Quidam

My mother and I have decided that we're going to sign up for circus school.

It's never too late to follow your dreams.

For those of you who are aware of the genetic disorder my mother and I share, that first sentence would be rather amusing. You see, both my mother and I discovered very early on in life that we will never be the cute little girls who can do cartwheels and roundoffs.  Neither she, nor I, have ever been able to do a somersault.

Ever.

I still have very vivid memories of Gymnastics Week in our gym class.  We had a checklist of things we had to work through in order to complete that portion of the class.  First thing on the list - somersault.  Followed by back somersault.  Headstand. Handstand. Cartwheel. Roundoff. Backflip.  It just became more and more horrifying as you looked down the list.  On day one, I spent the entire hour trying to do a somersault.  By the end of that same hour, all of the girls and most of the boys had made it to the backflip. I was mortified.

I went home and my mother helped me practice on the living room floor. Even in the safety of my own home I couldn't do it. I cried. She told me the story about how, when she was a little girl, she had to do a somersault in gym class and couldn't do it.  So her mother (my nana) helped her practice on the living room floor.  She never managed to do one either.

We are not gymnasts her and I.

And here we are, decades later, deciding that we're going to circus school. All because of some little show we saw called Quidam.

Put on by the folks from Cirque du Soleil.

Ah-mazing!

I have seen several Cirque shows, including their first one put on at Canada's Wonderland before anyone even knew who they were.  Even then in their tiny little tent they were amazing.

Feats of strength that are so unbelievably controlled and graceful that you forget for a moment how impossible they are.

Aerial performances that make you feel like you're in the presence of angels.

And hysterical theatrics that had us in stiches.

It was a great evening.  We talked about it non-stop all the way home.  What roles we'd like to have based on our skill sets.  My mother hates heights and anything scary, is not very strong or flexible but is sure that there is a role for her.  I'm better at strength and endurance than grace and agility so I'm thinking I'd do well hanging from ropes or being one of the strong foundations in the human pyramid scenes. 

Seriously though - as someone who spends a lot of time and energy working on strength and fitness - it's pretty humbling to be in the presence of such strong human specimens.  They looked more like gods and goddesses than humans.

It's really inspiring and makes me want to dedicate a bit more time working on my upper body strength and flexibility.  Because you never know when you might be asked to be an understudy for the aerial ballet scene.

Fourteen Times Three Makes One Marathon

I have a thing for numbers.  And patterns.  And patterns of numbers.  Which is very handy considering the diabetes diagnosis I was handed 8 1/2 years ago. If there was ever someone who was well suited to their diagnosis - it's me.  My mother and I actually laughed about that as I sat in Intensive Care that first day.  I count everything, see patterns everywhere and like structure.  Hello diabetes management!

Anyway, today's musings aren't about diabetes, they're about numbers.

I'm fond of even numbers and have a particular fondness for the number 4.  Eight and two are pretty good too. Six is fine but it's not very pretty and just doesn't do much for me.

Odd numbers are appealing in a completely different way - I like to manipulate them (add, subtract etc) to turn them into even numbers. 

When I run, it's all about the numbers.

More importantly, it's about finding the right way to look at the numbers in order to reach a balance that is neither too easy nor too overwhelming.  For some people, running is 90% mental.  For me, it's 90% numbers.

For example, when I run a half marathon, I never run 21 kilometres.  I run 3 kilometres seven times. 

Around the Bay was 3 kilometres ten times. 

Sixteen kilometres is a favourite distance of mine because it's 4x4 (wicked!).

The other important thing I do when I'm running is I count up and then down.  In other words, for a half marathon, I have seven sets of 3K to do.  I count up (1 set, 2 sets, 3 sets, 4 sets) and then, once over the half way hump, I change it to 3 sets to go, two sets, one set, done!

It's mind over matter folks and, for long runs, I'll use any trick I can to keep myself in the right frame of mind.

This summer, the new magic number I have to work with is 42.2 kilometres.  I am trying to figure out how to break it down into manageable chunks.   

Right now, I'm leaning towards the idea that, on October 23rd, I'll be running two half marathons.  That's 7 sets of 3K - twice.  Count up for the first seven and then down for the last seven. 

I've run 3K. I've run half marathons. Nothing new there.  This time, once I get to the half marathon finish line, I have to turn around and do it all over again.

What's the big deal?

Officially Official

It's officially official.

I have just signed myself up for my first marathon.

I was going to do the sensible thing.  Start training and see how I felt as the mileage increased.  If all went well up to about 25k, I figured I'd sign up then. 

Instead, in a moment of mild panic, I pulled out my credit card, entered my birth date and chose my shirt size.  Because as I sat at my desk, a little voice in my head whispered - what if it sells out?

The website shows the maximum runners allowed for the marathon as 1500.  But there is no indication as to whether there are 100 people already registered or 1000.  Imagine finding out too late that it has sold out.  That would, in simple terms, totally suck.

So I signed up.

I remember the first time I chose 'half marathon' from an online drop down menu.  I felt slightly hysterical - like I was just a little bit nuts even thinking I could run that far.  That hysteria lasted throughout the training and I constantly wondered if I was completely crazy for even trying it. This time, as I chose 'marathon', I felt rather peaceful. Like I know I will somehow pull this off but there is no point wasting one ounce of energy worrying about how.  I'll be needing that energy to train.

Unless a catastrophe happens (which it could I suppose), I will be standing at that start line on October 23rd.  I was also be crossing the finish line (hopefully the calendar will still say October 23rd!).  The 42.2 kilometers between the two points will remain shrouded in mystery until the day of but I'm guessing I will feel exhilirated, defeated, exhausted, pumped, strong, determined, unable to carry on and unwilling to give up.  I will cry several times for several different reasons.  I will spot friends on the course and their support will keep me moving.  I will spot the finish line and honestly doubt whether I will make it.  I fully expect to feel all of these things, plus some nausea thrown in for fun. 

Maybe that's why I'm not scared. 

I have faced these demons before and, if I've learned nothing else, I have learned that I can kick their ass when I need to. 

I'm sure that I will face things I haven't encountered before.  But I'm confident enough in my ability to push through that I'm not staying up nights worrying about it. 

Come what may...

So I've signed up and told the world.

Let's get this show on the road!

My New Pace Bunnies

When my two sisters and I were growing up, we shared a few special days each year with the three sons of my parents' good friends.  We sort of overlap in age with me being the oldest of the six of us.  Every year we had a pool party in the summer and shared a special meal around Valentines Day. We watched each other grow up and, now that we're all in some stage or another of adulthood, it's pretty neat to get together.

The middle son is home for the summer and the youngest son happens to be home for a week so they asked me if they could come running with me tonight.  Nothing too hard they said.  We haven't been running in a while they said.  Just 5k ok?  We'll try to keep up they said.

Oh my good god.

I joked with a co-worker before leaving to meet them: "if you see an older lady chasing two young boys down the parkway around 5pm, that would be me."

I am trying to get faster - I really really am.  I can now confidently run up to 10k while keeping a brisk pace of between 6:15 and 6:30.  No matter how tired I get, I no longer allow myself to run more than 7:00.  While I may not qualify for Boston, for me - that's pretty freaking amazing.

Keep in mind that I can sustain this pace if everyone leaves me alone, no one tries to chat with me and I have my music keeping me moving.

Tonight I ran 5k with two boys who, while claiming to be completely out of shape, started off at a pace of 5:30.  They then immediately started chatting away.  "How was Boston?" "What are your plans for the summer?" "What was your last race?"

A few minutes in, I was feeling decidedly unfit and trying to find a polite way to tell them that there is no way I can run with them all summer if this is their 'out of shape' pace.  That was about the time that the youngest asked if we minded if he ran ahead.  He proceeded to bound off down the road like a gazelle - leaving the two of us looking like we were out for a casual stroll.

It's hard to be too bothered - I love those guys. They are young, extremely intelligent and super-eager to share all the cool things they are learning and doing in school.  We never run out of things to talk about. The thought of running with at least one of them during the summer makes me want to push hard to keep up.  So, while the younger speed demon runner is leaving this weekend, I have committed to trying to run my 30-40 minute Wednesday runs with his older brother.  These runs are supposed to be recovery runs.  You know - nice and slow.  They will most likely be anything but.  But during these speed training sessions I will have fabulous discussions about theology, ecology, Magic the Gathering, proper running form and world travel.

Can't really complain about that.

Wicked Fast Runnahs

Boston morning arrived with a whisper.  5am alarms were going off all over the city and runners slipped out of bed and into their carefully laid out running clothes.  Breakfasts happened quietly in dimly lit kitchens.  

My running man was calm and contemplative.  There will be plenty of time for excitement and adrenaline.  Gotta pace yourself right from the get go.

At six am Doug quietly opened the door of the apartment just as another runner walked out of their room. 25,000 of them are pouring into the streets and heading for the buses that will drive them to Hopkinton. The Boston marathon, as I discovered, does not start in Boston.  It starts far out in a little town called Hopkinton that is just about to be swarmed by runners.  When the race starts, they will run through six towns before they enter Boston for the final stretch.

There were several start times.  The wheelchair racers started first at 9:17am.  The elite women were next.  At 10am the elite men and the first wave of runners started.  The second wave was at 10:20am and the final one at 10:40am.  Because of their qualifying times, Doug and Jim were in wave 2. The rest of the Runners' Edgers were in wave 3.

Thanks to modern technology, we were able to track runners online and could see at what times they crossed each 5k mark.  It's reassuring to be able to see that those you care about are doing fine and holding their pace.  During one stretch Doug's pace dropped significantly and a bit of worry set in.  Turns out he was too hot and had to stop to take off a few layers and reattach his bib number to his t-shirt.

Spectators started lining the streets near the finish line at 7:30am.  Janice and I arrived at 10:30am and staked out a spot right outside the apartment.  The Boston marathon basically runs down one long road and then makes two famous turns at the end.  Right on Hereford and left on Boylston to the finish line.  Our apartment was on Hereford so we could see the runners turn the corner for the final stretch.

Being that close to the finish line means that we got to see all sorts of things.  We got to see the elite runners battle for first place.

We got to see the pain and determination on their faces.

We got to see the famous people.

And we got to see the sheer joy some runners felt as they reached the end of their Boston journey.

The crowds were amazing.   They screamed and clapped for hours and ramped it up to fever pitch for the runners who needed it.  After running for hours, some runners had nothing left.  They came to halt and start walking.  That's when the crowd would start cheering them on.  When they found the strength to run again, the cheer turned into a roar.  Countless runners were carried across the finish line by the power of the crowd.  

It's difficult to describe how it feels to be in Boston and to experience the marathon.  As a spectator, the sights are forever burned into my mind and the screams and cheers are still reverberating in my head.  As a runner, I'm sure it's a completely different and yet no less moving experience to run down the roads of history.

Walking back to the apartment afterwards, people on the streets burst into spontaneous applause when a marathoner walked by.  Runners wore their medals with pride and anyone who struggled to step up on to a curb was looked at as a hero.  Those who didn't run can't really know what it felt like, how hard it was and what demons were conquered.  But we do know that it takes a degree of strength and passion that has the power to move people to tears.

Congratulations runners!  You have run your dream and, in doing so, inspired others to dream with you.

They Earned It

One week from today tens of thousands of athletes will be running the 115th Boston marathon.  Every runner followed their own journey to get to that start line.  Journeys filled with hope, pain, injury, tears and ultimately success.  They made it.  They qualified.  They earned the right to join the ranks and run the fabled forty-two point two kilometers.

There is a mystique to Boston that inspires those who have what it takes to qualify.  That same mystique humbles and awes those of us who don't.  It's always asked in a whisper, with a sense of reverence.

"you ran Boston?"  "wow"

And then one has to fight the urge to kneel before them. 

Don't get me wrong.  Those runners I know who have run Boston do not demand our respect.  They do not brag of their accomplishment.  They just exude a certain je ne sais quoi that gets our attention. They wear the jacket and that is enough.

The logo is instantly recognizable. The colours are too.  In fact, runners know what year someone ran because of the colour of their jacket. 

"Did you run the black and red year?  Or the blue and yellow year?" 

In a sport that welcomes all body sizes, speeds and abilities Boston sets expectations and demands them to be met. Most of us will never get there.  That's ok.  Because most of us know someone who ran Boston.  And that's just as awesome.

This time next week the runners will be running Boston.  And those of us who love running will be there just to breathe it all in.  To support our friends and loved ones.  To volunteer.  To stand at the finish line for a photo.  To cry as Dick Hoyt runs past pushing his son Rick in a wheelchair. To watch in awe as the winner finishes a marathon in less time that it takes us to run a half.  Way less time.

I will go to the expo and touch all the beautiful Boston clothes.  This year the colours are a very Irish kelly green and black.  If I were running, I would buy a closet full.  I'm not running so I will not buy anything that might make someone think I did. 

If I earn it - I'll wear it.  Until that day, I will hold the hand of someone who has earned it. 

That is enough.

Duct Tape and Paper Clips

Just over two weeks until race day. 

How do I know that you ask?  Did I look at my calendar?  Check my iPhone?

Nope, my legs told me.  Loudly and clearly.

WE ARE GETTING TIRED OF TRAINING!  WE NEED A BREAK...NOW!

This is their typical, predictable, I can set the clock to it, behaviour two weeks out from race day.  And I completely understand.  I have pushed them harder and farther than ever before, through the snowiest, slushiest winter I've ever run in.  We're two weeks out, the taper has started and they don't want to taper - they want to go to an all-inclusive resort and sit on the beach for a week. Preferably one that serves mojitos.

They're done.

Period.

Their little sighs have erupted into a cacophanous racket of complaints.  I went to see my massage therapist (also known as Janice, also known as the main reason I am able to cross the finish line of any race) yesterday.  She touched my calf and exclaimed 'whoa, that's not good'.  Tight, full of knots that have appeared overnight, unwilling to yeild despite her heroic efforts. 

I have prided myself on never asking for mercy, never begging her to stop because of the pain she was causing.  Yesterday, only my inability to talk stopped me from crying out.  She did what she had to do and I'm much better for it, but damn that hurt!

It takes a village to raise a child.  Apparently it also takes one to get me across the finish line.  My support team takes care of me during long runs, my running friends keep me focused, my diabetic team keeps me healthy and in control and Janice maintains my legs so they can keep running.  As they near their breaking point and I ramp up my self-care a few more notches, I feel like I'm being held together with duct tape and paper clips. 

Jury-rigged.

MacGyver style.

Maybe I had better add that theme song to my playlist.

Pass Me The Crayons

I'm colouring outside the running lines this week.  We'll see if it turns out to be a good idea or if I should just stick to paint by number running.

The plan this week, according to our running schedule, was to run 13k on Tuesday, run hills on Thursday and then run 22k on Saturday.  

I am not doing that.  

I did run 13k on Tuesday.  So far so good. 

Tonight's hill workout had to be passed up because I consistently get injured doing hills during the last month of training before a race.  So I've learned after many panicked trips to my fabulous massage therapist Janice that it's just not worth it to run hills four weeks out.  So I don't.  Even though I want to.  Even though there are deadly hills along the race route.  Even though all my friends are out there running them.  

Instead I ran 30 minutes along a very flat course.  Which seems like a pretty wimpy alternative to hills I know but there is method to the wimpy-ness.  

See, I'm also not running 22k on Saturday.  

I'm going to run 27k tomorrow instead.  

Let me add a qualifier here.  We have an amazing running coach and he has designed a really good, sensible training plan for Around the Bay.  I trust him and I truly believe that his plan will get all of us runners across that finish line.  

The reality is that I know myself and I know what things cause me stress.  

I need to have run almost the full distance (if not more than the full distance) of a race before race day or my mind doubts my body's ability to cross that finish line.  Our schedule had us peaking at 25k which is just not quite long enough for my mental health. 27 feels better.  If I imagine the actual race route, 27k gets me to the top of the awful last hill in the race.  As Doug says, it's all downhill from there to the finish line.  

So, I ran 30 minutes today just to keep the legs moving.  I run 27k in the morning.  

The route is mapped out.  Doug is tasked with driving out to meet me at the 1 hour 45 minute mark to refill my water and eload, replenish my carbohydrate stashes, take my gloves, pat my head and tell me that I'm doing a great job and already way past half way.  

If I start at 9am as planned, I will not be home until almost 12:30pm.  That's a freaking long time to run.  

So tonight I'm stretching, trigger pointing, drinking tons of water and pretending it's race day tomorrow.  

No bib, no shirt, no medal...but the peace of mind that comes with knowing that there will be a few less demons to conquer on March 27. 

Cultivate the Lone Wolf

Running is an exercise in solitude. 

It puts the body, mind and spirit to the test. 

It brings out the lone wolf.

Grrrrr...

Last week I wrote about hill training and that phrase that kept running through my head: "you can do ANYTHING for three minutes"

Hill repeats are one thing. Long distance running is an entirely different beast.  You might be able to do it for three minutes but can you do it for three hours?

Can you push your body when it's tired, your mind when it's making excuses and your spirit when it's ready to give up?

It's an important lesson to learn.  To run distance, you can't just train your body.  You have to train your mind and harness your spirit.  That way, when one of them is ready to give up, the other two can take the reins for a while.  Teamwork, balance, partnership, motivation - they must all come from within when you run. 

Because even in a sea of 10,000 runners, when you run, you run alone.  Even in a pack, you are responsible for yourself.  Only you can get yourself across that finish line.

Cultivate your lone wolf. 

Loping across the tundra.  Focused on the horizon.

Tireless.

Strong.

Beautiful.