Surviving My First Marathon- Part 4

“Keep going- we’re almost done.”

My brother’s voice was like a tether for me, and I latched on to it desperately as I ran through the agony in my legs and the somewhat painful spasms in my lungs when I breathed in too deeply. Everything in my body hurt now, but I wanted nothing more than to see mile marker twenty-six and to know that we were done.

Twenty more minutes, I told myself. In twenty more minutes you will be done with your first marathon.

I honestly don’t know if I would have finished the race if it wasn’t for my brother.

Before that day, when I told people that my brother was running my first marathon with me, they were duly impressed. I know very well, though, that my brother didn’t have to run this marathon at all.

He was doing it for me.

Who does that? Who willingly undergoes the training, sweating, physical exhaustion, and interminable toil of twenty-six point two miles for a little sister?

My brother did.

When he found out via Facebook that I’d signed him up for the race he could have ranted and yelled (more than he did) and then told me to go stuff it.

He could have told me flat out that he wasn’t going to do it.

He could have laughed in my face and scheduled something else for that weekend, leaving me to eat the entry fee.

But instead, after a few choice words about me being impatient and him not sure he would be ready to run right after tax season, he immediately took out his calendar and began to make plans with me for the longer training runs on the few Sunday mornings where he didn’t have tax appointments.

That’s how my brother is.

We were on what remained of the boardwalk in Long Branch by then after hitting mile twenty-five, the home stretch, but the finish line was nowhere to be seen. Mentally, I knew that it was just a mile away, but it felt like the boardwalk was never ending, like it didn’t matter how many steps towards the finish line we took because the distance would somehow keep growing in a surreal way.  

Ten minutes later, my Garmin beeped. I peeked at it, amazed that it showed 26 miles.

I laughed in sheer excitement, suddenly finding a reserve of energy in my legs that I hadn’t known I possessed. My brother paced along side of me, smiling broadly, but I hadn’t seen the twenty-six mile marker yet.

“What’s going on? We should be at twenty-six by now!” I exclaimed.

“It might be off a little,” he said. “Don’t worry, we’ll get there.”

It occurred to me that not once during the entire five hours we’d been on our feet had he been anything but supportive and positive.  He ran with me the entire time, pushing me through each mile by his own example, giving me the strength to ignore the burning and tightening of my thigh muscles with each step.

I also realized that I might run other marathons, but there would never again be a ‘first’ marathon for me. That made this experience with him that much more special.

I looked around. The ocean was so blue, the sand glowing brightly in the sunlight. I took a deep breath of the salty ocean air, wanting to both savor these last moments of my first marathon- and get them over with, too.

Suddenly, I saw the blue banner of the finish line a half mile away. “There it is!” I yelled. “Whoot!”

I began to run faster, the final spurt before the end. After an initial protest that I was going too fast, dammit, he caught up to me. Spectators lined the boardwalk, cheering for each and every runner that went by. A few shouted my name and I grinned at them as I blew by.

The atmosphere of excitement made me go even faster, wanting more than anything in the world to zoom across that blue bump under the banner at the finish.

As I ran over it I put my arms in the air in victory. Right after that, I put my hands on my thighs.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch!”

I accepted the medal from one of the volunteers and proudly draped it around my neck, walking in a circling around the boardwalk to try to ease out the stiffness in my legs. Once again my eyes were blurry with tears, not only because we’d finished the race but because my legs hurt so badly.

My brother called me back for a picture, and we stood against the fence, his arm slung over my shoulders, the beautiful blue ocean our backdrop, smiling brightly at the camera, identical looks of elation on our faces.

Then he pulled me into his arms for a bear hug. This time, neither one of us bothered to hold back the tears.

We made our way eventually to the shuttle that would take us to the car. Each step was excruciating, my leg muscles defiantly reluctant to move any further much less lift my body onto sidewalks and over the grass, but finally we were at the car and on our way home.

That night it was extremely difficult to sleep.  My legs ached with every movement of my body, and I couldn’t roll over or shift position without waking up and gasping with pain.

The next day at work was worse, even after taking a healthy dose of Motrin. I work on the third floor of an old building that doesn’t have an elevator.

The best part of the day was the congratulations from my colleagues and students as I hobbled about.

The worst part was climbing each flight of stairs, one step at a time, blinking back tears with each upwards movement.

I did my best to stay upstairs most of the day, and when I brought my class down to lunch, they waited patiently as I gripped the stairwell and went down one step at a time.

By the next day, I was feeling more normal and I ventured out on a short walk with the dog. After twenty minutes, I turned back, not willing to risk straining my recently overused muscles. The following day, I made it to forty-five minutes, and a few days later I hiked up a mountain.

I will always have this special memory of the time when my big brother guided me through my first marathon. It was an experience that will never occur again, although I will definitely be joining him in more training runs.

From this experience I have learned that running a marathon is not just about the glory of being in that exclusive group of people who are crazy enough to run 26.2 miles in one shot.

It’s not just about the shiny medal, or the moisture wicking race t-shirt, or the other free goodies that you get when you sign up for it.

It’s not even about finding the perfect outfit to wear on race day, or the color coordinating socks to go with a hat.

It’s not about who is going to be cheering for you, whether at the course or at home, waiting for you to succeed.

It’s about finding what I was made of when push came to shove and my body was screaming at me to stop moving while the voice in my head- and the one running next to me- was insisting that I could do this.

It was about pushing through the pain and discomfort and finding that I could, indeed, set a goal and achieve it. It was about training my body for months, sticking to a grueling training plan that required runs of 10, 15, and even 23 miles, overcoming self-doubt and finding the confidence inside of myself to succeed.

Will I ever do another marathon?

Actually, yes, I will. I signed up for the Atlantic City Marathon in October. My friends who ran the Long Branch half marathon have also signed up for Atlantic City Half and we are actively trying to recruit more people to venture down with us to run.

I wonder what my brother will be doing that weekend...

The end. 

Surviving My First Marathon- Part 3

My brother insists that he was signed up for this marathon without fully agreeing to do it. My memory is not the best, especially when there’s a possibility that I’m wrong, but I do know that when he called me in January to tell me that he was free to help me out the weekend of my first marathon, I did what any good running partner would do.

I signed him up.

“Look! Can you see him?” he said suddenly, jolting me out of my reverie as we approached mile marker fifteen. I squinted past him to see what he was pointing at and could just make out the red and blue flashing lights of a police car.

“What is it?” I asked, thinking someone may have been hurt.

“It’s the leader of the marathon,” my brother replied. “He’s on his way back already. That’s amazing!”

It was definitely amazing to me that three hours into our run the leader was almost at the finish. Our attention was diverted by the man running towards us, a police escort behind and beside him. My eyes burned suddenly with the beauty of it. He was complete grace in motion, each of the defined muscles in his legs moving with incredible strength and magnificence.

Soon after that, more front runners of the race breezed by us. It gave us a momentary boost to know that eventually we would be following them to the finish line.

We plodded along. I won’t dredge out each arduous mile, but for the next several we did our five minute/thirty second pacing strategy, diverging from the main road a few times to follow the course as it zigzagged around first a lake in Allenhurst, and then a park near Ocean Grove.

We saw Tillie as we ran, the grinning face a historical symbol of Asbury Park; we trotted past the Stone Pony and then the Convention Hall, which had been almost completely demolished even before Sandy; we saw the lake where my dad used to bring my mom paddle boating when they were dating; and we were happily distracted with memories of our childhood when my parents would bring us to the shore to visit where my dad grew up.

It continued to be a mental challenge as more and more runners passed us going in the opposite direction, calling out encouragement to us as we cheered for them enthusiastically. I was envious that they were almost done but it made me that much more determined to be following them as soon as possible.

We completed each mile together, me usually trailing behind him by several feet because I have a slightly slower pace.

Step by step, breath by breath, mile by mile, we ran on.

Every few blocks there were groups of spectators, and I looked forward to seeing these strangers because not only would they yell out my name as we passed but because some of the signs they were holding up made me smile or laugh and distracted me from the monotonous plodding of my feet.

‘This parade stinks!’

‘Why do all the cute ones run away?’

‘Run first, beer later.’

The people and their signs were motivating and encouraging and it added to the air of camaraderie all around us. People who run marathons and people who support those who run these distances understand the mental and physical commitments that have been made to get to this point.

It gave me a good feeling to know that soon I would be part of an exclusive group of people who can say they have run a marathon.

When we made it to the turnaround an hour later, after three and a half hours of running, the sun burning down brightly and the sea air invigorating, we high-fived each other and the people around us as we rounded the orange cone.

“Just around the bend,” I said, mentally preparing myself for the next few miles.

He laughed. “Sure it is.”

My quads, knees, and shins felt fine, but it was becoming uncomfortably apparent that I had chosen the wrong sports bra for this event. As I ran, I alternated holding my arms underneath my chest so the muscles wouldn’t pull so painfully.

“There will be no mention of this after this race, do you understand?” I told him sternly.

My brother’s innocent face is pure genius.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, pretending to sound wounded that I would even doubt his ability to refrain from teasing me about it.

Since my granola bar and apple early that morning, the only things I had consumed were a few Shotblox, which are concentrated cubes of Gatorade, and my water, which I had been refilling at each water stop. Although I wasn’t particularly hungry yet, ominous rumblings were coming from my stomach.

The continuous jolting motion of jogging is a strain on every single part of your body, which I knew from previous runs. I had even read stories about people whose insides completely gave out on them as they ran but they finished their races anyway, unmentionable substances running down their legs.

I did not want that to happen to me!

When he noticed my discomfort, my brother handed me a salt packet and told me to eat it. Within minutes, I felt much better as the electrolytes in my body balanced out slightly. At the next water stop, I ate half a banana, forcing it down and willing it to remain in my stomach.

As the miles continued, I felt more and more drained. As my mind grew wearier and I thought longingly of my comfortable couch at home, I doubted once again the wisdom of thinking this whole marathon thing was a good idea.

The only things that kept me going were the increasing mile markers bringing us closer to twenty-six and the comforting thud of my brother’s sneakers in front of me. If he wasn’t complaining, then I wasn’t going to either.

The longest I had ever previously run was 20.5 miles, so once we reached mile 21, my brother took another picture of me, this time in front of the mile sign. I love that picture because not only was it the furthest I had run so far in my life, but because it meant that we were only five miles away from finishing.

We continued on, my legs on auto-pilot as mile marker 22 came and went. I positioned myself slightly behind him so that I could keep his continually moving orange and white sneakers in my line of sight.

We were almost there!

Suddenly, I felt sharp pain in my right knee and I gasped, feeling it buckle slightly. I wobbled, not sure if it was something serious or not.

It’s all mental, I reminded myself. I knew there would be ice at the finish line, and Motrin, and plenty of time afterwards to heal my body and rest.

Soon after that, around mile twenty-four, it felt like someone was stabbing my inner thighs with a red hot knife. I bit my lip as the pain consumed me.

…to be continued…

Surviving My First Marathon- part 2

Thud, thud, thud, thud.

My feet plodded along on the pavement and my head spun as time seemed to slow down around me. Behind me I could hear three women laughing and joking about who was going to call in sick to work the next day. The water in my hand sloshed and splashed with each step I took.

We were surrounded by runners while everyone found their pace. I tried to focus on the road before me, and how much it meant for me to complete this marathon, not only for myself and for how far I’d come, but for my children; my students; my family and friends who had shown me so much support when I needed it the most.

To our left was a cemetery, to our right the racetrack. I wished desperately for the impetus to shake off these negative feelings and suddenly it was there, right beside me where he always was.

“Just breathe,” my brother ordered, the familiar timbre of his voice a comforting reminder of the many miles we had logged together. “My legs feel weird during the first mile, too. It will pass.”

This was his eighth marathon and he was running it not only with me, but for me, to show his support and his belief in me that I could accomplish this.

And just like that I was freed from my semi-paralysis.

Air filled my lungs, and my feet regained their instinctive rhythm. I looked down to see the muscles in my quads flex powerfully as I took each stride. Excitement bubbled up inside me again, and I met my brother’s eyes, seeing the same confidence and desire to finish that I felt.

I beamed at him as my Garmin beeped.

“That was a mile?” I asked incredulously.

He grinned back, the worried look on his face vanishing. “Feel better?”

I nodded. I could do this. It was only 26 miles…the time was going to pass by whether I was running today or not, and I’d much rather have the time pass while I was running.

Ahead of me I spied an older woman, her gray hair partially hidden by a baseball hat as she trotted along. If she can do it, I thought, I can do it.

Along the side of the road, spectators waited, cheering the runners as they passed, whether they knew them or not. Suddenly someone yelled, “Go, Sharon!”

Startled, I looked up. I had written my name on the front of my shirt at my brother’s suggestion, and I smiled gratefully at the stranger, feeling renewed energy in my limbs.

One mile became two, then four, then six, and my body was finally remembering what it had known all along. This was what I had trained for, this feeling of confidence and strength as the streets took us further along the course towards our final destination.

My lungs inhaled and exhaled rhythmically, my arms swung at my sides, and my legs, strong from months of training, moved me forward.

It felt great!

By mile eight my legs were on auto-pilot, willingly giving me what I needed. We were doing intervals of running for five minutes and walking for thirty seconds, which was how I’d trained. Sweat pooled at the base of my spine and on my neck as I ran, quickly whisked away by the morning breeze.

Running is mostly an individual sport, but there are benefits of running with someone else.  Having company makes the time pass more quickly, helps to take your mind off any discomfort, and gives you a motivation to complete the task.

There is always something to talk about as we run. As the miles flew by, my brother and I analyzed and reflected, laughed and teased, shared memories and playfully argued, and passed the time so that before I knew it, we were coming up to one of the hardest parts of the race- where the course split.

He had warned me about this particular spot, because he had run the half marathon here a few years earlier. The half marathon and the full marathon run the same first twelve mile course, albeit an hour apart, until suddenly the road splits and the sign points to the left for the ‘halfs,’ and to the right for the ‘fulls.’

Some people who had already finished the half marathon walked by us on the way to their cars, their shiny new medals dangling from their sweaty necks.  We yelled our congratulations and they cheered us on.

As we approached the sign, I watched as many people turned left and just a few went to the right. I couldn’t believe I was going to be one of the ones turning right today.

“Let me get your picture,” my brother urged. “Go stand in front of the sign.”

I posed in front of the sign, smiling brightly. I wasn’t tired yet and I still had plenty of energy.  I waited for him to put his phone back into his bag, taking a swig from my water bottle.

“You sure you don’t want to go left?” he asked. “We could just call it a day now and no one will ever know.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. The thought of stopping early hadn’t actually entered my mind until he’d said it.

“You’re not funny,” I told him. “We’re doing the whole thing.”

“Just checking to see where your mind is,” he replied, laughing.

We broke into a jog again, reaching the turn point and heading to the right. Spectators cheered for us as we ran by, some yelling out my name. My brother would chuckle every time. I loved my shirt!

A few streets later, I heard someone else shouting my name. When I turned, I saw two of my friends from work, twin sisters, waving at me gleefully from the sidewalk. They had already completed their half marathon, the first for both of them. I hurried over and hugged them, quickly introducing my brother as I jogged in place.

What an energy boost it was to see them!

With renewed vigor, we continued on the route, journeying through the side streets of Long Branch and admiring the beautiful homes and lawns, as well as surveying the damage wrought by Sandy. The amount of spectators wasn’t as heavy this far along the course, but the ones that were there gave us some much appreciated encouragement.

Around mile fourteen we made a right turn and began to run on the main road that would eventually bring us to the turnaround point. We took a short walk break through the water station so we could eat our gels and drink water.

“Almost there,” my brother said, gulping Gatorade. He was still going strong, despite the fact that he’d run two half marathons the weekend before.

“Almost where? What mile is the turnaround?” I asked, trying to picture the map of the route. All I could remember was a long, long, path that went below Asbury Park before heading back in the opposite direction.

“Nineteen,” he replied, casually crushing his empty paper cup and tossing it in a trash bin.

And we were only at fourteen?

Suddenly the next five miles,and the twelve miles after that, seemed very daunting. The road ahead looked never ending. The sun had broken through the clouds a short while ago, and the pavement seemed to shimmer in the morning heat despite the cooling breeze from the ocean.

How was I going to make it?

…to be continued…

Surviving My First Marathon- Part I

The day of the New Jersey Marathon dawned cool and overcast. When the alarm went off I jumped out of bed, my heart pounding with excitement and a little bit of dread when I remembered that today was the day I had been training six months for.

I dressed quickly in the darkness, inhaling a granola bar and tossing an apple in my gym bag for later. I drove to my brother’s house around 5:00 am. He opened the door for me, his face wreathed in a huge smile.

“Are you ready for this?” he asked, keeping his voice low so as not to wake anyone.

“Almost,” I replied, following him to his car with my bags. “I’ll be ready by the time we get there.”

“Better be ready soon,” he said teasingly. “Unless you want to back out?”

I glared at him. “I’m not backing out.”

He laughed. “Just checking.”

The race course was only an hour away at exit 105 on the Parkway, and as we cruised in the early morning light we caught up on conversation and events in our lives since the last time that we'd run together two weeks earlier. I pinned his bib to his running shirt, smoothing the crinkly material with my fingers as he drove.

We were both excited, although I'm not sure who was more so- me because it was my first time running a marathon, or him because he was running my first marathon with me.

That's how my big brother is.

We reached our exit an hour later and to our consternation, we had to wait for yet another hour to get through the traffic light that would ultimately take us to our destination.

The frustration of waiting in that long line, combined with the overpowering nerves for the upcoming run almost succeeded in taking away our overall feeling of excitement of the race, but at last we were through.

Volunteers for the race directed the long stream of eager runners temporarily trapped in cars to a parking spot in the vast lots around Monmouth County Racetrack.

First, I toed off my warm boots. Then I removed my comfy blue sweatpants to reveal pink spandex shorts that I had chosen to match my socks and my shirt. I had an entire new outfit to wear for my first marathon, and the bright colors were a reflection of my new outlook on life ever since I began running.

Next, I applied a substantial layer of Thermacare to my shins before pullng on my hot pink tie-dye compression sleeve socks. I have found that the socks help to prevent shin splints tremendously, especially during long runs, and my mom gave them to me several days earlier for good luck.

 I applied Vaseline to the soles of my feet, slid my feet into the special moisture wicking socks, then squeezed baby powder into my sneakers before slipping my feet inside them.

Vaseline was also applied liberally to the sensitive skin beneath my sports bra. The last time I had done a long training run the skin had been rubbed nearly raw by the material. I wasn't risking that again.

There was a chill in the air on this gorgeous May morning, but I took off my jacket and left it in the car as we climbed out. It called for sun and a temperature close to sixty today, and I didn't want to have to run the full distance with it tied clumsily around my waist.

I grabbed my water bottle, checked that my Shotblox were in my brother's waist pack, and then quickly followed him to the path that would take us from the parking lot to the start of the race.

Due to the traffic at the light, we only had fifteen minutes before the race started so we dashed for the line of porta-potties standing like sentries across the lot from the starting line. People milled around us, some of them spectators, most of them runners, and I was amazed at how many people were crazy enough to run 26.2 miles.

Kind of like my brother and I.

I was careful to walk slightly behind him so that he wouldn't see the back of my t-shirt before we reached our corral. I was going to surprise him with what I had written on the back. As we stood on line, I turned so that he could read it.

"Running-great! Running a marathon- awesome! Running a marathon with my big brother- priceless!"

He was grinning from ear to ear when he was done reading it, and he insisted on taking a picture of my back to post to Facebook. There was a suspicious glimmer in his eyes and I looked away because I knew that if I saw his tears my own would begin.

Not only had training for this marathon over the past several months been extremely physical, with long grueling hours of asphalt and sweat both during the week and on the weekends, but also emotional, as my brother and I grew closer and bonded over Shotblox and ten milers.

Finally, despite my last minute feelings of panic, a trace of denial, and the overwhelming feeling that this whole 'running a marathon' idea was completely nuts, I stood shivering next to him in Corral D, meant for those who would finish the marathon in five hours and thirty minutes- which was my goal. I figured if I didn’t make it under that this time, I would know what to do for the next marathon I was crazy enough to sign up for.

All around us people were smiling and laughing, extending good wishes to strangers and friends alike. After a few moments I relaxed enough to smile back at people, and to thank those who complimented me on my shirt.

 The DJ played music to bolster our spirits and our energy. As marathoners filled in the corrals the beat of 'Wild Thing' and 'Born to Run' had us all moving around to the beat and some people were even singing out loud. I was soon squeezed between my brother and a man who smiled at me reassuringly.

"Your first one?" he asked.

I smiled weakly and nodded. He gave me a thumbs-up as the announcer asked for twenty-six moments of silence to honor those affected by the tragedy in Boston.

You could've heard a pin drop as over a thousand runners and spectators bowed their heads respectfully.

The first notes of the Star Spangled Banner began to play and we all removed our hats and sang. There was a definite tear in my brother's eye now, and I took a deep breath so that I wouldn't give in to the emotion that was clogging my throat. I wanted to keep my mind clear so that I could focus on the run ahead.

He held up his fist so we could touch knuckles. “Let’s do this thing,” he said, encouragement and excitement lighting his eyes.

I smiled back at him, feeling the burn of determination smother any lingering embers of doubt. “Thanks, big brother,” I replied.

Finally, it was time. The first three corrals moved through the start gate. Each runner had a micro-chip on their bib that would track their run. It seemed to take forever to move forward, while in actuality it was only minutes before we were stepping over the blue electronic bump, taking our first step of many thousands of steps that would eventually, hopefully, lead to the finish line.

As we jostled and merged and began to run with the crowd, I realized with horror that my body didn't feel right. I had been tapering for three weeks and I feared that I had forgotten how to run. The last time I had run was four days earlier.

My feet felt like blocks of concrete, there was extreme discomfort in my shins, and I couldn't catch my breath. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of effort just to put one foot in front of the other. The air seemed to push down on my limbs, preventing me from moving any faster.

Forgotten were all my training runs, in which I had managed to run fifteen, seventeen, and even twenty miles with no problems. I was panicking! We were just starting the first mile and there were twenty-six to go!

"Bob!" I gasped, feeling as if I was running underwater. "I can't do this!"


…to be continued...

Running My Life

I ran 20 miles today.

It may not seem like a lot to some, it may seem excessive to others, but to me, it was a milestone in my life.

A little over a year ago today, I had shin splints from skiing and they were extremely painful so I didn't run.

Two years ago today, I was in the midst of a gut-wrenching divorce from my husband of nine years, and the thought of running rarely crossed my mind.

Five years ago today, I was pregnant with my third child and my ex-husband had just begun yet another addiction, this time to painkillers. My exercise was taking care of the house, the children, and him while maintaining a hold on my sanity.

Ten years ago today, I was newly married and pregnant with my second child in our new home. My exercise consisted of walking the dog a few times a week.

And fourteen years ago today, I was a single mom taking care of my newborn son. Exercise was the last thing on my mind.

But I ran 20 miles today, and I feel great!

What a difference a year makes!

I began training for my first half marathon as soon as my shin splints healed and in that time, just one year so far, so many positive things have happened to me. I have come to realize that three of my best decisions in this life were: having my children, getting divorced, and starting to run.

Running has opened many doors into not only my own journey of self-improvement and reflection, but also into the world of being social and happy with my life.

Since I began running, I have lost over twelve pounds of stubborn body fat and three inches off of my waist. My BMI has decreased by three points.

I grew up with body issues and I used to look away from my reflection in windows and mirrors, but now I can’t resist taking a peek at my legs whenever I pass by any reflective surface. My brother laughs at me when I call them “my girls,” but I can’t help it.

I can’t believe how far I can go with “my girls.”

I have dropped two pant sizes and a full shirt size. My foot size has increased slightly, but I consider it a small price to pay for the incredible journeys my feet take me on.

I have been able to discontinue the medicine prescribed for anxiety after the divorce, because the rush of endorphins that comes with a run stays with me in my daily life. I have so much energy that my friends sometimes accuse me of being hyperactive.

They may be right, but I just want to take advantage of as much as I can in this lifetime, and I am incredibly grateful to have been given a second chance to truly live.

I smile at people, and people smile back at me. I feel so positive that I want to share those positive feelings with everyone. I believe you get what you give- and by sharing a smile or a happy thought with someone, I in turn feel happy.

My children benefit from me being less stressed, and I have more energy for them. We are currently in the process of planning our first family vacation since the divorce. I can’t wait!

I have achieved most of my educational goals, and I have decided to go back to school this fall for another certification. After that, who knows? There’s no limit to what I can do if I put my mind to it.

I am running my life with joy and hope, faith and love. I love life, every single moment of it, good and not so good, and I love all of the friends and family members who enrich my life in so many ways.

My first full marathon is just two months away. I have sweated, iced, and stretched for many months in preparation and I know I am ready for it.

I ran 20 miles today.

In two weeks, I will be logging 23 miles.

I can’t wait.

The Cave

      There are many references to caves in literature, usually as a metaphor for life and it's many analyses and realizations. As I sat on my couch this Christmas morning, waiting for my ex-husband to return my children, the house was quiet around me and the dog's head was a comforting warmth on my lap. I began to reflect on my own personal cave metaphor, and how good it felt to be free of it.

     At the beginning of our relationship, my ex-husband and I went to Point Pleasant one summer night and talked for hours on a bench on the boardwalk. It was exciting and new, and with the ocean before us and the vitality of life all around us, I couldn't imagine being anywhere else than on that bench with him.

     I imagine that bench in my cave set against a rock wall, hard, rigid wood underneath me and unyielding metal holding it all together.

     When we were married two years later, we settled into our new home with its neutral walls and bland furnishings and brought that metaphorical bench with us. My son, from a previous relationship, fit just right on the bench beside us. As time went by, we relied on that bench to hold us up and keep us together through life's adventures and mishaps. Soon I realized I would need to look for some sturdy rocks to fortify our bench.

     My daughter was born that year, and I found that I was placing more and more rocks around us as the days and months went by. When he owed gambling money on a bet gone bad and had to race to his mother's house to borrow hundreds of dollars, I quietly set a rock in place. When his temper grew out of control and he would cry uncontrollably, I brought him to a psychiatrist and I dutifully laid down several more rocks. 

     Eventually the rocks formed a wall, and after I made that wall, I made another one. To fortify our relationship? Or to keep others from seeing what was happening on our little bench?

     After the first overdose, a mix of tranquilizers and alcohol with sleeping pills, I not only strengthened the three walls that I had built but I also began to construct the fourth wall.There were no windows and very little fresh air. When he would come home from work reeking of alcohol and stumbling to the bedroom, I would protest but immediately back down in the face of his temper. More rocks were added, with a touch of cement so that no one could see through the cracks.

     There was enough room in one corner of the cave for my children and I to slip out now and again and shop, or ride bikes, or visit my family. We would return quickly, though, and I would make sure that the rocks were still tightly packed before hiding us all behind them again. When my third child entered the world, I brought him out of the cave with us, as well.

     Through the ensuing years, every time I put him to bed or declined a rare invitation to be somewhere, not only did the rock wall grow, but so did my resentment. Every time I had to bring him to the ER for taking too much of something, or listen to him complain about my family, my increasingly infrequent visits with friends, or how much he hated people in general, my resentment festered. 

     What had happened to the man I first sat on that bench with? The one who now huddled in the cave, keeping the stone walls around him like a blanket?

     By the time he had begun an addiction to painkillers, I had begun to look for a way out of the cave. I knew that my children and I weren't safe in there anymore, and as I pushed at the walls of rock, cement crumbled and tiny bits of light peeked through. We would leave the cave more and more often, leaving him to sleep or hide, depending on the substance he was taking. Not only was he taking more and more painkillers, but he was also hooked on strong sleeping pills prescribed by his psychiatrist. The bench had become too small for all of us, and eventually the wood warped and cracked and the metal bent.

     The day he put two of my children in the car and drove high with them was the day that I demolished my self-imposed cave and beat through the smothering walls with my bare hands. No longer was I going to hide in there with him, wondering what life could be. As more and more light shone down on me and my children, I felt myself coming to life. We left that cave and never looked back.

     I found my children and I a new place, not a cave but a haven. The walls are painted brightly, friends are welcome to come in and out, and the four of us have discovered how excellent being free of the cave is. Never again will I barricade myself behind rock walls; instead, I let the breeze blow freely through open windows, the sun beam through the curtains, and my own personal light shine like a beacon.

    
     Life is good.

     
      

      

Running Towards Life

I realize that I may sound a bit like a character from a much loved movie who went on and on about a certain ocean delicacy at times, but I have to keep talking about how much running has changed my life for the better. Not just physically, although I definitely am loving those changes, but emotionally and mentally as well.

When I was married, I would try to do some kind of exercise for at least 25 minutes every other day, whether it was a walk around the block with the dog, bike riding with the kids, or a desultory run/walk in which I would run for a song, walk for a song, etc. My metabolism cooperated while I was in my twenties, but after my third child it was just a little bit harder to keep those stubborn extra pounds away. Plus, it became a hassle to have to keep asking my ex-husband if I could go exercise. There was always something he had to do first, like take a nap or watch a football game and he didn't want to always be 'babysitting.'

I am still surprised by people I meet who tell me that they exercise when they need to, leaving their children at home with their husbands. Just the thought of that freedom was inconceivable considering what I was dealing with. Needless to say, some of you know how that marriage ended up. It has been almost two years and I am confident, finally, that I am going to be okay. In fact, I know that I am going to be happy, and I am going to feel great, and love life, for many years to come.

Thanks, in a large part, to running.

During the divorce proceedings, in which those invisible yet tenuous bonds between my ex-husband and his perception of reality pushed me closer and closer to the edge of madness, I began to run. At first, during those 5 minute/1 minute sessions which lasted anywhere from 20 minutes to 30 minutes, I found solace in feeling my body begin to come alive again after so long. The sound of my labored breathing and the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement drew me in. Whenever the kids were with their dad, I would go for a run. Eventually, when my oldest was able to, he would offer to watch the little one while I ran.

A thirteen year old was willingly offering what had been denied to me for so long. Ironic.

Then I began to run with my older brother, Bob. He told me about a half marathon in Wild Wood at the end of that summer, and I knew with every cell in my body that I wanted to do it. Training began with a bang, and I had just made it to the five mile mark when injury struck while skiing. It was torture to have to wait so long before I could run again, and I felt the stress and tension from the divorce building. As I was dragged closer to the abyss of negativity, I noticed that I snapped at my kids, bristled at colleagues, and was in general, a bit of a bitch. Once physical therapy began and I was able to run again, though, I felt more able to deal with life. I slowly but surely built myself up to running three miles at a time without stopping, then four, and finally seven. Bob was there to run the longer training runs with me, and for those short periods of time I was able to run further away from the abyss and closer to salvation.

Seven miles turned to ten, and every time I ventured out for a run I would feel that much better. If I doubted my abilities to be a mother, teacher, daughter, I would run it out. If someone hurt my feelings, I would run. If I felt like I needed a boost, I would run.While the residue of the insanity worked its way out of my life, I had my training runs to keep my spirits up and my hope renewed. The feelings that come from running are pretty much indescribable. I had always heard of an endorphin high, but I hadn't realized how that feeling of euphoria would carry over into my everyday life  It did, though, with the positive effects of making me a stronger- and nicer- person, more confident, and more alive. By the end of the summer I was able to complete the Wild Half in two hours and thirty minutes. Not too shabby, considering I had been running less than a year.

The abyss will never be a threat to me again. I have running to thank for that peace of mind, as well as the love of my friends and family who helped me through the darkness into the light. My comfort zone has been completely redefined. I find that people smile at me for no reason, which leads me to smile back. When I go somewhere, I know that I will be able to connect with people in my own way, usually through my passion for running and for life, and I will never go back to being that meek, semi-active girl.

While I probably won't do what the main character did in that beloved movie- although never say never, it looked like fun to run from one side of the United States to the other- I will continue my running regime. It feels awesome.

I'm going for a run.