Drama at the not okay motel

 

Time: 7 AM, day 2 of 3, road-tripping.  

Place: Basic chain motel right off the NY Thruway.  

Been stopping here for at least ten years. After each visit, I resolve to stay somewhere else next trip, then promptly forget. The price is reasonable, especially if you have pets, which I do. The convenience is exceptional. Minutes off the highway. Easy on and off. 

But the place is going downhill. It’s clean, but old and worn out.   The walls are thin, so getting a good night’s sleep isn’t always guaranteed, and the room is always short something. Last visit, the wastebasket was missing. This visit there was no hand soap (I used the shower gel).  

After today's little bit of excitement, I think I'll remember to stay away from this place next road trip.  

It started with a cat, as most of my road trip misadventures usually do. First thing this morning, I’m prepping for our drive today. It’s a long one. At least eight hours. I managed to get two of the cats in their carriers, pretty quickly too. The third was another story. Patrick was being obstinate, ignoring my begging, pleading, yelling. Then, in classic cat being a cat fashion, he slinked, slanked, slunked? under the bed. 

The clock is ticking as the other two kitties, siblings Alexis and David Rose, wait patiently for our little orange buddy to get his act together, which he doesn’t. After a twenty-minute workout during which I bruised my knees and strained my back, I head to the office to ask for help. On the way, I see a pickup idling in the lot. 

The driver wears a day glo yellow top and a safety vest. I’m thinking maybe he’s an employee of the property and is there to fix up the parking lot, which absolutely needs it. I’m thinking maybe no one at the front desk will be able to help me because they’re busy with checkouts and I better try to handle this myself. I approach the driver and hold up a bill, asking him if he’d like to make a quick couple of bucks and help me get my cat into his carrier.

Now, I’m right next to his truck window and see he's probably a guest, like me. There's a woman in the passenger seat. My age, but a little worse for wear -- thin face, yellowed skin, peroxide blonde shag. Her teeth aren't quite right. She's wearing dentures that are too big for her mouth. She’s smoking a cigarette. “I’d help you, but I’m allergic to cats.”

The guy is also my age, a little stocky, graying, bearded, red faced. His eyes are narrowed, face expressionless, staring at something in the distance. 

“I have a kid who can help you. He’s a loser. A crack head. He’ll be right down.” He nods and I look where he’s looking. On the second-floor balcony of the motel, a young man is sauntering/ walking/ taking his time moving. 

I don’t know what to say. I’m trying to figure out what the driver means. Looks like a normal person. Walking like a normal person.  What’s this guy up to? Bragging about his kid in some weird, unsettling way? Maybe the kid is some sort of genius? Is what he’s saying some sort of inside joke with the wife or girlfriend, whoever she is? 

The kid approaches the truck, and the yelling starts.  “Don’t you fucking ever wake me up like that again or I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you.” He’s addressing dad. 

He's college age, maybe mid-twenties. Six feet tallish. Solid muscle, 220-240. Think refrigerator. Linebacker. He IS the brute squad. He’s yelling the same thing over and over: “Don’t fucking wake me like that ever again or I’ll fucking kill you.” Fists clenched, arms stiff at his side. Giving his father the same dead-eyed look the guy is giving him. 

The father of the year gives it right back, calling the kid a loser, a crack head. He repeats this many times and then says what I don’t want to hear: go help with the cat. 

The kid is, quite obviously, going nuclear. And I’m standing there wondering who’s going to die first. And what’s wrong with this kid? It’s obvious there’s something wrong with him. Is it drugs though? My mind goes:

This kid is enraged. And there’s something more.  Gotta be neurodivergence, probably never recognized/ celebrated/ explored.  You can see it in his body language and hear it in his words.  

This father likes tormenting his kid. 

This kid deserved better. Even now as a grown-up he deserves better. 

This father has done unspeakable things. I just know it.    

This mother (I've decided she's the mother) she’s done terrible things too, like sitting by and doing nothing while her kid is viciously verbally attacked. 

I’ve had this kid in school. In my head I name names. I see faces.  

Then I realize I’m feet away from the whole scene and I leave – no one notices -- and race to the office where the desk kid – yes, kid – can’t be more than 18 if that, does nothing.  We can both hear the yelling. He’s acting like this is normal. I ask him if he’s going to call the police. He looks at me like I’m nuts. 

He gets a broom and accompanies me back to the room. He starts walking toward the yelling, but I insist we avoid them and take the long way around. He pushes the broom under the bed and Patrick runs out the other side. I scoop up Patrick and deposit him in his carrier. The whole thing takes less than a minute. 

I finish loading the car. A few rooms away, the father and son are still going at it. The guest next door to me steps outside onto the crumbling cement landing and lights a cigarette. She glances briefly in the direction of the yelling, then turns away, stares off into space,  and takes a few more drags of the butt. Next room down, another guest comes out. He looks neither left nor right. He loads his car, reverses fast,  and leaves. 

Meanwhile I pack the three carriers and arrange them carefully. Once I turn the car toward the exit, I gun it past the pickup, still idling, the son still raging, the dad in the driver's seat still egging him on. 

Six hundred miles, three cups of coffee and a whole bunch of adrenaline rushes later, I’m writing this and thinking about lots of things but mainly these:  

1. Should I have called the police? And the other side of that question -- Why was I the only witness disturbed enough by this to want to call the police? 

2. Why didn’t I write this down/dictate all this to myself earlier? The words I wanted to write were so fluid in my head this morning. The phrasing luminous. The connections deep and oh so important. (Joking of course.) But now I’m too tired.  The words have dried up. I can’t think.  Maybe that’s a good thing. Ugh. 

3. One of these days, that kid is going to kill someone.   

 

 

Gus #2: Strange places and sad choices

It’s me and four cats. Day two on the road. Driving highway all day clouds your head and blears your eyes. Legs and back are stiff. I’m not hungry or thirsty, though for the last nine hours I’ve had nothing but a couple of sips of water, one large coffee, a bottle of diet soda, two small energy bars, and an egg salad sandwich. 

Was not looking for complications, though when you’re on the road for several days at a time, you do your best to anticipate wrenches. 

I just want to get the cats out of their carriers, feed and water them, and let them roam around a bit while I doze. Watching them explore the room will assuage my guilt at forcing them into their carriers, messing with their schedules, driving them halfway across the country when they were perfectly content back in their little house among the other little houses among the cornfields of central Iowa. 

When we pulled into the hotel parking lot, the sun was just beginning to set and the air, comfortable all day, was starting to chill. It was that time of day when it gets dark and cold pretty fast. Late May.  The anniversary of my grandmother’s death. That thought shoots out of nowhere. It’s been twenty-three years but still feels like it just happened.  

While the other kitties dart from their carriers, Gus stays in his. The last three hours, he’s been mewing, breathing a bit heavily. At the last gas stop, I zipped open his carrier to give him some treats. He poked his little head out. I thought for a second about removing him from the carrier and cuddling him a bit, but immediately my head created this movie reel where, me exhausted and him energized, he leaps from my arms and runs into traffic. So I pushed his little head back in, it’s soft and slightly larger than the palm of my hand,  and told him we only had a few more hours. 

Got into the habit, when my daughters were young, of making sure that from the driver’s seat I could always see them, either by turning my head quickly or by looking in the rear-view mirror. I’m the same with my cats. From the mirror, I could see all four of them. Shortly after we got back on the road after that last stop, Gus made a sound that I’d never heard come from him before. Part yelp. Part meow. Soon after, he began mouth breathing. I’m an experienced enough cat person to know that this is not good, and warrants investigating. 

We still had 150 miles left of our drive. He was fine at the last rest stop, when he tried to get out of the carrier and I’d pushed him back in. I convinced myself that the reason he was mouth breathing was because he was stressed and that everything would be fine once we got to the hotel. 

But Gus stayed in his carrier. Finally, I shook him from it. He lay on his side on the floor breathing heavily. I picked him up and put him on my shoulder. He whined as though he was in pain. His body writhed. I put him down on the cool tiles on the bathroom floor. He lies still, his only movement the heaving of his chest. 

Not sure what the term is for when you are utterly exhausted, yet you go into hyperdrive. Not a second wind. Definitely an out of body thing. My phone was at less than 10 percent, so I plugged it into the wall. I started up my laptop and googled emergency vets, part of me wondering if I was overreacting, and part of me wishing I’d done this search hours ago. 

The animal hospital answers on the second ring and tells me to bring in Gus immediately. I bundle Gus in some clothes and get him in the car. Dazed, worn out. That was me. Can’t even begin to imagine how the poor little guy was feeling. Luckily, the vet was only four miles and two highways away. Made it in ten minutes to a shopping plaza with two other businesses, an insurance place – closed for the evening, and a pot store. 

I knew nothing about this place or these veterinarians. I was 800 miles away from one home and 400 miles away from another in a strange place among other strange places. I was in such a rush I hadn’t googled reviews or medical backgrounds. For all I knew these people were drug addicts and murderers practicing vet medicine without licenses. 

These nameless, faceless office people waited while I filled out paperwork, and my credit card approved their $500 base fee. Then they took Gus. I wasn’t allowed to go with them. 

At that point I was still thinking that Gus would be okay, that maybe he was just dehydrated or stressed. I was telling myself that this was all a waste of time and money. There were two other people in the waiting room. Silence. Plate glass windows showed how dark it was outside. Hardly any cars in the lot. Felt like we were the last people on earth. The silence was overwhelming. There was too much time to think. My phone was charging at the one electrical plug I could find, next to a coffee maker. I could have gotten a free coffee, but to say I was already over wired at that point would be an understatement. No seat nearby so I was pacing, but not for long. 

Within ten minutes, the vet beckoned me to follow her, past closed doors into a small examination room. Where’s Gus?

She starts by immediately crashing all my hopes. Do you have any support with you? 

I said no and I’m strong and I give her the back of the matchbook summary: I’m a marathoner, raised two kids on my own and also cared, usually alone, for sick then dying loved ones for ten years. I repeat: I’m strong.

She tells me Gus isn’t good. There’s something wrong with his heart and I need to make some decisions because he’s suffering. 

Strong me starts swaying. She helps me sit down and gets me a cup of water. 

Me, wondering where she got her vet degree and if she got off on killing pets: “How certain are you?”

She rattled off the tests they’d done on him and said she was 100 percent sure that Gus was dying, but they could do more tests if I wanted. 

What I said, roughly:

“I don’t know you. I don’t know this place. You don’t know me or my cat. He was fine this morning. I need more answers.” 

I handed her my credit card, which she would need to charge in order to authorize more tests. I asked to see Gus but was told it wasn’t possible just yet. He was hooked up to an IV and was in an oxygenated incubator. I asked if maybe possibly the stress that he was under right now, being with strange people in a strange place, might be the real problem. 

Her answer: No. 

This was followed by an hour of pacing, phone charging, googling the vet and clinic reviews, and searching out reasons for sudden cardiac failure in felines. 

When the vet returned with the test results, I knew it was over. 

They gave me Gus, wrapped in a blanket, and told me to take all the time I needed. I asked if he was in pain. When they said that, yes he was, I said give me just a minute. I didn’t want him suffering any more than he already was. At this point for him, every breath was torture. 

I stayed with him as they administered the medicine. As he took his last breaths, I told him what I hope he already knew: that he was a good boy who deserved better than this. I said other things too, but that’s between him and me. 

I left with a hefty credit card bill, and a sandwich-sized baggy full of Gus’s fur. Drove back to the hotel I don’t know how. Gave the other three cats lots of treats and cuddles. Imagined my grandmother meeting up with Gus and welcoming him into her cozy heaven apartment,  walls decorated with my daughters’ finger paintings. I dreamt she was keeping watch over all my other pets gone too soon and saying to them, when they saunter into the kitchen after a good night’s sleep, “Did you dream about the kitty and doggy?” which is a weird little phrase she used all the time with my kids. 

Slept a little. 

The next day drove the last leg of the trip. I don’t remember anything about that day which must mean it was uneventful which was the best thing I could hope for at that point. 

Gus, on the other hand, was everything I could hope for. Someday I’ll write about how he stole my heart, flooded my house – he truly did this is not an exaggeration, called me mom – he did I am convinced of this, and was simply the best cat ever. 

 

 

Gus had a white bowtie-shaped marking at his throat and a cumberbund-shaped mark at his belly. He was always dressed for a good time. 

 

 

 

 

Time to write about Gus, #1

My Gus Gus died a few weeks ago and I need to write about him. I realized this the other day when I heard someone say, “Gus!” and my stomach dropped. Suddenly it was the last night of poor Gus's life, and we were back at the soulless, sterile budget motel in Syracuse right off the New York Thruway. 

It was dusk. I was exhausted, back aching, legs stiff. I'd just driven 500 miles with two quick breaks,  totalling maybe 15 minutes, for gas and the bathroom. 

Too many trips from car to room, unloading cat carriers, food bag, bowls, litter, scoop, litter boxes, my one travel bag. The soundtrack: blighted and otherworldly -- engines droning, whooshing.The smell: dystopian highway – asphalt, exhaust, and that faint garbage-decaying smell that always seems to hover around roadside lodgings. Then stomach-growling, eyes stinging from too much road, watching the other cats prowl around, sniff at corners, roll on the bed, lap up the water I’d just put out for them,  but Gus not moving. Then shaking Gus from his pet carrier because he wouldn’t or couldn’t leave it even though for hours he’d been mewing to get out. Not annoying mewing, more like the noise you might make if you were a sweet cat who didn't want to be a bother but who needed a few minutes of your time to perhaps have a little chat and maybe a snuggle.

It was the second day of our three-day trip from Iowa to Massachusetts. The first day, I drove six hours. Totally uneventful. The cats were great. No meows, peeps. Very calm, all of us. Even the traffic outside Chicago, normally a bumper car nightmare, was relatively tame. Day two was eight-ish hours. Day three would be another six. On my own, I do the trip in two days. But with pets, I figured taking three days was more humane. I was used to twelve-hour drives. They were not. 

To say the cats were not thrilled about taking this or any journey would be an understatement. 

The party starts with the packing. First, there’s the clawing as I maneuver them into their carriers. Then there’s the usual torturous meowing while I drive. And even though I try to drown them out by hitting eleven on the volume button, it doesn’t change the fact that I can still hear them, and I can’t help putting myself in their paws. Meow. How would I feel if I was suddenly ripped from all that I knew, thrown into a cage, jostled around for hours, then deposited in a strange new land where I didn’t understand the sights, smells, sounds? Stressed. That’s how I’d feel. Stressed. Meow. And more than a little resentful. Maximum meow. 

For this trip, I was ahead of the game though. Found some calming treats that the cats totally obsessed over. Started dosing them the day before the trip. Then on departure day covered the car and carriers with Feliway spray. Doused the bathroom too. Why the bathroom? Been a cat person for over thirty years now and am privy to at least one cardinal cat travel rule: Cats are obligated to hide when they know a car trip is imminent. Through trial, error, and too many bandages, I’ve learned that using the bathroom as packing central is the best way to ensure that I’ll get them in their carriers. You try trapping six pounds of fluff balled up in a far corner behind a heavy washing machine. It doesn’t take long to figure out you need an alternative method. 

Gus used to be that tiny kitty, nimble enough to hop, skip, claw over dirty laundry and countertops,  under beds and behind refrigerators. He’d put up such a fight I’d end up having to cancel and reschedule vet appointments. It truly was an act of God, actually getting him into his carrier. Gus was a force of nature. A hurricane in cat form. 

I learned to lure him into the bathroom under the pretense of giving him a treat, then BAM! Lock the door. WHAM! Use both hands to grab each set of legs, pretty much hog-tying the poor baby.  POW! Kick the carrier out from its hiding place and WHOOSH! Dump him headfirst into it. Nine years of vet visits, this was the norm. 

A master manipulator, the look he’d shoot me once he was safely zipped up – indignant, pleading, devastated? Killer. Gus knew how to play me. 

I remember for this last trip, for the first time in his life Gus did not put up a fight about getting into his carrier.  Gus was docile. Eerily so. I took his shift in personality as a sign that the Feliway and treats were working. Looking back now, I’m not so sure about that. 

Gus

Autopilot: love it hate it need to crash it

In the last week since this latest 1,400-mile drive to Massachusetts, I have shopped, ellipted, run, weight-trained, spaced out in front of the TV – wow there’s a lot of crap on TV, wasted too much time on Facebook and political websites, and even tried reading a book. 

It was in the process of trying to read the book that I realized something was wrong.  “Trying” to read a book? I don’t normally “try” to read books. For me, reading isn’t a trying kind of thing. I try to run. I try to watch what I eat. I try to not scream every time I read about our democracy dying. But for me, reading – real reading as in books, not this dopamine-hit social media stuff, is like breathing. It’s not something I need to think about. It's simply something I do. I sit down, open a book, read. 

I tried that last night, opened a book I mean. Stared at the same paragraph for a while, then realized I was daydreaming. Force myself to read the paragraph, the page. Tried to remember what I read. Couldn’t. Repeated the process. Same result. No recall whatsoever. Dropped the book and popped open my phone screen to Duolingo. Practiced French for a half hour or so. Was able to focus a little. Evidence? I graduated to the next level. Have no idea what I read or said,  but Duo keeps giving me points so guess I generated just enough focus to learn a little and/ or game the system.  

I realized that I’ve been operating on autopilot. I know why too. A horrible thing happened on my drive here from Iowa. I’m shattered. No that’s not it. I don’t know yet what the word is to describe what’s going on. I don’t have the words. Been trying to find them. Three times now, including today, I’ve tried writing about what happened. Not there yet, but each keystroke, each attempt, feels like a chipping away. Not like Michelangelo breathing life into stone, Instead, think axe to iceberg to beating heart.  Getting there but it’s coming slowly.  A person can only take so much. 

A ten-pound cat? Even less. And there. That’s the horror. My cat died while we were traveling, and it's my fault. Or at least partly my fault. But it feels like it's all my fault. And that's an awful feeling. 

Runners: The things we carry in our cars. Part 2, in which resolve returns

I wrote the original post ten years ago almost to the day  -- Runners: The things we carry in our cars. I was wasting time when I wrote that. Didn't feel like running, so I wrote instead.  

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2015/05/runners-things-we-carry-in-our-cars.html

Ten frickin' years ago. A few things have changed, but procrastinating continues to be one of my favorite hobbies. 

Yesterday I took on the onerous task of attempting to clean out my car. The mess had reached such epic proportions that no more than one primary school-aged grandchild could fit in the back seat. This is Iowa, the state of "if you build it they will come." Perhaps if my car has room for more than one grandchild? Maybe more will come? Doubt it, but one can dream. 

In addition to taking me to runs all over tarnation, my aging, trusty steed is now charged with driving me halfway across the country and back a few times a year, so these days there is a definite midden-like, archeological aspect to cleaning out my favorite dumping ground. 

There are certain items that definitely and only pertain to the grit and grime of excessive travel, like bits of kitty litter, chewed up cat toys, toll and gas receipts, the rest area promotional detritus that seemed spur-of-the-moment interesting: Amish handicraft stores, upstate New York wineries, retail outlet malls, hotel lists right off 80 and 90. Ugh. 

But even with all that, the running crap still abounds. 

Question. How many half-empty water bottles can one rusting mid-sized SUV hold? 

Answer. The limit does not exist. 

Here are some other marathony treasures I found during my foray into the mess that is my auto. 

Three mostly- empty tubes of Aquaphor. 

Zero bars of Body Glide. Moved away from that faithful friend back when multi-day races became a thing and needed to up the lubrication to industrial-strength. Oh, the chafing. 

One tangled, broken headset that is not in any way, shape, or form compatible with 21st century technology. 

Two phone chargers, also ancient. 

No space blankets, but one sweatshirt for a race I didn't show up for because I was still dealing with dizziness, which begs the question: keep the sweatshirt or donate it?  The generally accepted integrity move is never wear items from a race you didn't run. But it's a nice sweatshirt and I DNS'd -- did not show -- because of medical issues, not due to laziness. I need to think about this. 

Two blankets, both Dollar Store fleece, which make great post-run seat covers. 

One towel, disgustingly stiff. I have no idea why. Ick. 

Coins. So many. Mostly pennies. 

Thousands of pens. Why????

A ridiculous amount of single gloves/ mittens. How the heck does that happen? How does one lose just one glove, over and over and over again? 

One race bib. No safety pins attached. Again, why do I have this???? Safety pins are the whole reason to hold onto those bibs. 

One marathon medal. WTF??? Who the heck am I even? When did I become that person who is so underwhelmed about finishing 26.2 miles that I forget to take the medal, the evidence of completing that massive physical feat, into the house and at least show some respect for my efforts by dumping it on a bureau or countertop?

I remember that race too. It was awesome. In Vermont last year. Weather was perfect. Lots of big-ass hills. I ran the first half at a pace a half hour faster than I'd been running that distance the whole previous year, then walked the last half because that's my thing now, either run/ walking the entire distance, or running for awhile then walking the remainder: My creative, though possibly somewhat useless method of staving off hip replacement surgery for a few more years, fingers crossed. 

Off on a few more adventures soon. With 91 marathons under my belt, 100 beckons. Then maybe I'll stop. The mojo is definitely not what it once was.  The knees, hips, and what few brain cells I have left are no longer in sync with the whole marathoning process. Though the other day the grandkid did take a peek at my London Marathon medal and asked me if I'd won. I thought about telling him how just getting to the starting line feels like a win these days, even if the finish line feels a bit anti-climactic. 

"Did I win? That's a good question," I said, buying time while I figured out what words should come next because words matter.  "Nope. I haven't won yet. But maybe one of these days, if I keep trying." 

I didn't believe my words, even as I said them. But even we grown ups know that sometimes, even when you fake it you do eventually make it. The trying is the main thing. The trying is the point of it all. I want my grandson to know that.  Then this occurred to me: Words matter. But actions? Those define. 

And now all I want to do is run. 

Crap. I don't think I'll be stopping at 100. 

Lost faith in humanity? Run London

 London Marathon Class of ‘25 

“This is bloody tough. But so are you." Nike sign around mile 20 or so. 

There were a lot of sights at the London Marathon that made my eyes water. But that sign brought me to tears. Not because I was falling apart when I saw it. Just the opposite. I was fine. Enjoying a walk in the park almost literally, except I was strolling through a big city. 

Was the race bloody tough? No. Not at all. Not one bit. Not even an iota. If anything, it was absurdly easy. 

There was no pressure. No physical issue to overcome. Granted, I needed some serious pep talks with myself in the days before the race so I stayed calm and centered, but that’s what I did every Monday morning for 30 years of teaching, so not so unusual.

With London ’25, I got what I trained for. And I was more than happy for that much. 

For Tokyo eight weeks ago, I did NOT get what I trained for. I passed out two weeks before it, then nearly passed out during it, so removed myself from the course and got my first marathon Did Not Finish, along with all the emotional baggage that goes with that. Also, tons of medical tests.  

Passed all the tests with flying colors. It’s looking more and more like the fainting was medication related. More specifically,  I was on the wrong type/ dosage of blood pressure medication, which I’d just started a few months before the fainting episode. 

Even so a few days before London, doctor advised me to err on the side of caution and avoid strenuous activity until my cardiology appointment this July. How does one do that when one has a marathon, which is rather strenuous, coming up? Also, what the heck does strenuous mean when you’re a marathoner? 

What’s easy for me might be strenuous for someone my age who doesn’t marathon and might be overly easy for a marathoner ten years my junior or more difficult for a marathoner ten years my senior. 

Given that I had all day and most of the night to finish the London Marathon, I opted to be mindful and keep my heart rate low and walk instead of run. Not that I’d do a good job running anyhow, since I haven’t exerted myself since Tokyo. 

Walking 26.2 miles is not overly difficult when you're used to covering that distance at a speedier rate. The soles of my feet started aching early on, due to the repetitive slap slap on pavement. But the aching was easy to ignore. I had a great time. I talked with people. Smiled a lot. Teared up a bit. Did not get dehydrated like some. Found the weather to be just right while many other participants thought it was too hot. 

I enjoyed my long walk. Got in marathon 91. And now it’s time to get training for some future events. I’ll start running again, a little bit at a time. I don’t want to overdo things. Don’t want to get too crazy but certainly think it’s okay to elevate that heartrate just a little. Plus, walking was fun. It was much easier than running, and a lot less mentally taxing. I'll keep walking, but I'll start adding running back in. 

What was mentally taxing? The hype surrounding the Abbott World Marathon Majors. The London Marathon is one of the original six. The others: Berlin, Chicago, New York, Boston, and bane of my existence Tokyo. 

The marketing for these events has pushed me to the edge. Isn’t it awesome. Aren’t we special. Whoop de doo. Spend all your money on all our things. Ugh. I’m at the point where I’m ready to run. Far from all the advertising. 

Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad I got London done, for a second time in fact. I’m grateful that I got the opportunity and that I had the time and physical ability to train. Best of all, it was an honor to be among the best of the best. 

Nope. Not talking about the frontrunners. I’m talking about the volunteers, the screaming supporters, and my favorites, the charity runners, especially the first-time runners whose stories simultaneously break your heart and feed your soul. I got to witness fathers and mothers running on behalf of their sick children, sons and daughters running for ill or departed moms, dads, aunts, uncles, friends. I saw Big Bens, knights in shining armor, men in black, princesses, queens, soldiers, rhinoceroses, boxes, rainbows, test tubes, roosters, teddy bears, Roman centurions, candles, and that’s just what I remember off the top of my head. 

The joy was overwhelming. London Marathon 2025 was a 26.2-mile hug that I didn’t even know I needed until that darn Nike sign smacked me right in the eyeballs. 

If you’ve lost faith in humanity, run or walk the London Marathon. I’m glad I got to be there and witness bloody toughness, unbounding resilience, and pure love like I never thought possible. 

It wasn’t about the run for me. But then again, it rarely is. Mojo isn’t quite back yet. But something good is growing. Maybe in a few miles I’ll figure out what that is. Guess I better get moving.  

 

On not running

The body wants what it wants. 

Doctor says no running until we figure out whatever is going on re: dizziness/ lightheadedness. 

Treadmill stress test was a joke. 98th percentile for age and gender. Could have stayed on the apparatus longer, but medical staff said they had all the info they needed. Would have stayed on longer if they'd said that another minute or three would push me into a higher fitness category. 

Felt a little dizzy for a few minutes after the effort though, which wasn't much of an effort. 

Another test coming up soon, but not soon enough for me. Not exactly known for being patient when people get in the way of me getting what I know is within my reach. 

There's some possibility that this might be an easy fix. Might not be related to issues with my health at all. The symptoms might be blood pressure med side effects. Started on BP meds in November, shortly after marathon 90. Dizziness might have started around the same time though not 100 percent sure. 

Working out lowers your bp. That three hours on the treadmill right before I fainted? That was a tough, fast run.  I took in limited water the first hour to mimic conditions at the Tokyo marathon, then might not have gotten enough fluids in those last two hours to make up for that. Dehydration also a factor? Possibly. 

Then, long strenuous run ends, and I walk and drink for a bit after -- ten minutes or so. Then get off treadmill. Stand around talking with the physical therapist for a few minutes. During cool down and standing around, bp is probably falling, and perhaps exacerbated by the bp meds, falls too far and/ or too fast. And maybe that's why I went down. 

There's a good chance I don't need bp meds. There's a good chance I was on the wrong dose or wrong kind of bp med. There's a good chance that the Tokyo DNF is not due to my head panicking, but bp meds holding me back. I'm off bp meds for the next week and recording my stats daily. Hoping for answers. 

But it always comes back to the Tokyo DNF. Was the DNF a head issue or a heart issue? Or a combination of both? 

And then there's this: Did I mention that I wasn't the first person to pass out at the physical therapist's office? A week before, another patient, female and about my age, also passed out. She wasn't working out heavily though. She was there for hand therapy. Like me, she went to the ER after.  Like me, she got a clean bill of health. Crazy. Was there something in the air? Literally?

The more I learn the less I know. 

Doctor says no running until this gets resolved. Great. Telling someone who's run their entire adult life to not run? Clawing at walls here. Now I get why my cats -- all indoor -- get so aggravated with me sometimes.  

Easy fix when I get too aggravated by doc's words: picture myself passing out on concrete, head first. So I walk, mainly indoors on a treadmill but a bit outside too. I bike indoors. I ellipt a little but worry about getting my heart rate up too much. Walking seems to be the safest bet right now.  

Another test in a few weeks. If I don't pass that, I guess I keep walking. Getting the okay to run would be better though. I have another marathon soon. This one I can walk entirely if I want. No big issues with time constraints. At this point, feeling super de-conditioned, so running the race in its entirety is out of the question even if I got the doc's okay to do so. But walk-running that race, even just a little bit, would be quite nice. A real confidence-booster. Something I need badly right now. 

Glad I got this off my chest. Helps with the feeling of powerlessness, a little, to write this down. Now, I gotta run. Er. Walk. At least I still get to do that.