructively, I kept running and started brainstorming. What if we charter a private boat and just show up for the race? What if we take a helicopter to one of the islands and run 26.2 miles as charted by our Garmin? What if we plug in a treadmill at one of the research stations on the continent and run until we’ve completed the marathon distance?

Now my thoughts were coming fast and, just as I was getting to some pretty absurd schemes, I found myself back at where Wendy and I had agreed to meet and I put my ideas on pause.
So now I’m writing my readers just to say, I’m off to Brazil on June 13th (tomorrow), but I’m in search of creative input from anyone who has a thought about running a marathon (official or unofficial – it doesn’t matter to me) on Antarctica.

If you have any ideas of how to get to Antarctica (contacts for cruise ships, info about which islands have runnable terrain, the address of a friendly penguin), send them my way! I’ll do anything it takes to get us there (safely) and back in time to write my last chapter and turn my book in.

I’ll try to post while I’m in South America, but I’ll most certainly post a race report once I’m back.

See you in early July.

Training for Brazil: Advice for me? #1

2009-06-12T17:37:00.000-07:00

So, I started “developing” when I was ten years old, but it took me twenty years to get comfortable with my breasts.

My breasts grew more quickly than I was ready for and by junior high, I was big enough for the boys in PE class to shout, “Watch out Cami, you’ll give yourself a black eye!” when I ran around the track. This contributed to my giving up running until sports bras were invented/discovered/marketed widely.

I remember my first sports bra! It hooked in the back like a regular bra, but it pulled the girls in tight enough that they didn’t bounce anymore when I was in my aerobic dance class. I was elated! I loved the new stability in my life. And I wore this little ditty, or something similar to it, until I started running.

The first time I ever ran for more than one hour, my loyal friend, my tight, cozy, cotton bra – the one that had freed me to exercise with other people in the room and to overcome the trauma of Jr. High – failed me. I chafed.

I’ve talked about chafing before. It’s one of the most frustrating things about running for me. It happens when two things rub together, any two things. When your two thighs rub together (mine do) or when your shoe rubs against your ankle bone, you chafe. It’s not a blister, per se; it’s more like a rope burn. If the chafing happens over a long enough period of time, you bleed. Maybe you’ve been to the finish line of a marathon and seen men with blood on their shirts where their nipples would be. This is from chafing.

Sports bra chafing happens just under the breasts at the edge of the bra. For me, it’s like I’ve been sliced across my torso with a razor blade. I quickly learned early on in my long distance running experience that there were a few things that can prevent this. The first thing I had to address was the cotton. Synthetic material wicks away sweat better than cotton and is softer against the skin, so I switched to a bra made from polyester and lycra and tossed out all my cotton. Then I learned about Vaseline. Applied liberally on skin surfaces that may rub against something, Vaseline lubricates the area and eliminates friction. These tricks have saved me from the experience of coming h ome after a long run and wincing in the shower as the warm water washes the salty sweat down my body into my new raw wound.

So knowing what I know, why did I take a twelve mile run a few weeks ago without lubing this area? Why did I wear not one, but two tight sports bras and Vaseline all my usual spots except for my upper torso under the elastic? I can’t say. I forgot, I guess. In the midst of making sure I had my energy gel, my iPod, my water, my running belt, my phone and the new little digital voice recorder I just bought (so I can record inspiring thoughts as I run), I forgot to grease under my breasts.

Six miles into the run, I felt the chafing begin. I tried to tuck my shirt up under the bras to create some space between the thick seam and my skin, but it wouldn’t hold. I tried to run with my thumb under the elastic, but I couldn’t keep up that position. At mile ten, I could tell I was in trouble. An open sore had developed in a straight line front and center under my breasts. I had two miles left and the best I could do was grit my teeth, turn up my music and live with the pain.

When I got home and stripped out of my sweaty clothes, I saw the wound. It was a red splice across my skin measuring about four inches in length, raised and full of puss. As I expected, the warm water in the shower hurt like a mother and brought tears to my eyes. But the real problem was that I couldn’t wear anything (regular bra, shirt, robe) afterwards for about three days without pain. I’d really done a doosey on myself this time. It was the worst one I’d ever had. And I had to keep up my training, so I needed to put that damned sports bra on again, over my oozing sore, on Tuesday. It hadn’t even scabbed over yet.

The next week of running was a comedy of bandages. Tuesday I wore a large band aid with Vaseline underneath, which slipped off after a mile. Wednesday I tried a burn pad adhered with masking tape. Friday I used a blister pad.

None of these methods really held through the sweat, so I put the dilemma to Bill for his expert input. I suppose you can im agine my alarm when I walked in the house after a trip to the grocery store and saw Bill holding up a roll of duct tape! He claimed runners widely accept the use of duct tape to prevent blistering. I had a 15-mile run on the schedule for Sunday and I’d been worrying over my chafing wound all week. His proposal was that I lube up with Vaseline across the red mark, place a gelatin burn pad over the top of that and then run a strip of duct tape across my torso under my breasts where the elastic of my sports bra would sit.

I wasn’t thrilled with the image this created, but I was game if it would prevent further injury, and I foolishly trusted Bill. He sounded pretty sure of himself. So I tried it. The problem is, my breasts sag (I’m 42, people!). So the tape partly gaped on each side under each breast. My creative solution was to run another piece of duct tape between my breasts to create an upside down “T.”

Needless to say, this was a disaster. I launched out on my 15 miles and about half way through, the duct tape started irritating me. I could feel new chafing happening where the vertical strand of tape was between my breasts. In stages, I disassembled the bandage. First I took off the center piece of tape and inspected two new little red marks right on either side of the upper part of my cleavage. Next I took off the horizontal piece and shoved the burn pad between my breasts to soften the new rubbing there. Finally, I pulled that out when I could feel the gel disintegrating because of my sweat. Now I was back to just me and my sports bra with no buffer between us. I’d have to take whatever consequences would come.

There’s both a moral and a question here. The moral is that lubing the areas that chafe is crucial, and if you forget, you’re better off going home and starting over for all the energy it’s going to take you in the next week or two to manage the pain. The question is, does anyone have a solution as to what to do once you have chafed? Is there a product I’m unaware of? A method for protecting the wound while you keep running? Or do you just gut it through as I did?

Race Report: Weskus Marathon, South Africa

2009-03-26T08:58:00.000-07:00

To tell the truth, preparing a race report about the West Coast (Weskus) Marathon in Langebaan, South Africa has been a difficult task. This most recent journey brought up so many rich and confusing personal and political questions for me, which at first glance have nothing to do with running, that it has been a challenge to focus on describing the race itself whenever I sit down to write.

It’s inadequate to say that South Africa is a country which invites a visitor into a profound, maybe even life-changing dissonance. There’s so much one doesn’t easily understand. At once the country is beautiful and welcoming and wealthy, while a few blocks away it is unspeakably poor and people are deprived of basic necessities. And these divisions, for the most part, are starkly made down the center between the races, with dark skinned people working hard to manage at the bottom of Maslow’s hierarchy as light skinned people, give or take a few exceptions, fiddle around at the top. One hardly knows what to do with the blatant contrast and the unfairness of it all. I spent most of my two weeks traveling with a dull headache and a pain in my heart as I grappled with what I was seeing and what it might mean.

But the harsh racial division is one reason why it is, in fact, important for me to write about the marathon in Langebaan because on Saturday, March 14, as Bill and I boarded the bus to take us to the starting line, we saw for the first time on our trip a rainbow of faces all together – all in one place – present for the same reason. To run. The race event was the only place we saw this kind of integration during our two weeks in South Africa. I’m not saying it doesn’t exist, just that we didn’t see it, except there. On this morning, we could be sure no one on that bus would be served or serving anyone else. Every runner had the same status. Every runner had an equal right to be there and would be running his or her own best personal race. I know both Bill and I let out a breath of relief to know that at least the marathon did not respect anyone’s color or gender or political orientation over anyone else’s; if you showed up for it, it would treat you according to your ability to contend with it – nothing else mattered. (Although as soon as I say this, the dissonance is there, since one’s ability to run a marathon does, indeed, depend on whether or not you can pay the entry fee and whether or not you can afford shoes and good food and to keep your body healthy. You see the muddle I’m in trying to say anything definitive, don’t you?)

My own story of this marathon feels trivial compared to the very real, very daily struggle to live with dignity that the majority of South Africans face, and for that reason, it feels self-indulgent to bother anyone with it. Let’s face it, as evidenced by the fact that I have the privilege to fly about the world and run marathons, I’m one of those fiddling at the top of Maslow’s Triangle. But my own story is really the only story I have to tell. So here goes. I’ll stick to the race for now, but I’ll keep thinking about the bigger questions I have after this trip and what to do with them.

Saturday morning, I stood at the starting line and worried. It had been a grueling few days before this race and I was afraid I wasn’t up to it. Six days ago, Bill and I had flown to Cape Town (23 hours in the air), spent a few days there and then “hired” a car to get us to the coastal town of Langebaan and to the West Coast National Park. It was here that I stood waiting for the go-ahead to begin the race. We’d taken a drive through the park to give us a sense of the race route two days earlier. I knew what to expect: rolling hills, ostriches and a dry, sandy terrain with low shrubs and sweeping views of the Atlantic Ocean and the Langebaan Lagoon. The land on which the West Coast National Park lies makes an inlet that forms the lagoon. Hold up the thumb and forefinger of your right hand like you’ve got a quarter between them and you can see the general shape of the inlet in the space there. The race would go from Tsaarsabank on the far West (your thumbnail) where you could see the Atlantic Ocean. There would be a short out and back half way (at the crease between your two digits) and you would end in the city of Langebaan (at the tip of your forefinger).

Two nights before the race, on Thursday, after driving the course, Bill and I located a guest house with a kitchenette and a full view of the lagoon. We’d taken a ride to the grocery store a little out of town and purchased the makings for a spaghetti dinner. I’d prepared it and we’d eaten our carbohydrates with some South African Chenin Blanc we’d bought at a winery we’d stopped at earlier in the day. Then we’d watched a little TV (which consisted of news in various South African languages and an old Bill Murray movie) and had gone to bed.

At three o’clock that morning, I woke up shivering. I had intense cramps in my abdomen and a sharp headache. The longer I lay there, the worse the cramps became. Finally, I had to run to the bathroom, knowing what to expect. I had a violent case of diarrhea. I figured I must have gotten food poisoning somehow. Bill would have it too. But when Bill awoke a little while later, he was fine. He offered me some medication for the fever, which I took. But I couldn’t get back to sleep. Until the sun rose, I vacillated between freezing and sweating and running to the toilet.

Friday, one day before the race, I didn’t feel any better. The fever was in check due to the medication, but the diarrhea kept coming. I drank water a small sip at a time all day to stay hydrated. We moved to the next guest house I had pre-arranged for us where I climbed into bed for the remainder of the day. I can’t even remember if I ate anything for dinner. I kept thinking, “I came to Africa to run a marathon and I’m going to do it.” Throughout the day on Friday, whenever Bill verbalized his worries about me, this is what I told him. And, as I lay in bed there, in the African heat (I’ll get to that later), watching Bill pace the room trying to figure out what to do for me, I knew it didn’t matter how sick I was in the morning. I would be at the starting line.

This brings me back (or forward?) to Saturday. When we woke up to get ready for the race, Bill asked me how I felt and I told him, “It doesn’t matter.” I got dressed, out the door, onto the bus and up to the starting line chanting that mantra. The morning was beautiful, and I tried to take in the unidentifiable (to me) scents of the flora all around us and to feel the southern air on my face between the periodic waves of pain in my abdomen. The temperature at that point was comfortable, approximately 70 degrees Fahrenheit. There was a comfortable breeze and excitement in the air. The sound of the ocean lapping onto the bank nearby was rhythmic and calming.

South Africans, much like the Japanese runners we had encountered earlier this year, run as clubs. There is a very strong club identity in each geographic area around the country, and from what we could see, the clubs were racially mixed. Each club member was required to have a “running license” to take part in organized events. It was explained to us that a person could only get a permanent license after participating in a certain number of events in order to show a serious commitment to running. You could identify members of the same club by the information on this permanent license, which was worn on the back of the shirt – the race number was on the front. Bill and I had been given temporary licenses for us to safety pin to our backs. As we stood at the line, waiting, these licenses tagged us as either foreigners or new runners. We noticed other runners glancing at us curiously and then looking away to be polite.

It was 7:00 a.m. and, with the adrenaline of 560 chattering and stretching marathoners all around me and the sun poking its nose above the horizon, I had a brief moment before we started the race when I felt almost strong. I gave myself a little pep talk, saying, “You ran under five hours in Japan! You’re in good shape. You can do anything for five hours. Just put one foot in front of the other.” Bill, who was still at my side, kissed me goodbye and moved further toward the front of the pack. Then the horn blew and we started running.

Let me make this part short and to the point. Let me do it because now, typing at my keyboard, I CAN make it short; I can do what I could not do that Saturday. I can hurry through the hard stuff. The sun rose above our heads, and (we heard later) it reached 38 degrees Celsius (about 100 degrees F). I continued to have cramps throughout the run until I had to find a bush to squat under and…. Well, you can fill in the blanks. Though the park foliage was magnificent, it was all low to the ground, a knee level eco-system with unique plants exclusive to South Africa. There wasn’t a single tree for miles; nor was there any shade – at all. The fast people at the front of pack were hot and sweaty just like those of us at the tail end, so they drank all the water before we got to the aid stations (plus, there were apparently more registrants than the organizers had expected). So for the first 18 kilometers we were offered only Coke to replenish the fluids we were losing. I always carry water, so I had an advantage over other back-of-the-packers who had to manage with cola. I was rationing, though, and dying to have a nice long guzzle of water by the time the problem was addressed. I must still have been fighting a fever, too, because I had moments of feeling slightly chilled in spite of the uncomfortable heat. And the hills that looked rolling and easy in the car two days earlier were endless and numerous on foot. As a point-to-point marathon, it just kept going up with little dips in between to fool you into thinking you were getting a break now and again.

Still, although I was quite frankly miserable, although I watched my pace slow with every kilometer until I knew it was unlikely I would make it to the finish for the cut-off time (5.5 hours), although I had to walk most of the hills in the second half, and although one woman rebuked me for dropping my power gel packet on the ground (which I never, ever, ever would have done if I hadn’t been watching the clean-up crew and weren’t absolutely positive that it would be swept up before I was even off the course), I knew I was having one of the most extraordinary experiences of my life. Many people came up to me and asked me where I was from. They told me about their favorite races around the country and asked me how I was faring in the heat, being from the North as I was. The people at the aid stations were full of encouragement and greetings and apologies for the lack of water. No ostriches chased me. I was never totally alone at the back of this pack as I so often am at home. There were plenty of other stragglers around to keep me company. And, hell, I was in AFRICA! I was kitty-corner across the globe from my home, my terrain and my worldview.

So, while if I had been in the same circumstances in, say, Wenatchee, I would have opted to call it quits after just one loop around Confluence Park, I was not tempted now to stop moving forward in this race. And, while I occasionally ran with eyes closed and fantasized about ruby slippers and clicking my way home in an instant, I just reminded myself that if I did what I was doing long enough, eventually the finish line would appear. It wasn’t magic, but it was true, and that helped.

The kilometers passed slowly. More hills came and went; I walked them. The vegetation never really varied from the odiferous shrubs I had squatted behind a few hours earlier, but once in a while glimpses of the water surprised me from out of nowhere and promised a refreshing, cool splash when this was all over. Finally, I could see the town of Langebaan (remember your forefinger?) in the distance. The little resort town sparked in the sunlight with reflections off of its clean white buildings. But as I saw the town, I also saw something I hadn’t noticed when Bill and I had taken the car on the course two days ago or when we were taking the bus to the starting line this morning: the biggest, longest, winding-est freaking hill I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m not sure how I’d missed it both times we had driven it, but I had. It was at least a kilometer long.

I was still a half kilometer away from having to face it, but I burst into tears. Thankfully, no one was close enough to hear my profanities flying, though I suspect I wasn’t the only runner to have that reaction and no one would have blamed me if they’d caught my words. I just couldn’t imagine from where I would mine the energy to make it up the whole thing. When I reached it, however, something in me kicked in. I knew I was near the end and I knew Bill would be there for me. I wanted so badly to see him and to stop moving and to find some shade. The only way to get there was up this hill. So, with tears streaking down my salty, sunburned face and thinking about how far I was from the triumph of Tateyama only a couple of months ago, I climbed it, one slow, labored step at a time.

There was another runner shadowing me, speaking to me occasionally in a language I didn’t understand. I think he was either saying something inspirational like, “Come on! We can do it!” Or he might have been cursing. But in any case, his presence was comforting and I offered him a faint smile now and again as we made our way.

After two years, we made it to the top of the hill and saw that the fates were smiling on us (or at least smirking) at last. It was all downhill for the final two kilometers into the town. I leaned into gravity and sniffled my way down to the finish line. When I saw it, I began to cry again. There was Bill – with his camera to record me in my weakest moment, of course. There were other finishers along the sidelines cheering for me, which made me cry all the uglier. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. That was hard,” I was saying. Bill came around the other side of the finish line and pulled me into a hug that held me up for a moment. I looked at my watch and guesstimated my finish time (5:35). The timeclock had been taken down. And the medals were no longer being given out.

As quickly as I could, I found some shade in a tent and stretched. It was over. My body was completely worn out. I wanted to crawl into a ball and close my eyes. At least my bowels were quiet for the moment. Bill told me he was afraid I must have collapsed somewhere on the route, and he had concocted a plan for me to stay an extra couple of weeks in South Africa so I could recover and try again with another race somewhere else in the country. I was grateful we wouldn’t have to go to those extremes.

Bill fetched me some cold cola and, when I had rested a little and could think straight, we struck up a conversation with the people in the tent. There was my friend from the hill, still uttering incomprehensible words to me and smiling and patting me on the back. A woman in the tent told someone else where we were from and then suddenly someone with a microphone was introducing us to the crowd. Before I knew what was happening, we’d been identified as “Americans from Washington” (I’m not sure if they knew we were from the State and not the Capital) and were offered beers and congratulations. The woman in the tent gave me her medal and the race organizers brought us another one “to give to our running club back home.” My hill-friend posed for a photo with me. Here we were with an extraordinary mix of gregarious South African people, drinking, snapping pictures, sharing stories and commiserations like old friends. The marathon was behind us and the celebration in front of us. I don’t care how many marathons you run or how well (or unwell) you run them, there’s always something to celebrate at the end.

Our First Few Days in Cape Town

2009-03-12T00:22:00.000-07:00

We just arrived back at our Bed and Breakfast (Colette’s B and B in Cape Town – great place) after our first day DRIVING (on the left side of the road) in South Africa! We’re glad to be “home” safely, and I have so many observations and anecdotes to record that I thought I’d try to put together a little pre-race blog to keep you updated. So by subject:

Electricity: Apparently, there are a few different kinds of outlets in South Africa. Some electrical outlets have three large round prongs and some have two slightly slimmer round prongs. The electricity comes through at 220 volts. As you know, in the US, we use 110 volts. Since I hoped to use my new little baby netbook computer to check email and to blog on this trip, we had to buy an adapter, which we did before we left. This $30 thingamajig does, in fact, work in translating the voltage strength, but it only has two prongs. Here at Colette’s, we need three. The adaptor we bought also only has two flat prongs for the US appliances (instead of the two flat plus one round one that my computer has). To make a long, boring story too long and boring than it needs to be, I’m writing this to you on a computer which has THREE different adapters plugged together to make it work (a two to three pronged US adaptor/ a US to South African adaptor/ and a two to three pronged South African adaptor). Here’s the lesson for you who would travel to Cape Town: Don’t trust that cute 17-year-old girl with the nose ring at Radio Shack to explain what you’ll need to make your appliances work on a continent she may or may not be able to place on a world map.

Language: Although English is almost universally spoken among the residents of Cape Town, we’ve still encountered numerous glitches and confusions. For example, we were “collected” at the airport by a lovely man with whom we arranged a ride to our Bed and Breakfast (even though we could scarcely collect ourselves and our luggage, so tired were we from 26 hours of travel – 22 of those in the air). Once we “hired” (rented) our car and paid the “excess” (deposit) in case of an accident, we had to get directions to our first destination. After about the third time we were told to turn left or right at the “robot,” I finally asked that question that I’d waited to ask until there was no alternative but to directly reveal my ignorance: “What is a robot?”
Mind you, I had images of a robotic traffic cop tooting a canned whistle and motioning for traffic to move forward or to wait its turn – like in the Jetson’s. I wasn’t far off. A robot is a traffic light! Mystery solved.
By the way, a “geezer” is a tiny hot water heater under the kitchen sink. A “funicular” is an elevator. And one answers a thank you with , “Pleasure,” rather than, “You’re welcome.” Fortunately, one still “drinks” wine, which brings me to my next subject.

Wine: There’s good wine here (hi Dennis and Benita). We’ve tried a few – a chenin blanc, a merlot and a shiraz from local wineries. I’ll have more to tell you after we tour some “wine farms,” but suffice it to say at this point that an excellent bottle of wine can be purchased for 20 to 30 Rand. (There are about 10 Rand to a dollar. Do the math. I’m not kidding.)

Cape Point and Cape of Good Hope: Beautiful, majestic, awe-inspiring. WOW! We took a little run (about 3 kilometers) from one cape to the other today. The Atlantic and Indian Oceans both feed into the waters around these points. Bill and I savored the sea air and the warmth (34 degrees Celsius) and we wished all of you could be with us.

Most importantly – Apartheid: Yesterday we took a boat trip out to Robben Island, the island prison where Nelson Mandela and many other non-white political prisoners were held captive during the years of the “Old Government.” Bill and I were humbled by the tour of the grounds and the prison cells. The first part of the tour was given by a young black South African woman who spoke, unflinching, to an almost entirely white bus full of tourists about the way the white minority systematically oppressed and repressed the black majority for decade after decade. While whites dominated all sectors of society with economic or political power, dissenters (both black and white) persisted in their resistance with propaganda creatively smuggled out of prisons and into the streets.

The man who gave us the tour of the prison cells was a former political prisoner housed at the very prison he now gives tours at. Can you imagine spending every day working at the place where, for seven years, you slept on the cement floor and peed in a bucket? Our guide said that he wanted to foster forgiveness. What does it even mean to forgive your government after families have been torn apart and dignity has been smashed to little pieces over and over? Maybe it means more than I am capable of understanding. I, of course, recalled America’s oppressions (past and recent [think Proposition 8 in California]), I also thought of our recent election of our first black president and tonight, as I write this, I’m challenged, once again, to wonder what words like “reconcile,” “forgiveness,” and “equality” mean. I don’t know. But for sure my questions are richer than they were before yesterday. If you get to Cape Town, get out to Robben Island. It’s not a pretty story, but it’s required reading.

That’s all for the moment. We’re off to Langebaan where the marathon takes place on Saturday. Until next time….

Takin' off for Africa

2009-03-06T20:25:00.000-08:00

Well, by 7:00 am on Saturday, March 7, we’ll be off for continent number FIVE! The turn around between Asia and Africa has been chaotic and exhausting. Not only did we have to solidify our agenda for our next trip, we also had to keep up with our running and fight off the threat of Strep Throat (Bill’s daughter, Jessie, was sick for several days before she discovered what was wrong and started her anti-biotics).

Thankfully, we’re Strep free and Jessie is fine, too. Tonight we’re packing and doing last minute errands. It occurred to me today while I took one final slow run that I am truly grateful for this opportunity and for everyone who has pitched in to make it happen. I hope all of you know how much I appreciate your support and love. From my grandparents, who take care of our pups while we’re gone, to friends (Jack, Steph, Christine) who have shuttled us to or from the airport, this dream is really taking a village to bring about. Literally hundreds of people have wished us well and asked for updates (friends at Starbucks, those who respond to the blog, my writing group, Bill’s colleagues, our friends and families, random strangers who saw the article about us in the Bellingham Herald).

So here we go again. The race takes place on Saturday, March 14 in South Africa’s West Coast National Park. We’ll have one week before the race and one week after to explore Cape Town and the surrounding areas. Stay tuned for a race report and for a full description of our exploration of South Africa.

And thank you for all you’ve done to support us! We appreciate you.

Tateyama Wakashio Marathon - Race Report

2009-02-07T23:12:00.000-08:00

Bill and I flew out of Seattle to Japan on January 20th, Inauguration Day. Our flight didn’t leave until early afternoon, so we had the opportunity to watch some of the pomp and circumstance of D.C. on television before we had to head down to the airport. We listened to President Obama’s speech on NPR as we drove. Sorry as we were to miss the coverage of the entire day, we were also excited to have our trip finally under way. It had been a long time in the planning stage.

This would be my second trip to Japan. The first was for our honeymoon, when we climbed Mt. Fuji and fell in love with her, that magic giant whose elevation is 12,388 feet at the highest point.

We had a different challenge on our agenda this time. It would be our fourth continent on which we would run a marathon.

When we arrived in Tokyo and debarked the plane, there were two men waiting for us with our names on a sign. We were on our way to Tateyama, Bellingham’s Japanese Sister City. The folks in Tateyama had been incredibly attentive to us as we made our plans. They paid for our entry to the marathon, arranged a homestay for us with a local family, scheduled a meeting with their mayor and insisted on picking us up at the airport. We had wanted to find our way to Tateyama on our own by train, but Michael, the liaison with the Tateyama mayor’s office, called us at least four times asking and re-asking whether or not it wouldn’t be better to have someone fetch us by car and drive us in. Eventually, he wore me down and I acquiesced. I like to take trains when I travel, but we would have to do it on another trip. And anyhow, I decided it might be a relief after a long plane ride to let someone else do the thinking at that point.

If you’ve never experienced Japanese hospitality, you’ve only lived half a life. When we arrived at the hotel Michael had booked for us, a team of six people (eight including us) gathered around a table in the lobby and commenced a meeting about our itinerary. We had contacted Tateyama through the Sister City Organization originally because there was very little information in English about the marathon online, and we’d realized we would need help to register. We never expected Tateyama to take us into the fold and treat us like honored dignitaries, but this is what happened. As Bill and I sat, exhausted and confused as to whether it was night or day, Michael translated for us what the representatives of the mayor’s office, the homestay family, the hotel and the Sister City Organization were planning for us. I tried to follow all the details, but when I realized I was having trouble even remembering people’s names, I finally dug out my pen and paper and took notes so I’d have something to refer to the next morning.

Here’s the itinerary:
Thursday: 10:00am – Our host (Kinuyo) would pick us up with the wife (Mrs. Kitami) of the man (Mr. Kitami) who had driven us from the airport. First they would drive us the full length of the marathon course. Then we would spend the day seeing sights of interest in Tateyama (the sports center and an interesting shrine cut into a mountainside). At 6:00pm we would convene at the Kitami’s for a potluck dinner with other Sister City Organization members who had visited Bellingham in past years. We would meet Kenji, Kinuyo’s husband, and sleep at their house.

Friday: A 9:30am meeting with the mayor who would present us with a gift and an International Friendship Certificate, more sight-seeing (a temple, local flower-growers and a Daibutsu) and then a lovely dinner at the home of our hosts.

Saturday: More sight-seeing in the morning, registration for the race in the afternoon and a formal presentation of plaques commemorating our participation in the marathon during a pre-race celebration in the evening. Sleep at the hotel and get ready for the race.

Sunday: Run the marathon at 10 am. Recover in the hotel room while watching the Sumo championship matches on TV.

Monday: We would leave Tateyama. The son of the hotel owner would drive us all the way (2 hours) to the next city we intended to visit before Bill had to fly home.

The morning after we arrived was foggy. Word was that Tateyama had one of the best views of Mt. Fuji in Japan, but we couldn’t find it. In fact, sight-seeing on our second day, the fog was so bad, we couldn’t even see the top of Buddha’s head as we stood at his feet. But once Saturday rolled around, rain cleared the air, wind blew the clouds and fog away, and Mt. Fuji made an appearance. Sure enough, there she was, across the water, huge and white and powerful.

When we awoke on Sunday morning and looked out the hotel room window, Fuji-san was still there. We were going to get to look at the mountain while we ran. Excited, we dressed and walked a few hundred meters from our hotel to the starting area.

Japanese runners are almost all organized into clubs. These clubs don’t much resemble the “running club” I belong to in Bellingham. They do meet for and support one another on training runs like we do, but they are more of a highly organized troop or team than we. For example, they tend to have about sixty members, all active, who register for races based on their identity as a club. They meet before races and stake out a spot near the starting line, situating themselves as a unit on a tarp or in a tent where they will store their post-race changes of clothes and where they will meet after the race to celebrate and eat. And they often have matching sweat suits. Actually, we’ve found that one of the questions on many applications for marathons around the world is, “Which running club do you belong to?” We always answer with, “Greater Bellingham Running Club,” but we know we aren’t answering the same question we’re being asked.

Because we didn’t have a recognized club to congregate with, we were introduced to a couple who invited us to join them on their tarp and to warm up with and start with them. There was a soccer field where runners warmed up near the race center. There was a big time-clock to the north side of the field that counted down the minutes to the start of the race. A few hundred people, wearing their various club colors, jogged around in circles, stopping from time to time to stretch. We jumped right into the circle and warmed up.

One of the women from the club took me under her wing. She was an avid marathoner with a slight injury, so she assured me she would be running this race at a slow pace. I know from experience that when most runners say “slow,” it never means slow like MY slow, so I didn’t count on running with her, but we did start together. Just minutes before the gun, we headed to the starting line, and I was surprised to see everyone lined up by number. There were signs telling us where we should stand (Bib #s 1100-1700, for example). I lined up behind the sign that indicated my bib number and stood next to my new friend as we waited for the signal that we should begin. We were also divided by sex. The men were on the right side of the line and the women on the left. (This, by the way, surprised Bill and me. We lost each other in the crowd as we were swept into our categories with only time for a half-hearted wave at one another.)

The gun went off and 5000 runners crossed the starting line, one chirping chip at a time. The first few kilometers wound along the bay as Mt. Fuji supervised our progress. I settled into my pace toward the back of the pack and waved goodbye to my injured companion as she soared ahead of me.

Bill and I were the only foreigners in the race, as far as we could figure (we’d asked the mayor about this, who seemed to think so), and most certainly the only Caucasians. Before and behind me, dark-haired runners bobbed along while I, even at only five feet six inches, towered above most. This made me conspicuous to bystanders and fans, of which there were many thousands along the race course. The Kitami’s were among them near the beginning of my run, and I heard them shout my name. I waved.

Just as we turned away from the water on the first bend of the route, I picked out of the crowd some of our new Sister City friends from the potluck dinner on Thursday night. I yelled, “Hello! Arigato. Thank you. Thank you for coming.” At just about the same time a woman runner settled in at my pace next to me and said hello. She struggled in English to ask me where I was from and if this was my first time in Japan. I answered her slowly, simplifying my language, as I had learned to do when I taught English as a second language years ago. Then she asked me a perplexing question. “Are you high school?” she said.

“High school?” I repeated.

She ran quietly beside me for a moment. I figured she was trying to piece together a way to rephrase her question (while I wished for the millionth time in my life I’d taken Japanese in college when I had the chance). Perhaps she thought I was a high school teacher, an exchange teacher, maybe. “Or do you go to University?” she finally asked.

I laughed. “Me?” I smiled at her. “I am forty-one years old.” I said. I held up four fingers on one hand and one on the other.

“OH!” She laughed now, too. “Me too. I born 1968.”

“1967 for me,” I said.

We continued our simple conversation for a few minutes before she said, “Do your best,” and jogged on ahead of me.

Do your best is a common motto in sporting activities in Japan. I noted, in fact, that everyone on the sidelines was shouting it as runners passed by. “Gambate”(pronounced gom-baa-tey) is the Japanese phrase. As we ran through tangled, twisting narrow neighborhoods and alongside dozens of small family businesses, the streets were packed with families, children and the elderly, all repeatedly shouting, “Gambate.” I felt exhilarated by the attention. This was the first time I’d experienced people lining the streets every inch of a race to cheer for all the runners, and I studied the faces of the fans. I especially enjoyed meeting the gazes of some of the small children and the very elderly people who seemed to be eyeing me as if I were an oddity of some kind (which no doubt I was). Most would look away quickly when they noticed I was looking back.

Some of the fans had set up their own unofficial aid stations. I’d never seen such a thing. One crew of women even served their treats on ceramic dishes. Onigiri triangles wrapped in seaweed, miso soup, hot green tea, hard candies, and salty treats were all offered along the way in between the official aid stations with their ample supply of water and fruit.

Before we left Bellingham, I had told Bill that I thought this would be the race in which I would be able to beat five hours. The course was relatively flat, the weather expected to be mild and I was feeling healthier than ever. To support my goal, Bill had calculated what my splits would need to be for each and every kilometer. I am used to figuring my pace in minutes per mile, and I didn’t want to have to do the calculations from miles to kilometers in my head while I was running. Now, on a sheet of paper tucked into the front of my running belt, I had these calculations. I was paying careful attention to them.

Every 2 kilometers were marked on the course. At 10 kilometers, I was running a few minutes faster than Bill’s splits. At 16k, I was nine minutes faster. One old woman watched me pull my paper out of my belt and study it. When I saw she was looking at me, I waved at her. Immediately she smiled, waved back and shouted in English, “YES YOU CAN,” a la Obama. I could see that, yes, I could do it. I just might run a sub-five hour marathon. Only a few weeks earlier I had run a 30 kilometer race in Arizona in 3:13. Why couldn’t I do it now? When I hit 30k this time, I was at 3:18. Not bad. At 35 kilometers, even after a few challenging hills, I’d been running for 3 hours and 53 minutes. I was slowing down, but I could almost walk the last 7 kilometers (4.35 miles) and still come in under my five hour goal. This gave me a sense of relief, so I relaxed a little and stopped looking at my spits, but I kept running.

The route was like a lollipop. We traveled the road along the waterfront with the view of Mt. Fuji both at the start and the end and circled through Tateyama in the middle. As I came down the final small decline and saw the water, pain finally registered in my quads and hamstrings. But when the mountain came into my line of vision and winked at me (I’m quite sure I saw her do this), I remembered that only three years ago, I had climbed to her summit and I took courage, knowing I didn’t fail her then and I wouldn’t fail her now. As the mountain moved further behind me to the left, I strained my aching neck to look at the snowcap now covering the point at the top of Fuji and a flash of triumph flooded through me. I shouted, “WooooHoooo! Yes!” Some runners behind me tittered and whispered something to one another. There wasn’t much talking or shouting among the athletes here; all was serious concentration, but I figured I was already out of place, so a little hoot wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Finally, I saw a man standing near the course holding a large sign reading, “2 kilometers remaining.” At least I assume that’s what it said. I was so close! A few minutes later, I saw Bill up ahead, camera in hand. He had finished his race more than an hour before (3:41, he told me later) and had had time to recover while waiting for me.

I waved with both hands to catch Bill’s attention (though surely he wouldn’t have missed me with my blond hair coming loose from my pony tail and flying wild in the wind). Bill waited for me to come up parallel with him and jogged beside me.

“Hey friend, look at your time!” he said.

“I know. I did it. I’m coming in under five!” Adrenaline was pumping into my tired muscles. “Am I close?”

“It’s around the bend. Go for it.” He dropped back and let me move into the finishing shoot before swerving a bit to the left and running ahead behind the spectators to get a photo of me finishing.

I saw the finish line, fans defining it on either side. Incomprehensible shouts of encouragement washed over me. This was such a welcome difference from the way I usually came over a finish line after everyone had gone home and the recovery food had already been eaten!

There it was. FINISH was written in English. There was no mistaking it. And the clock below it read 4:52! I raised my hands in the air as I heard my microchip beep and screamed, “I DID IT. I DID IT!”

Bill was snapping pictures like crazy of my every motion. I slowed to a walk. Snap. I felt nausea settle into my stomach. Snap. A cramp was threatening to seize up my left leg. Snap. There was no way to collapse, no time to indulge my physical discomfort; everything was being recorded and people were fussing over me, congratulating me. Plus, our host family was there on the spot ready to host us to the recovery food. There was green tea and miso soup awaiting us. And crab-leg bisque. I hobbled along behind everyone the best I could. They whisked through the crowd to a table and, finally, to a chair. Here I sat and stretched, unwilling to move another step until my muscles relaxed and gave me the go-ahead.

This may be the only time I ever finish a sub-five hour marathon, but what a place to do it: Our sister city with Fuji-san looking over my shoulder.

I Take It Back

2009-02-02T09:17:00.000-08:00

Even before I get around to writing about the race, I have to rescind my former statement regarding my dislike of Japanese food.

The first time I was in Japan, I was almost totally unsupervised in my food choices. This should never happen in some cultures. Left to one’s own devices, one is reduced to looking at pictures or plastic models of various dishes, pointing out one’s choice to the restaurant staff and enduring whatever has been served to one.

This time, because of the hospitality of our hosts in Tateyama and the guidance of my friends in Tokyo, I was advised and carefully monitored with regard to my every meal. Big surprise: It turns out I really love Japanese food.

On this trip I was instructed as to the difference between udon and soba noodles (the first are thick and made from white flour; the second are thinner and made from ground buckwheat). I was introduced to sukiyaki and shabu shabu, two dishes cooked right at the table in a nifty electric boiler. And I experienced a delicious minced tofu dish served with some tender root veggies that made me want to buy stock in the farm that raised them.

As promised, wanting to open myself up to whatever came my palate’s way, I lifted my personal ban on eating mammals while I was accepting the hospitality of our sister city hosts. Actually, unless you are very proficient in Japanese, it would be difficult to be a vegetarian in Japan and almost impossible to be vegan. Verifying the ingredients to any given menu item is both daunting and unlikely for the lone traveler. As I discovered with my first bowl of noodles, even dishes without meat are likely to be cooked in chicken, beef or port stock. Only in the case of homemade food can a foreigner (or at least this foreigner) absolutely substantiate what she is eating.

One evening our primary hosts in Tateyama, Kinuyo and Kenji, took us to the home of some of the sister city organization members for a potluck dinner. As twelve of us, ten Japanese friends, Bill and I, sat on the floor around a low dining table, chopsticks in hand, I inspected the offerings available. The women at the head of the table kept the food circulating while the men at the other end made certain our sake cups were never empty. As each dish came to me, I had my first opportunity to really ask about the details of what I was eating.

“How did you make this?” I asked several times. The answers I received yielded not only information about the contents of my meal, but also an impromptu cooking class. I discovered that while soy sauce is definitely the most common seasoning, sesame, garlic, onion and sake are also important and regularly utilized flavorings. I tried to take mental notes as the sake slowly took its effect on my state of mind so I could attempt to recreate at home some of the tastes I was experiencing that night.

I left Tateyama with an appreciation for my hosts and for the food they had lovingly introduced me to. By the time I reached Tokyo, I was braver and slightly more knowledgeable. I had names for a few things I had tried and liked, and I felt sure that if I could find a noodle shop I could keep myself alive for a few days wandering the big city by myself.

It would turn out that I would not need my newfound knowledge, however. My friends, Marci and Akira, invited me to stay with them for a few days and offered me part two of my edible education. We first took a trip to the grocery store and later to a 100 yen shop (kind of like a $1 store). At the first, Marci and Akira explained the mysterious items I had previously felt were so ominous. I even learned that the fruits and vegetables weren’t as expensive as I had once thought. I had mistaken a small box of strawberries, for example, for 1,245 yen (about thirteen bucks) when actually the sign read “1 package for 245 yen,” which is really not so bad. A few days later at the 100 yen shop, Marci and Akira pointed out their favorite dry snacks. I bought a bag of everything they said they liked, opened them ALL when we got home and sampled each one. My favorites were these little brown sugary nuggets that looked like tiny dog poops but tasted like heaven and some deep fried sweet potatoes covered with a light coating of sugar. Yum!

Finally, on my very last night in Tokyo, after I’d been completely won over and dreaded giving up all my new beloved victuals for the stuff I usually ate at home, I visited a dear old friend for a much-too-short dinner. I’ve known Kakuei for seventeen years and we’ve seen each other through both happy and sad times. I was excited to see him and his lovely wife, Yayoi, and to meet their 22-month old toddler. I was ready to enjoy whatever they put before me, as Kakuei had graciously done when he had visited me in the States over the years and I had offered him the best cheesy, greasy delectables America had to offer. I thought he would be proud of me for my daring dabbles in Japanese cuisine. But Kakuei had read my blog entry about my distaste for Japanese food and taken it very seriously. He had encouraged his wife to order pizza and not to offer me wine. Yayoi disregarded him on both counts, thankfully. Instead she made an amazing salad with slightly browned tuna and a dressing of soy sauce and olive oil, followed by three delicious courses of vegetables, potatoes and stroganoff. She had made a perfect compromise between Japanese and American fare - just in time to ease me back into the familiar.

So here I am, returned to my own bed and my own refrigerator. I honestly never thought I’d say it, but I miss my Japanese noodles.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

2009-01-05T15:51:00.000-08:00

Before my high school creative writing teacher introduced me to Gerard Manly Hopkins, before I had taken my college courses in Shakespeare and Medieval Literature, before I began listening to audio versions of Dickens’ work on my long drives down to Seattle, I was introduced to the great female rocker, Pat Benatar, performing the nuanced poetry of song-writer Eddie Schwartz. In the eight grade, I bought Benatar’s 8-track tape called Crimes of Passion and played it on my stereo repeatedly while I slept at night. It seeped into my subconscious and rattled in my head during my days, even while I was at school.

It wouldn’t be long until Crimes of Passion would disappear with all my other rock albums in the crusade my church led to free its young people of the evils of secular music, but it was really too late; the devil had his foothold. I’d memorized the words to every song on that 8-track. They were a part of me. I could throw the short-lived technology into the garbage bin, but I couldn’t extract the lyrics of Benatar’s hits from my personal cannon of literature.

A few weeks ago, in a fit of boredom with my current catalog of running songs, I perused I-Tunes and came across Benatar’s #1 single: Hit Me With Your Best Shot. I downloaded the song onto my iPod and reclaimed one more memory discarded in the name of heaven.

Yesterday, I ran 21.5 miles – the last long run in my training for the Tateyama Marathon. It was one of the most difficult training runs of my life. The trails were still packed down with compact snow and ice, requiring me (or anyone else on the trail) to slow to a careful walk on some stretches. The temperature was in the low forties, but along the waterfront, the wind whipped me in the face and made the air feel closer to freezing. Plus, I must have eaten something the night before that didn’t settle well, because I struggled with a headache and an upset stomach for much of the run.

Just as I was feeling like the elements and this run were really kicking my ass, Hit Me with Your Best Shot blared through my ear buds. I cranked up the volume, listened to the words and sang along, then repeated the song a second time. “Yes,” I thought, inspired by Benatar’s sultry reminder of pre-adolescent rebellion and freedom, “the weather and my body are trying to keep me down, but I won’t be defeated! I WILL conquer these four hours of running! I WILL run through my pain! I WILL keep my balance on this ice! I WILL have French fries when this whole thing is over!” And I ran on, revived and encouraged enough to beat the icy hill I was facing. I sucked up the hurt in my stomach and the snot running out of my nose and I ran. I completed my 21.5 miles a little worse for wear, but alive. Still standing.

The devil may have the best music, but I couldn’t have gotten through yesterday’s run without it. I dedicate this song to long-distance running and to the Marathon. Go ahead, Marathon, hit me with your best shot. I’ll get right back up again. And in a little more than two weeks in Japan, I’ll be putting another notch in my lipstick case!

Hit Me With Your Best Shot
Written by Eddie Schwartz and performed by Pat Benatar

Well you're a real tough cookie with a long history
Of breaking little hearts, like the one in me
That's O.K., lets see how you do it
Put up your dukes, let's get down to it!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Why Don't You Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Fire Away!

You come on with your come-ons, you don't fight fair
That's O.K., see if I care!
Knock me down, it's all in vain
I'll get right back on my feet again!

Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Why Don't You Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Fire Away!

Well you're a real tough cookie with a long history
Of breaking little hearts, like one in me
Before I put another notch in my lipstick case
You better make sure you put me in my place

Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Come On, Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Fire Away!

Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Why Don't You Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Hit Me With Your Best Shot!
Fire Away!

Race Report from Arizona

2008-12-25T18:37:00.001-08:00

Happy Holidays from Arizona. As you can imagine, Bill and I are thrilled to get out of the snow of Washington and visit his mom in Sunny Peoria (where the Mariners have their Spring Training facilities). It’s only been between 55 and 65 degrees, but I’ll take what I can get given what everyone in the Seattle area is wading through just now.

We flew out of Bellingham into Las Vegas on Friday. Then we rented a car and drove to Peoria on Saturday.

Before we left home, Bill located a 30K for us to run while we were here as one of our final training runs before we do the Wakashio Marathon in Tateyama, Japan. Sunday morning we woke up early and traveled about 20 minutes to Surprise, a town to the West of Peoria. This race was sponsored by the Arizona Road Racers, a large running club in the area.

Mornings aren’t my favorite time of the day. I usually feel cranky and groggy until about noon. As I stood in line at the port-o-johns at about 7:30 am, I eavesdropped on some of the local club members talking about the race we were about to run. The woman in front of me said, “I’m just using this as a training run. I won’t be racing this one.” Then she added, “I’ll probably do it in nines.”

Since I can hardly run one mile at nine minutes, let alone 18.6 miles, and since it was 7:30 in the morning and I felt irritated, I silently rolled my eyes and thought, “Show off.” Glancing around at the small cluster of runners congregating at the starting line, I guessed there were only about fifty runners (turns out there were 95 people in the 30K). I’d be at the tail end, as usual.

Fortunately, there was absolutely no chance of my getting lost in this race as I have so many other times when I bring up the rear. This race was to be an out and back route. And I mean we’d go OUT in a straight line, turn around, come BACK. The whole course was on the Bell Road, a street that sprawls with malls, gas stations and mini-marts for miles on end through Peoria, Sun City and Surprise.

When Bill first told me where the race was going to take place I wasn’t thrilled to run for more than three hours along this exhaust-filled path of retirement suburbia. We’ve spent the holidays in this area of the country before, and Bell Road is one of those avenues concentrated with outrageous congestion during the holiday season.

Once we were at the starting line, however, I was surprised and delighted to discover that the Bell Road hasn’t been developed past the town of Surprise and that our route was going to take us parallel to the White Tank Mountains, right through the best of the desert. There were no shopping centers or housing projects on our route whatsoever, just pristine red soil and Saguaro cacti looking on as we made our way out to the turn-around point.

Indulge me as I relive it. I know I’ll be home next week, and I’ll try to do a 22-mile run in the slush and the mud and the cold. I know I’ll cry when I’m finished and then stand in the shower for an hour trying to warm my bones, so I want to keep this little 30K with the Arizona Road Racers in my memory and my heart as long as I can.

When the foghorn went off and I heard my chip beep as I crossed the official starting line, I noticed right off the bat that the road was at an incline. The first nine miles rose very gradually. The grade was so slight it was undetectable at certain points. The sun lit up the White Tank Mountains and their sienna hues were a perfect contrast to the cloudless blue of the sky. I squinted up into the brightness and visualized vitamin D wafting in through my nostrils and spreading through my limbs and into my bones. I breathed in dry, warm air and heard my lungs cheer, “Yes!”

Absolutely nothing eventful happened during this race. The temperature was perfect (about 60 after 9:00). The view was soothing and filled me with reminders that spring will come even to Western Washington. And the course was simple. My body felt light, buoyed by the knowledge that if we ran UP hill the whole way out, we’d be running DOWN hill on the way back.

I waved to Bill as he was running in the opposite direction at about mile eight (for me) and reached the turn-around at approximately an hour and thirty-seven minutes after the gun had gone off. Once again, as I have noted of late, my pace was faster than I expected it to be. Somehow, I’m stronger and faster without being miserable and without pushing myself much harder than I’ve ever pushed.

The way back was just as full of meditative ease as the way out had been. The sun was in my eyes, low in the sky. I noticed shadows from the mountains smile their blessings on the succulents over which they kept watch, and I let gravity pull me forward down the gradual decline. There were two inclines on the way back I hadn’t remembered the first time through, but I had the energy to push up them without much complaint from my quads.

I crossed the finish line at 3:13:07. I think I ran negative splits in the last nine miles.

Bill wasn’t there to cheer me over the finish line as he usually is. I knew this meant he wasn’t expecting me yet, so I went in search of him and found him waiting to receive his first-place award in his age group.

Just before we packed up to come home, we spent a little time chatting with a man Bill had run with for the first half of the race. “Joel” won third in his very competitive age group and fourteenth overall. As we walked with him back to his car he told us how he had tried and failed to finish the marathon distance nine times. We listened to him recount his disappointments (each a gruesome tale of ending up on the side of the road in ignominy and grief) and wondered at how such a strong runner could get so stuck and so discouraged. Bill and I waved good-bye to him and agreed, as we got into our car, that Joel was a victim of Perfectionism.

Once again, I’m reminded that the best way to run (or to love or bake a pie or write a blog) is imperfectly. My philosophy only strengthens with experiences like these: Run only as hard as you want to and let gravity help when you can.

Japanese Food: Getting ready for the Wakashio Marathon

2008-12-18T12:58:00.000-08:00

Well, Bill and I are getting ready to pack our carry-on suitcases and make our way to the international wing of the airport once again. This time, we’re traveling to Japan for the Wakashio Marathon in Tateyama. We leave in mid-January. This will be the fourth continent on which we’ve run a marathon! Sometimes I can hardly believe this dream is coming true.

Every international trip requires research and then specific preparations. For example, you may have to get shots to protect against tropical diseases or buy special clothing for unusual weather conditions. For warm-weather trips, I make sure to purchase extra-potent insect repellent because bugs love me. If there’s a mosquito in the hotel, or the town we’re visiting, it’ll find me. Fortunately mosquitoes will not be a problem on this trip to Japan. That’s one advantage of traveling in the winter.

This time, I’m grappling with how to prepare for a different type of problem. You see, I don’t like Japanese food. I know, I know! I can hear your shock! I am the only person in the world who does not like Japanese food. Everyone, Japanese or otherwise, loves sashimi, tempura, miso soup, noodles and those little triangular rice balls with a surprise inside. I can appreciate the occasional yaki soba or California roll, but I’m not a big fan of the soy flavor in most Japanese food. Rice makes me bloated and constipated. And raw fish does nothing for me. I know it’s unusual and maybe even a sin, but it’s just how I feel.

Bill and I have traveled to Japan before and food was a huge problem for me. We went there on our honeymoon in 2005. Bill had a series of business meetings he needed to attend in Tokyo, so we decided we’d add a couple of weeks onto his trip and make a vacation out of it. We arranged an exciting itinerary that took us to Nagoya for the World’s Fair and to Kyoto to see the ancient temples. Then we made our way to Tokyo where Bill spent between about 8:00am and 4:00pm in meetings while I wandered through the city. This suited me fine. I was able to shop and catch up with a few friends who lived within a short train ride. Each night, Bill and I planned to meet back at the hotel room around 4:30 and go out together for dinner. I’d discovered this one tolerable curry dish that was available at most restaurants.

But on our third evening in Tokyo, I had a full-on food crisis one night.

Bill was in his meeting, expected back at the hotel sometime after 4:30. I was there waiting for him, flipping channels on the TV. Nothing kept my attention (it was in Japanese, after all). There was three-quarters of a bottle of Australian wine on the night stand from the evening before. I poured myself a glass and settled on the bed to wait for Bill. At 5:00, he wasn’t back and I was getting hungry. By 5:30, I knew I’d have to get something to tide me over in case his meetings ran much longer. I had a vague memory from our conversation in the morning, while I was still in bed, that a late meeting was a possibility.

I decided I’d take a walk to the grocery store on the corner. We’d had some trouble with grocery stores in the first part of our trip. We had to rely on the images on the packaging to figure out what we were buying. Usually we guessed right and ended up with the yogurt or tuna we meant to buy, but at least a few times we’d been wrong. Once we opened a container and found some kind of margarine spread when we’d meant to buy cheese. Even though it was a gamble, I hoped I’d be able to find some kind of small snack to get me through till dinner. And anyhow, grocery stores are interesting, great places from which to observe a culture close up.

I scoped one out across the road from the main entrance of the hotel. On my way over, I noticed I was just a bit tipsy from my glass of wine, so I crossed the street carefully. I walked in through the automatic sliding doors and breathed in the fishy soy smell that I was getting used to in the supermarkets. I started on the right side of the store and wandered each aisle, looking for something I recognized. I finally located a tiny jar of peanut butter. That sounded good. A piece of bread with creamy peanut butter smoothed on its surface would go perfectly with cheap Australian wine, I thought. I looked at the price on the shelf below it, listed in yen and then picked it up and headed to the check out. On second thought, I decided I’d better dig the calculator out of my pocket and make the change from Yen to American dollars, so I knew what I was spending. $6.39!!! There was no way I was paying more than six dollars for two ounces of peanut butter. I put the jar back in its spot and kept moving down the aisle.

I walked past packages of dry noodles, jars of mayonnaise, cans of shrimp, bags of chips and numerous objects I could not identify by their packaging, though I picked them up and studied them from all vantage points. Finally, I retreated to the back of the store and the meat section. I stood, staring down at raw meat and sea food I’d never seen before. The “deli” section had pre-prepared food ready to eat on the run, but I couldn’t figure out what most of it was. There was a shrink wrapped bowl of teriyaki chicken, but I didn’t have a microwave back in the hotel room to heat it up.

Finally, I decided that some fresh produce would be an easy answer. With my calculator in hand, I returned to the front of the store and faced down the fruit section. There, like an apparition from heaven, was a Fuji apple! I picked it up and squeezed it. It was firm and my mouth watered for its juice. I made the translations from kilos to pounds and then Yen to dollars and estimated that it was more expensive than I’d pay at home, but not as bad as the little jar of peanut butter. It would have to do. I stuck my calculator in the back pocket of my jeans and reached in my front pocket to pull out my Yen as I walked toward the check-out counter.

Standing at the back of the line, holding my apple in one hand and my money in the other, I watched the people in front of me. Each had a little basket full of items I could not identify. They did not talk to one another or to me, though several of them glanced tentatively in my direction and then averted eye contact quickly when I tried to smile at them. I looked down at the apple in my hand. And I waited.

The checker was slow. I observed her carefully. There was no way to know for sure, but she seemed honest. This was crucial because I took note that there was no little screen next to the cash register displaying the price of the purchase. Once she weighed my apple and figured out the exact price, I would be at her mercy. I would hold my money out to her and trust her to pick out the right coins and give me the correct change.

I felt how dependent I was on others in this country. I pulled out my calculator again and tried to guess at the right change to offer so I wouldn’t look like an illiterate idiot, which of course, I was here. The woman directly in front of me in line gave me a suspicious once-over (I thought) while the woman who had lined up behind me looked at me with pity (I thought). God, this was ridiculous. It shouldn’t be so hard to buy a stupid apple without looking like an imbecile. I made a promise to myself to always be helpful to foreigners in grocery stores when I got home.

I looked down at my apple again. Suddenly, although my stomach was gurgling, I was repulsed by this apple. It was nothing but a representation of my shame and ignorance, my cultural ineptitude. It would do nothing but expose me. I couldn’t imagine anything worse in the world than eating this apple. This apple disgusted me! Suddenly, I decided I’d had too many apples in my life. For all I knew this Fuji apple was grown in Washington State, anyway, right across the mountains from me, maybe on my uncle’s farm.

I stormed back to the produce section and replaced the Fuji apple in the perfect pyramid from which I’d plucked it. Then I left the grocery store.

As I crossed the busy street and made my way back to the hotel, I hoped Bill was there waiting for me in the room. I was agitated now. My hotel room was empty. The clock read 6:00. Bill couldn’t be far behind me at this point. I settled in in front of an unintelligible TV show with another glass of wine.

One hour, two more unsuccessful trips to the grocery store and the rest of the bottle of Australian wine later I began to decompose. By this time, I was drunk. I hadn’t eaten since noon, and I was embarrassed by my incompetence and fear of being mocked by the other shoppers. I started to cry.

I cried so hard that I began to convulse. My mascara ran down my face and my nose plugged with mucus. My shoulders shook, and I even had a touch of the dry heaves. All by myself alone in a hotel room on my honeymoon starving, I sobbed.

At 7:13, Bill walked through the door and found me thus. I managed to open my puffy eyes a little in his direction and I saw his alarm. “Oh my god, what happened? Are you okay? Did something happen?” Poor Bill was frantic.

I tried to speak, inhaling sharply between each word, “I – can’t – shop.” Sniff. “I’m – totally – illiterate – and – so – hungry.” Bill sat down on the bed and held me. I wiped my nose on his collar. He stroked my hair. Then he caught sight of the empty wine bottle by the bed.

“Did you drink all of that?”

I nodded. “I – tried – to – buy – food. The grocery – store didn’t – have any.” We were silent while he held me and I wound down a little. Like a mother with a very small child, he brushed the hair off my forehead and lifted my face so I had to look him in the eye.

“Are you drunk?” he asked me. I nodded. “And you’ve eaten nothing?” I nodded. He studied me earnestly and then stood, lifting me to my feet by my shoulders. Then he swatted me on the bum and said, “Get your shoes on. We’re going to McDonald’s to get you some French fries.”

I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of McDonald’s. It was kitty-corner across from the grocery store, but I’d been so focused on wanting to conquer the supermarket, that it never dawned on me to look for something familiar and comforting. I stumbled, heavily supported by Bill, down the elevator, across the street and into McDonald’s. I was struck immediately by that wonderful thick scent of grease. Bill sat me down at a booth and in a few minutes came back with a fish burger, fries and a milkshake. I ate quickly and then sent him back for another round.

We learned a lot from that experience. So as I get ready for this, my second trip to Japan, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and have realized the most important advanced preparation I can do is come up with an eating plan. Here it is:
1. Forego my recently espoused vegetarianism while in Japan. This will open options for me.
2. Try everything, even if it doesn’t smell good.
3. Locate all fast food restaurants in our vicinity upon arrival and do not be embarrassed to eat what is familiar
4. Bring snacks from Costco to tide me over in a pinch
5. Do not drink alone.

Winter is coming

2008-11-04T12:23:00.000-08:00

In the eleventh grade I was introduced to the following poem:

Spring and Fall: To a Young Child

MARGARET, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

I remember my feelings after that very first reading in Mr. Hanby’s creative writing class. I could see Margaret standing among the red and gold leaves, crying because winter was on the way. I knew just how she felt. For me, the changing of the leaves meant the end of summer, the beginning of school and rain. At the time, I only vaguely understood the weighty predictions in the poem that someday Margaret would consciously weep over her own mortality.

Later, in graduate school, Gerard Manly Hopkins’ poem came back to me. As I learned to be a therapist, to sit with individuals and families whose pain came from horrific events I could scarcely imagine, I sometimes wept. When I heard from children of abuse at the hands of their parents or from spouses trying to recover from their partner’s infidelity, I occasionally experienced a sadness that settled in my chest cavity and ached and ached, even after I had closed the door to my therapy room and gone home.

I hung Hopkins’ poem on my office wall to remind myself that even as I ached for the plight of my clients, the twinge in my chest was really my own. It was my pain, my own mortality, my own sadness that gave it such strength. “Sorrow’s springs are the same,” after all. The events of life are different for each of us, but grief belongs to us all.

Last week this poem came to my mind again. I took a run through the woods near my house and found myself treading through thick fallen leaves. I kicked at them as I jogged along and watched as the wind picked them up and they floated down again. The first lines of the poem came to mind: “Margaret, are you grieving/Over Goldengrove unleaving?” And the question changed. “Cami, are you grieving/Over Bellingham unleaving?”

I was. I am. A change is coming. On the surface, it is the change of the seasons. I’ve spent a glorious, comfortable summer running in my shorts, sweating, breathing and dreaming. I’ve run perhaps hundreds of miles on these trails in the last few months. And every moment I was full of grateful joy for the warmth and the green and the dry. Now it will all be different. Now, I will wear double long sleeves and long pants, and I will have to muffle my face to keep the crown on my left molar from freezing and giving me shooting pains that punch me in the eye. Now I will run many days on the treadmill in my garage watching videos when the rain forbids that I venture out to the trails.

But there is also another change that came home to me as I ran through the leaves last week. I’ve turned a corner. It dawned on me that when I turned forty-one this year, I became older than either of my grandmothers were when I was born. I became the oldest person in my family NOT to have a child or beyond that, a child with a child. This year, I started experiencing peri-menopausal symptoms and I noticed things sagging that never sagged before. My mortality is giving a shout out, asking me to listen. And I hear it, loud and clear.

But there is something else I hear, as well. Freedom. As I am grieving that life is so damned short, I am also more of myself than I have ever been. I may be sagging, but on the other hand, I no longer painstakingly cover my sagging body to protect others from my unsightly skin; I trust them to turn away if they must. I’ve given up watching people’s faces with every word I say to determine if they like me or if they think I’m smart or funny. I already think I’m smart and funny. And although I accidentally offend people from time to time, I apologize more easily than ever because I’m not surprised when I make a mistake. I’ve come a long way since eleventh grade.

As summer turns to fall, this year and in life, I will be crying from time to time for what will be lost. I really do prefer the sunshine and the green on the trees. But this season I’m going to wrap myself up in my running gear and, as often as I can stand it, get out into the wind and the mud and appreciate the grit and groundedness of fall, the sparse trees, the bare, basic trunks, the core without the accoutrements. I hope all of you will do the same.

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTION #5

2008-10-15T11:53:00.000-07:00

Removed by author

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTION #4

2008-09-29T15:36:00.000-07:00

Nowadays, with the economy doing belly flops, several people have asked me, “How do you pay for these trips you take to run marathons all over the world?” It’s an excellent and fair question.

Let me tell you how we do it. If more people were willing to see the world the way Bill and I travel, many people who think they can’t pull it off could afford trips overseas. Bill and I are not rich. We’re just cheap (or smart, depending on how you look at it). Here’s our advice for a traveling life-style.

1. Live to travel: To start with, traveling is a huge priority for Bill and me. We choose to live in a small condominium instead of a big, expensive house. This way, we have very few home repairs, low mortgage payments and reasonable utility bills. We also own our own old cars. My Honda has 125,000 miles on it and I plan to keep it until it’s got twice that. I credit most of our daily financial prudence to Bill. He’s a coupon-clipping, sale-watching, bargain-hunting kind of fellow – and it pays off. (It also sometimes irritates me, but that’s another blog entry.) Basically, we filter our every-day spending through the sieve of how it will impact our travel.

2. When you travel, stay close to the culture you're visiting: We almost always stay at hostels or guest houses. Most hostels have private rooms for couples. Some even have toilets and showers in the room like your run-of-the-mill motel room. The great thing about hostels and guest houses is that you usually have access to a kitchen. After we arrive at our lodgings, we go shopping. We don’t eat out every night. We buy our wine and food at the neighborhood grocery store. It’s fun to shop with local people and learn to eat what they feed their own families. I have also discovered that in a pinch, if I hate the local food, I can live for at least two weeks on peanut butter, crackers and fruit.

We always use public transportation in every location we travel to. If we’re in Chicago, we use the “L.” If we find ourselves in Berlin, we figure out the busses. This way, we rarely rent a car, or if we do, we cut the cost of gas by traveling cheaply for as much of the time as we can.

3. Look for bargains and make friends: When we go site-seeing, we work hard to look for the deals. Almost everywhere in the world, you can find a bargain if you look. If you wait to buy your theater tickets until after 3pm, for example, you might get them half-price. Or if you visit a museum on a certain day of the week, it might be free. We do a lot of research before we leave home, and we ask advice of locals once we arrive. We don’t often take official tours that cost a great deal of money, we borrow the self-guided tour pamphlets at the information desk of the museum, instead.

And we make friends. The young people who backpack around the world and stay at youth hostels are masters at saving money. They are our best resource for free deals and cheap thrills. Every friend you make when you travel is an open door to a rich experience. When we were in Australia, we made friends with the woman who drove our wine tour bus. She came back to our little motel with her own car later in the evening and took us around the county looking for kangaroos and telling us about the region. She would accept nothing from us but thanks (though we offered to buy her dinner and drinks).

If we didn’t travel the way we do, we could not possibly make our way around the world and see all the exotic places we’ve experienced. Basically, for the price of one week’s worth of gas, groceries, entertainment and espresso drinks at home, we can live in another country (minus the cost of lodging). All we have to do is get there.

Blood, Sweat and Tears: Mixing metaphors at the Adidas Panama City International Marathon

2008-08-20T21:45:00.000-07:00

I've removed the contents of this entry for a while. Some of the text will be re-worked in my book. I'll post a revised version at some point....

Coming soon - Panama City race report

2008-08-14T06:55:00.000-07:00

Stay tuned for a full report on the marathon. I only have a moment at a internet cafe just now. I wanted at least to report that Bill finished in a little over 4 hours and I finished in 5:11:52 (that's my PR, people). The weather was warm (too humid for Bill) and at 4 hours into our race it RAINED (DUMPED)!!!!!! But it was one of the most amazing adventures of our lives. I'll give you the details when I have more time at a computer or when I get back.

Peace.

2008-08-09T14:36:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Panama City, Panama. Bill and I arrived at 10PM local time Thursday night. We've spent the last couple of days getting oriented to the city and acclimating to the humidity.

Those of you who have followed my winter complaints (aching teeth, frozen hands, runny nose) will be relieved that I will NOT be complaining about the heat now that I am here in deep Central America. No, I'm quite happy to be warm for a change and look forward to a nice long run in 90% humidity tomorrow morning at five AM.

As always, we have learned some quick lessons about the country we are in. We've learned, for example, that in Panama City, traveling by taxi is by far the most efficient way to get from point A to point B, and that taxi rides are not for the faint of heart. In fact the whole traffic scene, even for the pedestrian, is a trip! Yesterday Bill advised me regarding the best method for crossing a street (and those of you who know us well will recognize Bill's advising me on street-crossing as a recurring theme in our relationship) saying, "Tuck yourself behind some locals and let them lead the way."

Since information on the marathon is in short supply, we don't know if the traffic will be re-routed during the race or if we'll spend the whole 42 K tucking ourselves behind locals to make it to the finish line.

I've also learned that many of the roads don't have signs. For me, as a back-of-the-packer, unmarked roads can prove to be very troublesome. If the course isn't marked or if the volunteers are not plentiful and/or helpful, I may need to find my own way on the course.

Today I started to worry about how, with my limited Spanish I would be able to find my way to the finish line if I find myself alone on the course. To assuage my concern, Bill suggested we create a "safety plan." When you run slowly in a foreign country with a language barrier, I have learned from unfortunate experiences that a safety plan is crucial.

Here is my safety plan for tomorrow.

Along with water and energy gel, I will carry:

1. A map of the course, for what it is worth,
2. A list of locations (such as our hostel and the address of the finish line) with phonetic spellings beside the actual spellings of all words,
3. A list of Spanish phrases that will help me communicate with passers-by or volunteers,
4. Five dollars for a taxi.

Tomorrow morning at what is three AM for my friends on the West coast, Bill and I will be starting the Panama International Marathon. About five hours after that, with any luck, I'll be crossing the finish line. Send us your good vibes (and a good sense of direction for me) and stay tuned for the race report. If I'm not too trashed, you'll get it tomorrow night. If I'm over the edge with exhaustion, I'll post it when(ish) we get home on August 18th.

Peace!

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTION #3

2008-07-30T04:37:00.000-07:00

Q: Which continents have you already done and where are you going next?

A: This is, of course, the most common question I get regarding the seven marathons quest we’re on. Our first continent was Europe. Five years ago, Bill asked me to take a three week trip with him to visit the Czech Republic. He’d made some contact with distant relatives and invited me to tag along and, oh, how about we run a marathon while we’re there???

I insisted on a walk/run routine for that first marathon in Prague. It hurt like hell anyhow, and I wasn’t convinced I’d ever “run” another marathon. Four years (two dogs and a marriage license) later, Bill called me at work and suggested we divert our summer vacation plans to Australia so we could run a little race with only 31 participants. I’d always wanted to go to Australia, so I agreed. It was while I was training for this Australian marathon that I really got on board with the idea of running seven marathons on seven continents. I still wasn’t in love with running (that’s only started to happen this summer), but I started to get the hang of it, to see and appreciate the ways it was teaching me about myself and about life. That’s why, shortly after we got back from Australia, I started training for a marathon on North America and writing about the Seven Marathons project. Bill had already completed several full marathons here at home, so he supported me in my training for the Whidbey Island Marathon, which I completed a few months ago (as chronicled below).

As I said, this summer I’ve had a shift in my running. Even after the Whidbey race, I still felt that I would enjoy the traveling more than the marathoning. I also felt that, although I knew I would be a runner the rest of my life, I would probably only do the seven full marathons and then I’d stick to shorter races and running on the trails around my home. This summer, however, Bill and I decided to take a trip. We wanted to spend some time on a beach someplace inexpensive and warm, so we started to look at Central America and guess what? Panama has a marathon in August!

I took a look at the map and tried to barter Panama into South America, but it wouldn’t go. Nope, Panama is Central America. That’s not one of the continents – and yet I found myself wanting to run there. So I started to train and found that my pace had quickened and my legs were strong and I was looking forward to my morning runs. We’re off in a few days to Panama; we run on August 10th. It’s the rainy (and hot) season there now – should be an interesting experience.

As for our other races, we have a tentative plan to complete three of the four remaining marathons in 2009. On January 25th, we plan to run the Tateyama Wakashio Marathon in Bellingham’s sister city in Japan. Then in June, we’re hoping to take a whirlwind trip ticking off two more continents: The Mt. Kilimanjaro Marathon in Tanzania in mid June and either Rio de Janeiro (at the end of June, 2009) or the Sao Paulo Marathon (at the beginning of June) in Brazil. The exact dates on these marathons are yet to be announced. We’ve chosen these races based mostly on their likely or proposed dates and because they’re in locations we’d both like to visit.

As you might imagine, planning this kind of international travel is a huge undertaking, and several things need to fall in place for us to be able to pull it off. We’ll have to get time off of work, squeeze a bunch of money out of a tight budget, get Yellow Fever shots and get into damn good shape. But what fun! What adventure!

Now, you’ll be counting on your fingers at this point and you’ll shortly realize that I have named only six continents (plus one extra marathon in Central America). So the next question is always, “What’s the deal with Antarctica? Is there really a marathon there?” And the answer is yes, but it’s not a simple yes. As far as we can tell based on our research (and if anyone out there has more information, let me know), there are a couple of tour groups that organize marathon experiences on the great icy continent and they aren’t easy to sign up for because they book up quickly. They’re expensive, too, so we’re saving Antarctica for last, but I promise to keep you posted when we have firm plans.

Next question?

Frequently asked question #2

2008-07-07T15:38:00.000-07:00

Q: So do you lose a lot of weight when you train for a marathon?

A: I get asked this question often. We are a culture obsessed with weight and weight loss, after all. I don’t know what other people experience, but for me the answer is no.

I was raised on a diet of macaroni and cheese and sugar corn pop cereal by parents who didn’t have any kind of regular exercise regime in their own lives. I wriggled out of PE classes anyway I could while I was growing up (mononucleosis in Jr. High, driver’s education in high school) and started to see the scale creeping ever closer to the two-hundred mark by the time I was twenty.

Since there is a lot of obesity in my family, I was getting scared – certainly by the way I thought I looked, but mostly by what I saw were the effects of the struggle in my family. I’d watched my grandmother go through a gastric bypass surgery so she could drop a hundred pounds only to suffer from numerous other physical ailments I’m convinced were due to lack of nutrition. I’d watched my sweet aunt suspend aspects of her life because the person she was on the inside was weighed down by obesity and constant physical pain. I didn’t want this for my life, but I didn’t know how to stop it from happening. In those early years, I had made only a vague connection between food, exercise and body weight. I mostly connected food with comfort and ate to fill up empty spaces inside of my heart, not so much to nourish my body.

Then, in community college, I took an aerobics dance class because I needed a PE credit for my associate’s degree. In one quarter, I watched myself shrink by ten pounds without changing my eating habits in the least. I also felt my energy and joy increase. The next quarter I took another class. It turned out that I liked to dance and I liked to move my body. During this second quarter of aerobics, I added a meal schedule to my efforts. As opposed to skipping meals all day and binging before bed, I began eating exactly four times a day: morning, noon and evening, plus a snack. Fifteen more pounds disappeared without any suffering or hunger on my part. By the time I graduated, I had dropped from 175 pounds to 133 pounds.

And that is where I have stayed for more than twenty years. Some of those years I’ve been more fit than other years, but my weight has remained the same (with a brief increase in grad school and a brief decrease during my divorce).

I am five foot six inches tall. I wear a size six or eight – depending on what time of the month it is or where I buy my clothes. Occasionally, I gain or lose one or two pounds, but always bounce back to 133. I’m as average as they come.

At times, I admit, it has actually felt discouraging to work as hard as I have worked to train for these long races and scarcely lose an ounce. Everyone says, “Muscle weighs more than fat.” Yes, but I’m sure I still have enough fat to lose to displace the weight gain due to muscle increase. I’m not immune to thinking that being skinnier and skinnier is what the goal should be. I’m no different than all the other women I know who wish their butts were less jiggly or that their thighs were more shapely. In my case, it’s my stomach I wish were flatter.

Still, in this running process, I’m working toward being content with my body as it is. I don’t want to eat less than I do. And I don’t want to run so I will LOOK better. I run for a hundred complex reasons that have to do with who I AM and how it makes me FEEL. If I lost ten or even twenty pounds I might be lighter on my feet – maybe even increase my running pace a bit. But I’d also have to cut back on my calories, not eat when I’m hungry or cut out some of the things that make my taste buds feel happy. Instead, I want to work toward striking a balance between using food as a comfort to my heart and as a way of nourishing my body. I believe that our bodies rather than fashion magazines should guide us as to what is healthy for each of us. This is where my body wants to be – at 133 pounds.

Now, there’s no doubt that I could add more grains and fresh veggies to my diet. My digestive process loves it when I get my roughage. I’m not giving myself an excuse here not to continue to improve the way I care for my body with nutrition. In fact, a few weeks ago, I visited my naturopath and was advised to cut cheese out of my diet altogether for a while as an experiment to see if dairy is clogging me up (and I’m thinking about it). I’m only saying that, as I get older and as I run more miles, the weight loss isn’t my measure for health and well-being.

A lot of people do lose weight when they train for a marathon. I applaud them if that’s their goal (as long as it’s healthy and not obsessive). I stay the same – and tentatively, a little more every day, I applaud that, too. I want to run because running is power – an invitation to dream and breathe and feel alive with visceral knowledge of self – not so I can look better in my swimming suit or have a smaller waistline. I want this for everyone. So if you can run, just run and let your body find its happy place. If you can’t run do whatever makes you feel alive and let your body find its happy place.

Frequently Asked Question #1

2008-06-06T15:36:00.000-07:00

Between races, I thought I might answer some frequently asked questions. As I talk with people about running, non-runners or beginners have asked me several recurring questions. How do you keep your body going for so long? Do you lose a lot of weight while you’re training for a marathon? Why is it important to taper after your longest training run? What do you think about while on the trails for all those hours? How do you choose the races you’re going to run? And, of course, the ever-present confusion: Why do you run? I’d like to start with the “how” and work my way toward the “why.” So here goes.

Q: How do you keep your body going for a four or five hour run?

A: To me there are three keys to keeping up my 12-minute mile pace for the many hours I’m on the trail. Even a half-marathon takes me more than two hours, so I’ve had to figure out how to run through lunch while others are already in the recovery tent. Here are my essentials: peanut butter toast, water and energy gel.

Of course the food I eat all week before a long run is important, but I’ve never been very good at keeping to an overly nutritious diet for any length of time (that will be my new year’s resolution next year, I swear), so I depend on my breakfast before a race or a long training run more than dinner the night before. Here I’d like to offer a disclaimer and say that I am in NO WAY telling other runners what to eat. I have no training in nutrition and one could indisputably argue that I would be a much better runner if I got some advice on the topic. I’m merely speaking to what I actually do. And what I actually do is make myself a piece of peanut butter toast with half a banana on top about two hours before I start my run. I don’t like to feel hungry, and peanut butter seems to keep that feeling at bay for me in a way that oatmeal or even eggs don’t.

The second key to keeping me running is liquid. I prefer water to sports drinks, and I like to put a little sugar free lemonade flavored powder mix into my squeeze bottle just to entice my taste buds as I plug along. Usually twenty ounces will get me about ten miles if I’m well hydrated before I start. I’ve heard it recommendations about what a runner should drink for each mile she runs. I just drink when I’m thirsty and it usually works out.

Perhaps the most important element that keeps me moving is the energy gel I keep in the pocket of my running pouch that bounces against my behind. At about an hour into a race or a training run, those peanut butter toast carbs start to wear out. They leave me, like an unreliable boyfriend, alone and tired and spent, feeling older than my age. Fortunately, there is a quick fix in my back pocket, a fix that, once in my veins, brings me a renewed feeling of well-being, a blessed half hour, 45 minutes, perhaps, of energy. But you have to be serious about your running to be willing to suck the stuff down because it’s nasty shit.

Do you know the feeling of phlegm in your throat, say, when you have a nasty cold? When you’re hacking up the congestion from your lungs? This burst of energy in my back pocket comes in this form – of a snotty, slimy substance laced with the flavor of its foil packaging and the sweat on my hands. When it’s time, I dig one out of my pouch, hold the packet in my right hand and rip it open with my teeth.

I usually have “Orange Cream” and “Vanilla Bean” in my arsenal. Really, the flavoring serves only to distract from the consistency of the stuff long enough to get one swallow down a parched throat. I often gag as I squeeze it into my mouth, and a trace of it sometimes misses my lips and dribbles onto my chin. I wipe it with the back of my hand and then feel sticky as well as sweaty for the next hours of my run.

Like a tube of toothpaste, I roll the package from the bottom, wrap my mouth around the opening and squeeze the remains in. I always “eat” Vanilla Bean first, my “favorite,” if you will, because at least it reminds me of cake frosting at first squirt. Only upon swallowing am I reminded of the texture of raw oysters or lard.

But once I’ve got it down and washed my mouth with a swig of flavored water, I feel the caffeine and sugar trickle into my veins. Sweet, grateful relief! The exhausted tingling in my fingers disappears. My limbs come alive, the spring in my step bounces back. My mind grows alert, and I am once again able to lift my head and my thighs. I swing my arms through the air to give me momentum. My hope of finishing my run returns. I feel alive again for another three quarters of an hour. Then I pull out my Orange Cream and start over.

Each little packet of gel has 100 calories, which is about what I burn every mile while I’m running. During a marathon I might eat four or five packets just to keep me moving.

Hopefully this answers the question about the physical issue of how to keep going. Stay tuned for the “how to” of the mental challenge. And let me know if you have questions you want me to address.

Meeting Dean

2008-05-15T13:44:00.000-07:00

“Being a champion meant not quitting, no matter how tough the situation became and no matter how badly the odds seemed stacked against you. If you had the courage, stamina and persistence to cross the finish line, you were a champion.” - Dean Karnazes, in UltraMarathon Man: Confessions of an all-night runner

To me, Dean Karnazes, ultra-runner, is a hero. Certainly he is an extraordinary athlete – and for that alone I am in deep awe, but I admire him for more than that. Dean made a conscious decision in his early thirties to listen to what the sound of his own footsteps pounding on the pavement was saying to him. He bucked the corporate system, turned his back on simple definitions of success and embraced a lifestyle of personal authenticity.

That’s the kind of person I want to be. All my life I’ve wanted to be a writer and I’ve wanted to see all the continents of the earth. I’ve known this since I was eight years old. One weekend, my family took a trip to Ocean Shores, a town right on Washington’s coast. I’ll never forget my first time seeing the Pacific Ocean. I’d grown up on the Puget Sound, which is the Ocean’s water flowing into a large inlet, passed the San Juan Islands, all the way down to the inverted elbow that curves around to make the fist of the Olympic Peninsula. I’d looked across this water toward the Olympic Peninsula and its snow-capped mountain range every day that I could remember, but I wasn’t prepared for what was on the other side of those mountains.

There I sat, a tiny girl on a large driftwood log, looking at a body of water that had no end. I was frightened by it. The roar of it was thunderous to my tender ears. Where did it go? Why couldn’t I see any land out there? The wild, untamable enormity of it made me cry.

That night, by the luminescence of a flashlight, I wrote my first poem about the largeness of the earth and the formidable vastness of the Ocean, which defied my understanding. I’ve lost the original poem by now (probably in a house fire we had when I was eleven), but I remember that it was eight lines and it had an a/b/a/b rhyme scheme – as most first poems do.

When we returned from our camping trip, I started announcing that I was going to travel the world and become a writer. As you might expect, even though I was a very young child and nowhere near the point of having to choose a college major, some of the adults in my life hastened to enlighten me that writing was no way to make a living and that I’d eventually have to dream up other options for myself. “Cowgirl” and “movie star” came to mind, but fortunately I never shared these career ambitions out loud.

A few grown-ups in my life got on board. My great Aunt Margaret bought me a journal and my dad’s brother, Uncle Bruce, got me a subscription to The Writer Magazine. It was over my head, of course, but I knew it meant that he took me seriously, and I loved when it arrived in the mailbox each month as a reminder that someone had believed me when I said I wanted to be a writer.

As life marched on, I was indeed called upon to make some career choices and “writer” did indeed appear to be a rather less than practical option. I contented myself with becoming an English teacher and encouraging my students to write. Later, when that no longer hit the mark for me, I became a therapist who listens to my clients’ stories and helps them articulate and have the courage to follow their own hopes and dreams.

But this year, as I have been reading Dean Karnazes’ brave leaps of faith into living out his impractical passions, I simultaneously began writing about my life which, at the moment, is a lot about training for and running long distance races all around the world.

Dean’s story of moving from stuckness to adventure and personal risk have resonated with me. More than that, his story has shouted at me to seize each day and be alive. Just as there came a moment for him when he stepped out the door in his boxers and old sneakers to go for his first long run in more than a decade, this year I’ve made a commitment to myself to run and write and travel. I’ve decided to take the first steps to write about the relationship between the marathon life for a back-of-the-pack, non-athletic, trudging-along-and-finishing-by-the-skin-of-my-teeth runner and life in general. And as I go, I believe what Dean says is true: If you do it, hard as it is, and cross the line at the end, you’re a champion.

Feeling this connection with his story as I do, you can imagine my elation when Bill forwarded me a message from the Ultramarathon Man himself. I’ve never been one to chase after meeting celebrities, but I knew Dean Karnazes would be at the finish line of the Whidbey Island Marathon, and I hoped to shake his hand and thank him for writing his story. I missed him, of course, due to my late arrival at the finish line (see below). But unbeknownst to me, Bill had communicated by email with Dean, telling him of my disappointment at missing out on the chance to meet him on Whidbey Island. Dean graciously responded with the following note:

Dear Cami,
I am so sorry to have missed you at the Whidbey Island Marathon. When I heard about your endeavor to run a marathon on every continent, I am sure we are kindred spirits! Cami, you are a tremendous inspiration. Please, never stop! I look forward to the time that our paths meet. Until then, keep going strong!!
Warmest regards,
Dean Karnazes

I was delighted. Dean had taken the time to read my blog and then said we were kindred spirits! Naturally, during my run later that day, I floated easy on my feet, with the idea that I might be kindred spirits with a running legend like Dean. But as I think about it, it’s certainly not only the running that makes me feel connected to him. In fact, as is well documented, I don’t find running that easy. I’m not always in love with it, not often eager to get outside in the elements and work my body hard. It is in the desire to live life with guts and personal truth that makes me feel like a kindred spirit with him and with others who live out their crazy ideas of happiness.

Later that week, after getting Dean’s note, Bill informed me that Dean would be in our town for a new ultra-marathon. We decided to take a trip to the finish line and see if we could catch him and thank him for his kindness. We waited after the awards’ presentation for a long while, finally decided we’d missed him again and started to make our way toward our car. On the way out we saw him. I felt shy, but I introduced myself and thanked him for his message to me and for his book. Dean was gracious and encouraging to both of us.

As I’ve reflected on these encounters, one thought keeps arising. We all have opportunity to share our gifts with others, but only if we embrace them ourselves. Only if I follow what calls to me – running, writing, traveling – will the gift of my life be a gift I can offer others. Dean, I hope you know the gift you are to your readers and fellow runners. Thank you!

Highlights from the Boston Marathon

2008-04-26T13:20:00.000-07:00

I had never been to Boston before last week, but I was excited to go. I was done with my own marathon training for the moment which gave me the freedom to take a little break from running and to focus on my cheerleading duties. Bill was trained up and ready for the 112th annual Boston Marathon!

We flew out of Bellingham on Thursday. We spent the afternoon in Boston on Friday, mostly at the convention center for the race expo collecting samples of energy foods and pamphlets for other interesting races around the world. Here we were able to check out the Antarctica Marathon trip and talk with travel company representatives about when their next openings will be to cruise from Argentina to the Southern most continent for a glacial running experience (I guess we’ll have to wait until 2010 – darn!). On Friday night, we drove West on the Massachusetts Turnpike to spend the weekend with friends from Seattle who had recently re-located to the East coast. For two days we enjoyed stimulating conversation and amazing homemade vegetarian lasagna (thanks J and R).

But by Sunday, pre-marathon jitters were starting to hit Bill. I don’t get these jitters the way Bill does. I get overwhelmed with terror that I won’t be able to finish at all and drown said terror with wine and cheese the week before I run (which may, in part, explain both my race times and the reason why I put on five pounds whenever I train for a long race). Bill, in contrast, gets a particularly physical experience of nervousness: upset stomach, inability to sleep, compulsive packing and re-packing of his race bag. When the jitters started late Sunday afternoon, I sent him to bed early.

I had my own worries about Monday’s race to contend with. I had to make my way by car, train and on foot to various locations along the marathon route to cheer for Bill who, in all likelihood, would not be able to distinguish my voice from the rest of the throng of cheering fans.

Let me pause and set the scene of the frenzy that is the Boston Marathon. More than 21,000 runners and their families had flown in from around the planet and descended upon the city. Patriots Day, a Massachusetts holiday for which no one seems to know the origin, is also called “Marathon Monday” (as decried by banners hung on lampposts all over town). Streets and subway stops were closed down for the event. Churches offered “marathon blessing services” for runners. And fans numbering over one million lined the course early with coolers and cow bells and megaphones ready to shout out to any runner who had taken the time to write his or her name on an arm or leg in waterproof ink. All this was just the beginning of the chaos. Helicopters swarmed overhead prepared to track the progress of elite and/or famous race participants, and thousands of police and volunteers stood guard over the marathon route ready to prevent fans from interfering with the runners. Reportedly (I never verified this), there was beer offered at at least one aid station and at another, young women offered kisses to sweaty runners who cared to slow down in order to partake.

As I took all of this in Monday morning, after dropping Bill at the start, I was flooded with concern – OK, panic – that I would not be able to negotiate the crowds and the trains and the convoluted instructions in Bill’s race packet about where I could watch him and how I could find him in this crazy sea after the race. The highway leading to the park and ride where I would catch my first train (to get to my first viewing point at mile 17) was backed up for miles. I waited for an hour and a half just to park the rental car.

When I finally parked, purchased a train ticket and boarded the train, I was greatly comforted to find at least a dozen other dazed travelers looking for mile 17. A woman from Ohio told me her husband should be coming through at noon. Another woman asked me where I was from and learning I came from Seattle (that’s what we say when we travel since no one has heard of Bellingham) pointed dramatically at me and shouted across the train to a bleary-eyed couple sitting near the back of the car, “Hey, this lady’s from Seattle too!” We meekly waved at each other, grateful to be strangers in a strange land from the same part of the globe.

“My daughter’s running,” one man offered into my elbow proudly.

“We came from Sweden,” the woman sitting next to him responded. “My son is running. It is only his fourth marathon.”

“You win,” I said. “You came the farthest of anyone I’ve talked to so far.”

But after we all tumbled out of the train and took a short walk to the race course and jostled for places on the sidelines where we might be able to see the runners, I discovered fellow fans from other places in the world including a woman originally from West Africa, now living in England.

I have to admit to being slightly baffled. Why were we all here? I just ran a “hella” hard marathon the last weekend in my own backyard. I think I could argue that the Whidbey Island course was at least ten times as hilly and difficult as this Boston course would be. And there had been probably only, say, 60 fans along the whole way for me. So clearly, I lamented, the difficulty of the feat has no bearing on how much glory one gets for the accomplishment! It’s just another example of how the marathon adventure, like so many things in life worth doing, has to be motivated by something personal and intrinsic and not by the accolades you may or may not get from others.

In any case, I was here to add my screams and praise to the mounting excitement of the crowd.

The thing is, it really is profoundly awe-inspiring to watch the elite frontrunners if you ever have the chance. In spite of all the time I wasted parking, I was at my post in time to see the women, who started early at 9:30 am, and then, not far behind, the elite men fly by. These guys came through so quickly that I didn’t have time to snap a picture of anything but the bicycles that protectively trailed them, but I had enough time to see the way their taught skin flexed over their perfectly sculpted muscles and to admire the way they seemed to perform each stride as if it were the most poignant step in an exquisite ballet.

After the pros came through, there was a break in the action and then the first wave of starters (with the blue bibs) began trickling past us. A woman standing next to me was receiving text messages announcing her sister’s progress in 10 K intervals. I’d never heard of this and wished I had signed up for this service so I could calculate exactly when Bill would be coming through. Bill was in the second wave of runners (with red bibs) that started at 10:30, so I knew I had a long while to wait. I used the calculator on my cell phone to figure out that he would be passing mile 17 at or around 12:45, so I settled in to enjoy the show.

A large group of people decked out in purple shirts and Dr. Seuss hats (the Doctor was born in Massachusetts) stood on a street corner to the right of me and chanted enthusiastically to every runner who came through wearing the trademark purple Leukemia Team uniforms. Before arriving in Boston for the event, I thought the only way to run in the marathon was to qualify, but as it turns out, there are also charity teams allowed to enter who raise funds for their various causes.

At about an hour and fifty minutes into the first wave, helicopters began swarming above us. “Lance must be coming,” the woman tracking her sister by text messages said to me. We had been trying to guess when Lance Armstrong would be coming through. I had read that he was going to try and run the race in 2:45.

“Then our friend, Jason, will be coming too,” I said. Jason had told Bill he thought he might see Lance on the route since he was shooting for a similar finish time. I blinked my eyes and when I opened them there was a wave of yellow sailing past me.

“There he is,” my new friend said.

“Where?” I strained to get a glimpse of Lance, but all I could see was an entourage of buff young men encircling something – or someone. And then I saw Jason, not twenty yards behind Lance’s posse. Jason and his wife, Laura were at most of the races Bill and I ran. We had had the privilege of watching both of their times improve with almost every run, but Jason’s PR to date was 2:59 – and here he was tracking Lance, looking like it took no effort at all to run four minutes a kilometer. “Jason! Jason!” I screamed. “You look great! Whoooo!!!” I knew he couldn’t make out my voice in the crowd, but I was thrilled. “I know him!” I told the woman beside me with pride, as if I knew Lance, himself.

Almost an hour later, having been on my feet for two and half hours (it’s hard to complain when you’re watching marathoners, but my back was aching), I saw Bill’s slightly bow-legged stride coming around the bend. I hadn’t remembered to look to see what color shirt he would be wearing or to take note of his bib number, so I was lucky to spot him in an unusually large group. He was running on my side of the road, and since I had recently nudged some observers out of the way so I could position myself against the guard rail, I had a good view of him. I started shouting his name and flailing my arms, “Bill!! You’re doing great! You look good. Bill!!” With a sudden intuition (he told me later he couldn’t hear me yelling his name) he turned and spotted me, waving back and shooting me a broad smile.

I thought this meant that he was feeling good. His knee must not be bothering him and he must be having a strong go of it.

Sadly, this is all I saw of Bill’s race – thirty seconds, a wave and his butt jogging away toward what the Bostonians call “Heartbreak Hill.”

It was time for me to leave my new pals and cram myself into a train and ride into the downtown area. Once there, I had to weave my way through six blocks of detours just to cross the street only to discover that I couldn’t get within a mile of the finish line. Then, I had to get lost among twenty thousand marathon finishers all wearing the same foil blankets and to fight an anxiety attack when Bill didn’t show up in the designated family meeting area even an hour after his race should have been done.

When he finally arrived under the letter of his last name in the family area, I was so grateful to see him that I cried. He’d had a good race time (3:42, which qualified him for next year’s race), but it had been a harder race for him than I had guessed. At 15 miles he had gotten sick and had to take a four-minute break at a port-o-potty (I didn’t ask what happened in there, but four minutes in an outhouse is never pleasant). And the hill had felt much longer than he remembered from the first time he ran the race in 2002. He had spent an extra long time in the recovery area stretching and rehydrating before making his way to the family area because he was still fighting a mild nausea.

I didn’t bore him with my navigational trials until much later when we both had a couple of drinks under our respective belts and his queasy stomach was just a memory. At that point I told him that I had concluded small races were more fun for fans and big races were more fun for runners. Bill agreed with me, of course. In the past eight days he’d gotten to be a fan at a small race and a runner in a big one – the best of both worlds.

We climbed in bed that night, both having earned our exhaustion, excited to wake up the next day and check finishing times in the paper.

Finishing times that interested us:
2:07:46 – Robert Cheruiyut – Men’s #1 finisher – from Kenya
2:25:25 – Dire Tune – Women’s #1 finisher – from Ethiopia
2:50:58 – Lance Armstrong – famous cyclist wearing yellow
2:56:02 – Jason – awesome runner – I know him!
3:42:28 – Bill – my #1 finisher – from Bellingham

Uphill Journey - The Whidbey Island Marathon

2008-04-15T21:10:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you about the Whidbey Island Marathon. Saturday, we took a drive down to the race expo to pick up my race packet and decided to drive the course so I would know where I was going in case, as in the Birch Bay run, the volunteer force was diminished by the time I came through and there was no one handy to show me the way. After getting lost or nearly lost in Prague, Mudgee, and Birch Bay, I’ve learned my lesson: Study the route.

As Bill drove, following the course map, pointing out the turns, I kept repeating, “Holy shit! Another hill.” The course was up, up, flat, up, down, up, up, up, down, up, up, flat, up, up and so on. I’d heard this course had hills, but every time I brought it up during my training, Bill would reassure me, “It’s no worse than Mudgee. You’ll do fine.” But now I was seeing with my own eyes that this race was much hillier than Mudgee. Bill continued to tell me that it would be no problem, even as we put the car in second gear up the mile-long hills I would have to traverse the next day.

Self-doubt is a tenacious little monster, isn’t it? A thousand other people can tell you you’re great, or capable, or smart, or strong – but ONLY your opinion of yourself can chase away self-doubt. I fought with that doubt as we continued to drive the route, vacillating between, “I’m trained well. I know I can do it,” and “You’re hosed. Those hills are going to kick your ass.”

“Well, I guess I can walk if I have to,” I concluded as we sped past Oak Harbor High School where the finish line would be. I would fall back on my motto: I don’t have to be good or fast, only committed.” So, although I had hopes of beating or at least matching my time from my last marathon, I could see it was unlikely, and I fell back on my belief that “doing” is more important than “winning” or, in my case, “not sucking.”

I managed to sleep on Saturday night and get myself up in time to dress, drive to Starbucks and order a double, short, sugar-free cinnamon soy latte and make it to the starting line ready to run for more than five hours. Bill caught a glimpse of Dean Karnazes, the Ultra-marathon Man, crossing the starting line just before I came through.

The course was beautiful (hills notwithstanding) with rolling fields and glimpses of the harbor, and the weather was at least partially cooperative, sprinkling only a little rain on me at about mile 17, but the highlight of the race was running with a man I met along the way at about mile 12 who, with his own determination and commitment to the marathon, took my self-doubt, crumpled it in a little ball like used foil and tossed it off to the side of the road. His name is Mel and he is seventy-five years old. Bill had pointed him out to me before the race began, so I knew a little about him when I caught up to him on one of the rare flat points in the race.

He ran with hunched shoulders and his head tucked down and thrust forward with determination. Mel’s pace was actually slightly slower than my own, but I was happy to reduce my speed to have a talk with him while I recovered from one of the hills we had just conquered.

“Hey. How’s it going?” I asked as we settled in side by side.

“So far, so good,” he answered.

“I heard this is like number four hundred for you.”

“No. Only three-hundred and thirty one,” he corrected. This didn’t change my awe. How, and more importantly, why, does anyone run hundreds of marathons?

“When did you start running?” I asked.

“I didn’t start until I was fifty,” he told me. It turns out that he had watched his father throw his hands up and let life go “down hill,” at fifty. Mel had decided that fifty was the time to start playing, and for him that meant running. “Yep. The first year I ran one marathon and hurt so badly afterwards that I told myself I’d never do it again.” I knew the feeling. “But I recovered. And so the next year I ran two, and the year after that four. The year I retired from work I ran more than twenty.”

I looked over at him. He wasn’t any taller than I, and he was of average build. His posture wasn’t great, and he was breathing heavily enough for me to worry that this could be his last race. But he wasn’t slowing down. The more we talked, in fact, it seemed to me, the faster he ran. “Last February,” he went on, “I fell out of a tree and hurt myself. Had to take some time off.” He had just started up running again in the past few months. The last week he’d run a race in Yakima, this week the Whidbey Island Marathon and next weekend he would do Wenatchee. The goal was to run without walking. This is how he would know he was back up to speed, despite the pain he had in the hip he’d broken falling out of the tree and the pain he had in the other hip from accommodating his broken side.

We ran silently together for a while. I contemplated the privilege I felt running next to Mel and made a conscious decision to put aside my self-indulgent worry that the hills on this course were going to make me miserable. Maybe they would, but I was just getting started in this life. The journey was hard for all of us, but if Mel could do it, with his chipped hip and his seven and a half decades of life, I would do it, too, and be grateful that I was on my feet.

I bid him goodbye and ran ahead on the next downhill. There is little exchanging of names during a race, I’ve noticed. People cross paths, just this once in their lives, during a brutal endeavor that takes every ounce of focus. Those of us who run slowly enough to hold conversations with one another do so in virtual anonymity. We want the camaraderie in the moment, but the commitment is to the task, not to the relationship at hand. Mel wouldn’t know who I was or how our discussion challenged me to stop my internal whining.

Most of the rest of the race I ran alone. I started to hurt at mile 21, a gigantic uphill that was followed by a steep, fast down before the beautiful homes and beachfront of the West Beach Road came into view. I took the downhill slowly to save my knees and when I finally reached the flat stretch that rode along the water, I saw Bill’s smiling face coming toward me in the other direction. I was thrilled and grateful to see him. He replenished my water and snapped a few pictures and, most importantly, gave me a push up the second to last hill before running ahead to meet me at the finish line.

When you run slowly, like me – or Mel – the finish line isn’t what it is for the people at the center of the pack. There are no crowds, little cheering, and sometimes, all the food has been eaten. The awards ceremony is over and the port-o-potties are being hauled away. This is the scene I saw at the finish line as I came in on Sunday. Even Dean Karnazes had departed the event, leaving the back-of-the-packers to ourselves.

You have to have an internal locus of celebration, I have decided. You have to let your own sense of accomplishment serve as the reward for the long journey you’ve just traversed. I crossed the finish line of the Whidbey Island Marathon at five hours and thirty-one minutes. I took my medal, grabbed a bottle of water and continued walking for about twenty minutes, stopping to stretch now and again, to prevent my legs from cramping. Bill was there to take my picture and offer a high five – and to drive me home, back to our lives.
I did it!!

I checked the race results on the web, by the way, and Mel came in at five hours and fifty-five minutes.

I DID IT!!!!

2008-04-14T08:37:00.000-07:00

Stay tuned for details and pictures.

The "Tail End" of My Training

2008-04-06T21:03:00.000-07:00

Well, one week till the big event! Think of me next Sunday between 8:00 AM and 1:15 PM. I’ll be out there on Whidbey Island with hundreds of others willing my body to repeat the same motion for over five hours.

Send your thoughts, prayers, intentions, or whatever influence you have in the universe to the weather gods and insist on NO rain or wind, if you don’t mind.

I’ll be spending this week eating pasta, stretching, drinking water, peeing, drinking water, peeing and syncing my iPod. Saturday, Bill and I will drive down to the race Expo where, hopefully, I’ll get to meet Dean Karnazes (you know, Ultra-marathon Man). Of course, meeting Dean will be only one of hundreds of opportunities to feel inferior next week, but it will be worth it to get a real-life glimpse of his perfectly engineered physique.

I was reflecting on “physiques” this week and thinking about how the one thing you get to see at the back of the pack that you don’t get to see at the front is the variety in the human ass.

At the front of the pack you encounter only one kind of ass, really – the ass that is taut and muscular, that moves obediently in concert with the rest of the body. The gluteus maximus is fully engaged and flexed with each stride as the finishing touch after the calf muscles and the hamstrings have done their part. At the back of the pack we run differently and the renegade ass has a life of its own. The leg muscles do the work of moving the body forward and the job of the ass is to bounce, in its entirety, up and then down with each stride, so that the skin feels the impact.

From the back I have seen the behinds of many an interestingly shaped personage (and I can’t deny that my shape may be equally as unusual as some of those which have passed me, but, let’s be honest, there aren’t many runners on my tail). I have seen the wide, cellulite-laden bum, the flat but round rump, the breech of the well proportioned thick-stumped person, the bubble fanny, and the dangling duff, among others, all shoot ahead of me. At first I was alarmed by this. Should not fitness, size and proportion (or age, for that matter) bear some resemblance to one another, giving visual cues as to who should seed herself near the starting line and who should linger further back? Should not the skinny people move forward in the pack and the plumper ones meander behind? But this is not the case! Not only have I seen the larger variety of asses at the back, but the smaller and the lankier ones as well. Tall, elongated buns and tiny, compact tushes linger just in front of me near the back of the pack. What sense can be made of this?

By now, I have realized that shape and girth have almost nothing to do with speed and fitness level. We have been sold a bill of goods, taught to regard size as the measurement for, not only beauty, but health as well. As I plug along behind almost every imaginable variation of the human body in each race I run, I think, “Hogwash!” There is some other mysterious factor. Genetics? Training? Diet? Determination? I don’t know.

What I do know is that the longer I’ve been running, the greater admiration I have for the people who join me, some of them against their better judgment, no doubt, or against the jeers of friends or family who have said, “YOU, run a marathon? Ha!” Each ass that passes me has a story about how it got started and why it is doing this crazy thing we are all doing together – and yet alone. And those stories, when I get to hear them, inspire me to keep running. Usually people have emotional beginnings to their running careers. Usually, the meaning at our end of the race is not in the speed but in the completion and personal sense of victory (perhaps not unlike the asses at the front of the pack).

One more week until the Whidbey Island Marathon! One more week to get my ass in gear!

The Birch Bay International Road Race

2008-03-31T20:29:00.000-07:00

Just now I sit on my sofa with my dogs. I’ve got Dancing with the Stars on the TV. Today has been a non-running day, a day off, and I earned it.

This weekend we ran the Birch Bay International Road Race 30 K (18.6 miles for those of us South of the Canadian border) on Saturday and then the “Take Back Our Trails” 5 K on Sunday (more about that later; it deserves its own entry).

On the way up to Birch Bay on Saturday morning (about a 20 minute drive northwest from our house), wet snow pelted the car and quickly melted on the windshield. Snow at the end of March is almost unheard of here, but there it was. Have I mentioned how much I hate running in the cold and the rain? Ditto for the snow, only more.

I must say that if I didn’t live in Washington State, if I hadn’t become used to, and therefore nonchalant, about our fjord-like waterways, evergreen forests, our dark, mysterious San Juan Islands and the quaint artistic communities that inhabit them, I would think of this place I live in as the most beautiful place on Earth. If I were a visitor, particularly in the Summer, and I visited the Puget Sound area on vacation, I would go home to the Midwest or California or wherever I came from, sell all my possessions (which I would need to do to accommodate the impending rise in my cost of living – it’s expensive here), pack up my family and move to the Northwest.
But I’ve been here all my life and, given to complaining and whining as I am, most days I think of this place of my birth as an overly cloudy, dark, frigid, sopping wet terrarium which intentionally persecutes me with chill and drizzle ten months of every year of my life.

Still, I work hard to appreciate the gifts nature has bestowed on us here and to see the land and the water through the eyes of visitors rather than through the eyes of Seasonal Affective Disorder. And that is why I can say that Birch Bay is one of the most picturesque communities in our area.

On this 30 Kilometer run we were about to embark on, we would take in the scenery along the bay, look across the water to get glimpses of Point Roberts, that little peninsula of America that you have to cross into Canada to get to, meander through Birch Bay State Park and pass Drayton Harbor and the resort homes that surround it. If the clouds lifted even a little, it would be a gorgeous route. I was committed to doing this race whatever the weather for three reasons. First, I needed the miles due to my failure the week before (see below). Secondly, the Whidbey Island Marathon is in two weeks on April 13th and it could still easily be pouring rain daily at that point. I’d better try to get used to it. And third, I really admire the Girls on the Run program, for which this race was raising funds, and wanted to show my support, not only by giving them my money but by being a Woman on the Run (not to be confused with a Woman who Runs with the Wolves)!

Bill and I arrived at the race start, collected our race numbers and timing chips and climbed back in the car to keep warm. We wouldn’t be running this race together but we’d start together, and he would run backwards to meet me at the end if he was feeling strong. That’s our new strategy, we run long races nowadays at our respective paces and then he comes to find me and offer moral support. This has been working well. My iPod is a good pace keeper until the very end of a long run when I feel can kill someone sooner than run another step or listen to another disco song. At that point, it’s great to have Bill’s smiling face come over a hill and hear his, “Hey beautiful. You look great.” I know he’s lying but it always effectively cheers me and gives me a little bounce back. So this was the strategy for the Birch Bay International Road Race.

At the appropriate time, we hustled up to the starting line and, when the race organizer gave the signal for us to start running, Bill and I waved goodbye to one another not to meet up again for at least three hours. By my calculations, this race would take me three hours and thirty-six minutes. The weather in Birch Bay proper was slightly better than it had been on the way up, so at least we didn’t have the heavy snow to contend with – nothing more than the cold and a slight mist off the salt water. I’d rigged a face mask out of a fleece scarf decorated with snow flakes that I wound around my neck twice and tied in the front. I pulled it up over my mouth to protect my rebellious crowned tooth as I started to run.

I jogged in front of two women who talked about the next day’s run to “Take Back Our Trails” in Bellingham. I listened intently to their conversation.

“It was ten AM on a Sunday morning when that woman was attacked,” one said.

“It’s crazy!” the other concurred. “You should be able to run at ten on a Sunday.” We all agreed. There should be rules. Ten AM on a Sunday morning is not the time to be attacked. When a woman has tucked her pony tail into her shirt so as to minimize her femininity, when she runs in the daylight on a well-traveled trail carrying her cell phone and her pepper spray, she has done her part. Did these attackers not realize they were breaking the rules, that if she had been running at ten PM alone on a secluded trail with her hair freely blowing in the wind, we would understand what she had done wrong. But on a Sunday morning!

I realized as I eavesdropped that it was absurd to be more offended by the attack because the runner had followed the woman runner’s code-of-safety-ethics, but we were. We wanted to believe we had the power to keep ourselves safe. Somehow we were forgetting, momentarily, that any attack at any time of day is an affront on a woman’s right to move about freely in her life.

I slowed and joined the conversation these two women were having and the topic shifted to which trails we ran in town and the precautions we each took to keep ourselves safe, further colluding in the illusion that there were ways of preventing being attacked.

Our pace was faster than I usually run. I asked them how far they were going and they said they were both doing only the 15 K. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep up their pace for the whole 15 K, but I was glad of the company for the time being, knowing that I would eventually be running alone.

At the four K marker, our time was 24 minutes, which meant we were cruising along at about nine-plus minutes per mile. This being almost three minutes faster than I was accustomed to running, I could only keep up with them for about another ten minutes before I had to slow down. I bid them goodbye, exchanging names with one of them who lived near me so we might meet up and run together sometime. As I plunged forward, I felt my pace was still faster than twelve minutes a mile, but I was comfortable.

I had spent my week eating carbohydrates, laying off the wine, cutting back on coffee and cheese, stretching and drinking water. My body was happy with me and cooperating accordingly. The race course, on the other hand, was not as kind. I plodded on at a decent rate (for me) not knowing how far I had gone. I kept an eye on my watch and calculated my distance based on what I thought my pace was, but there were no markers on the course. Suddenly, all the runners turned into the Birch Bay State park. I followed, ready for a change in scenery. I should have been focusing on the beauty of the place, but as I rounded a corner there, one hour and eight minutes into my run, was the 7 K marker.

I started doing calculations in my head. At the pace I was going I should have completed a 10 K by now. Did they mean 7 MILES? But there was no way I could have run 7 miles in an hour and eight minutes, even with my first three at nine minutes a mile, was there? I knew I had dropped back almost to my usual pace after 5 K. I couldn’t put it out of my mind. The times weren’t making sense to me. As we all continued on and as I dropped to the back of the 30 K pack, the few K markers placed on the course continued to baffle me. When I finally reached the half-way point I sped up to catch one of the only four runners I could see, a woman in my age group whose pace was very similar to mine.

“Do your times seem right?” I asked her when I finally reached her.

“No,” she affirmed. “I looked at the map. We missed a turn at the State Park and I figure we added about 2 K by going around it instead of through it.”

“I knew something was wrong.” I pulled out my own map and studied it as we jogged along. “There was supposed to be a turn around and we never saw that,” I said.

“Yep. We all missed the first entry to the park, so we’re going to end up going 20 miles total, I guess.”

Oh my god, I thought. This was sad poetic justice after last weekend when I cut my run short by five miles and took a ride back to my car.

“Well, I need the miles anyhow,” I said, resigning myself to the situation. What could I do about it now?

“Me too,” she agreed. She was training for the Eugene, Oregon Marathon in May.

I ran ahead again to tell the couple in front of us what had happened. I’d overheard them talking about how their pace didn’t seem right. The woman confided in me that she was worried they would get lost since the foible in the course put us further back in the pack than they had expected to be. I assured them that both the woman behind us and I had maps and that my husband would meet up with me at some point and run us in. I had been either slightly in front of or behind them since the beginning of the race, so I assumed they would track with me the rest of the way.

During the second half of the run, I struggled. We all did. My iPod turned against me at the half-way mark and completely stopped working. And the energy of the crowd couldn’t help me because there was no crowed anymore. There would be a total of 86 finishers in the 30 K, which I now thought of as the 20 Miler, and we would be among the last four to cross the finish line. I set my mind on four hours and watched the minutes tick away. The man in the couple, now running several yards behind me, got a nasty cough and, not knowing how far away our next aid station would be, I gave him some of my water.

I should be able to report on the scenic detail of this run, since I had so much time to look at it, but my mind was elsewhere – wondering if the aid stations would close down before we came along, wondering if the race organizers might even take down the finish line, wondering if I had missed the turn onto Semi-Ah-Moo Parkway while I was wondering about other things.

But my worrying was all in vain. With the exception of one deserted aid station, there were attendants at each of them and someone following us in a van to give us directions. My knees started to smart on the last major down hill, but I knew I was going to make it. Somewhere in the last four miles, I pulled ahead of the rest of my tail-end cohort and was only able to see the lone woman runner far in the distance.

I told each of the aid stations that there were three people behind me and I entrusted my fellow runners to the race organizers and volunteers. This was a mistake, it turned out.
Bill met me with only one K to go. He’d had a hard run and confirmed that most runners in the race had taken the wrong route. We ran in together and, because all the volunteers had gone home, Bill awarded me my medal as I crossed the finish line and heard my ankle chip beep. Victorious and exhausted I raised my hands in triumph, grateful to be done and sure I could pull off the Whidbey Island Marathon in two weeks (well, we’ll see, won’t we).

The race organizers congratulated me and patted me on the back as I crossed the line at 3:51:26. Panting and on the point of collapse I said, “There are three people behind me!”
“We’ve got’em,” one of the organizers told me. “We’ve been tracking with you.”

We waited as the other woman with the map came over the finish line. Bill awarded her the medal with little fanfare besides a high five from me. Next two women came around the bend together. Again Bill awarded them their medals, but I was confused. I didn’t know those two were behind me. Where was the couple I had tracked with the whole race? We waited. Nothing happened.

“There are two more,” I told the organizers as they started tearing down the tents and disassembling the timing clock.

“No, they’re all in,” someone said.

“No, they aren’t,” I argued. “There is a couple, about forty-ish. A woman with a long grey braid down her back and a man with a curly pony tail. There’s no way they came in before me.”

“We haven’t seen them.” I kept insisting that they were still out there and eventually, the race organizers took heed.

Several of us hopped in our cars and drove the course and all the possible routes this couple might have taken if they had missed a turn. No one was able to locate them. Bill and I spent almost an hour driving and re-driving the course looking for any sign of these two lost strangers.

Today, the race results do not reflect this couple’s times, and I’m still worried that they’re roaming around out in Birch Bay in search of the finish line. I know what it is like to get lost, to know you are last and to wonder if anyone takes you seriously back there, working your hardest to find your way in, knowing the awards ceremony was completed before you were half-way through. Being last is like an empty water bottle when you are thirsty, like the hunger for a missed meal. You’re longing for something that is out of your reach any time soon. I know what the fear of being left for dead smells like. It smells like the dust kicked up from others’ running shoes as they pass you, like empty power gel packets, like exhaust when the course opens back up to traffic.

If you’re out there, fellow back-of-the-packers, and somehow you read this, don’t give up the dream of the marathon you told me you were training for. Don’t let a disorganized race take the wind out from under your wings. Keep running!!!

Hitting the proverbial wall

2008-03-23T16:26:00.000-07:00

Today the rain is coming out of the sky with a vengeance. I despise running in the cold and rain. But I live in the Pacific Northwest. I live in a place that ranges between 38 and 48 very wet degrees for the better part of ten months of the year. When I run in this weather, I bundle up with several layers and don hat and gloves and rain gear. The one thing I cannot figure out how to keep warm is my face. Several years ago I had a crown put on one of the molars on my left side and a teeny, tiny bit of the root was left exposed in the process. When I run in the inclement weather, as is inevitable around here, the cold hits my face and gives me a whopping ice cream headache that will not quit. Once this happens, I have to complete my run with something like a Charlie Horse pounding behind my left eye socket. Nothing warms it up and stops the throbbing except a hot shower.
Fortunately, this weekend I had the foresight to look at the weather forecast and chose to do my long run yesterday when the temperature was at the upper end of that ten degree range and the sun was shining. The conditions were nearly perfect for what I expected to be a 21 mile run – my longest single run before the Whidbey Island Marathon (which is Sunday, April 13, by the way). I could have wished for it to be a few degrees warmer, but this would be a futile waste of brain cells. We may not see 60 degrees around here until June.
So I strapped on my running belt with all my supplies securely in its zippered pouch and started out for four and a half hours of pounding. The beginning of the run was actually fairly pleasant. I took the same route I had run on my last final pre-marathon training run. Starting at the Squalicum Boat House near where the local whale-watching cruises depart in the summer, I ran past the harbor and took in the hundreds of sailboat masts and fishing boats advertising fresh salmon for sale. Most of the first four miles were in the sun and were populated with walkers and dogs and bicyclists and other runners. This is the best part of any run for me – the part where other creatures join me in seizing a moment in life, breathing in the same cool air that gives me a headache and using the same trails that take me out there and back here every week.
Bill met me after I had traversed into the woods and had been running in the shade for about one mile. One month ago, a woman was abducted and raped on one of our trails in the north part of our city. The running community has been shaken by this. We’ve always felt proud of how safe our extensive trail system is, how well-used and welcoming, even to lone women runners. The terrible violation of this woman runner has scared me and made me adamant about not running the more lonely parts of my training without companionship.
But Bill’s presence, along with a sense of safety, also gave me the perfect “out” when I hit my wall. We ran for an additional 5.5 miles on the Interurban Trail, which runs parallel to the shoreline looking out at the Puget Sound. To our right was the magnificent jutting Lummi Island, green and wooded, and the blue of the water, smiling at the unfamiliar sunshine that shimmered on its surface. To our left stood expensive, majestic homes built into the hillside with their super sized windows and towering chimneys. This part of the trail, as you can imagine, has vast charm, but for me, the overwhelming feeling was the drop in temperature as we progressed into the deepening shade.
By the time we hit our turn-around point in the parking lot at Clayton Beach, my left eye was throbbing and my energy was suddenly, completely depleted. In spite of the two energy gels and the granola bar I had consumed in the first ten and a half miles, I felt sleepy and sluggish. I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. I could have lain down, nestled against the unthawed earth, and fallen asleep.
My car was more than ten miles away at that point, but I hatched a plan to “see how I felt” when we reached Bill’s car, which was only five miles away. Naturally, the closer we got to his vehicle, the more sure I became that I wouldn’t go one step further than I had to. The wine and cheese from the night before, the cold air, the option of stopping early and (I later realized by the dark yellow color of my pee) some slight dehydration, all weighed in and convinced me to throw in the towel and let Bill drive me the extra miles back to my car.
Demoralized, a half hour after reaching Bill’s car and our 16 mile mark, I stood in the shower and tried to justify my actions. Everyone hits the wall once in a while, after all. But I really needed those miles. I needed them to know I can do 26.2 in three weeks. I needed them to know I actually possess the psychological and physical endurance to complete that Whidbey Island race. I’ve run the marathon distance before, but my doubts about my running abilities are not assuaged in the least by this fact. This is a different time, a different course, a different continent. I have to be sure I can do it.
Next weekend I have another chance to string together more than 21 miles (though not all in one day). Saturday, we’ll run an 18.6 mile race in Birch Bay to support Girls on the Run, a local club that encourages girls in the third through fifth grades to start running and to run in 5K races around our county. I support this program and wish I’d encountered this kind of confidence building opportunity in my own childhood. Maybe I wouldn’t be so doubtful about my athletic capabilities now if I had. Bill will be running ahead of me in this race and his car will not be available to rescue me before the finish line. In order to get back to where I started, I’ll have to finish.
On Sunday we’ll run, along with many others in the city, a short but important 5K organized on the trail where that woman was raped. We’ll “take back our trails,” the newspaper says, and with any luck (okay – and determination) I’ll take back my miles.

I spoke too soon.

2008-03-04T08:40:00.000-08:00

Well, I spoke too soon saying I had a great recovery from Sunday's run. I guess the french fries I indulged in Sunday night weren't nutrition enough to keep away the cruds. After I pushed the "publish post" button on yesterday's posting, I developed some suspicious symptoms. It looks like I may have the flu. I couldn't sleep well and had dreams of my teeth falling out (what does that mean?). My maintenance run may not happen today (not to mention my writing group or my business meeting), so I'll be set back a little in my progress. If anyone has a sure cure before this flu gets into full swing, I'm open to suggestions. :{

First time blogging my training

2008-03-03T10:18:00.000-08:00

Welcome to my blog. I'm training for marathon number three in my pursuit to run seven marathons on seven continents. I'll be running the Whidbey Island marathon in April. Runners' World said it's one of the must-run marathons of 2008 - supposed to be as green as they get with very little carbon footprint!

Yesterday I did my 15-mile training run. The morning started out warm, but a cold front arrived just as I suited up to start my run (of course). Even so, I trudged my way through and had a great time. I feel like my fitness level may finally be increasing when 15 miles leaves me spry and energetic. We'll see how I feel at my 17-mile run the week after next.

I welcome comments from anyone running the seven continents. My husband and I have done Europe (Prague) and Australia (Mudgee). I'd like to know your experiences and get your suggestions for 'thons in South America, Asia and Africa.

See you on the trail!