Sign, Sign, Everywhere A Sign

Most motorists pass them daily without a thought. Pedestrians may notice them, but not register their meaning. Dogs probably pee on their poles. Me, I can’t not touch them.

Some might say it’s an obsession. A compulsion. Actually, it’s a form of prayer. A sign of respect. A tangible means of channeling hope and goodwill to earth and sky.

They stand like silent sentries, these twenty-six signs, guarding our course and showing the way. On every run that takes us past them, PING! My hand reaches out and tags the bright blue steel. A good tap sounds solid and is followed by a resonant wavering of metal in air. In my imagination it’s as lovely a sound as the centering chime of a monk’s prayer bell.

(pictured above: Mile 1, on the Broadway Bridge over the Arkansas River)

It started about two and a half years ago. One hot summer day, following my first marathon, I was training at Murray Park. During that first race, Murray had been a sore spot. There was vomiting, crying, pain, and enough fatigue to consider laying down on the side of the path and taking a nap. Seriously. Just like your parents always want you to do on the side of the highway should you become drowsy during a long road trip. Murray Park and I were not one. It was not a happy place.

Thinking, “How do I get over this?” I gently reached out and ran my fingers along the 22-mile marathon course marker standing aside the River Trail. Right then, rather than curse the course, I said aloud, “May there be many moons of health and safe journeys here. On this course I wish only good mojo.”

I swear I’m not making this up.

From then on, I touched that little sign every time I passed. Slowly, my anxiety and self-pity waned, leaving room for an attitude of respect and gratitude to grow. As I got stronger, and made the commitment to begin training for a second marathon, I began to look forward to my little moments with that sign. Soon I was looking for the others, and repeating my little mantra at each rendezvous.

Now, as our long training runs lead us to practice on various parts of the whole course, I’ve become familiar with each one and can't pass one without that ping. They are quiet motivators for discipline during my runs. When I see them while driving, I grin. It’s like having a little secret. Each prompts a private moment to reflect on (trying to) stay positive in training and all aspects of life. Fortunately, my teammates understand, and go out of their way to ensure I don't accidentally miss any.

Mile 8.

Mile 10, on Arch Street in Quapaw Quarter.

Mile 13, halfway.

Mile 14, on Markham in front of the School for the Deaf. This one is particularly special, as I passed it almost daily during my many winter weekday outings.

Mile 15, on Kavanaugh in Hillcrest. Another favorite, if familiarity breeds friendship.

Mile 16, on Kavanaugh in front of Mount Saint Mary's.

Mile 25, atop infamous Dillard's Hill on Cantrell Road.

Mile 26, on Capitol Avenue. 0.2 to finish.

To most, these may be nothing more than metal and paint, perhaps even distractions in the city’s scenery. To me, they stand for strength...loyalty...endurance. I can hardly wait to visit them all this Sunday.

Five days to go.

No Stress Six

From Saturday, 2.24.2007 - 6 miles:

Six is among my favorite numbers.

I was born in the sixth month, on the twenty-sixth day, of a sixth year in a decade.

I once knew a freckly redheaded kid named Six. We were on the swim team together. He had a haircut I wanted (and eventually gave myself). His real name was Something Something White, the Sixth. He spelled it VI. Ignorant announcers at big meets would call out, "In lane four........Vy White." VI would grin, our whole team would crack up, and he'd saunter up to the starting block.

Have I mentioned that the "taper" phase of the training schedule makes the mind go weirder places than normal?

So Saturday, we were scheduled for six miles. The route map was titled the "No Stress Six." A nice round number. Hardly worth getting out of bed for, but still, a nice distance. We met at the Art Center for a loop around downtown, including a trip across the river to North Little Rock. The group chattered with energy--rookies out of relief to be back down to six miles, and the rest of us because we're itching to go more.

The forecast called for heavy thunderstorms. We all hoped we'd get our miles in before it started. Most of us did. We were done and back under the overhand of the Art Center when lightning cracked and the sky fell down. A few walkers were still out and got drenched, but no one was harmed. I'm pretty sure it didn't rain on Tom and I because we decided at the last minute to wear our rain jackets for the outing. I was mostly sorry I did, because it was hot.

It was just Tom and I today. He ran fast; I kept up. We cranked out our six in 59:31. It was a great run...easy...fast...smooth.

At the end, while we were stretching and talking with some folks, he suddenly jumped up and touched the ceiling. I just stared at him. We both giggled. "You have wayyy too much energy," I finally said. He jumped around some more. "I know," was his reply, "Six miles is...is...not enough."

"No stress"...riiiight....this waiting around game is tough.

Six days to go.

What Doesn’t Bend Breaks

From Saturday, 2.17.2007 -12 miles:
Yes, I do think about quitting. Mostly I think about it at 5:14 every Saturday morning when the alarm buzzes. I think about it real hard then. The whole "You've come this far, you can't stop now" deal really does it's thing here. The investment is the majority of my motivation when I have to decide between sleep and run.

I also think about it for about the first ten minutes of my drive to wherever we're meeting. Creepies get in my head. Lonely thoughts. Worries about being dressed right, or feeling ok in my stomach, or what if I can't keep up today, or what is my life really about?

Then, I start to see other elves coming out of the woods. Sometimes I notice us at a stop light, our collective headlights brightening the dark morn; other times it's on a long dark road, like out by Two Rivers. Or today, along the road to Murray Park. Today I was driving along, thinking about how dark and quiet it was--moved enough by my solitude to snap a picture.

Only then did I look in the mirror and see...

There's much to be said for solitude in the right times and places, but the value of community, of having others around you who understand, is also strong.

Really, I thought a twelve miler would be easy. Two hours...out and back...no problem. Not so much. First, it was cold. Second, it was windy. Third, the previous week’s twenty-miler had not ebbed from my legs as much as I’d thought.

Tom and Chris were running an out-of-town race, so Jenna and I did this one on our own. Along the way we both admitted that we’d thought about sleeping in, but found out sly Tom had called each of us to let the other know we’d be there. Built-in accountability. Smooth.

It didn’t help that we were starting from Murray Park, right next to the Arkansas River. Wind screamed off the water. Whitecaps churned. We headed left out of the park, stayed on the road, took the new trail loop around the Jr. Deputy baseball fields (just below Cantrell Road), and headed back to Murray. Once there, we continued past our cars to the Big Dam Bridge, where we went up and over and around the detour loop built during the bridge’s construction. And back.

Heavy, heavy legs, for both of us. For a while, I thought it was because we were running fast, but even when we eased up they were stiff and slow. The whipping wind didn’t help. There’s a phenomenon nearly almost present along the River Trail in which the wind will persistently be in your face, no matter your direction of travel. Going out and back? As you head out into the wind, it’s tempting to think, “Gee, this is tough but at least the wind will be at my back on the home.” Untrue.

So apparently, that delightful twenty-miler took more out of us than we thought. It is frustrating to come off that high and then struggle with twelve.

“Was that a fluke?”...

... “Did I do something wrong?”

Am I sick?” ...

“What will happen on race day?”

... “Am I having fun?” ...

...“Is it a problem if I can’t decide on yes or no?”

The big adventure of the outing was getting across the Big Dam Bridge--twice. Wow! Icy wind howled and hammered us. Water streamed from my eyes, which I had to squinch shut to be able to see. I pulled my stocking cap way, way over to one side of my head to cover the wind-facing ear and cheek. With each step, I had to concentrate on balance, to avoid being blown over. It was that fierce! I don’t know how Jenna stayed on her feet, if it was enough to push my 144 pounds around. We made good time on both trips.

In the end, after a poll of several Garmins, it looks like we did about 12.49 miles in 2:08. Meaning, despite the heavy legs and seemingly fast pace, we were actually right on our usual 10:15s. Weird.

The soundtrack in my head pulled up a song I hadn’t thought of in some time:

Buildings and bridges are made to bend in the wind
to
withstand the
world,
that’s what it takes.

Obviously, the literal meaning applies here, but subtly, it was a good reminder to let the day’s struggles go.

Dress Rehearsal

Saturday, 2.10.2007 - 20 miles

I wish it had been race day. Everything was right. Temps in the 30s, no precipitation, wind lacking. A good turnout, meaning plenty of friendly support along the way. I ate breakfast and decent lunches and dinners every day that week, taking special care to have oatmeal with banana, my superfuel foods, two days out. I paid special attention to hydration too, drinking my bottle down at least three times a day at work and about that many at home.


The twenty-miler is a dress rehearsal. It's a marathoner's ultimate test of endurance and skill before going the full 26.2 on race day. We started with a six-mile base in August and safely, slowly built up to this distance. This is it. Research shows that practice distances longer than twenty miles do not provide enough aerobic benefit to outweigh risks of injury. Coaches and other experts say that if you can finish twenty, you can do 26.2.


Methinks the twenty-miler is actually harder than the full race. It has it's own special set of mind games. In the high teens my body is tired and hurting, and thoughts creep in like, "Gee, if I feel this bad at seventeen, how could I stand to go another almost ten miles on race day?" Those wonderings can usually be whittled away with friendly chatter and song lyrics sung on the inside. Thank goodness for my beloved Indigo Girls and myriad other folk musicians whose poetry I memorized years ago during countless drives between Arkansas and Oklahoma.


Worse thoughts manifest near the end of twenty miles when I add up minutes and miles and hours and feelings. "If this were marathon day," a whisper says, "You would still have to go another six miles. On a good day, that's another hour...and likely it'll be longer."


Bleh.


On race day, excitement fills the air, spectators fill front yards and parking lots, and really really nice volunteers give away free stuff and cheers along the way. That extra hour isn't fun, exactly, but it is feasible. On twenty-mile day, I just have to suck it up, get it over with, and prepare for three weeks of wondering how race day will go. That "extra hour" lingers, crowding thoughts at unexpected times. Inside there, in my mind, it has a dark gray color, like a sky heavy with rain on a day when I have big outdoor plans and need, really need, to know if rain will ruin everything.


But that's where I am now. More on that in coming days. As I said earlier, Saturday actually went well.


Before we left, (meaning, before I was awake), Tom got hold of my arm and strapped his Garmin on, so I could track our mileage and pace. We would start in front of the Capitol and run nearly the whole race course, save a mile or so in North Little Rock and the lonely out-and-back miles by Rebsamen and Murray Park near the river.


It was awesome....awesome...to be part of the team that morning. There were over a hundred there, and when Tom held up real race medals to show what they look like, a cheer went up that no one who's not part of this could understand. I thought about where I was three years ago, about to set out for my first twenty-miler, nervous and scared (and sick, but that's a different story), and I felt for the folks who were going on their first long outing today. I've come a long, long way in these three years and gotten stronger than I ever knew I could.




Tom and Chris, who were only scheduled to do nine since they have a 30K race this week, started out with Jenna and I, our little pod weaving in and out of walkers and runners through downtown. SuperCoach Tom is quite popular and we always wait on him to finish answering everyone's questions and end up starting last. It's ok. It's kind of fun to start in the back and reel people in for most of the run. Somewhere near Broadway, Chris and Tom ducked out for a pit stop and we never saw them again until we passed the Capitol around mile ten. We later learned they spent their last two miles chasing us down but never quite caught up.


I quickly learned that the Garmin's pace indicator is wack. Sometimes I'd look down and see 9:15 pace (yeah right) and seconds later it would read 12:30. It didn't really matter; I've pretty much learned what 10: pace feels like and can tell when we're on it or off. Jenna and I were steady, stopping just once in front of Central High for a porta-a-potty stop. Everything in my body got tired, but nothing felt injured. Feet, shins, knees, IT band, hips, back...all good. Like I said, I wish it had been race day, because everything felt right.



We crossed the finish line having gone a little long, 20.5, but staying on pace. 3:30.

Eighteen

They come, creeping out of the shadows. Dedicated souls, they rise before dawn and gather in the darkness. Anticipation hangs in the air, heavy. They wait, anxious and ready as a herd of wild horses. Ready.


From Saturday, 1.27.2007:

It was not my favorite course. A decent course, but not my favorite. A chunk of it was out-and-back on the North Little Rock River Trail, which was good mental practice for a similar section of the race route. The similar section where runners get lonely and tired and where the doubts creep in.

Starting at the back of the pack--after everyone had arrived, signed in, and queried Tom about everything under the sun--we worked our way out into Burns Park. Tom and Chris were planning a trail run, but would go the first four miles with Jenna and I, so our little pod trotted along together, reeling walkers and runners in as we went.

At four, the crackheads peeled off into the woods while Jenna and I dug in for the long haul. Did I mention it was raining? Not hard. Just enough to be wet.

The 51% principle didn't apply today. Our point of entry on the River Trail, where we started the out-and-back toward downtown (meaning we were running away from the finish, was at ten miles. It wasn't until we turned around in Riverfront Park, around mile thirteen, that my brain got happier. However, my body got steadily more weary. Achy tired pain settled in my hips and glutes. Jenna was good to have along, in part because our conversation makes the miles go by, and because she reminded me to eat at a point when I got a funky attitude and began voicing it.

Around mile sixteen we were really ready to be done. On runs like this, it's typical to think, "Wow, I really feel like crap and am beat all to hell...and if this were race day, I'd still have ten miles to go. That's at least an hour and a half more. Bleh." Or something like that. Part of training is to learn how that goes...how to anticipate it...deal with it...solve it.

Somewhere there near the end, Jenna dropped a glove. "Awwwwwwww," we both groaned, she in complaint about having to stop running and bend over, and me in empathy, knowing how that feels. Stopping and starting are skills normal people take for granted. She scooped up the glove with protest and we continued. "I am really glad that wasn't me," I thought out loud. Jenna laughed.

Not two minutes later, while taking a drink, you will have already guessed what happened: One of my water bottles slipped from my fingers while taking a drink. "Awwwwwwwww," we both groaned again. It was laughable, I guess. We were pretty delirious. It also hurt like hell.

At mile seventeen, I thought about how much I really wasn't enjoying the run anymore. About how hungry I was. About how I hate it when people leave half-used rolls of toilet paper on the holder in our bathrooms at work, unattached. About how I never use them, how I put them all on the shelf behind the toilet, because who knows how many times they've fallen on the floor? How if somebody else wants to reach up there and use them, super. But not me. I thought about how good it would be to eat after this run. I started planning things I would eat on that day. The list included pizza and beer and ice cream at a very minimum.

Concensus from the Garmin (GPS) slaves revealed that the course was a little long, perhaps 18.4. 3:08.

What makes no sense, the part that gives credibility to the whole "crackhead" thing, wherein running is truly an addiction, is that it was only hours before I felt ready to run again. Of course my body wasn't, but my brain was.

Let's go.