Monday, July 29, 2013

Time to take my best shot and see what I've got



You can tell my priorities by what makes it into my carry-on bag and stays just inches from me on the plane ride, not in the space above my head, but near my feet, where I can see the contents. Touch them if I need to.   

Here’s what was in my bag on my recent trip to Albuquerque’s Sunport: a white running cap; a spiral bound, 283-page, 102, 800 word manuscript.  The hat cost me about ten bucks eight years ago. I bought it at the Boston Marathon Expo two days before the 2005 marathon. It’s my favorite running hat, but not because I had an awesome run that year. It’s just a great hat made from a light moisture-wicking fabric. Plus, because it’s white it goes with everything. Plus, the unicorn insignia on the front, the B.A.A, emblem, makes me smile. 

Then there’s the book. I can’t even begin to wrap my head around what this thing has cost me. I’m not speaking in terms of cash either. Cash, like hard times, comes and goes and comes and goes and comes and goes again. Yes, that was a Springsteen Wrecking Ball reference.  When I think about what this book has cost me, I think about time and effort. I think about when I first sat down to write it, back at the turn of this century, before I’d even taken one step on my Hopkinton to Boston route, or even dreamt about having the guts to think that I could. 

My kids were still small. My focus was on keeping them healthy and getting them to college, years away and scarily out of reach for a single mom with a teacher paycheck and an ex whose only consistent trait was his ability to lose his job at least once a year.  So I saved a little at a time and did my best to trust the process, though I’d learned early on that the process, at least when it came to child support and fairness, wasn’t trustworthy. I guess deep down, even way back then, I knew the truth: It was all up to me. 

I wrote at one end of the cellar, a dark room: walnut-paneled walls, muddy carpet. To my left: long shelves filled with hardcover novels bought at library book sales for a buck, along with my college textbooks,  all held in place by a stuffed Babar, Madeleine, Snufflupagus, dollhouses, a Playskool work bench. 

The girls would hang out at the other end of the cellar, near the toy closet, the television, the wood burning stove I was too afraid to use. They'd read or play board games or drape themselves over the stinky oatmeal couch, the sides of it shredded bare by our attack cat, watching Saved by the Bell or Golden Girls reruns. Or they’d be upstairs doing homework or outside with their friends. 

I’d sit in the dusk on a hard kitchen chair that wobbled so didn’t belong upstairs any more, and I’d type one word then another, go back, delete, start again, and wonder why I bothered. 

I had to spend quite a bit of time last week re-arranging my luggage for my flight home from New Mexico. Southwest has a two bag, fifty-pound per bag limit. They charge hugely if you go over. I needed to pack up carefully, mete out the pounds, because I was weighed down with many marked up versions of my manuscript, the end result of a master novel workshop in Taos. My carry-on bag was stuffed. Luckily, my hat weighs next to nothing. I had no trouble wedging it between pages.   

Today, I start revising my manuscript. I’m about eighty percent done, mile twenty or so, the hit the wall point, in marathon terms. Hitting the wall means your body is screaming, “Enough already!” Your energy stores are shot. You’ve got nothing in the tank to keep you moving forward. Your legs give out or cramp up or shake.  Your brain is telling you that you are beyond done. That tendinitis you’ve been babying for months? That plantar fasciitis you thought had hightailed it out of here weeks ago? All back. Every moving part is swearing at you now, reminding you that you suck, taunting you for daring to dream, reminding you that in the grand scheme of things, you and your hopes are nothing.   

But still, you move forward. Maybe you force your brain to go blank. You somehow tune out the voices. Maybe you don’t. Maybe instead you remember.

You think of how far you’ve come. You think about how six miles is nothing. You go back twenty weeks to October, when six miles was your longest run, and how last week when you ran your tapering eight your legs didn’t want to stop.  Or maybe you picture yourself crossing that finish line and blubbering thanks to the volunteer as she lifts that ribbon up and places it on your bowed neck and you raise your head and see your own exhausted joy reflected in the gleam of her shining smiling eyes and you smile back and wonder at the flimsy weight of the medal and marvel at the aches in your legs and your grin expands like a Cheshire cat as it hits you that you can hardly wait to do this all over again.  

There’s a saying that every marathoner out there knows, about running that 26.2 mile race in sections. You run the first part with your legs (um, duh?), the second part with your head, and the last part with your heart.

I don’t write in the cellar any more. A few years ago, I turned the back bedroom into a study. The walls are sky blue. The carpet is cream. My desk and chair are white. On the wall directly in front of me hangs a framed poster from my first Boston Marathon, April 16, 2001. I can see my reflection in the glass. My eyes are level with my unicorn logo. To the right of my desk is a bouquet of ribbons and medals. On the wall behind me are my daughters’ college diplomas. To my left is a new stack of marked up manuscripts.

There’s nothing like that last six miles of the Boston Marathon course, for the most part a gentle downhill, fans everywhere, the CITGO sign looming like a promise, always just ahead. C it go. See HER go.

You hit Beacon Street, then Mass Ave, then Hereford, then Boylston where your shuffle turns to leaps even though you’re barely able to breathe because you’ve burst into tears at the sight of all these generous people who stayed to cheer you on.  You cry now because with all that’s happened the last few months, their generous spirit means more than you can ever put into words.

Saturday I ran seventeen miles. The next day, I did another five. I’d never done that before in training, run 22 miles in two days. 

I’ve never finished a novel before either. I mean really truly gave it my all and got it done. Do I have what it takes? Guess I'll find out. 
Here I go.    

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Perhaps I should respond with Bruce?



I was going to write about writing. How I started this blog a year ago and how this is my fifty-second post, which comes out to one a week, which is a really neat accomplishment. 

I was going to write about how much I’ve learned in the last year in terms of writing, life, running, coping. 

But I'm having trouble focusing on much other than the big bass beat blaring from the neighbor's car.

I live in what was once a peaceful enclave: quiet streets, big yards. It was the ideal place to raise kids. People watched out for each other and were respectful and kind. Note the past tense. 

Things are different now. Most people are still lovely. But there are a few exceptions, unfortunately.

I’ve been writing the same sentence for the last forty-five minutes because of one person in particular. It’s someone who occasionally works on a car and feels the need to blast music from the car radio while doing so. 

Have you ever asked a neighbor to turn down their music? In the almost three decades I've lived here, I have never needed to, until the last year or so. The first and only time I did it, I got screamed at. That's a little jarring, getting screamed at for asking someone to lower their music. Personally, I'd be all over the place apologizing. 

I’ve made the decision to avoid approaching this person any more when the music gets loud.

Now I wait until I can’t wait anymore, and then I just call the cops. It took me fifteen minutes of writing the same sentence about writing over and over again for me to call this time. I’ve been waiting forty minutes now for someone to show up. 

During that time, the neighbor worked hard at cleaning out the car while it was in the garage – I think the walls may have magnified the sound, and scrubbing down the floor mats in the driveway. The car is now in the driveway. Some of the doors are closed, so the bass is slightly muffled. Still, I find myself grinding my teeth and watching the clock.

I tried blocking out the sound with my kitchen radio. But that did no good. I couldn't hear it over the neighbor's bass. I closed my study door but that didn't cut the sound either. 

I could shut the windows. But it’s a beautiful day and the house will get steamy fast. And besides, why should I have to shut my windows?  Why bring more discomfort upon myself? 

So I’ve bagged what I’d been planning on writing and went with this rant instead. I’m super distracted so I’m sure it needs mucho improvement.
  
Now it’s been an hour. Forty-eight minutes since I called the police.

There are plenty of quite serious issues that cops have to deal with, especially in this city, one of the largest in New England, where much of the central area is gang-ridden and violence is as much a part of life as crossing the street.

Still, I can’t help but wonder how much the city must want quiet, law-abiding people like me to stay.  The music has been blasting for seventy-five minutes.

What I want to do now is go on realtor.com and search out new homes in areas where maybe I’d fit in better. But I can’t stand listening to this music any longer, so I guess I’ll take a drive instead. 

(I ended up calling the police again. Turns out, the police had stopped by the house. The neighbor immediately lowered the music.  Then raised it up again after the officer left. Lovely.)

Monday, July 8, 2013

To kale, with . . . respect



I like to think I’m at about the one-third mark in my life, and if I live to be 150, well then, I’m right.  But the truth of the matter is that unless some magic anti-aging pill gets invented, like, yesterday, I’m more than halfway to kicking it. 

I’m not trying to be a downer, I’m just being realistic.  In the great marathon of life, I’m at mile 14ish. I’m cool with that because during long runs, it’s around the half marathon point, mile 13.1, that I catch a second wind. I think in exclamation points: “Wooh! I made it! I can do this! It’s all downhill from here!”  

Yup. Downhill. In some ways, it is. I’m older today than I’ve ever been. That's true. But tomorrow, God willing, I’ll be even older. Yay for still being here. 

My challenge is to stay in good shape. I have family members that need me. I have cats that demand constant patting. I have two marathons this fall. 

So far, so good, sort of. My resting heart rate is endurance athlete low. My blood pressure is fine. But in the last year or so I’ve developed some little arthritic aches and pains. Last summer I started noticing I wasn’t recovering from my runs as easily as I used to. 

So I’ve been researching ways to help myself. I’ve gotten better at stretching and pre-emptive and post-run foam rolling. I ice my knees and hips and whatever else I need to after my long runs. I’ve mixed up my diet a bit. I’m avoiding processed foods. I’ve cut back on red meat in favor of other protein sources, like Greek yogurt, whey protein powders, beans.  

These changes have helped quite a bit, but I’ve been seeing the biggest improvements the last few weeks and I figure, why not share? 

I think the reason for the big improvement is because I’ve upped my antioxidant intake. I’m as big a cynic as anyone, and I don’t buy into trends easily, but time and again in my research, I kept coming back to antioxidants and the role they play in keeping us healthy, and how they help us maintain muscle mass and nurture muscle growth.  

Here’s a quick summary on some of what I found: 

Antioxidants destroy free radicals, potent bad boys. According to the National Institute of Health, free radicals are produced when we break down food. They’re also produced during exposure to dangerous things like tobacco smoke and radiation. Free radicals can damage cells. They might be related to heart disease, cancer and other diseases.  

Runner’s World Magazine (12/3/07) says as a normal part of our metabolism, during exercise our bodies increase production of a certain type of free radical, ROS.  Increased ROS production, from heavy duty workouts for example, might overwhelm the body’s ability to put forth solid antioxidant defenses. According to RW, this can lead to muscle damage, fatigue, and a reduction in immune function. 

One easy way to zap these free radicals is to up your antioxidant consumption. This chart from WebMD gives you an idea of the variety of foods that are high in antioxidants. 

Rank
Food item
Serving size
Total antioxidant capacity
per serving size
1
Small Red Bean (dried)
Half cup
13,727
2
Wild blueberry
1 cup
13,427
3
Red kidney bean (dried)
Half cup
13,259
4
Pinto bean
Half cup
11,864
5
Blueberry (cultivated)
1 cup
9,019
6
Cranberry
1 cup (whole)
8,983
7
Artichoke (cooked)
1 cup (hearts)
7,904
8
Blackberry
1 cup
7,701
9
Prune
Half cup
7,291
10
Raspberry
1 cup
6,058
11
Strawberry
1 cup
5,938
12
Red Delicious apple
1 whole
5,900
13
Granny Smith apple
1 whole
5,381
14
Pecan
1 ounce
5,095
15
Sweet cherry
1 cup
4,873
16
Black plum
1 whole
4,844
17
Russet potato (cooked)
1 whole
4,649
18
Black bean (dried)
Half cup
4,181
19
Plum
1 whole
4,118
20
Gala apple
1 whole
3,903


There are plenty of articles on the web that say this antioxidant thing is just a thing, that this craze too shall pass. Most of the foods in this chart (there are plenty of other charts and lists out there too) are foods I eat anyhow. I simply tweaked my diet so that now the majority of what I consume is high antioxidant. I'm not doing any damage to my wallet or my body. In fact, my own anecdotal evidence shows I'm doing quite well.  

I’ve also added one food to my diet that I’ve long thought was pretty vile and disgusting. It’s not on the above WebMD chart, but if you google it, you’ll see everyone raving about it. I’m talking kale.
  
Kale creeps me out. I abhore the taste, plus I have a bad memory attached to it. Years ago, I waitressed at an Italian place, red-checked tablecloths, Chianti bottle wall décor. They used kale leaves and lemon to make the dinners look pretty.  I was delivering a couple of shrimp scampi plates to a six-top under the lighted tree near the restaurant’s balcony, when I heard the first shriek, followed immediately by many more. Turns out, in addition to shrimp, there was another protein source on one of the plates, a couple of fat white worms, napping in the kale garnish.  Seems the chuckleheads in the kitchen hadn’t bothered to wash that particular batch of greenery.  

It was disgusting. I got a crappy tip and developed a strong aversion to kale and anything that looks like it. 

I hate wasting my money, and if kale was expensive, I probably wouldn’t be trying it, given the gross out factor and all. But kale is wicked cheap. You can get a huge pre-washed – triple-washed in fact, pre-chopped bag at Trader Joe’s for less than two bucks. In the end, what convinced me to try the kale wasn’t so much its superfood status. It was the triple-washing.  I’m glad I bit the bullet and gave it a try.

A year ago, my weekly food thrill was cooking up and devouring a batch of Ghiradelli triple chocolate brownies. Now I’m into daily kale and berry smoothies. It’s all good.

Yesterday I ran 15.7 miles in high humidity and ninety degree temps. When I got back to the house, I iced my knees and downed a smoothie, just like I’ve done after every long run the last few weeks.

Today, though I should be hobbling around and holding onto the railing when I walk down stairs, I have no aches and no pains.  No worms either. Phew.

Here’s my basic antioxidant recovery smoothie recipe. You really truly can’t taste the kale. Honest. 

4-8 oz fluid (I like green tea or tart cherry juice, both huge antioxidant superheroes)
1 cup torn kale leaves
Lots of berries, to taste
Protein source (whey protein powder, Greek yogurt)
Ice